Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For OverlyEnthusiastic.

This entire thing, no exaggeration, would not have been written without “merrygo22 aka OverlyEnthusiastic”, who gave endless support and listened to me rant about writer’s block and entertained new ideas that I messaged at 2am. They kept me going when I had thoughts of abandoning this fic before it was even posted. They were the first eyes on it and helped point out things I wouldn't have thought to address, as well as cheerfully scream at me numerous times for the grief I put these characters through. Thank you, my emotional support stoat, for getting me to the end of the first big thing I’ve ever written.

Thank you as well to “R” for a more formal read through and catching mistakes that my sleep deprived brain overlooked numerous times. Sorry that my Canadian spelling kept conflating with your American spelling.

Thank you also to the discord degenerates who started this ball rolling however many years ago.

Additional Thanks to the Trash Panda who took the snapshot of Fridgit for the cover.

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Quick Author's Note: In light of news regarding certain people, I'd like to add an overall disclaimer that R.B does appear in this work of fiction as a villain. This character was written as an antagonist and as such acts in this manner. 87% of the story (at the time of this note, I'm currently writing the "post big event and final wrap up" chapters) and this character's actions were written before this news broke and a rewrite of this character and his involvement in the plot would rewrite the entire story (no joke). I hope readers will be able to see this character as a fictional plaything, posed and given a script, as all the characters involved are.

Second Author's Note: For those who can no longer stand Dundee as a person (understandable), but still wish to read, I recommend using a browser add-on such as "find and replace". If you wish to do so, names to add to the find and replace is the full name "Irwin Dundee" as well as "Dee", "Winnie", "Dundles", "Dundizzle", “Dundiddles”, "Irwinnie_Dunditty". This last includes the "_" as it's a social media handle. (And feel free to comment if I've missed any.)

Chapter One:

word count: 6082

• swearing (duh and also a blanket tag)
• canon typical violence (although for this, it's just a twisted ankle and a few thrown punches, and though this is a blanket tag I will still break down each instance per chapter)
• canon typical gun violence (rounds shot: 0, again blanket tag but will still be broken down per chapter)
• mentions/references to prostitution (i mean... the whole AU will have it, if it needs to be warned of multiple times, I don't think me writing it multiple times is going to help you understand.)

Chapter Two:

word count: 5516

• handjob/blowjob (inevitable for this AU, but I'll still warn per chapter what the sexual content will be)
• semi-dubious consent (the cliffhanger is what makes this tag necessary)

Chapter Three:

word count: 5207

• handjob/blowjob
• semi-dubious consent

Chapter Four:

word count: 4209

• alcohol

Chapter Five:

word count: 5586

• gun violence (rounds shot: 0)
• involuntary drug consumption (spiked drink)
• drug use (ecstasy, coke)
• alcohol
• unsafe bondage practices
• canon typical violence
• sexual assault

Chapter Six:

word count: 4372

• voyeurism
• semi-dubious consent
• blow job

Chapter Seven:

word count: 5192

• alcohol

Chapter Eight:

word count: 5471

• alcohol
• allusions to suicide
• frottage

Chapter Nine:

word count: 4911

• masturbation
• gun violence (rounds shot: 0)
• canon typical violence (knives)

Chapter Ten:

word count: 4223

• canon typical violence
• gun violence (rounds shot: 5~)

Chapter Eleven:

word count: 5881

• hospitalization
• dream sex
• implied/referenced torture
• alcohol

Chapter Twelve:

word count: 9938

• hospitals
• robots
• arson
• car accidents
• gun violence (rounds shot: 4)

Chapter Thirteen:

word count:  913

• anal sex
• post-traumatic stress disorder
• alcohol
• recreational drug use (acid)

Chapter Fourteen:

word count: 6633

• character getting sick (vomiting)
• character with dissociative identity disorder
• sexual assault
• dubiously consensual blow jobs
• alcohol
• blow jobs
• vaginal fingering
• bisexual awakening

Chapter Fifteen:

word count: 25024 (part A & B)

• awkward tension
• blow jobs
• frottage
• mutual masturbation
• masturbation
• home invasion
• assault
• canon typical violence (knives)
• blood and injury
• anxiety disorder

Chapter Sixteen:

word count: 8853

• frottage
• referenced/implied abuse
• referenced/implied torture

Chapter Seventeen:

word count: 5451

• no warnings

Chapter Eighteen:

word count: 17591

• alcohol
• underage drinking
• implied/referenced child abuse
• murder
• minor character death
• implied/referenced abuse
• past domestic violence
• implied/referenced homophobia
• internalized homophobia
• scars
• semi-public sex
• blow jobs
• hand jobs
• blow jobs in a car

Chapter Nineteen:

word count: 26354 (Part A & B)

• implied/referenced drug use
• dissociation
• suicide attempt
• gun violence (rounds shot: 0, shootout)
• canon typical violence (fighting, slapping, knives)
• kidnapping
• implied/referenced rape/non-con
• implied/referenced torture
• past torture
• torture
• tattoos

Chapter Twenty:

word count: 13679

• masturbation
• aftermath of torture
• hand job
• anal fingering

Chapter Twenty-One:

word count: 6492

• threats of violence

Chapter Twenty-Two:

word count: 13413

• implied/referenced rape/non-con
• past sexual abuse
• implied/referenced torture
• sexual fantasy
• gun violence (shootout)
• torture
• canon typical violence (knives)
• blood and injury
• mutilation

Chapter Twenty-Three:

word count: 9605

• gun violence (shootout)
• torture
• canon typical violence (knives)
• blood and injury
• mutilation
• biting
• past sexual abuse

Chapter Twenty-Four:

word count: 5946

• gun violence (rounds shot: 3~)
• canon typical violence (punching)
• grenades (and the creative use of such)
• hospitals

Chapter Twenty-Five:

word count: 6746

• hospitals
• canon typical violence (fighting)
• scars
• past rape/non-con
• implied/referenced sexual assault
• implied/referenced abuse
• implied/referenced child abuse
• alcohol
• minor character death (referenced)

Chapter Twenty-Six:

word count: 15487

• hospitals
• past sexual assault
• implied/referenced torture
• post-traumatic stress disorder
• past physical abuse
• past sexual assault
• past rape/non-con

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

word count: 13085

• gun violence (rounds shot: shootout)
• canon typical violence (wrenching, knives)
• torture
• alcohol
• waterboarding
• implied/referenced abuse
• implied/referenced sexual abuse
• implied/referenced rape/non-con
• eye trauma
• eye gouging

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

word count: 8060

• prostitution
• referenced/implied sex
• implied/referenced tattoos
• referenced/implied torture
• canon typical violence
• implied/referenced drug use (lsd)
• implied/referenced assault
• gun violence (beanbag)

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

word count: 33049 (Part A & B)

• implied/referenced sex
• canon typical violence
• gun violence
• semi-public sex
• drug use (cocaine, ecstasy)
• implied/referenced non-con
• voyeurism
• assault

Chapter Thirty:

word count: 22160 (Part A & B)

• drug use (cocaine)
• canon typical violence
• gun violence
• torture
• tattoos
• panic attacks
• implied/referenced past sexual abuse

Chapter Thirty-One:

word count: 27350 (Part A & B)

• gun violence
• implied/referenced self harm
• drug mention (cocaine)
• torture
• minor character death
• canon typical violence

Chapter Thirty-One:

word count: 2325

• gun violence
• minor character death
• canon typical violence

Chapter Thirty-One:

word count: 24779

• trauma
• anxiety
• implied/referenced rape/non-con
• anal fingering
• voyeurism
• masturbation
• anal sex
• disassociation

Chapter Text

Usually by nine PM, Barry Benson’s sucked at least five dicks. However, tonight has been slow; he’s had exactly one person approach him and Barry had put on the act before they’d cut to the chase and asked for directions to the nearest 24/7. They’d loaded up the GPS on their phone and Barry had stood behind them, looking over their shoulder as they attempted to understand the directions Barry gave. At the same time Barry had slipped his hand into their back pocket and retrieved their wallet. He grabbed all but one bill of their loose change and snuck the wallet into their pants again without them ever noticing. He’d cheerfully waved them off and afterwards counted out his goods. All in all a good night, as the poor fool happened to be carrying a thick sum of money on them, almost a grand. Barry had split the money between his pockets and tucked the largest of the bills into the toes of both his boots, under the loose insole.

He never took the full amount in any wallet and when given the chance always left the biggest bill behind. He’d noticed that people generally cared less about keeping track of smaller change, but tended to notice when the fifties and hundreds went missing. It’d taken exactly one evening of being hunted down and beat bloody to learn not to leave such an obvious trail.

Now, Barry’s careful.

He waits at his bench on the corner near Fridgit Storage for an hour more, watching people walk by without giving him a second glance, before he decides to call it for the night. Besides the fact that he’s carrying a little under a grand on him, it’s disheartening to see so many people on the streets and not have a single person approach him. Maybe it’s the bruised cheek he’s sporting from losing a round with a stuck door or maybe it’s the scowl he knows he’s wearing, but can’t seem to let drop, but regardless the clients aren’t rolling in like they used to.

When he was baby-faced and wide-eyed about Los Santos, he’d had every person approaching him, asking his name, asking his phone number, asking him how long he’d been in Los Santos for, asking him if he wanted to get a drink some time. This last he’d learnt was simply a poor cover for the true intention of wanting to get Barry into the bar’s cramped bathroom stalls to get their hands on him all the more sooner. Not that he’d minded at first –– out-running a horrible past will make you seek out comfort in strange places –– but soon his drinking habits exceeded his income and he’d begun to use these bathroom trips as practice for lifting wallets and rooting through handbags. It kept him in enough cash to pay for gas station groceries and what he couldn’t afford he stole.

It’s how he met Mickey.

Barry had been loading items into his cargo pants at the 24/7, darting frantic looks over the aisles to the cashier helping some suave gentleman in a suit. They’d been talking, the man in the suit leading the conversation into obscure topics that drew the cashier’s attention from checking the aisles when Barry had missed his pocket and dropped a small carton of milk. He’d made a hasty retreat after that, ducking down the nearest alley to brush spilt milk off the hem of his pants and when he’d looked up the man in the suit was leaning against the wall watching him. Barry had thought to run, but the man had a gun tucked under his jacket.

“You know, it’s easier to hide bottles of milk-to-go,” the man in the suit had said, pushing off the wall and coming closer. He had an easy walk and a tone of voice that lent itself to friendly conversation and Barry had found himself opening up to the stranger.

“I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Gotta be quicker with it too. I won’t be around to distract him next time. Get in, pocket your shit, buy a bag of quarter candies, and get out. And stop looking over the aisles so much, you looked like a meerkat.”

“Hey, nothing suspicious about meerkats. They’re just cute animals going about their business.”

The guy laughed, coming to a stop in front of Barry and lowering his voice in a way that to this day Barry doesn’t know was meant to be threatening or flirting. “Being cute will only get you so far.”

He’d introduced himself shortly after, taking Barry’s phone from his pocket without warning and adding his number: Mickey S. Barry never asked what the S stood for and Mickey never told him. It’s not a pressing mystery and Mickey’s been a good enough friend that Barry figures he’ll find out eventually. Occasionally, Barry will call him about low-level crime information, like whether or not certain store clerks carry shotguns, but sometimes Mickey will call him and tell him to meet him somewhere. Sometimes it’s to help distract a store clerk while Mickey slips into their backroom to crack into their safes, but sometimes the calls are solely for the purpose of mocking whatever clothes Barry’s pulled on that day.

Tonight, in the growing dark and lack of customers, Barry calls up Mickey to ask an important question.

“Downbad Mickey,” he greets, as if Barry’s forgotten who he’s calling. It’s only happened once, but Mickey answers with such fluidity that Barry suspects it’s his normal greeting.

“Do I have a smell?” Barry asks.

“… I mean, doesn’t everyone?”

“I do my laundry––,”

“I’d hope so.”

“I wash myself.”

“I really hope so.”

“I talk to people with a friendly attitude––,”

“You called a woman in Benny’s a dumb cunt because she was taking too long in the quick fix line.”

“That’s different. When I’m working I’m nothing but professional,” Barry says.

He hadn’t told Mickey what he did to make rent, but Mickey was quick to find out. Barry suspects that the petty crime he assists Mickey with in the 24/7’s is merely the tip of the iceberg of Mickey’s criminal pursuits, but he never asks questions. Nevertheless, he didn’t judge Barry for his occupation, but he also didn’t ask for a turn and that one’s always stung a little.

“A professional in cut up jeans and an old black tee shirt,” Mickey says.

“Okay, so it’s my clothes.” Barry settles back against the bench he’d been mulling around for the last five hours.

Mickey makes an uncertain sound and Barry knows he’s right.

“How about this,” Mickey says. “Meet me at the Binco in Vespucci, I’m driving around there right now. Get here and I’ll give you a sniff and let you know if it’s your deodorant or your lack of colour matching skills.”

Barry laughs. “Fuck off.”

“Seriously, have you considered getting a colour blindness test? This could have greater impacts in your day to day life than you might be aware.”

“Binco in Vespucci,” Barry says to himself, typing into his phone’s GPS.

“Most safety signs are colour coded! Don’t drink bleach! It’s not water!” Mickey says, clearly holding back laughter.

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Barry says and hangs up.

He finds Mickey in the back corner of the Binco, throwing clothes onto a bench and talking to himself. He’s trying to match odd colours and Barry leans a hip against one of the low shelves holding boots. When Mickey finally turns around he gestures to the pile of clothes he’s amassed and waves an arm over it.

“Strip,” he says in way of greeting.

“Hey Mickey.”

“Try this on first,” Mickey says, digging into the pile and coming out with an orange suit jacket.

Barry pushes it away. “I don’t have the money to replace my wardrobe.”

Mickey drops the suit jacket and lounges across the pile dramatically. “Then why’d you call me here?”

“I don’t know. An ego boost?”

Mickey laughs.

“Yeah, dumb idea,” Barry agrees.

Mickey is silent for a moment as he skims a look over Barry.

Barry knows how he looks, especially with the bruise on his face. His jeans are worn at the knees and his plain white shirt has a small hole near the bottom on his side from being caught on a protruding nail. His brown leather jacket is a second hand thrift store find embroidered with a name that isn’t is, but it fits nicely and always earns him compliments.

“You look handsome tonight,” Mickey says, digging into the pile again and holding up various shirts against Barry’s figure and squinting as he imagined how they’d fit. “Why are you freaking out?”

Barry fidgets and sits on the sliver of bench left showing under the clothes pile. “Maybe because the only money I’ve made was from a tourist’s pocket.”

“Still money.”

“Not enough money.”

Mickey’s digging into his wallet before Barry’s done speaking.

“No, Mickey,” Barry says, crossing his arms. “I’m not doing personal loans anymore.”

“It’s not a loan,” Mickey says, but Barry doesn’t move.

Mickey puts his wallet in his back pocket and stands up. He turns around and leans obviously into Barry, shaking his ass in Barry’s face. His wallet sticks halfway out the pocket and if he were any other person he’d be the easiest target Barry’s ever seen.

“Oh, how foolish of me!” Mickey says in mock exclamation. “I’ve accidentally withdrawn two grand instead of two hundred! I hope my wallet will be able to hold it all! It’s always so bursting at the seams, I’m surprised the money hasn’t fallen out yet.” He waits a moment before looking over his shoulder. “I said, I’m surprised the money hasn’t fallen out yet.” He wiggles his ass, but Barry isn’t looking.

Barry scowls at the far wall and Mickey sits back down.

“Fine. What do you need?” Mickey asks.

Barry’s scowl deepens. He’s heard those words before from people he thought wanted to help him. He doesn’t quite trust himself to answer, to put his hand in a fresh bear trap and feign surprise when the jaws clamp into him. Instead, he leans forwards and places his elbows on his knees and shrugs. In the next instant Mickey throws himself over Barry, frantically reaching for something on the shelves behind him.

“Fuck, okay, I’ll just move then,” Barry says, scuttling out from underneath Mickey. He ends up sitting on the floor, watching in mild horror as Mickey pulls a pair of calf-high three inch heeled boots off a shelf and turns to him with a grin. “No. Fuck no,” he says, but Mickey’s already tugging at Barry’s laces and yanking his boot off. Barry tries to grab his boot back, but Mickey throws it across the store –– earning a look from the bored cashier who doesn’t move to intervene.

“Please? Just try them on.” Mickey’s already tugging Barry closer to him by his foot and slipping the boot onto Barry.

To Barry’s horror the boot slips on over the jeans he’s wearing and to his greater horror they’re actually his size. He didn’t know they made boots like this in his size. Giving up on getting away he pushes his foot fully inside. It arches strangely against him and Barry pushes his foot deeper, waiting for the flat sole, despite clearly seeing the three inch heel attached. Mickey pulls Barry’s foot onto his lap to lace it and Barry lays down on the floor to count the ceiling's water stains. When Mickey’s done Barry pulls off his other shoe and holds it to his chest as he raises his other foot for Mickey to shoe and lace. Barry continues to lay on the floor when Mickey’s done. There’s five water stains and one that looks like Australia.

“Come on,” Mickey encourages, holding out a hand to help Barry stand.

When Barry reaches up Mickey grabs his other boot and hurls it across the store before helping him stand. Barry wobbles to his feet, knees shaking as he takes a hesitant step forward. Mickey smiles at him and brings a hand up in front of his mouth.

“Aw. Baby’s first steps,” Mickey coos.

Barry swats Mickey’s shoulder, but he steps out of range and Barry swings his arms to maintain his balance.

“Come on, get your shit together,” Mickey says. He bends down and rips the tags off the boots and makes his way to the cashier to pay while Barry stumbles along behind him. “Heel toe, Benson. It’s only three inches.”

“You try walking in these,” Barry says.

“I have,” Mickey calls back and hands over his money. The cashier doesn’t even lift an eyebrow at Mickey’s remark, but Barry does. “I told you before, I used to work at the Vanilla Unicorn. It’s not my fault you don’t remember.” He smiles at the cashier and takes Barry’s old boots she’d retrieved from around the store. Mickey ties the laces together and hangs them over his shoulder. He leans against the counter and watches Barry slowly gain his footing. When Barry is close enough, Mickey slings his arm around Barry’s waist and herds him towards the door.

Aside from the fact that they’re three inches more than Barry can walk on, they look exactly like his old boots. If they weren’t a twisted ankle waiting to happen Barry might even like them. Mickey eyes him up and makes a pleased noise as he helps Barry over to his motorcycle. Barry stores his old boots in the small bike storage and straddles his bike. Mickey moans and Barry looks over his shoulder at him.

“Goddamn,” Mickey says. “These boots are fucking working for you.”

When Barry leans over to adjust his jeans inside his boots Mickey slaps his ass. Barry yelps and nearly knocks over his bike.

“These boots are definitely giving you some kind of vibe. I can’t see many people walking past you if you’re wearing these.”

“I’m not going to find a magic fix for my money problems by wearing high heeled boots, Mickey.” Barry starts his bike and leans over the handlebars. “If anything it’ll probably cost me more money because I’m pretty sure I’m going to break my ankles.”

“Oh my god. Stay like that.” Mickey takes out his phone and circles the bike, taking photos from different angles. Barry purposefully doesn’t smile and pulls on his helmet when Mickey is mid photo, but Mickey seems pleased with the outcome. “This lighting and the bike and you; you look like a thirst trap straight from a mechanic’s magazine. I’m keeping this. Now get back out there and strut, Benson.” Mickey makes a move to slap Barry’s ass again, but Barry jolts the bike forward before he can.

“If I… no, when I break my ankle, please have your phone on.”

“Who else would you call?” Mickey jokes, but Barry scowls and they both know the answer to that question. An uncomfortable silence blooms between them, but Mickey refuses to let it fester. “Yeah, I’ll keep it on, but remember 911 exists.”

“Fuck that!” Barry yells and races from the parking lot.

Luckily, the boots don’t hinder his ability to drive and he makes it back to his spot without incident. He hides his bike in the back corner of the Fridgit parking lot, tucked behind the large trailers left for the weekend, and wedged between two large crates. It’s probably overkill and he’d be fine parking it on the street, but this late at night there’s always races drifting through downtown and he has just enough money for rent nevermind trying to repair his bike if it was clipped by a racer. It’s also safe back there because none of his clients know about that spot and the less personal effects he can tie to his line of work, the better. It didn’t really matter if they saw his face, but if they saw the motorcycle he drove –– a fully upgraded cliffhanger –– they might start wondering how much money he makes, might start asking about any higher paying offers he might be giving, might think they could bribe their way into his bed.

He’s happy with what he offers. It’s not a buffet menu, but he has enough repeat clients to keep his head above water. Growing up he received a fair bit of comments about his hands from his hormonal peers and then later they started commenting about his mouth. Most of it was in regards to his smartass comebacks or the fact that it was the best target for a fist, but there were the few people he’d taken to bed in his younger years who’d commented that he could make a career of his mouth. So, that’s just what he’d done.

It wasn’t intentional, as he’d rather just found himself falling into this lifestyle as the need arose, but it was certainly aided along by the people he’d met in Los Santos when he’d first arrived.

A chill runs down his spine at the thought of those people. He stomps his feet to shock some heat into him, as he glances up at the rooftops half-expecting to see a shock of white hair and a gun watching his every move. He paces, or attempts to pace his block and tries his hardest to walk as normally as possible. It’s an uphill battle and every few steps his legs will shake and threaten to give. So far he’s lost around three customers to this, most of them sounding hesitant at Barry’s excuse that it’s just the shoes. They probably think he’s drunk or high out of his mind and didn’t want to risk the likelihood of Barry throwing up on them.

Barry can proudly say he’s never thrown up on anyone, past or present, but he knows how he looks stumbling down the street. He leans against a wall and calls Mickey. The phone rings, down the street there’s laughter, the phone rings, a race flies by on the freeway across the grass, the phone rings and Barry hangs up. He scrolls through his contacts, briefly contemplating making another call to someone else, but he puts his phone away before that bad idea can come to pass. He sighs and watches the stars. A low-set sports car slow-rolls his spot, but Barry recognizes the license plate and doesn’t approach it. He gives a small wave and the driver revs the engine and cuts across the grass back onto the freeway to rejoin the race.

Barry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and decides that ten-thirty is a good quitting time. He walks briskly towards his bench to unlace his boots. He wants to be gone from the area by time the racers make their second lap and he wants to be able to run. He’s focused solely on the thought of ‘heel, toe, heel, toe’ that he doesn’t even register the lip in the sidewalk he knows is there until he’s falling, pinwheeling his arms to try to catch himself in an act that is ultimately futile. There’s a new rip in the knees of his jeans and gravel in his palms. He pushes himself upright, trying as much as possible to not jostle his left foot as a spike of pain flashes through it. He rolls himself over to sit up when he realizes that the laughter he heard earlier up the street is now directly across the road from him.

“Holy shit! That was incredible!” A loud southern accented American proclaims, breaking into a wheezing laugh.

Barry feels tears sting his eyes and he doesn’t look over as he works to remove the boot on his uninjured foot. The southerner continues to laugh and is joined by a slurring Australian whose words Barry can’t make out, but whose accent is unmistakable. Barry gives up on undoing his other boot when every tug of the laces draws a hiss of pain. He wobbles to his feet, still not looking over at the laughing pair, and makes his hobbling way towards his bike, holding his one boot.

He glares at the boot, mentally threatening to burn it as the pain in his foot turns into an icy numbness that slowly spreads up his leg. His knee almost buckles, forcing Barry to stop. He looks towards where his bike is parked at the far corner of the lot and contemplates the cost in humiliation of crawling there versus the cost of further injuring himself when suddenly there’s two men at his sides, each taking one of Barry’s arms over their shoulders to hold him up.

The pair begin walking Barry away from Fridgit as they argue between themselves and Barry’s heart beats wildly. He can’t do this again, he can’t owe more people. He struggles to get away, but the hands holding his arms tighten.

“Look, fine, I’m sorry for laughing at you,” the southern of the pair says to Barry. “But this is gonna happen now, my pride demands it.”

The American is older looking, with a trimmed mustache and crow’s feet eyes. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, a denim jacket with patches all over it, and cowboy boots, perfectly fitting into what Barry imagines ‘American Patriot’ would look like, but the other one is harder to read. His Australian accent is thick, but not always, and he’s dressed in what Barry can only describe as ‘Bubblegum hipster’. He has a full beard and a mullet that looks oddly soft despite springing from his head in wild directions. Definitely a change from what the last people were wearing who kidnapped Barry.

“I’m fine,” Barry says, but the American shushes him.

“This is happening,” he says.

The pair lead Barry around the corner of Fridgit and into a loading yard filled with shipping containers. Barry’s blood runs cold and he regrets not carrying a knife tonight. This has never been a worry, but before if anything felt shady Barry could run. Right now, he’s down one shoe and one foot and pinned between two men he’s pretty sure are carrying guns –– if Barry’s guess about the odd shape in their waistlines is correct. He’s pretty sure it’s correct, most people in Los Santos run around with guns, regardless if they have a license or not.

He mentally curses Mickey for making him wear the ridiculous boots he couldn’t even walk in. He curses himself for not leaving earlier in the night when he knew it would be a slow night. And he curses Australia for giving the guy on Barry’s right a voice so deep that every word sounds like a threat.

“It’s not that I want to do this,” the Australian says. “It’s that I have to.” He flashes a smile to the guy on Barry’s left. “Pride, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’ve got pride,” the American retorts. “Tell me the last time you––,”

“Fine! I made a promise.”

“A pwomise?” the American mocks. “Did she make you pinky pwomise?”

“Shut up!”

They’re leading Barry towards a blue four door muscle car that the one in the pink hoodie unlocks when they’re closer. Barry can barely hear the pair bickering over the beating of his heart: not again, not again, not again.

Soon as they’re close enough that the pair drop Barry’s arms, Barry punches the American. He yells in surprise and stumbles over and out of sight behind the car. Barry turns on the Australian, but he’s just smiling at Barry. Barry swings and the Australian ducks easily, but doesn’t swing back. Barry goes for a double hit, managing to land one solid punch to the Australian’s jaw. He rubs the spot, but he’s still just smiling at Barry. It’s a little unnerving.

“Again,” the Australian says.

Barry does, but this time the Australian grabs his arm. He pulls Barry off his uninjured foot and Barry’s pained ankle buckles immediately as he puts pressure onto it. There’s a blur of limbs Barry can’t track over the haze of pain and suddenly he’s pinned face down on the trunk of the car with the Australian over him, laughing.

“You alive down there?” the Australian calls to his friend.

The American pops up, nose bleeding and weilding a gun. “Alright, I was being nice, but fuck it. Get the fuck in the trunk.”

“He’s not going in the trunk.” The Australian folds his arms and lays himself casually over Barry’s back, easily pinning Barry down. “How do you think it would look if we rolled up there and popped the trunk and said ‘ here, we brought you something ’, when there’s a whole back seat!”

“He fucking punched me!”

“Well, maybe you deserved it, Collin!”

“Fuck you!” The American –– Collin –– changes from pointing a gun at Barry to pointing it at his friend. “Maybe next time you need to go to the hospital I’ll make you ride in the trunk.”

“The hospital?” Barry asks. He’s shaking with what could be either fear or adrenaline, but he has to make sure he heard right.

“Yes, we’re taking you to the fucking hospital! What did you fucking expect?” Collin shouts, pointing his gun at Barry again.

Barry lowers his head, pressing his forehead to the cold metal of the trunk. “Sorry,” he says.

The Australian laughs and Barry feels it reverberate through his own chest. “Put the gun away Collin. You’re scaring the guy.”

“Good!” Collin shouts. “That fucking hurt!” He massages his nose and tucks his gun away before he slips into the front passenger seat. He continues mumbling to himself, but Barry can’t hear it.

The Australian leans in and whispers in Barry’s ear, “Thanks for that.”

He hauls Barry upright and roughly handles him into the backseat of the car, but gently closes the door to avoid slamming it on Barry’s foot –– for which Barry is grateful. He picks up Barry’s dropped boot and gets into the driver’s seat. He turns the boot over in his hand in fascination while he speeds backwards out of the loading yard, briefly glancing behind him in the process.

“Fucking hell, mate,” the Australian says, meeting Barry’s eyes in the rearview –– still not looking at the road. “How the fuck do you walk in these?”

“Not well,” Collin interjects.

“Uh… it’s, I just got them today,” Barry says.

Collin laughs and mutters something under his breath that Barry doesn’t catch, but the Australian does and he finally looks at the road, a blush beginning to bloom across his cheeks. Barry sits more upright in his seat and watches the city fly past them in a blur. He’s thrown sideways in his seat when the Australian takes a corner at full speed, drifting and screeching across the road.

“Move, cunts!” the Australian yells out his window, honking his horn. “Medical emergency!”

“But he’d be speeding anyways!” Collin yells.

“You do it too!” the Australian says to Collin.

Collin shrugs and casually leans his arm on the door.

Barry’s pretty sure he’s in a car with maniacs, life-non-valuing maniacs. He shifts himself over into the corner seat and frantically clicks on his seatbelt and pulls it tight over his lap. Collin looks over his shoulder at the sound and laughs.

“Yeah, good idea. Though the one who generally goes through the windshield is dickhead over there,” Collin says.

The car drifts another corner and the Australian leans over and opens Collin’s door mid-turn. Collin screams and grabs his seatbelt, but the Australian laughs at him and swings the car’s end around to force his door closed.

“Cunt!” Collin screams.

“But did you die?” the Australian says, grinning ear to ear.

“I could have!”

Barry grabs his seat and pinches his eyes closed as the Australian cranks the steering wheel and the car goes spinning sideways. Barry’s heart flies into his throat and there’s a weightless sensation under the car. Sirens whir around them until suddenly they’re stopped and the noise of sirens settles somewhere behind. Barry’s almost too afraid to open his eyes, but he has to know if they’re about to fall off the edge of an overpass. The car door creaks open and he peeks an eye to find they’re parked perfectly in the stalls outside Pillbox Hospital.

“Impressive,” he says.

“You get used to it,” Collin says, idly browsing his phone.

“Yeah? That why you were screaming?” Barry asks.

The Australian laughs as he opens Barry’s door for him. “Collin’s a screamer.” He extends a hand and Barry takes it.

The gravel digs further into his palm, but Barry doesn’t care. The Australian’s hand is warm and rough and Barry keeps hold of it as the Australian helps him from the car and ducks under Barry’s arm to keep him upright. He presses himself to Barry’s side and Barry leans fully on him as they hobble towards the sliding glass doors of Pillbox. He’s still holding Barry’s other boot and when he notices Barry watching him he half-throws it at Barry’s chest.

Inside the hospital the lobby is empty and Barry moves to sit in the waiting room chairs, but the Australian doesn’t let go of Barry’s arm and he leads them through the side doors towards the emergency unit. Barry struggles against it, knowing that the area is off-limits to civilians without medical escort, but the Australian pulls him along, loudly proclaiming their entrance.

“Oi!” he shouts down the empty hallway. “Fuckin’ nurse!”

He kicks open the swinging door of the room and everyone looks towards them. Barry’s face is warm and he tries to duck out of view, but his remaining boot adds height to his already towering form and he can’t do more than duck his face into the Australian’s hair. It smells like the ocean and Barry restrains himself from burying his nose in deeper.

Most of the patients and staff return to working, but one nurse with braided brown hair and wearing clean blue scrubs looks up from a whining patient across the room. She hands the kid his white bicycle helmet and helps him sit up from the bed. She pulls off her nitrile gloves and disposes of them in the nearby garbage can before crossing her arms and coming closer. She gives off the strong aura of a disappointed mother and Barry wants to run from the hospital.

He tries to hide behind the Australian, but he’s pushed to the front without warning.

“Oh, geez. Who’d you shoot?” she asks, skimming an assessing look over Barry. “Wait, you look… fine.”

“He ate concrete. You think it would’a toughened him up, but instead it’s wriggled his ankle,” the Australian says. “And I told you I’ve stopped––,” He glances over at Barry then over the other patients and workers in the room and lowers his voice. “I’m good now.”

“Yeah, okay.” The nurse laughs and bats the Australian’s shoulder. “Now, he ate concrete, but how’d this happen to your face?” She reaches up and gently cups the Australian’s jaw, her thumb skimming over the growing bruise near his lip from Barry’s fist.

Barry feels like he’s intruding in a private moment and he loudly clears his throat. “It’s my first time in a hospital,” Barry says, earning a strange look from both people. He’s positive they can see through the lie, but they don’t ask him to elaborate, for which Barry is grateful.

“Well, let’s get you all patched up,” the nurse says and motions for them to follow her.

The Australian pulls Barry’s arm tighter around himself and trails behind the nurse towards an empty bed in the corner. Barry sits and the nurse lifts his legs onto the bed. Barry cradles his boot to his chest while the nurse gently unlaces his other and slips it easily from his foot, chatting with him about her day to distract him from the task. Barry winces as it jostles his ankle and the nurse tuts to herself and lightly feels along his leg towards his ankle. The nurse applauds Barry’s ability to walk in heels and Barry jokingly corrects her, making a comment about the Australian seeing him fall over, but when he looks to where the Australian was standing, he’s gone.

“He does that,” the nurse says, tapping away at her phone to arrange an x-ray. “I’m Emma, by the way. I’m pretty sure we’ve met before––,” She sees the flash of panic in Barry’s eyes, the frantic look he casts to the rest of the room. “Around town,” she finishes.

“Yeah,” Barry says. “I’m a frequent… of the town.”

Emma nods and makes a noise in agreement, but doesn’t sound convinced. Barry’s pretty sure she’s treated him before, but he’s grateful for the discretion.

Barry is rushed through to an x-ray, quickly determined it’s just a strain and will be fine within a couple days. Emma keeps him in the x-ray room as she wraps his ankle and patiently explains to Barry that he should work his way up to higher heels to avoid further injuries. He clenches his hands and contemplates hiding the scrapes, but Emma catches his wince and gently opens his fists. She cleans out his palms and wraps them in bandages as well and when she’s done she places her hand on his shoulder and waits for Barry to meet her eyes.

The general aura of a concerned mother is gone, as is the professional nurse, and what’s left is simply Emma; kind eyes and gentle voice.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Barry nods quickly.

“You can tell me if it wasn’t the concrete that did this,” she says. “He lies a lot and it’s better to know that I’m not missing any other injuries.”

Barry shakes his head. “Yeah, no, I know how it sounds, but I did trip. They saw me trip.”

“Okay.”

There’s a small frown at the corners of her mouth when she says the word. It makes Barry anxious and he tries one last ditch attempt to convince her.

“I haven’t blown anyone today,” he says, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“ Oh-kay ,” Emma says.

“Sorry,” Barry says, lowering his voice. “I just thought, maybe that’d… You know.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s not generally your customers who send you here.”

Barry glances at the large window on the wall looking into the observation room and bites his lip. The observation room looks empty, but that hasn’t stopped them before.

Emma sighs, the mask of ‘nurse’ falling back into place.

“Well, remember to ice and heat, no more than fifteen minutes each,” she says and helps him off the exam table. “Keep pressure off it.”

She hands him a plastic grocery bag with his boots inside and helps him hobble to the main lobby. When he almost falls over waiting for the sliding glass doors to open, she helps him outside to a bench. There’s a couple ambulances in the roundabout and soon as Barry is situated on the bench Emma leaves to talk with the EMS.

Reflexively, Barry checks all his pockets for the money he’d stolen earlier in the night, relaxing into the bench when he finds it’s all still there –– minus the money he’d hid in his old boots, hopefully still locked inside his bike’s storage. He watches people walk by on the street, in pairs or talking animatedly on the phone, and he looks down at his feet. He’d been given a pair of disposable booties the hospital staff wore over their shoes and he curls his toes of his uninjured foot, listening to the crackle of plastic.

A cold loneliness creeps over Barry and he finds himself clenching and unclenching the hand that the Australian had held when helping him walk. It’d been a while since someone helped him without expecting some kind of payback. Though, on the thought of payback, he takes out his phone and redials his recent call. He still owes Mickey a swift kick in the thigh for landing him at the hospital.

The phone rings and rings and rings and Barry’s about to give up and hobble his way back to Fridgit when the call connects.

“Downbad Mickey,” he greets.

“I need a lift. I’m at the hospital,” Barry says. There’s a silence over the line and he knows what Mickey is thinking so he quickly adds, “Fuck high heels.”

Mickey laughs and tells Barry he’ll be there in ten minutes.

Chapter Text

For the past five days, Irwin Dundee has thought of nothing but dicks. It had started as a gentle fascination –– as all fascinations do –– and had quickly spiraled out of control, resulting in him being banned from both the Public Library and Digital Den. The Digital Den ban was for the theft of a laptop that they ultimately couldn’t prove he stole, but the ban was more in good faith to the employees to ensure it would keep Dundee out of their shop asking lewd questions and searching things on the internet in plain view of the shop. Dundee didn’t understand the fuss; more or less of half the population of Los Santos had dicks, but the police didn’t see it the same way. In the end, he kept the laptop, but he’s sure there’s a footnote in his police profile with the words “public menace”.

He’s kind of proud of it, to be completely honest. Ever since he’d moved to Los Santos and fallen backwards into crime –– quite literally –– he’d made it his goal to collect as many police tags as possible, though within reason. After spending a solid month in jail for a crime he was ultimately found innocent of, he’d decided that his collection of these tags wouldn’t include anything which would have him sent up to Bolingbroke indefinitely. He’s almost certain he’d go mad without the outside stimuli. He loved talking to people too much; loved meeting people new to Los Santos who he could scam a quick buck from; loved hearing the wild stories of the streets; and he loved seeing the wide variety of people walking them too. Though for the most part the general population he meets all melds together in his brain into an amalgamation of Los Santos Civilian . Occasionally, they’ll be one or two who make such an impression that Dundee makes it his mission to keep them in his life permanently.

It’s how he’d made most of his club: the Bondi Boys and Babes, named so after a beach from his home country of Australia. Each of his members carried a spark of insanity inside themselves and Dundee had made it his mission to protect them from the larger cruelties of the city: boredom. Dundee was rarely ever bored. When he is he creates chaos he sometimes regrets after the moment of ennui has passed, but every act of chaos brought him closer to his goal of leaving a legacy. He prides himself as a man who knows how to get things done and have a good time in the process, so when he finds something he doesn’t know about it irks him.

After three days meditating on the subject he’d finally brought it up with one of his closest friends and fellow Bondi member: Collin McKinley. He’d not been smooth around the subject, half-kidnapping, half-ordering Collin to drive him to the clothing store near their turf in Vespucci where he bee-lined to the shoe racks and pulled dozens of shoes off the shelves while muttering to himself. Collin stays by the cashier, reassuring her that Dundee hadn't lost his mind nor was he about to harm her or the shop, he was just a curious man with a curious mind and a penchant for tactile learning.

“Ain’t ‘cha Dundee?” Collin shouts across the store.

Dundee doesn’t answer; he’s found them. He sits on the floor and pulls off his worn sneakers and throws them over his shoulder. He hears the cashier make a comment about “not again”, but he doesn’t care. He has to know. He fits his foot in the boots and laces them tight. They aren’t the same calf high boots and the size is a bit off, but the heel is the same and that’s all that matters.

He cautiously pushes onto his feet, grinning wildly at the extra three inches it grants him. He turns to Collin with a grin on his face, but Collin doesn’t look impressed.

“It’s not a club purchase,” he says, moving away from the counter and stepping over the minefield of shoes Dundee has created.

Dundee grabs Collin’s shoulder as soon as he’s within reach and takes a few stiff tiny steps. Dundee makes a wild noise of glee and quickly gains his footing, striding through the aisle until a flip flop trips him and he falls over. Collin claps for him, but it doesn’t feel congratulatory.

“Fuck, it is hard,” Dundee says, getting to his feet again. His confidence is shattered and he’s reverted to stiff tiny steps.

“What are you…?” Collin starts, but finds no good way to finish his sentence and instead asks, “Why?”

“You remember that guy?” Dundee asks, carefully making his way around the scattered shoes. “The one at the place with the these?” Dundee sticks out his foot in example.

“Sorta. What about him?”

“I don’t know,” Dundee says, because truthfully he doesn’t know. He almost tells Collin he wanted to see if he would look as good in heels, but he doesn’t. He almost tells Collin he’s thinking of buying the boots — until he sees the price tag. Instead he tells Collin, “I saw a shipping container at the docks labeled Vangelico,” as he pulls off the heeled boots and tracks down his worn sneakers in the mess.

“Thank fuck,” Collin says and the pair leave the store to start planning tomorrow’s heist.

Dundee’s still thinking about it the next day as blue and red lights flash across the store. He’s wrist deep in shattered glass when he asks Collin, “Do you think I could pull off boots like that?”

“What?” Collin doesn’t take his eyes off the cops outside the jewelry store, but he does angle himself towards Dundee.

“Yesterday. In the Binco. Do you think I could pull those off?”

“Pull them off and toss them across the ocean.”

“I think I could pull them off,” Dundee mutters as he stuffs gold watches into his pockets.

“Why you wanna dress like that anyways? You toe the line pretty nicely, but boots like that with that one outfit you always wear? The one with the leopard pants? You might actually get a prostitution charge if a cop sees you just walking down the street.”

Dundee pulls his hand a little too quickly from the glass and it scratches across his denim jacket. “What?”

“What?”

“What makes you think they’d charge me with prostitution?” Dundee asks, but Collin laughs and Dundee feels like he’s missing the joke. Dundee smiles, though it’s just a strange nervous reaction. He hates being out of the loop. “What?”

“He was a fucking prostitute, Dundee.”

Dundee stares at Collin with his mouth agape and Collin has the audacity to laugh at him.

“I mean, okay, sure, but…” Dundee trails off.

He tries to recover, to brush it off, but it’s a lost cause and Collin laughs louder. He moves all the loot from the store cases into Collin’s pockets in plain view of the cops to stop Collin laughing. Dundee pretends he doesn’t think about the guy in the high heels as Collin negotiates their way out of the robbery and into their car. Dundee pretends he doesn’t think about the sleek silhouette of the guy as he speeds from the jewelry store with a police bike and two crown victoria police interceptors trailing behind him. He makes a few distracted corners, first losing the CVPI in the back, then the second, then ramping over a wall and finally losing the bike. He doesn’t even notice they’re no longer being chased until Collin asks him to stop at a 24/7.

Dundee drifts sideways through the gas station, narrowly avoiding the pumps and sliding gracefully into the parking spot nearest the door. Collin says something –– Dundee’s not listening –– and runs into the store. Dundee sits idly in the car for almost an entire minute before he catches a look in the rear view mirror and watches a truck drive past with the logo: Fridgit. Dundee tracks it as the driver takes a wide turn and almost runs over a teenager on a BMX bike. The truck doesn’t stop and Dundee keeps an eye on it as he reverses from the 24/7 and swings his car around to follow.

The parking lot at Fridgit is empty of people. Or rather, empty of interesting people. It’s packed with people in high-vis vests loading and unloading crates. They don’t look up when Dundee rolls into the lot, scanning each of their shoes before leaving. Dundee circles the block and finally parks behind a bush near the edge of the freeway with a clear view to Fridgit. He has one cop knock on his window and ask him what he’s hanging around for, but he spotted the cop approaching and pretends to be on a call and the cop apologizes and leaves. It’s by good luck that the cop is out of ear shot when Dundee’s phone starts ringing for real.

“You fucking left me, cunt!” Collin yells.

“You’ve got feet,” Dundee says. “And I’ve got a thing to do.” He hangs up before Collin can protest and goes back to watching the Fridgit lot.

The sun goes down and Dundee tracks every employee leaving until the lot is clear and quiet. He shuffles excitedly in his seat at the thought of seeing the man in the heels again, but hours pass and the only people in high heels he sees are a group of women in skirts and wearing glow stick bracelets. There’s a warehouse in the area that holds frequent raves and if he listens hard enough he can hear the thrumming bass shaking the ground.

He calls it quits around midnight when his rumbling stomach reminds him he hasn’t eaten for most of the day. He picks up a couple of hitchhikers leaving the rave and taxis them into vinewood hills in exchange for twenty bucks. They’re young pretty things who Dundee would’ve been sharing his number with, but tonight they don’t interest him. They make veiled comments wherein Dundee’s sure they’re inviting him inside for a threesome, but he speeds off as soon as their doors are closed, racing down to Rooster Rest to get a bowl of hot ramen before he goes to sleep.

Later, as he lies in bed staring at the roof and rubbing his stomach in a pleased manner, full from the ramen, he can’t help the thought that drags its way to the front of his mind and his hand starts to wander. The images are faceless figures dancing and swaying to the memory of the beat of the rave, but he stops himself from slipping his hand under his underwear when the figures start to warp into the obscured shape of a tall shadow. A tall shadow with heeled boots. The shadow spins and bends and shakes their ass and a surprised burst of laughter escapes Dundee.

He rubs his thigh, telling himself it’s not the same as touching himself and there’s no reason for him to get all strange about it. He clears his throat and teases his hand along the waistline of his boxers before settling it on his stomach again. He presses his nails into his stomach, digging deep until he hisses in pain and the images in his mind scatter. He sighs and rolls over, closing his eyes and attempting to fall asleep.

In short time the images return, this time more fleshed out, with short brown hair and a leather coat and tight pants that tuck into heeled boots. The man in his mind keeps his back to Dundee as he sways and moves, shimmying towards Dundee until he’s rubbing against his front. Dundee shifts his hips against the mattress and tries to push the images from his mind, but no matter how he shoves at the mental apparition it only comes back in greater force, refusing to let him sleep.

“Alright, fine,” Dundee sighs and slips his hand down his boxers. He’s hard, he didn’t even notice when it happened, but there it is. He’s sensitive and on edge and as soon as his hand is wrapped around his cock he moans.

Just like that , the imagined figure in his mind coos, pressing himself backwards into Dundee and shimmying against him. Dundee’s hand speeds up and he whines as tension starts to pool in the pit of his belly. Dundee writhes helplessly against the bed as the mental figure becomes more bold, reaching behind himself and tangling a hand in Dundee’s hair. Dundee curls his own hand tight in his hair, thinking about how this imagined man would writhe and moan against him.

The figure in his mind moans and Dundee comes. A wave of tiredness quickly sweeps over him and Dundee bows to it, nuzzling into his pillow and falling asleep in moments, but before he’s completely under he swears he can feel the phantom press of lips on his jaw.

“G’nigh,” Dundee mumbles to the empty room and passes out, hand still down his boxers.

The next day Dundee wakes up before the sun and rushes down to the Fridgit Storage. He sits in the same spot as last night with a perfect vantage point of the parking lot. He’s reasonably worried the company will report him though, so instead of taking his own car he jogged down the road from his house and smashed a window to hotwire a car. It’s a fairly inconspicuous thing, small and boxy with an engine that squeals going over thirty, but he doesn’t care because he’s not moving. As soon as he’s found his spot he parks the car and shimmies down in his seat to avoid being seen. He even wore all black today to ensure he would blend into the shadows; black jeans, black hoodie, but bright white sneakers that he’s pretty sure have someone else's blood dotted across the heels.

He’s probably not as subtle as he thinks, but he doesn’t really care.

He just needs to see the guy again.

While he’s waiting he pulls out his phone and scrolls through the local news feeds and socials, plugging in random key-words to narrow his quest, but coming up empty. Not that he thought any prostitutes would be advertising, but he was curious. There’s one post that catches his eye and his heart speeds up until he continues reading: Hookies Bar and Grill. Definitely not what he’s searching for.

He looks up from his phone and scans the road. It’s the same as before; a few scattered ravers, a random jogger, some guy in an orange hoodie who’s been sitting on the same bench for the past two hours, taxis searching for fares, and racers along the highway –– this time with cops trailing behind them.

Dundee sighs and pockets his phone. He taps his hands along his steering wheel. It’s possible he’s missed him when he was scrolling socials and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s missed something important due to it. There are occasions where he gets into full caps-lock screaming matches with people in comment sections, but that hasn’t happened in a while. But he’s also missed whole races from this before, so it’s by this thinking that he turns off his car and hops out.

The ravers stumble in the direction away from Fridgit, the taxis circle the entire city and could miss someone as easily as Dundee, and the jogger doesn’t even notice when one of the racers pushes a cop car off the road a ways down, so Dundee doesn’t bother asking them. That leaves the guy in the orange hoodie, but he doesn’t look very friendly. He’s leaning his elbows on his knees and tapping the heels of his boots against the concrete in a beat only he hears. When the police crash happens he darts a nervous look up the road and tilts himself out of eyeline, but doesn’t move. He checks his watch and sighs, clearly reaching the end of some unmarked hour. He stands, stretching in one sleek arch with his arms over his head, before turning and heading down the road.

Dundee jogs over, calling out for him to stop and grabbing his hoodie sleeve. A look of shock passes over the guy’s face, but he quickly schools it into something coy, smiling at Dundee and turning towards him.

“Yeah?” the guy asks.

He’s Australian too: is as far as Dundee’s mind gets.

Dundee continues to hold onto the guy’s sleeve while he rushes to form anything resembling words. He doesn’t know why he thought the guy would run or punch him or quite frankly shoot him, but now Dundee’s quickly realizing that he didn’t think any of this through. How does one ask if someone’s seen a prostitute hanging around Fridgit without being obvious about it? Nevermind the worry that the guy could be an undercover cop or their informant. Dundee’s hold on the guy’s hoodie tightens, keeping him in place as he scans the guy.

“Can I help you?” the guy asks when Dundee doesn’t speak.

There’s no visible weapon outlines that Dundee can tell and no bulk of a bulletproof vest under his hoodie. Dundee’s pretty sure he knows all the Australian cops in Los Santos and he doesn’t remember seeing this guy. He also has kind eyes that Dundee is pretty sure would be cut from his head if he were a CI, but he’s still got them both. Dundee leans into the guy to check, squinting at him as the guy continues to smile at him even if it looks a little forced. His clothes are clean –– except for the dirt on the knees of his jeans –– there’s a careful handsewn repair in the cuff of his hoodie and his pockets seem empty. He’s clearly new to the city and Dundee sighs in defeat.

“Naw, mate. I’m just looking for someone,” Dundee says and the guy’s entire demeanor shifts.

“Yeah? And what do you want from this someone?” the guy asks.

He leans into Dundee and grabs Dundee’s hoodie sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the fabric. It’s an odd handshake, but Dundee doesn’t think anything of it until he feels the guy’s other hand skate across his back. Dundee arches away from it, unintentionally moving him into the guy’s chest. Dundee backs away again, but the guy still has a hold of Dundee’s hoodie. It’s not a very tight hold, but it is oddly intimate; both of them grabbing the other’s hoodie sleeves.

Unprompted, Dundee’s brain helpfully notes that they’re basically holding hands.

Seeming to sense the off-balanced reaction from Dundee the guy drops Dundee’s sleeve and slides his hands in his pants pockets as he leans away. Dundee’s brain starts feeding words into his mouth again, but it also keeps feeding him the warm sensation of the guy’s hand on his back and it’s a little distracting. The guy waits for an answer and Dundee blinks at him.

“I want…” Dundee says, words slowing. The guy licks his lips and Dundee watches the movement of his tongue. “I want to kick him in the stomach.”

“Oh.” The guy sounds a little disappointed and Dundee wants to kick himself in the stomach.

“Yeah, he uh, he said there’s…” Words have never failed Dundee as badly as they have right now. “Something I had to see down here, but I’m not seeing it. I think maybe I missed the opportunity to see it.”

The guy checks his watch again. “You tell me what you’re looking for and I might be able to help you.”

Dundee feels the incredible urge to sprint back to his car, but he’s got a reputation to uphold as someone who didn’t run from new opportunities. However, he’s got enough friends that the idea of a simple lie comes to him. He wouldn’t knowingly push his own ego out of a helicopter, but he isn’t beyond the idea of throwing his friends. Besides, he’s sure someone somewhere owed him for something or other.

“My friend ,” Dundee says, unnecessarily emphasizing the word, “was looking for some one , actually. Maybe you’ve seen them?”

The guy nods slowly, one eyebrow raised. He crosses his arms. “I’m around here pretty frequently. Maybe I’ve seen them.”

“Oh good.” Dundee clears his throat as he thinks over what notable features the guy had that day, but all he can think about is the phantom touch of him and the imagined moan in his ear. Dundee feels his face heat, but he presses on. “About… this tall––,” he says and holds his hand a little taller than the guy in front of him. “Wearing those tight jeans. What do you call them…? Skinny jeans, rather. Uh, leather jacket and… um… heels.”

The guy’s face falls a little. “She have shoulder length pink hair?”

Dundee frowns. “No, he had…” Dundee takes a moment to look at the guy in front of him. He looks like any other random grinder waiting for a job ping to tow a car, but there’s a ringing at the back of Dundee’s mind telling him he’s missed something. “He had your exact hairstyle.”

“...Heels,” the guy says, face scrunching in concentration.

“Yup. Heels.”

“He?”

“Yup.” Dundee taps a rhythm onto his thighs as the ringing in his mind gets louder. “He.”

The guy stares at Dundee for a moment longer before shaking himself out of his thoughts. “Yeah, I know who your friend is looking for,” he says and waves for Dundee to follow him across the road towards the Fridgit parking lot. “Though I don’t know when he would have seen him,” he adds quieter when he thinks Dundee is out of earshot.

The guy leads him through the parking lot, navigating the maze of crates and parked forklifts like he works there. Though maybe he does. Maybe that’s what Dundee’s brain is trying to tell him. Dundee smiles to himself and follows the guy, pleased that he’ll finally be able to talk to the guy from the other day and get some answers to his curiosity. The guy leads Dundee around the side of Fridgit, down another alley lit by a couple of dimmed industrial flood lights, and towards a door marked storage. The guy opens the door and waves Dundee inside.

Dundee doesn’t go. He lingers at the entryway of the alley, marking out the vantage points and blind spots. The alley goes straight towards the mainway where there’s another bench at the other side of the road and a few crates scattered between here and there, though none taller than his chest. It’s perfect blocking for a shootout or an ambush and Dundee feels for his gun tucked into the back of his pants.

“You won’t find him out here,” the guy says, looking over his shoulder and seeing Dundee stuck at the alley entryway. “He doesn’t like working outside,” the guy says, sensing Dundee’s hesitation. “Come on,” the guy says with a sly smile, tilting his head and beckoning Dundee to follow.

It’s so reminiscent of his dream that Dundee’s face heats and he finds it hard to make eye contact with the guy, but he follows him. The guy closes the door behind them and for a moment they’re surrounded by darkness before there’s a rattle of a chain and the small room is flooded by a single bulb high on the ceiling. The guy waits for Dundee to turn around before trailing the long chain of the lightswitch through his fingers as he drops his hand. Dundee keeps turning, his gaze darting over the rows of empty shelves and settled dust, before he turns back to the guy again. He backs away slightly, accessing which way to roll to give himself better cover if the guy pulls a gun, but instead the guy carefully sheds his hoodie, keeping eye contact with Dundee the entire time. Dundee clears his throat and searches the shadows for any more people, but he’s alone in this obviously forgotten storage room with this guy and only this guy.

“So, is he meeting us here?” Dundee asks. He notes the damp reverb of his own voice and guesses that the room is pretty soundproof.

The guy laughs. “Alright, what else did your friend tell you?” the guy asks.

Dundee doesn’t like how the guy emphasizes that word, like he was clever enough to crack Dundee’s code. Granted, it wasn’t a very sophisticated one, but most people played along just out of fear of what Dundee was capable of. This guy had none of the underlying fear most people addressed Dundee with on a daily basis.

“Just that there was something really cool I needed to see.” Dundee’s definitely getting fucked here.

He moves as subtle as possible to feel for the gun at the back of his pants. If the guy is going to try anything, Dundee wants the first draw. The guy calmly folds his orange hoodie and throws it over one of the shelves –– partly cleared of dust –– and stretches his arms over his head. Dundee grins and moves his hand from his gun; he’s always prefered a fist fight. Curiously though, the guy doesn’t square up to Dundee, but instead strolls casually towards him. Dundee backs up, needing the space for a solid swing, but the guy keeps following until Dundee’s back hits a wall and the guy crowds in close, grabbing the belt loops of Dundee’s jeans and pulling his hips forward.

“Oh,” Dundee says, pinning his hands up against the wall to avoid accidentally touching the guy. He tilts his face away from the guy’s neck, not needing to know that he smells like pine and peppermint.

“What?” the guy says, leaning away from Dundee but still keeping his fingers looped into Dundee’s jeans. “You can stop playing code-words, there’s no cameras in here. They don’t use this storage unit anymore. I’ve been working out of here for a while and no one’s walked in.”

Something in Dundee’s mind clicks into place and his mind’s eye plays back for him the limping walk of the guy in front of him: favouring one leg and trying not to bend his ankle. Dundee blinks up at the guy –– fuck, he’s tall –– and opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. The guy ducks his head into the juncture of Dundee’s neck and shoulder and brushes his nose against the skin, not actually kissing him, but Dundee can feel the same phantom press of lips on him from last night’s dream. He shivers when the guy exhales and jolts when the guy slips his hands under Dundee’s shirt to tease the waistband of his jeans.

“You look…” Dundee says, urging his mind to focus, but it’s a losing battle. His mind has better images and a voice to round out his fantasy from last night and it’s running through it again in greater detail. Dundee clears his throat and leans away from the guy. “What happened to the heels?”

“It was Mickey who told you about them, right? Fucker’s always trying to send more people my way. I do just fine, but he’s so damn convincing. I think he does it just for the sick entertainment of hearing about people’s disappointment thinking they were going to meet him. Regardless, I’ll give you the same rate I give anyone who Mickey brings to me. Hundred for a handy, two for a blow, but three if you get a kick watching me swallow.”

Dundee’s brain short circuits.

“I’d give you the full list, but those are the only ones with Mate’s Rates,” the guy says, his thumb brushing over the button of Dundee’s jeans before popping it loose.

The cold metal of the button presses against Dundee’s stomach, shocking him back into thought. “Sorry… There’s been a, uh, miscommunication?”

“If Mickey –– sorry –– if your friend told you different rates, tell him to get fucked. I wasn’t serious about the twenty bucks last week, I was… in a bad place. It was a joke.”

“My friend…?” Dundee’s forgetting his own cover story the more the guy’s fingers play over Dundee’s skin. He pinches his eyes shut and it kinda helps, but he rushes to get the truth out before anything more awkward happens. “I was lying.”

“What?”

“There is no friend who told me to come.”

“…What?” the guy says, pulling his hands out from under Dundee’s shirt.

The guy pulls away and Dundee opens his eyes. The guy’s eyes are wide in what Dundee recognizes as fear. Finally. But instead of the swell of pride, something else settles in Dundee’s stomach, something akin to apprehension. His fists clench at his sides as he resists the urge to reach out and pull the guy towards him again. It’s not common that Dundee actively searched out the physical touch of other people, let alone men –– let alone men in this manner.

“I thought you were being coy!” the guy says. “I thought… I thought it was code.” He crosses his arms. “Who told you to find me?”

“No one,” Dundee says, but the guy clearly doesn’t believe him.

“I’ve been paying them.” The guy backs away and Dundee follows after him, unintentionally backing the guy into a wall. “They can’t… I’ve been paying them. Don’t––!” The guy flinches when Dundee reaches out and Dundee startles, unaware of his own hand moving.

“I was curious,” Dundee says. “I wasn’t looking for this, but now… I kinda…” A nervous laugh breaks from Dundee. “I’m interested.”

The guy eyes him and Dundee seems to pass his test because the guy uncrosses his arms. “If Mickey didn’t send you here, I can’t do Mate’s Rates.”

“I don’t care about––,”

“Cause I don’t really know you––,”

“I wasn’t really looking for––,”

“Do you even know Mickey––?”

“I didn’t even know you were a––,”

“How did you even know––,”

“I’m not wearing underwear––,”

“What?”

“What?”

The guy leans against the wall, a smirk on his lips. “What’s your name?”

“Crocodile,” Dundee says without thinking. He’s the latest cop to piss off the club with his bullshit trying to tow the cars outside of Bluey’s and the name is fresh in his mind. The guy quirks an eyebrow. “Steve,” Dundee adds. “Crocodile Steve.”

“Uh huh.”

The guy clearly doesn’t believe him and Dundee doesn’t know why he wants him to. He shouldn’t care if he does or doesn’t. He’ll likely never see him again.

“So, what do I call you? John? Or…?” Dundee asks.

The guy laughs.

“No, John is what you call the clients,” Dundee quietly corrects himself.

“Barry,” the guy says. “You can call me Barry.”

“Like the fruit!” Dundee says and the guy –– Barry –– winces.

“Ehh… no, but sure,” Barry mumbles. He clears his throat and a mask of professionalism settles over him.

Dundee’s sure he’s hit some nerve and he wants to apologize, but he doesn’t.

“So, what are you after?” Barry asks.

Dundee thinks on it, his gaze falling to Barry’s mouth. He swallows audibly and Barry’s lips quirk at the corners. Not quite a smile, not quite a frown. Barry takes Dundee by the shoulders and reverses their positions so Dundee is against the wall again. He calmly grabs Dundee’s jeans and pulls open the zipper, watching Dundee’s face. Dundee’s holding his breath and he presses himself against the wall as if trying to lean away from Barry, but he tilts his hips for Barry to adjust Dundee’s jeans.

Barry palms Dundee over his pants and Dundee lets out a whimpering moan and collapses against the wall, throwing his head back and looking to the ceiling. Barry continues to roll his hand over Dundee and before Dundee can stop him he pulls open the fly of Dundee’s jeans and slides his hand in. Dundee shouts in surprise at Barry’s cold hands. Barry chuckles, but doesn’t move his hands away. He actually works his hand in further until he wraps his fist around Dundee’s cock and suddenly Dundee doesn’t care that his hand is cold or the awkwardness of the situation, all he wants is for Barry’s hand to move.

Barry pushes himself against Dundee, pinning him to the wall with his hips while sliding his palm across the tip of Dundee’s leaking cock to gather the precum. He ducks towards Dundee’s neck again and whispers near his ear, “You liking that?”

“Mm hmm,” Dundee whines and he pants as Barry strokes him.

Barry pulls Dundee’s jeans open more and draws out his cock. Dundee barely registers his pants being pushed and shoved at, barely registers the other sounds of the room, the shifting of fabric, until a warm wet heat wraps around his cock and he shouts.

“Fuck!”

Barry laughs around Dundee’s cock, vibrating it inside his mouth and Dundee whines, high and broken. Barry runs his tongue around the head and Dundee presses himself flat against the wall, digging his hands into Barry’s hair and tugging.

“No,” Dundee moans. “Stop.”

Chapter Text

Barry is a lot of things: anxious, under-fed, (currently) injured, cautious, but he isn’t sure if he’d call himself observant. He loses faces in crowds and voices in the din, he repeats questions and forgets if he’s answered, but there’s a few exceptions to everything.

When he’s working, he listens and watches, and if he were ever to apply these skills outside of the storage room he called his workplace he knows he wouldn’t have ended up here in the first place. He’s made it his job to know what people want before they want it and it’s why what few repeat clients he has keep coming back. So, when the guy with the mullet dressed in all black jogs up to Barry just as he’s deciding whether to call it a night or not, he knows he has time for one more client. Barry leads him to the disused Fridgit storage room and backs him against a wall as he tells the guy his rates. The guy is shifty, but in a nervous way which is why Barry made an earlier excuse to get as close to him as possible and lift his wallet from his back pocket. He’d need the guy’s ID if he turned out to be a CI. He’d give the name to his superiors and they’d take care of it for him, either recruiting him into their ranks or leaving his body somewhere no one but the wildlife would find it.

It was one of the perks of working for who he did: if anyone tries to mess with their income, they quickly learn it’s a bad idea. However, this deal also works in reverse and Barry has first hand experience of what happens if he were to miss a payment for his protection. He’s only really talked to one of the guard dogs: a British guy with white hair who’d taken to watching Barry for a few nights after his warnings to make sure the lesson stuck. Barry had yet to meet any Australians working for them and after the guy hears Barry’s comments about his friend telling him about Barry, the guy folds and tells him he was lying.

Fear runs cold through Barry’s veins and he begs the guy to reconsider — they always like the begging — as Barry informs the guy that he has in fact been paying his weekly dues, just in case the news was slow to reach the lower ranks. Surprisingly, the guy looks confused and he closes the space Barry put between them. Barry’s not an idiot, he saw the guy reach for the gun at the back of his pants earlier and he braces for the cold metal between his teeth, but it never comes. Instead, the guy confesses he wasn’t looking for Barry’s services, but had stumbled upon them and is interested in knowing more.

Barry glances over the guy. His jeans are torn and his black hoodie is dusted in dog fur around the sleeves. His mullet is wild, as is his beard, but both are clean and smell of salt water. There’s a flush in his cheeks and his brown eyes are bright and curious, very obviously keeping his gaze on Barry’s eyes. His hands twitch as if at any moment he’d cover his crotch, yet doesn’t. Barry wonders if he could fluster the guy. He uncrosses his arms and the guy leans back on his heels.

“If Mickey didn’t send you here, I can’t do Mate’s Rates,” Barry says, knowing he couldn’t afford to give any random off the street his ridiculously reduced pricing reserved for Mickey’s friends. He waits for the guy to make an excuse and leave.

“I don’t care about––,”

Barry carries on. “Cause I don’t really know you––,”

The guy’s not leaving. “I wasn’t really looking for––,”

Then how did he find Barry? “Do you even know Mickey––?”

The flush on the guy’s cheeks darkens. “I didn’t even know you were a––,”

Barry has to know if his name is on the streets. “How did you even know––,”

“I’m not wearing underwear,” the guy says from out of nowhere.

“What?” Barry asks, honestly stunned at the complete change in the guy’s demeanor.

“What?” the guy says, like his own words escaped without his knowledge. He blinks, eyes wide in shock as Barry continues to stare at him. He shifts nervously under the scrutiny and Barry wonders how far his roots go in the city. Those who’ve been in Los Santos for longer tend to hold their ground against interrogation better.

Barry leans against the wall, smirking at the guy. “What’s your name?” Barry urges his mind to focus and not forget what the guy is going to say.

“Crocodile,” the guy says quickly and Barry barely resists laughing, his smile growing. “Steve,” the guy adds. “Crocodile Steve.”

“Uh huh.” Barry’s sure he’s not going to forget the name, but he’s also sure it’s a fake. He still has the guy’s wallet that he palmed earlier and although he has every intention of returning it –– he’s gotta get paid after all –– he’s definitely keeping the ID. The wallet is an obvious weight in Barry’s pocket where before there was nothing, but the guy is so flustered by Barry’s offers that Barry is certain the guy won’t notice unless Barry points it out.

Regardless, Barry’s not calling the guy Crocodile until he knows it’s his actual name.

The guy asks for Barry’s name, trying out a joke that loses the punchline once he realizes his mistake. Regardless, Barry finds himself laughing as the guy corrects himself.

“No, John is what you call the clients,” the guy mumbles.

Barry’s half tempted to give himself a false name, but he’s intrigued by the guy and if Barry’s not going to see him again he wants to hear this guy moaning his name.

“Barry,” he says before he can reconsider it. “You can call me Barry.”

“Like the fruit!” the guy says cheerfully.

Barry can’t help the wince. It’s a favourite of his tormentors to compare him to soft fruits. Barry straightens his spine. “Ehh… no, but sure,” he mumbles. The guy’s smile wobbles and Barry quickly brings the conversation back to the matter. “So, what are you after?” He can hear the cold tone of his voice and hopes the guy doesn’t change his mind.

The guy licks his lips, staring at Barry’s mouth. This is familiar territory and Barry falls into his routine. The guy doesn’t say anything, but he actually gulps and Barry presses down a grin at the ridiculousness of it as he grabs the guy by the shoulders — wide and firm under his hoodie. Barry pushes at the guy until he leans against the wall, landing with a huff and his eyes still fixed on Barry’s lips. Barry runs his hands down the guy’s arms and over his stomach, down to his jeans. The guy watches Barry’s hands, his breath stuttering when Barry unzips his jeans. His eyes dart up to meet Barry’s gaze, the guy’s eyes wide and lust-blown, but he’s holding his breath.

Barry expects the guy to tell him he’s changed his mind, but when Barry pulls at his jeans the guy lifts his hips from the wall to make it easier. Barry fits his hand around the bulge of the guy’s jeans and rolls his palm against him. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, for the guy to shy away or to take control and demand more from Barry, but what he gets is a complete surrender. The guy lets out the sweetest broken moan Barry’s ever heard as he collapses against the wall, barely held upright. He throws his head back, exposing the long line of his throat hidden by his beard and Barry has the oddest compulsion to bite it.

Instead, Barry bites his own lip and tugs at the guy’s jeans until he can see the tip of his cock peeking out. The guy wasn’t lying about not wearing underwear. The dim bulb above them glints off the bead of precome forming at the tip of the guy’s cock and Barry reaches in to grab, not bothering to try to warm his hands beforehand. The guy shouts in surprise –– Barry’s been outside for a while, he knows how cold his hands must be –– but the guy doesn’t try to pull Barry’s hands out. His hips rock into Barry’s fist, trying to set a pace Barry doesn’t have the leverage for yet. Ideally, the guy’s pants would be at his ankles already, but the stuttering mess he became when he realized Barry’s profession makes Barry want to take it slow and make sure the guy has a good experience so as not to sully the name.

After all, he’s not the only one in the city and if rumors start going around about shitty dime corner hookers with bad skills, he’s pretty sure he knows where everyone will start looking first.

At least, he knows where his employers will start looking first.

He’s been on thin ice with them for a while and it would be just like them to not let him explain before throwing him to the dogs.

Barry twists his hand to better work his way into the guy’s jeans and the guy’s mouth falls open on a silent shout as his eyes close. Barry’s kind of glad for it. He’s always thought he’s done his best work when no one’s looking.

The guy’s hips shift again and Barry moves his fist against it, setting a slow rhythm the guy can easily follow. The storage room fills with the heavy pants and rough sound of shifting fabric and it starts to pluck at Barry’s nerves. He’s usually indifferent towards his customers; they’re just a paycheck, but this guy is something else. He’s careless with the noises he makes, unashamed of their disjointed breathy nature, and Barry feels his own cock twitch in interest at the sounds that tumble from the guy’s mouth.

Barry tucks himself against the guy, pinning the guy to the wall with his hips. It feels a bit like his younger years when he would sneak away off school campus to exchange handies with his classmates. It emboldens Barry to press his luck in drawing the guy from his shell –– metaphorically speaking and then eventually literally. The guy twists his head to the side, unintentionally baring his neck to Barry and Barry ducks his head, watching the shiver roll over the guy as Barry whispers in his ear.

“You liking that?”

He moves his thumb over the tip of the guy’s cock in a mimic of a question mark’s swirl and smiles when the guy can’t get his words together.

“Mm hmm,” the guy whines, his breath heavy and stuttering.

Barry pulls the guy’s jeans open further, taking the guy’s cock in hand and guiding it into the cold air. The guy shivers again and moves his hips towards Barry, unintentionally rubbing against Barry’s cock. The friction is unexpected and Barry presses his nose against the guy’s neck, his own breath catching. The guy’s hands clench into fists where he has them pressed against the wall, forcibly keeping himself from touching Barry. It’s nice –– Barry’s used to clients who grab at him and move him like a doll –– but he wants the guy to want to touch him.

He ghosts his lips along the guy’s neck before he sinks to his knees. In a moment of the guy’s distraction, Barry slips the stolen wallet into the back pocket of the guy’s jeans before continuing to push them down until there’s enough room for Barry to work without the distraction of holding them open. Barry quickly adjusts himself inside his own pants and licks his palm. The guy catches his breath, eyes still closed and head tilted towards the ceiling, and Barry keeps his eyes on him as he holds the guy’s cock in his hand again and takes the head into his mouth.

“Fuck!” the guy shouts, his hips pushing towards Barry’s mouth before he forces his hips against the wall again.

Barry laughs around the cock in his mouth, sending shivers up the guy’s spine and drawing a high broken whine from him. He sounds beautiful. Barry smiles and runs his tongue around the head before taking more into his mouth. He wiggles his tongue under the guy’s cock, but instead of more beautifully broken sounds, instead the guy presses himself flat against the wall. His hands fly to Barry’s hair and tug and Barry braces himself, but rather than the more common response of forcing Barry’s head down, it felt like the guy was attempting to pull Barry away from him.

“No,” the guy moans, still beautifully broken, but saying words that feel like cold water over Barry. “Stop.”

Barry draws off and lets the guy’s cock drop from his mouth. He sits back on his heels and rests his hands in his lap. The guy’s cock is still a hard curve, but the rest of him is a stiff anxious mix of messages Barry can’t get a read on. Barry bites his lip and looks up at the guy, half-expecting the guy to do the things his other clients do, strike him for a shitty job or demand to use Barry’s mouth without having to wait out the time it takes for Barry to adjust, but instead the guy starts to say something and quickly stops himself. He covers his eyes with his hands and shakes his head. He mumbles something and reaches down for Barry while keeping his eyes covered with his other hand. He grabs Barry’s shirt and yanks him to his feet and then the guy covers his eyes again with both hands.

Barry reaches out, but he isn’t sure of the intention.

He’s never comforted someone before. Did the guy even need comforting?

Barry settles for pulling the guy’s hoodie a little lower over his stomach. The muscles of the guy’s stomach flinch and Barry traces his fingertips over his skin before he can stop himself. The guy heaves in a breath, but doesn’t uncover his eyes and doesn’t tell Barry to stop, so Barry keeps going. He splays his hand across the guy’s stomach and slides it over to his hip, his fingertips dipping below the waistband of the guy’s jeans. The guy’s hips shift forward into the touch before the guy forces himself backwards.

“Is this not what you want?” Barry asks, moving his hand from the guy’s waist, but the guy darts out a hand to grab his wrist before Barry can pull away. The guy holds him in place, but doesn’t say anything else. “Look, I’m skirting legal lines as is and I don’t––,”

“Just,” the guy mumbles and bites his lip.

“If you don’t want anything, it’s fine,” Barry says. “Looking back on it, I kind of sprung this on you.” He knows he sounds defensive, but he can’t really help it. This is his job and it doesn't matter how attractive any potential client is, what matters is the money he makes from them and he has to remind himself of this as the guy makes another low whine. Barry shifts uneasily on his feet. “You’re going to have to go if you don’t want anything.”

The guy practically swallows his tongue trying to get his next words out. “I do! I just…” He peeks out from between his fingers. “That was… I mean, it felt…”

Barry squints at the guy as he continues his attempts to gather his thoughts.

Virgins are easy to spot: the sensitivity to touch, the hesitancy to vocalize their wants, the eager yet protective give of their bodies. Barry’s never serviced any in his time in Los Santos, but he supposes there’s a first time for everything. Barry gently pushes aside the guy’s hands covering his eyes and tilts his chin towards him. He soothes his other hand over the guy’s hip, getting his hips to subconsciously start moving again.

“Crocodile,” Barry says and the guy winces. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t?”

“But I know what I’m doing, just let yourself enjoy it.”

The guy’s eyes open and although the pupils are blown wide in lust, his glare is cold. “Excuse me, cunt, are you fucking implying what I think you’re implying?”

Barry’s hand over the guy’s hip stills, but the guy continues to shift his hips into Barry. Barry can’t look away from the guy’s eyes and he feels his body fall into automatic practice as the guy continues to shout, angling his chin for a perfect right hook should it come and staggering his feet wider in case the guy decides he does want something more from Barry.

The horrible thing is Barry wants this guy to want something from him. Nothing violent or rough, but Barry wants to break him apart and feel it under his hands. He’s not even sure if he cares if he gets paid, this one is a personal want and it’s been years since he’s given in to that urge.

“I’m not a fucking––! I broke up with my girlfriend three months ago!” the guy says. His voice is high and it cracks when Barry grabs the waistband of his jeans and pulls his hips towards him.

“Oh? Was she not a fan of sucking dick? That why you freaked out?” Barry runs his hand up the guy’s side, sliding under his hoodie to tease his fingertips along the guy’s ribs.

“No,” the guy says. His voice cracks again. “ She’s done it plenty.”

Barry tilts his head at the strange emphasis, but he’s starting to piece it together. “So, the issue is that it was me.”

“No,” the guy says quickly and grabs Barry’s wrist like he’s worried Barry will pull away.

Barry crowds into the guy’s space, pushing his hips into him. The guy’s breath catches when he feels the hard outline of Barry’s cock against him. Barry twists his hand in the guy’s grip until he’s holding the guy’s wrist and rests his other elbow against the wall above the guy’s head, his hand naturally resting just over the guy’s head. He leans towards the guy, playing his fingers through the guy’s hair. He ducks to whisper in the guy’s ear, smiling when the guy tilts his head and closes his eyes.

“It’s okay to experiment,” Barry says, leading the guy’s hand to press flat to his own stomach. He fits his hand over the guy’s and guides it in slow circles, pushing his hoodie out of the way and moving steadily closer to his open jeans. “To find what you like.” He slides the guy’s hand down and wraps their fingers around the guy’s cock. “What makes you happy,” Barry whispers.

“I know what makes me happy,” the guy says. He’s going for an annoyed tone, but the effect is ruined by his choked off moan when Barry moves their hands along his length.

“Show me,” Barry says, continuing to move their hands. “Show me how to make it good for you.” He drags the guy’s hand up to circle the head and the guy lets out a strained moan, his hand flexing under Barry’s. Barry combs his wild hair from his face, wanting to see the dark flush of his cheeks. “Is that what makes it good?” Barry drags their hands over the head of the guy’s cock again, but the reaction is delayed and Barry works on finding the spot that pulled that first sound from the guy.

He needs to hear it again.

Purely for work related reasons, of course. He liked to know if he was doing a good job.

Barry squeezes his hand over the guy’s and moves his thumb underneath the head of the guy’s cock, rubbing in slow circles. The guy’s mouth falls open and his eyes close. Barry moves their hands back down the length of the guy’s cock, slowly stroking, as bit by bit the guy’s movements become more relaxed and his noises come more freely. He sighs and grabs Barry’s shoulder and Barry moves their hands in the same pattern, drawing the sigh from him again in a higher register. Barry tugs lightly on the guy’s hair and he moves willingly, tilting his head back and bearing his neck to Barry.

The guy’s hand tightens underneath Barry’s, causing him to writhe against Barry and let out a whimper. The guy’s hand on Barry’s shoulder slides to over his chest, bunching the front of his shirt in a vice grip and holding Barry in place. The guy squirms against the wall, trying for leverage he can’t find until Barry tilts them off center and the guy’s hip meets the ledge of an empty shelving unit. The guy shimmies himself onto it and opens his legs for Barry to fit himself closer. Barry does, mesmerized by the sounds the guy makes and his every reaction to draw Barry closer despite his earlier embarrassment.

Soon as the guy sits, his fist under Barry’s hand starts to move in bold strokes and his noises fall more freely. He leans back on the shelving, resting first an elbow on it and then his back, eyes still closed as he wraps one leg around Barry’s. The guy’s other hand moves to rest over his bare stomach and Barry traces his fingers between the guy’s, quickly moving out of the way when the guy begins tracing patterns across his skin. Barry watches the guy’s hand on his dick, memorizing each twist of his fist that draws a noise from him. Slowly, Barry slips his fingers under the guy’s, gently pushing his hand away and the guy goes willingly, dropping his arm to his side.

Barry follows the same strokes that pulled the wild sounds from the guy, his other hand returning to the guy’s stomach to trace his nails along old scars. The guy’s breath hitches and Barry focuses on teasing the guy’s cock head, smiling to himself when the guy whines and reaches for Barry. Barry rests a knee on the shelf and moves the guy’s wandering hand to his thigh. The guy immediately latches onto him, digging his fingers into Barry’s thigh and arching into his touch.

“That’s it,” Barry says, his fist speeding up. The guy covers his mouth and smothers out another whine that sends a shiver through Barry. “It’s okay, I want to hear you. You sound amazing.”

The guy gulps and slowly moves his hand away, low moans falling out of him the closer to the edge Barry brings him. Barry runs his hand along the guy’s side, concentrating on a spot over his ribs after the guy’s leg tightens around Barry. Without much warning the guy’s mouth drops into a silent cry and he comes over Barry’s hand. Barry strokes him through it until the guy flinches away then he carefully digs in his jeans for the pack of tissues he kept there for this reason. He wipes off his hand and attempts to clean up the guy –– managing to swipe the come off his stomach –– before the guy pushes Barry away and tucks himself back into his pants without looking at Barry.

This part Barry’s used to. Mostly it comes from cheating partners after the bliss has faded and the cold of the storage room returns, when the regret of the actions start to sink in. He tries not to let it get to him and some are even generous enough to tip extra or take care of Barry afterwards if he’s feeling up to it, but usually he doesn’t let them because most don’t look him in the eye afterwards. He’s fine with it, really. It’s part of the job.

What’s not part of the job though is playing therapist for the inevitable freak out and he always makes sure to take a timely exit before the existential dread sets in.

He grabs his orange hoodie off the shelf and quickly crosses to the door, subtly blocking the way while he brushes the dust off his clothes. The guy leans on the storage shelf where Barry left him, staring at the floor, his shoulders heaving with the deep breaths Barry hears him taking.

“Hundred bucks, mate,” Barry says, faking adjusting his clothes. “Sorry, I don’t do wenmo.”

The guy jumps into action, pulling out his wallet and removing a huge chunk of bills. Barry sighs. He hates people who pay in ones just for the joke. It was awkward going to the bank to transfer it into larger bills so he wouldn’t piss off every business in the city counting out dollar by dollar. He turns to the door and coaches his expression into one of neutrality, knowing he couldn’t afford to scare away customers with his scowl. When he turns around the guy is right there, holding out the bills and refusing to meet Barry’s eyes.

“This was nice,” the guy says and quickly pushes past Barry and out into the alley.

Barry watches the guy take a running leap at the nearest wall and pull himself up to the roof, climbing and jumping the fastest route away from Fridgit Barry’s ever seen. It’s kind of impressive. He closes the storage door again and leans against it, preparing to count out a hundred ones, but stops. He quickly fans through the bills, knowing it has to be a mistake and in a moment the fog will clear and the number won’t be what he’s seeing, but it doesn’t.

Every bill is a hundred dollars. He checks twice, pokes his head out the door expecting the guy to come running back and to say he made a mistake, but the alley is quiet. Barry checks the money again, just to make sure. He even runs his fingers along the braille dots and holds a few up to the light to make sure they aren’t painted. As far as he can tell –– and until he’s charged with fraud –– the guy just gave Barry nearly nine grand.

Barry’s heart races. He can’t stop looking at it, can’t stop fanning through the bills expecting at any moment to come to with a head wound in hospital or this evening to be a dream. He holds his breath and waits for the flood of water to pour in from the cracks in the walls like it usually did in his dreams, but it doesn’t, there’s just the low hum of the single light bulb above him and the faint rumble of traffic beyond the door.

A weird excited noise squeaks out of him and he tucks the money away and turns off the light.

He wasn’t staying out any more tonight, he couldn’t risk losing this.

He speed walks to where he hid his bike and pops open the storage. He carefully takes the stack of money and folds it into a pair of socks he’d forgotten was stored in his bike. He checks his pocket afterwards, making sure he hadn’t missed a single bill, then secures the bike storage and checks its lock several times before getting on. He checks it again before setting off, not wanting it to somehow open during his drive home and have the money go flying down the street. It would be just his luck too for that to happen, regardless if the storage is under his seat, it would happen.

At every red light his hand skims over the storage seams, checking for breaks or the edge of a bill. Even if the money is inside a sock and tucked securely away, he doesn’t stop checking for its escape until he’s pulling into the parking lot of his apartment.

It’s the shittiest, but cheapest, apartment he could afford and in a bit of a bad neighborhood. There were stabbings monthly and a near constant police presence for the shady drug deals some didn’t bother hiding. As such Barry makes a production of finding the only open parking spot next to a puddle and he steps into it, sinking his foot into the cold damp water with the put upon sigh of the weary. He stares up at the night sky and counts to himself, imagining he looks rightfully pissed before he roughly opens the bike’s seat storage and pulls out the pair of socks with the money. He slams the seat closed and locks his bike and storms off to his apartment, glaring at anyone he passes.

Luckily, the parking lot is quiet tonight and there’s only a few youths in the stairwell watching him. They snicker to themselves as Barry passes by, one holding a lighter near Barry’s damp pant leg as if hoping the puddle had enough petrol in it to set ablaze. Barry makes a vague noise of acknowledgement at them and keeps walking.

His hands are shaking by the time he reaches his door and it takes him a few tries to get the key in. Soon as he’s inside he locks it with every deadbolt available then goes to the window, checks it’s locked and draws the blinds. He sweeps through every room and once he’s satisfied he’s alone he pulls the money from the sock and sets it on the living room coffee table.

He stares at it for longer than he’d ever admit before he counts out an even thousand and sets it aside and takes the remaining money into the kitchen. He pulls his fridge from the wall and kneels on the floor. There’s fresh mouse droppings and he cringes as he reaches under the fridge and feels around for the metal lockbox. It was a cheap purchase from the southside and the lock is unusable, but it served its purpose well.

Inside is his savings and with the money from tonight it’s around twenty-five grand .

Some would probably think him an idiot for keeping his money in something as flimsy as a dollar store lockbox, but Barry had no other choice. If he were to keep it in a bank those he worked for would know how much he had. They would know and they would demand more from him. He considered himself lucky that they only took what they did and nothing more, though he suspected if they ever found out about it there would be repercussions, but that was why Barry kept the box where he did. No one wanted to stick their hand in a mouse infestation.

He pushes the fridge back into place and washes his hands.

It’s not until he’s sitting down with dinner that he remembers the stolen ID card in his back pocket. It’d been idle curiosity that he’d taken it. He’d known from the hesitancy the guy showed initially that he’d give a fake name –– after all, who names their child Crocodile? However, Barry had to know if it was true or not. Sometimes he liked to look the people up afterwards to see if his guesses about them were correct. Usually they were, but there were a few that were terribly off. Like that one time he’d serviced a serial killer. He’d made sure to memorize the guy’s name and face and hid whenever he turned up again. Not that he did and the next time Barry saw his name he was listed in the papers as getting life in prison.

It was just good to make sure that his observation skills were never lacking and this helped.

He grabs the ID card from his pocket and turns it over in his fingers as he stabs his fork into his plain pasta. The card is worn at the edges with both fire and water damage and the photo is a little worn, but it’s definitely the guy from earlier, all mullet hair and wild look of him. Barry holds the card up carefully and reads out the name, comparing it to the one the guy gave him.

“Irwin Dundee,” Barry reads with a smile. “Nah, that definitely suits you better.”

Chapter Text

Dundee hasn’t drank water in over twelve hours and the vibrant lights of the dance floor compete with the dark spots across his vision. He hadn’t meant to go the entire day without drinking –– not that he wasn’t drinking –– and the invitation to the rave had been as unexpected as him mindlessly wandering towards Fridgit. He’d accepted, of course, because the other option was to wait outside a storage facility until they closed for the day and going to a rave was the better choice to not being arrested for loitering. It wasn’t that he was actively avoiding Fridgit or purposefully throwing back more alcohol in the day trying to forget the feel of another guy’s hands on him. It really wasn’t. He wasn’t avoiding anything. He’d just happened to sprint from the grocery store earlier today when he thought he’d seen the guy in the check out line. And he just happened to frequently drive past Fridigt because it was one of the routes to Vespucci. It also wasn’t anything unusual that there were frequent parties in a warehouse near Fridgit, regardless if Dundee actively searched out an invite to one nearest to the business’s lot.

This is always how Dundee spends his evenings and there wasn’t anything unusual about it.

He doesn’t dance with a tall girl with short brown hair because she reminds Dundee of him, not at all. He doesn’t drink until he’s falling over because it’s easier for his mind to accept the uncalloused palms running under his shirt. And he definitely doesn’t take a phone call mid-making out with said woman after she invites him back to her place because he’d rather be racing. Not at all.

“It’s starting up in Sandy,” Charles tells him when Dundee asks where the race is.

Dundee makes an annoyed sound and slides out from under the woman, almost sending her off the end of the booth seat. She tries to compose herself and bats her eyelashes at Dundee, but his mind is already elsewhere.

“Why Sandy?” Dundee asks.

He mouths an apology to the woman and turns his back to her, pressing the phone further to his ear to better hear it. The phone cuts in and out and finally disconnects. Dundee stands, makes a half-hearted excuse to the woman he’s pretty sure wouldn’t stand up in court, and wobbles his way to the exit. The night air slaps him and he’s painfully aware of how dry his tongue is. He searches through his phone’s contacts several times –– fighting against the crack in his screen –– before remembering he’d saved Charles under a different name.

One day Dundee would save a number under a proper name, but for now he calls back Second Place .

“Why Sandy?” Dundee asks again.

“Fucking cops were vulturing the starting line of the last one,” Charles says. “I don’t think they were too happy I sent Ziggy off the freeway last week.”

“I’m sure he did it to himself.” Dundee leans against the warehouse’s brick wall, feeling the vibrations of music beat through him like a second heartbeat. “I liked that track,” he adds quietly.

Charles laughs. “You got a car?”

“I can find one.”

“Alright, don’t cut your elbow.”

Dundee throws himself into races over the next few days because it’s easier to leave when you don’t have to explain why you suddenly don’t want to sleep with someone despite flirting with them all night. The racers have a looser vibe to them, joking like brothers yet a few acting like old lovers. It’s easy to make casual conversation laden with innuendos without the pressure to follow up, regardless of gender. It’s just how they are and everyone knows it’s showboating. Which is why during Dundee’s fourth consecutive night of racing and a fairly long amount of time without sleep, when he’s joined by Collin –– a rare occasion, but still an occurrence –– he makes what he thinks is a harmless joke and is met with silence.

“I’m sorry, what?” Collin asks.

The racers have circled their cars, car noses all pressed together, while they waited for the last few stragglers to finish the track. Dundee keeps laughing, but he’s the only one and slowly his laugh dies out and he shifts uncomfortably against the hood of his stolen car.

“No, no,” Charles says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “I want to hear this again because I’m pretty sure my brain was rattled from that crash this asshole pulled me into at the last turn.” He jerks his thumb to a person beside him wearing a black balaclava mask.

“Yeah, same,” Collin says, stomping out his cigarette and turning his full attention to Dundee. “Run that by me one more time.”

Dundee knows it’s a trap, but he’s been holding onto this for a while and it felt so good to finally say it that he repeats himself without hesitation.

“I said, it feels about as good as an eight grand knuckle shuffle.”

“Cunt, where are you going that you paid someone eight grand to jerk you off?” Collin asks.

Dundee shrugs. “Around.” There’s a chorus of catcalls and saying Dundee got scammed, Collin dissolves into laughter when he realises what Dundee is referencing is not a hypothetical. Dundee doesn’t have the heart to tell them the truth about that night. “Whatever. I’ve got my winnings, I’m done waiting for this poor bastard. Someone run the track in reverse and make sure they didn’t die. I’m going home.”

He doesn’t go home.

He rarely goes home.

He follows the thud of music through dark streets until he finds a house party. He’s stopped at the door, but gladly welcomed in when he produces a bag of pills he gives in exchange for his entry. He thinks it’s ecstasy, can’t really remember. He doesn’t give a fuck either way, it was given to him as a racing payment some time last month when the host was short on cash.

Dundee beelines for the kitchen and pockets a few cans before pouring himself a cup of whatever is open and turns to the dancing crowd. The crowd seems young and Dundee lets his eyes wander over the exposed midriffs and bare arms and smiling faces.

A blonde woman with short bouncing curls waves Dundee over, beckoning him to join the wild dancing. The music doesn’t have a beat and sounds more like garbage trucks trying to fuck, but Dundee’s sure if he drinks enough fast enough maybe it’ll reveal some underlying meaning. He throws back his drink, then a second, steals a shot out of someone’s hand, and shimmies over.

The woman greets him, but the music is entirely too loud and Dundee can’t read lips when he’s drunk, so he smiles politely and dances alongside her. She grabs onto his belt loops and guides his hips in a simplistic dance Dundee’s sure he could manage on his own, but her hands are warm and it quiets the part of him that feels like a rolling ball of tinfoil. They move in time to the beat –– which she keeps –– and Dundee closes his eyes, letting himself drift. They’ve migrated to the center of the crowd where the smell of weed and alcohol and sweat is the strongest and the bodies are the closest. There’s arms pressing against his and hips bumping into his and it all seems mostly accidental, until a pair of large hands wrap around Dundee’s chest and pull him against the man behind him.

The woman moves happily with the new addition to their dance group, reaching out to touch the man behind Dundee. The man says something and Dundee feels it more than hears it, even when he looks over his shoulder to tilt his good ear towards him. The woman grabs onto the waist of Dundee’s jeans and the guy’s hands slide up Dundee’s chest. Dundee’s breath hitches in his throat –– a phenomenon a little painful with the layer of smoke in the small space –– and he moans when the guy kisses his neck. The woman presses herself to Dundee’s front, swaying in more deliberate circles against him, one hand trailing around Dundee’s waist and moving to grab the belt of the guy behind Dundee. Then the woman stands on her toes and kisses the guy behind Dundee, her breasts pressing against Dundee’s chest and her hand at his waist sliding down to squeeze him through his pants. The rumbling moan of the guy behind Dundee jolts him from his haze and he squirms his way from their grip, slipping sideways and into the crowd.

He throws an apology behind him in a volume he doesn’t care if they hear and runs from the house. He doesn’t stop running until his throat is dry and raw and each breath pulls a painful stitch in his side. He’s on someone’s lawn in a fancy neighbourhood and he barely catches the street name before he pukes on the grass. Despite best efforts it splashes onto his shoes. He wipes his mouth and then wipes his hand off in the taller grass and keeps walking.

His mouth is dry and he can’t stop thinking about the last time when he drank water.

He climbs a few garden fences before finding a house with an outdoor hose. He rinses off his shoes and then spends what feels like the next eternity drinking from the hose. He’s scared off by the sudden illumination of the house’s porch light and he sprints away without turning off the hose. He jumps fences and hides in a bush for a while until his phone rings.

“Hello?” he whispers, poking his head above the leaves.

“Are you terrorizing people in Vinewood?” It’s Pez. He sounds groggy, but more lucid than Dundee, despite it being some time near dawn.

“How do you know?” Dundee jumps out of the bush and runs across the road.

“I saw on Twatter. Some cunt was going on about seeing a yeti, but the picture is very clearly you. Do you ever brush your hair?”

“Only with a lover’s hand.”

Pez laughs. “Yeah, right. When’s the last time you rumpled anyone’s bedsheets?”

“Why’s it gotta be in a bed?”

“Right, right. You need a lift or are you sleeping in a bush?”

Pez arrives twenty minutes after calling, red hair a wild mess from the wind, riding his Cliffhanger and fanning away engine smoke as it idles. He wears red striped pajamas along with his usual face mask and goggles and Dundee feels a hint of guilt about pulling Pez out of bed just to pick up his drunk ass from a house party. To add to the guilt Pez hands him a sandwich and a couple of painkillers as he greets him. Dundee dry swallows the medicine and unwraps the sandwich.

There are days when Dundee thinks he doesn’t deserve Pez.

“Ew, tomatoes,” Dundee says, peeling open the sandwich and flinging the offending topping over his shoulder.

“Get the fuck on before I leave you here,” Pez says and starts rolling forward without waiting.

Dundee quickly jumps on and tucks his food into his jacket for later. Pez doesn’t speak as he drives them through downtown towards Vespucci. At first Dundee thinks Pez is actually driving him home, but Pez turns a couple roads early and pulls up outside of Bluey’s bar. Dundee sits on the bike as Pez unlocks the doors and goes inside. He waits a while, expecting Pez to reemerge, but when he doesn’t Dundee goes inside.

All the chairs sit atop tables and the bar is quiet and dark except for the single light behind the bar. The stools on the bartop have been pushed aside to make room for the binders and papers that are scattered across the counter. Behind the bar stands Pez, head in hands and a tumbler of whiskey near his elbow. Dundee pulls one of the stools to the ground and reaches over the countertop to pour himself a drink. Before he can drink straight from the bottle Pez slides an empty glass to him without looking up. Dundee begrudgingly pours his drink like a civilized human, poking out his pinky in an exaggerated gesture that Pez doesn’t see. Pez drops to the bartop and moans.

“Problem?” Dundee asks, loudly sipping.

“Nah,” Pez mumbles against the papers. “It’s fine. We’re slowly falling below survivable funds and we’ve got loan payments coming up that will pretty much bankrupt whatever buffer funds we’d stored up, but it’s fine.” Pez looks up at Dundee. “I might sell a kidney. How much do you reckon I’d get for it?”

“Depends who you sell it to.” Dundee tries to pour himself a second drink, but Pez grabs the bottle and takes it back under the counter. He hands Dundee a bottle of water and returns to his slumped position over the papers.

“No more free drinks. Starting today the only free drink you get is water.”

Dundee moans and Pez pushes up to his elbows and squints at him. Dundee downs the entire water bottle in one go and Pez is still staring at him.

“You’ve got a hickey,” Pez says.

Dundee’s hand flies to his neck. He’d thought his time with the couple hadn’t been long enough to leave any marks. “So?” He leans his elbow on the bar, keeping his neck covered. “What’s up with the accounts?”

Dundee keeps Pez distracted with financial talks until the sun starts to break through the bar’s front windows. Both of them had their heads on the table talking some hours after their arrival, but Dundee isn’t too sure when he fell asleep. When he wakes he’s on a couch in the Bondi meeting room downstairs and it’s likely some time past noon, judging by the general commotion upstairs. He takes a handful of mints from the jar on Pez’s desk, changes out of his clothes and into his pink hoodie he’d left in the meeting room last Sunday, and slips out the back exit through the storage room, managing to avoid any small talk on the way. He waves to the surveillance camera on his way and he knows someone is watching when it tilts to follow him across the parking lot.

He strolls the aisles of the lot across the road and eventually settles on what he knows to be a fast two door. The door is unlocked and he hotwires it and begins making his way up north. He pulls out his phone and texts Charles to ask about races, his attention darting from road to phone to road, swerving to keep in his own lane. He gets a reply within seconds letting him know there’s one starting in a half an hour if he can make it to the starting line in time. He steps on the gas pedal in earnest and barely cracks eighty before the flash of red and blue lights dance across his rear view.

“Ahoy!” shouts the cop behind him. The megaphone cracks and dims and Dundee hears the cop continue to wrestle with getting it functioning again, voice fading in and out over the speaker as he swears at the broken technology in long outdated terms.

Dundee sighs and pulls to the side of the road. He rolls down his window, a perfect fake story already in mind. He pushes up from his seat and digs in his pants pockets until he finds his wallet. He sifts through it, heart speeding as what he searches for isn’t there. He ducks to look under the seat and the cop shouts at him over the megaphone to stop fiddling with himself in the car.

Dundee would laugh if it were any other day, but all he can focus on is trying to find his ID.

The cop steps out of his car, not noticing that Dundee’s car is still idling as he walks alongside it. He announces himself as Deputy Thatch from Blaine County Sheriff’s office, but Dundee isn’t listening. Thatch continues on about Dundee’s speed, blatant disregard for traffic control devices, and liberal use of the roadway, but all Dundee thinks is: run. Soon as Thatch is at the window and about to duck down to get a better look, Dundee hits the gas. In the rearview mirror, Dundee watches as Thatch is pulled briefly into the car’s wave, but he quickly recovers and is in his car chasing by time Dundee is two blocks down.

Dundee cuts corners and dodges through traffic, trying his best to break Thatch’s line of sight, but the cop is a slippery one and it takes Thatch being accidentally pitted by a reversing truck for Dundee to get away. Dundee makes a wide circle through the outskirts of the city, taking a few alleys to avoid cops. When he believes he’s lost them, frantically scanning his rearview mirror for any sign of a cop car, he runs head on into a lamp post and his car sputters and dies.

Dundee’s been in too many traffic incidents to be bothered by the pain of the sudden stop –– though his neck does twinge a bit –– and he wrestles the airbag out of the way and sprints from the car. The crowd’s eyes follow his retreat, obviously a little baffled at his loud appearance, as he runs down the street and around the corner and directly into someone.

“Fucking cunt,” the guy says, stumbling backwards.

Dundee’s mouth falls open as the guy in the orange hoodie picks his hat off the ground and adjusts himself. It’s been over a week, but Dundee’s been thinking about this guy nearly every single day. And the occasional lonely night.

“Sprinting around corners like this isn’t a crowded sidewalk. Watch where you’re going,” the guy says.

“You,” Dundee says. Dundee can’t help but note how the guy’s orange hoodie compliments Dundee’s pink.

The guy raises his eyebrows. “What about me? You trying to say this is my fault?”

“No. I mean, it’s you.” Dundee struggles to remember the guy’s name.

“Do I know you?”

Dundee stammers for an answer, but all that comes out is, “Fridgit.”

The guy’s eyes go wide and he grabs Dundee’s wrist and pulls him into an alley off the main path, out of sight of other people. The guy crosses his arms and waits for Dundee to speak. When Dundee remains silent the guy takes the lead, jumping to entirely the wrong conclusions.

“You following me?” he asks.

“What? No, I was driving and I crashed.”

“Most people wait for an ambulance.”

“Most people aren’t running from the police.”

The guy swears and presses himself against the wall beside Dundee, immediately alert. “What did you do?” the guy asks.

Dundee shrugs. “Driving without a license in a stolen car.”

“What… uh––,” The guy clears his throat. “What happened to your license?”

“I don’t fucking know! I swear I had it though and I know I had it because I fought with the cunt at City Hall for over three hours to be able to pay for it in cash. Don’t know why they call it legal tender if they won’t accept it for a legal transaction. I almost debated holding her up for it, but then I would’ve lost it completely and I’m kind of tired of running from cops just because I don’t have a stupid piece of fucking plastic.”

“Do they even know it’s you? The cops, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I think Moosebeard saw my pink hoodie, but that might’ve been it. It’s not like the car I was driving would come back to me. I could probably run past him in the streets and he wouldn’t know it was me, if I wasn’t wearing a fucking neon sign!” Dundee gestures to the vibrant pattern over the front of his clothes. He loves this hoodie, but it wasn’t the greatest for evading cops. It didn’t blend into crowds or shrubbery.

“I have an idea,” the guy says and pulls off his hoodie. Underneath, he’s wearing a plain black shirt with the sleeves cut off and Dundee stares at his tattooed arms until a cop’s siren draws him back into the urgency of the situation.

“I don’t think this is the time for that!” Dundee says, peeking around the corner and frantically ducking back when a police range rover slow-rolls past the alley. Dundee backs up to better hide himself behind the wood fence cutting off the end of the alley. He backs up into the guy’s front and spins on his heel to stare wide eyed at the other man.

The guy quirks an eyebrow at Dundee and reaches for the hem of Dundee’s hoodie. Dundee lets him, intrigued by the guy’s boldness. Where other strangers have treated Dundee like a feral cat with mange, the guy doesn’t seem opposed to stepping voluntarily into Dundee’s personal space.

“Take this off,” the guy says, yanking Dundee’s pink hoodie over his head.

Dundee shivers when the guy’s fingers brush against his skin as he’s grabbing onto Dundee’s hoodie and Dundee forces himself to take a step backwards, rather than swaying closer like he wants to. Dundee crosses his arms once his hoodie is off and now it’s the guy’s turn to stare. Dundee had slept at the bar last night and the only change of clothes he’d had was the hoodie. He’d contemplated putting on his clothes from last night, but in the morning he’d found a line of vomit across the front. As it currently stands, Dundee is now topless in front of the guy who’s holding both hoodies hostage in a tight grip.

“Sorry, did I…?” The guy shakes out Dundee’s hoodie, almost expecting a shirt to fall out.

“No, you didn’t. I just… Well.” Dundee spreads his arms in explanation and the guy’s eyes trail over his chest. “So what’s your plan? Hoping public indecency is a more lenient charge than reckless evading?”

The guy silently hands Dundee the orange hoodie and pulls the pink one over himself, flipping up the hood. When he thinks Dundee isn’t looking he cradles the hoodie to his nose and smells it, but rather than blanching at whatever offensive odor Dundee is imagining, the guy closes his eyes and seems to sink into the hoodie. Dundee blushes and turns around to avoid any awkward confrontation if the guy caught him staring as he pulls on the orange hoodie. Honestly, Dundee understands why the guy did it because it’s exactly what Dundee wants to do right now. Instead, he clears his throat and adjusts the hoodie, acutely aware of its softness and trying not to press it to himself.

“Now what?” Dundee asks, turning to face him.

The guy waves him towards the street again. “Go out there. If they’re looking for a pink hoodie, let them find a pink hoodie.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Dance, kick over a trash can, jaywalk. Why do you care? Fucking leg it, cunt!”

The guy smacks Dundee on the ass like he’s startling a horse to run and it surprisingly works. Dundee blushes a shade similar to his pink hoodie and slips into the crowd. He finds a ladder to a random rooftop and crawls on his hands and knees to the edge to watch. The guy shuffles nervously between people, readjusting his clothes several times, and when he catches sight of cops coming around the corner he shoves the nearest person and kicks over a trash can. The random person shouts at the guy at a loud enough volume that the cops look over. The cops briefly radio and then draw tasers, approaching the guy. The guy puts his hands up, nodding along with whatever the cops are saying. Dundee silently hopes for the guy to run, but instead he turns around and is placed in cuffs.

It’s causing a bit of a scene and slowing down foot traffic and intrigued drivers, but there’s one car that circles the block a couple times before pulling over right under where Dundee is hiding. The car looks familiar, but Dundee can’t put his finger on why and they take off when more cops arrive on scene. Dundee observes until the area is cleared and the guy is taken away.

Dundee’s phone rings. He quickly picks up and scans the streets to see if anyone heard.

“Hello?” he hisses and is met by laughter.

“Why are you whispering?” Charles asks.

“Uh… I’m at church.”

Charles laughs. “Whatever. I’m not going to be at the race and I can’t get ahold of the host ‘cause the fuckers been on the phone for the last two hours. Let ‘em know I’m not gonna be there, okay?”

“What are you doing instead? Boost? Can I come?”

“No, Dundles, this is, uh…” Charles chuckles and it doesn’t sound friendly. “This is personal business.” He hangs up without saying good bye and Dundee gets a weird feeling in his stomach, but is quick to brush it off as nerves from outrunning cops.

Dundee smells the guy’s hoodie and rolls over to watch the clouds as the guy’s name finally comes to him.

“Barry.”

Chapter Text

Barry spends roughly three hours in interrogation sitting across from a cop with a ponytail and handle bar mustache. It’s a ridiculous combination and Barry uses most of the time trying not to laugh. The cop tries to insult Barry’s borrowed pink hoodie and Barry easily spins it back around on him. The cop gets flustered and begins exaggerating his own personal sexual history, giving a strange emphasis on making sure Barry knew these relationships were with women. The cop leaves for a personal break and Barry makes a kissy face as he goes and winks, making the cop close his sleeve in the door. The cop sheds his coat to avoid reopening the door and the laughter Barry’s been holding back is held back no more. He laughs until the door reopens and a man Barry’s never seen before struts into the room.

“Hello, Barry,” the man says cheerfully, dropping into the seat beside Barry. He’s Australian, shorter than Barry, and wearing sunglasses. His suit pants and dress shirt are the usual attire of lawyers, but he’s also wearing what looks like a bullet proof vest over it all. Barry stares at it as the lawyer sets a notepad on the table and turns to Barry. “It’s a stab vest,” the lawyer says. “I’ve been down here enough to know better.”

“Who stabbed you?”

“I think his name was Ranger Conan and to be fair, I egged him on. Now, Barry––,”

“Sorry, who are you?”

“The guy who just won a screaming match with Wrangler. My name’s Reggie Might and today I’m your best friend.”

“Like, as a cover story?”

“No, you spoon. I’m getting you out of here.”

“Okay, how? I don’t know if that window opens.” Barry looks to the small window near the top of the wall.

Reggie smacks Barry over the head. “I got your charges dropped, now stand up and… Motherfucker cuffed you to the seat, didn’t he?”

Another screaming match between the ponytail cop and Barry’s new best friend and then Barry’s walking out the front doors of Mission Row Police Department, free as a bird. The lawyer walks jauntily down the front steps and over to a motorbike double parked. Barry shuffles uneasy on the steps, slowly moving towards Reggie.

“If you’re looking for a ride,” Reggie says, removing a helmet from his bike storage and pulling it on. “I’m going to have to disappoint you. I’m going to a secret location to cook meth.”

Barry laughs and Reggie’s helmet covered head turns towards him, expression unreadable, and Barry’s laugh dies out. “I’ll assume you’re joking. Um, did… is there a bus around here?”

“Other side of that alley. Every hour.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks.” Barry continues to linger beside Reggie’s bike.

“Barry, do you need bus fare?”

“No, I… I’m fine.”

“Right. I’m going to choose to believe that because I really do need to be somewhere.” Reggie kicks his bike to life and rolls it backwards. “Call me if you need me to yell at Wrangler again, I really do enjoy it. Goodbye, Barry.”

Barry waves at Reggie, not remembering that he doesn’t have Reggie’s number until Reggie’s out of sight. Barry opens Twatter on his phone and sends a quick message, hoping it’ll reach him: Aussie lawyer guy, call me.

He crosses the road and ducks down the alley. It’s narrow and littered with garbage and the other side leads to an underpass strewn with more garbage and tents. There’s an abandoned barrel fire that Barry circles wide around and ends up stepping on the tail of a cat half hidden under a newspaper. Barry shouts and the cat swats at him and sprints off, which is when Barry notices the black car pulled to the side of the road, inching its way forward in time with Barry.

Barry looks around for someone else the car could be watching, but besides the cat there’s no other living thing under the bridge. Barry turns to head towards MRPD, but the car revs its engine as if growling its anger at Barry’s decision and Barry keeps walking towards the empty bus station. With each step a dread sinks its fingers deeper into Barry, but he keeps walking forward, purposefully not looking over at the car as it speeds up to intercept him before he can get to the bus station. The driver’s side window rolls down and a hand gun comes out over the glass.

“Mister Benson,” a crisp British voice says.

Barry tries not to swallow his own tongue. “Hello.” He wiggles his fingers in greeting.

“Get in the car, Barry,” Randy Bullet says, pulling the gun inside. He smooths back his white hair and waits.

Barry opens the back passenger door and ducks to look inside. It’s empty and Barry can’t decide if that’s good or not, but he gets in. Soon as he shuts the door it locks and Randy speeds away from the bus station.

“Thanks for the lift,” Barry says. He keeps his eyes forward and feels a hand along the door to find the lock, but it’s pulled into the door frame and Barry is trapped.

“Wouldn’t want you missing important appointments.”

“I mean, I’ve got a dentist appointment in a couple days.”

“Yeah, gotta keep your mouth fresh,” Randy says. It doesn’t sound as friendly as a comment as he’d probably meant it to be.

Randy drives them through the city and pulls up outside of Wu-Chang Records. A shiver locks itself in Barry and refuses to stop. He grips his hands together and tries to think of any other way this could go than what he’s imagining. In the past, he’s been brought here to give his monthly earnings or to be an extra body when the gang want target practice with moving objects –– using paintballs or airsoft or pellets of course, though it still hurts. He’s also been brought here to have the shit beat out of him after word got back to Mr. K that Barry called him The Lizard of Little Seoul instead of The Dragon. Barry’s still got the scars from that particular interaction.

Barry follows Randy to the elevators and dutifully stands behind him. At least, he hides it as dutifully, really he just wants to see what floor Randy chooses because that’s the best way to calm his nerves. It does the exact opposite when Randy hits the button marked P and steps out before the door closes. Randy waves to Barry, but Barry’s too stunlocked to do anything. The elevator jolts to life and Barry paces like a trapped animal. He briefly contemplates climbing out the top, but writes it off as temporary insanity. Plus, Barry knows they would find him near instantly. They had a way of knowing things quickly; either through their associate gangs sending them messages, the security around Wu-Chang, or even a few of the police.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open and Barry braces for a firing squad. What he’s met with is an opulent office of perfect symmetry. The room is decorated in a way that directs any visitors towards the desk at the far end, herding any wanderers with large plants or ornate statues or tastefully cluttered bookshelves, all funneling into an open area at the end containing a few chairs placed tastefully askew before a large oak desk. The wall behind the desk is entirely windows tinted in such a way that one could not tell if the light coming through was dusk or dawn, adding a strange aura to the space that one was equally running out of time and on borrowed time.

Barry likely wouldn’t have even left the elevator if he were alone, but the man behind the desk motions Barry towards the chairs and Barry takes the one farthest from the desk. The man’s eyes narrow and Barry moves to the chair closest to the desk. There’s a light hung low over the desk, keeping a center of focus and casting the others in the room into dark shadows. Standing at the man’s back and admiring the view of the city below are three members of the gang the man ran, each with a large gun strapped to their backs. They bicker amongst themselves about food until the man snaps his fingers and they’re immediately quiet, but not without one final shove between two of them. The man at the desk leans forward and smiles at Barry.

The man is named Mister K and Barry has no idea what the K stands for, but he knows what K stands for. Mainly it’s violence and the steady supply of drugs and weapons that kept the momentum of that violence. His gang had robbed, conned, and lied their way through most every citizen and major banks, yet people still smiled at them on the street like they’d rescued babies from burning buildings. He’d built an empire in Los Santos that not even the law enforcement dared to interfere with and this allowed him and his gang to grow without restriction. They controlled several prominent businesses in the city, such as a wrestling federation where they held frequent matches (and a few infrequent illegal matches with high stakes betting), an art gallery with a pricey gift shop (which specialized in the conversion of stolen gems into legal government tracked money), a car retailer (that was popular among the racing scene for its conversion of stolen local and imported cars into legal vins), and a companion service (for people who wanted an evening with people like Barry).

“Barry Benson,” Mr K says.

Barry hates how K says his name. He always sounds slightly puzzled about it, like he can’t believe he has to interact with Barry, let alone know his name. Barry would be quite happy never having to hear K say his name ever again if given the opportunity.

“It’s come to my attention,” K continues, adjusting the sleeves of his suit. “That you recently were detained by police and brought into an interrogation hold.”

Barry swallows and nods, knowing it was probably the police who told him and lying would get Barry nowhere good.

“For legal purposes we would like to know what exactly was said during this time,” K concludes, gesturing to Barry as if giving permission for him to speak.

“I,” Barry’s voice cracks and someone behind K snickers. “I, um. There’s not much to say.”

“Then your time here will be short. Be thankful for that.”

“They thought I was someone else. Some random idiot who’d ran from a traffic stop.” Barry fidgets with the sleeve of his borrowed hoodie. “Um… it was Wrangler who was in, who was the, the cop… in the room. He kept trying to back me into confessing, but I didn’t do it, so it’s not like I had to lie.”

“Luckily,” one of the three behind K says under their breath.

Barry flushes and fights to keep eye contact. “After a bit he knew he had the wrong guy and started trying to press for alternate charges. I asked for a lawyer at that point. It still took them a while to find someone in the Yellow Pages.”

“Which?” K interrupts.

Barry shrugs; the stress of the scrutiny wiping the name of the lawyer from his mind. “I’m not sure. He had a screaming match with Wrangler then I was released without charges and now here I am.”

“Where were you arrested?”

“I was getting lunch.”

“I’ve never heard of that restaurant.”

“Bean machine. Near the vault,” Barry clarifies.

Mr K looks over his shoulder and one of the three lean forward into the better lighting hanging over K’s desk.

“I missed a race watching it. He ain’t lying,” Charles says and returns to the line.

“Good,” K says. He folds his hands on his desk and Barry gets the distinct vibe of a school teacher about to hand out punishment. “Though clearly you can’t be trusted to go about your business on your own, if you’d allow yourself to be so easily detained in what is an obvious mistake. This detainment cost you your earlier meeting with us. Or did you forget in your rush for a coffee and muffin?”

Barry’s eyes widen. He had meant to meet them after lunch. He’d gone to Bean Machine to get a snack to tide him over until the meeting was done. He’d entirely forgotten about his meeting with Chang Gang after that Australian, Irwin Dundee, had somehow found him again. Mr K had made illusions over the phone that this meeting was meant to be a promotion of some kind, maybe a change in how Barry’s profit cuts would work, but now this meeting is only to dole out punishment.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says.

“Now you’re sorry? Not when Randy picked you up to personally chauffeur you here. Not when you come into my office. Not when you take a seat across from me. Now, you’re sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to miss our meeting,” Barry says, wondering if he should get on his knees. “I would’ve called, but they took my things when I was arrested and Wrangler told me my one phone call could only be to a lawyer.”

“Are you aware of how many lawyers we have on retainer?”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to use them. I’m not one of you.”

“No, you’re not.” K smiles as if proud of the flicker of shame across Barry’s face. “You work for us though and I like to make sure that my businesses are looked after. These businesses work to benefit us and when they no longer do they are either disposed of entirely.” One of the three behind K swings his gun around to the front and holds it loose at his side. “Or the business is repurposed to find a better use. Garrett came to me and told me not to kill you, despite your failing average of profits, so I’ve decided on a test run of sorts.”

K stands up and Barry flinches into his seat, backing from K. K doesn’t notice as he opens a desk drawer and takes out a file. He circles his desk and hands it to Barry. Barry waits until K opens it for him before he actually looks. Inside is filled with newspaper clippings, printouts of internet articles, and a few photos of a famous Los Santos personality. There’s also a couple of hand typed papers giving a summary of his personality, interests, and a fairly detailed list of his sexual preferences. Barry quickly closes the file and clears his throat, but before he can ask what relevance this has to him, K speaks.

“There’s a party tomorrow on the casino rooftop and he’s looking for a companion that won’t try to weasel into a music contract or set up blackmail material for future interests. I suggested you because let’s face it Barry, you have the authority of buttered toast and I knew –– and as that file will tell you –– he’ll like that. Memorize what that shockingly short-term brain of yours is capable of and distract him from that which you can’t. Now go meet Garrett downstairs and he’ll give you a suit. Your sweaters and goofy boy-next-door appearance might work for your quick turn abouts, but this will demand class. Show me you’re capable of change, Barry.”

Barry makes a quick exit once dismissed, speed walking to the elevator and hitting the button for the lobby floor with a shaking hand. He presses himself into the corner, clinging to the file like a life-saver –– which he supposes it is. He could have died just then and the thought is now finally making it through his head with the gravity it deserves. The bell dings and Barry doesn’t move, the doors slide open and Barry continues to stare at the metal wall. Then he’s yanked from the elevator and pulled into a hug.

“Oh! Congratulations on not dying! I knew you had it in you,” Garrett says, crushing Barry to his chest. He pulls back and wipes fake tears from his eyes as he walks Barry into the lobby. “Fuck, you’re taller than I thought. This should fit you, but if not, just pull the pants down your hips a bit and wear black socks.” Garrett points to a garment bag slung over the entrance welcoming desk.

“Thanks.”

Garrett had always been the warmest of the gang –– at least, that Barry’s met so far –– and he always sounds one joke shy of a laugh. It’s a bit of a whiplash to go from K’s cold demeanor to Garrett’s over familiarity, but it helps ease Barry’s tension. Garrett’s also the softest of the gang, less cut from glass and more shaped from play-doh, but Barry had no doubt that Garrett would kill him if it came to it. He often joked about it, but had yet to actively hold a gun to Barry.

Garrett snatches up the garment bag in a flourish and presents it to Barry. “Don’t worry, there’s no little thongs or strappy harnesses included. If you want to rock that, it’s up to you.”

“...Thanks.”

“I called a cab. He’s waiting out front to drive you home. K’s arranged a driver to get you tomorrow around seven, so don’t go to Fridgit because if you miss this K will decapitate you.” Garrett pats Barry on the shoulder and pushes him out the front. “Don’t fuck this up!” he calls as the door swings closed.

Barry doesn’t sleep well that night and it isn’t just because of the police sirens circling the parking lot for twenty minutes chasing someone on a push bike. Barry gets up several times in the night to shuffle aimlessly around the apartment and read bits and pieces of the file before falling asleep for a couple hours. By the time the sun rises Barry is so exhausted he falls asleep until four in the afternoon.

In a way, he’s glad he slept all day if he’s meant to be entertaining someone all night. He tries to eat, but everything tastes bland and he eventually settles with water and plain rice. He stares for a long while at the suit he’d been given before he puts it on. It fits nicely, which is surprising, but it’s not some simple suit pulled off a store rack. It’s decorated with bits of gems around the collar and sleeves and the inside is lined with silk. He almost doesn’t want to move around in it for fear of creasing it, but too soon there’s a car honking in the apartment parking lot that Barry knows is for him.

His walk to the car is blessedly free of anyone else seeing him and he gets in the car without a word. Judging by the absolute silence once the door is closed, Barry knows the windows are bullet proof and this does little to quell his nerves. There’s a tinted divider between Barry and the driver and any thought of small talk is pushed aside, not that Barry doesn’t try.

“Cool car,” Barry says to the divider.

The car turns a corner.

“Mhm… Very shiny. Black is a nice colour on it,” Barry says to the divider.

The car stops at a red light.

“Gives a real menacing look to it. Um… so, are you going to be driving me home too? Or, should I just have a taxi on speed dial?” Barry asks the divider.

The car pulls into a roundabout parking lot and stops. There’s people in fancy dress, laughing and talking, slowly trickling into the casino where banners welcome them into the party. The nerves in Barry’s stomach fly into his mouth and he feels like puking.

“My stop?” Barry asks the divider, but is answered by his door opening. Part of him wants to close the door again, but a slim and elegant hand reaches for Barry and he takes it without thought.

“Larry!” a woman greets Barry. Barry doesn’t correct her. She has black hair and hearts painted on her cheeks. She wears elbow high gloves and a silver dress that appears to be made of water. “He’s been waiting for you.” She gestures towards the casino roof.

Barry dreads those words. People waiting for him has never led to anything good.

However, the woman doesn’t hit him or try to cuff him, instead she takes him by the arm and brings him upstairs to the rooftop where the party is in full swing, sweeping past security with a wave of her hand. She shows off the decorations and takes extra care to note the expense of everything. She hands him a flute of champagne and pulls him into a corner of the room to dig into her purse and take out a mint tin. Barry suspects they aren’t mints.

“Want one?” she asks and Barry begins to say no, but then she drops one into his champagne and tips the drink towards him. He smiles and pretends to scan the crowd.

“Do you know who I’m meant to be meeting?”

The woman laughs. “Didn’t they give you the file?” She loops her arm into Barry’s and spins them towards where a group of people are hanging on the every word of the guy Barry’s been reading about all day. “Now, I know they didn’t tell you this, but don’t just go over there and grab his ass. They don’t want people knowing he hired out for the evening, so be coy about it. Go stand near him, laugh at his jokes, and when you’ve been there long enough he’ll take you by his side to avoid any suspicion. After that, listen to him and stay with him until he tells you to go. Or until tomorrow morning, whichever comes first.”

“Why are you helping?”

“It’s my party! If you cause a scene I’ll have no qualms about throwing you from the roof.” She smiles, but it feels more like a threat than her words.

Barry follows her suggestion, joining the edge of the group and slowly working his way inward, laughing when appropriate and trying his damndest to look like he’s fawning over the famous guy at the center. The nerves keep his heart rate high above average and he drinks from his glass before he remembers the drugs the woman dropped in it.

All too quickly, the colours at the edges of his vision begin to streak and Barry giggles. He somehow finds himself at the guy’s side, arms around each other as he drinks more of his champagne. His drink is refilled for him without asking and this time he sees the pill dissolving in the bottom and doesn’t care. He talks with the guy with such ease he begins to think the drugs aren’t that bad.

Then he blinks and he’s in a bathroom sniffing something off the guy’s phone screen. The guy backs him into a stall and pushes him to his knees and Barry feels like he’s made of silly string and he goes without complaint. Afterwards, the guy brings him back into the party, plying Barry with more champagne until Barry’s vision starts to fade at the edges. There’s a brief moment where the guy goes to a stage to accept an award or something, Barry’s not paying attention to the context of it, but the guy comes back with cake and that’s nice. He takes Barry away from the party and the two talk in relative privacy about a few topics Barry read about last night, but eventually they stray into more organic conversation until Barry begins to drift off mid-sentence.

The guy cups Barry’s chin to steady him and Barry leans in to kiss him without thinking. The sounds of the party swirl around him and suddenly he’s in a quiet hotel room missing half his clothes and the guy is kneeling over him with a rope. Barry isn’t quite sure where he stands on the whole bondage thing, but he knows he was brought in to entertain, so he complies as the guy ties his hands and legs and circles his body in intricate knots. The knots rub against Barry’s skin and the annoyance of it starts to push against the effects of the drugs. The high of the drugs quickly starts to slope off to the other side, turning jagged and bright, and Barry struggles against the ropes and is promptly slapped across the face for his efforts.

The ropes are too tight, but Barry doesn’t tell him. The guy’s hands are too rough, but Barry bites his tongue. Then the guy flips him over and pushes into him with little prep and not nearly enough lube and Barry squeaks out a broken noise that’s ignored. The guy moves Barry’s limbs, tightening the ropes holding him firmly in place. The more Barry squirms and pulls against the ropes, the harder the guy’s thrusts are. Barry doesn’t know if he finishes or not, even with the guy’s hand on his cock, but eventually the guy pulls out. He takes a brief moment to scoop the dripping come from Barry’s thigh and push his thumb into Barry, not trying to draw anything more from Barry; just making a point that Barry’s all too familiar with. Tonight, Barry is simply an object for someone else’s pleasure. He leaves Barry in the ropes and whistles to himself as he goes to the bathroom to clean up.

Barry drifts in and out of sleep and is thrown back into reality by the guy pushing into him again. Another round, wherein the guy takes his time bringing himself to the edge of pleasure over and over, until Barry’s sobbing equally with drug-laced pleasure that he doesn’t let Barry see end and the pain of the ropes binding him. Then the guy is hauling Barry to his feet and looping Barry’s hands over his head and tying him to a chin up bar bolted over the door frame. He laughs and forces alcohol down Barry’s throat while Barry moans. Barry can’t tell if the sound he makes is from the pain of the guy’s treatment or the ecstasy tingling through his veins, everything is too sparkly and sharp to define as anything other than overwhelming. The guy keeps Barry tied in the doorway as he orders room service, distractedly playing with Barry while he orders, keeping his nerves high strung and sensitive. He delights in teasing his fingers over Barry’s prostate, while Barry nearly bites through his own lip trying to stay quiet while the call happens. Barry pulls against the ropes holding his hands over his head in an attempt to either touch himself or cover himself, his mind can’t decide which of these it wants more in the moment. The guy hand-feeds Barry some food then more drugs cut into neat little lines on the screen of his phone. Barry stops trying to remember the sequences of events after that; he loses track of the amount of lines, the shots of alcohol, the rough hands spreading him open. It all just becomes: more and more and more.

The night passes in a blur and Barry wakes up naked on the bathroom counter, propped up against the wall, leaning on the mirror with his feet in the sink, but blessedly free of the ropes. He groans and shifts around, feeling the immediate pain shock out from his lower half. He can’t help but catch his own reflection in the mirror and he winces at what he sees. His eyes are bloodshot and there’s dry blood around his nose. His cheeks are red with slap marks, as is his throat –– though those look more like handprints. There’s bites across his entire torso and friction burns from the rope that was around his wrists and torso and legs. He moves to get off the counter and is made painfully aware of the extent of last night’s activities in the reflex of his tight muscles and the tacky residue on his thighs that he hurriedly washes off in the sink.

He hobbles out to the main room and is met by a shocked faced housekeeper who turns as red as their uniform. The housekeeper stutters for a response, until deciding to just turn around. Barry rushes to wrap a nearby throw blanket around his waist and he moves swiftly through the room collecting his clothes. The housekeeper keeps their back to Barry the entire time, turning to avoid Barry wherever he went. Barry dresses and clears his throat, but the housekeeper keeps their gaze averted.

“Uh… sorry about the mess,” Barry says. There’s blood on the sheets and white powder across several surfaces. The mini bar –– almost a full bar in this extravagant suite –– is nearly entirely emptied out and Barry honestly doesn’t know if he helped in that or if it was emptied out in the duration of the musician’s stay. “Sorry,” Barry says again when the housekeeper nods.

“There’s a car waiting for you downstairs, sir,” the housekeeper says, their back still turned away.

“I…” Barry trails off as he glances around the room, half hoping he would see the musician passed out somewhere. He’s not quite sure how to say it, but he isn’t allowed to leave without being dismissed.

“Our guest extends his apologies that he couldn’t be here to see you off, but he had his recording session to go to. He wanted us to pass along that—,” the housekeeper pauses and briefly glances over to Barry with a look of pity before redirecting to look out the window. “He enjoyed your time.”

“Thanks, mate.” Barry tries not to run, but once in the hallway his speed-walking turns to jogging turns to a full sprint to the elevator. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters to himself, frantically hitting the call button. He’s just as frantic to get to the lobby once he figures out his phone is dead. He wipes the blood from his nose and tries to pull himself into presentable order using the elevator doors as a mirror.

He accidentally aggravates the burns on his wrists and a jolt of memories of last night leaves him staring slack jawed at his reflection. The world fades to a distant hum that he waits patiently to be washed away in a flood of water and he’s only jolted back to reality by someone tapping on his arm.

An older lady in a large fancy white hat with an extravagant feather pokes him again, taking a step back when Barry blinks and looks around.

“Excuse me, young man. You’re holding up the line,” she says.

Barry looks over her shoulder. There’s no one else. He smiles at her and steps out into the main lobby, holding the door open for her. Then he’s speed-walking for the front entrance, scanning for the same sleek black car from last night. They honk their horn and Barry makes his way over.

“Hi,” Barry says to the black tint windows.

The car revs and unlocks and Barry gets in. As the car pulls away from the curb, Barry hears a phone ringing. His first instinct is to check his own, but it’s still dead. He digs around in the car and finds the cell phone in a small pull down compartment in the roof.

“Should I answer it?” Barry asks the divider.

There’s no response, so Barry answers the phone.

“Hello,” he says.

“Congratulations, Barry, on proving to me you still have a use,” Mister K greets. “Continue to bring me your payments on the set schedule and your building will continue to not mysteriously catch fire in the night, despite those little arsonists best attempts.”

“Of course,” Barry says and the line goes dead.

He’s dropped off at his apartment without issue and he takes the stairs two at a time, eager to close himself off from the brightness of the world. He draws every curtain, shuts off every light, and strips out of his suit. He doesn’t bother folding it, knowing it’ll be returned and professionally washed and put away on hold for him until it’s needed again. Until the next time Barry is a pretty arm piece for some rich fuck to use and forget.

He showers under boiling water, staring at the curtain, determined to not look down at the water running red around his feet. He stays in there until the water turns cold and even then it’s a battle to get out. No sooner is he out though, that he’s sent running to the toilet, revolting against whatever food he’d eaten last night. He keeps his eyes firmly closed as he flushes and feels his way towards the sink. He ducks his head towards the tap and rinses out his mouth before he lets the water run over his hands, focusing in on each individual hit of water as he slowly returns to his own body again.

In his bedroom, he stands only in his boxers, staring at his bed for a long while before he blinks and rubs his eyes, and finally catches sight of the pink hoodie hung on the bedroom doorknob. He looks around, feeling partly guilty for his thoughts. Then he shuts the door and slips on the hoodie. He pulls it up to his nose as he flops onto his bed and curls into a ball.

Chapter Text

There’s something about sitting improperly on a bench under a streetlamp that makes Dundee feel like he’s in a movie. He imagines he looks quite cinematic right now, top lit and mysterious. There’s a low fog and Dundee feels like he should be smoking or something. He digs in his pockets, but all he finds is his phone with a cracked screen, a lighter, a handful of mints, and a large roll of cash. He traces his fingers over the bill edges, but quickly stops when a car near the fork in the road looks like it’s going to come his way. It turns last minute and Dundee tries not to feel disappointed. He’d thought that maybe it was Barry coming into Fridgit for his night shift. Dundee can’t even be sure that Fridgit is Barry’s usual spot. He might have multiple spots.

Dundee’s been here for a while and hasn’t seen much in the way of people. Even the ravers are absent tonight. Dundee sighs and readjusts on the bench. He’s quickly learning that sitting atop it, rather than on it, was much more painful though it did look cooler. After ten more minutes Dundee slips down to sit on it properly and pulls out his phone. He scrolls social media, wrestling to see past the cracks in his screen, until a call comes in.

“I thought we weren’t pushing at La Spada anymore,” Jordan greets.

“We’re not.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Dundee tries not to shift around in his seat, but the feeling of being watched has never been so strong. “Sitting. I’m allowed to sit.”

“Sure, but I’ve never seen you sit still for more than five minutes and sources tell me you’ve been there for over an hour.”

Sometimes, Dundee hated how well he trained his club. Jordan was observant before he joined Bondi, but with Dundee’s tutelage and paranoia, Jordan was better than a security camera. Him and Edbert both. Dundee wouldn’t be surprised if this ‘source’ of Jordan’s was actually Edbert.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Dundee says, scanning the streets. Still empty.

“And yet you can’t wait for me to get out of the bathroom before getting bored and driving off when I’m trying to have an important meeting.”

“This is an important meeting.”

“So was ours! I got things to show you! I made a colourful powerpoint presentation for you to look at while I’m talking. There’s a colouring section.”

“Asshole.”

Jordan laughs. “Hey, I know how each of you work. I know that what’ll keep your attention will cause Pez to throw a shoe at me, but what will keep Pez’s attention will cause Collin to burst a blood vessel in frustration. I’m trying to work on all fronts here. Attention span is a valuable commodity in Vespucci.”

“I’ll be back later tonight.”

“Alright,” Jordan says, not sounding convinced. “Don’t get kidnapped.”

“I assume someone’s still watching me?” Dundee asks and lifts a middle finger towards the nearby overpass and then the rooftops of Fridgit.

“Hey, we don’t appreciate the rude gestures, buddy.”

“Fuck off out of here, cunts.”

“Wait! It was a lucky guess! I was joking!” Jordan tries to defend, but Dundee hangs up on him.

He continues to scan the roads; there’s constant highway traffic behind him, the occasional car in the distance, and a motorbike that pulls up around the other side of Fridgit. Dundee checks the time and finally resigns himself to leave when he sees someone walk through the parking lot towards the bench. Barry stops on the sidewalk across the way when he sees Dundee and pulls his baseball cap lower to cover his eyes. Dundee smiles at how painfully suspicious Barry looks and jogs across the road. Barry partially turns away from Dundee and hides his hands in the pockets of his blue jacket. Dundee tries not to name the feeling of not seeing Barry in Dundee’s pink hoodie and instead clears his throat and takes out the roll of money.

“I wanted to thank you,” Dundee says and holds out the money.

Barry quickly takes it and tucks it into his jacket, gaze darting around the empty road. Barry leans into him and Dundee swears he feels Barry’s hand at his back, but he’s sure it’s only wishful thinking. Nevertheless, it sends a shiver up his spine.

“The fuck did I do?” Barry asks.

He sounds quiet and Dundee can’t tell if it’s tiredness or something else.

“I mean, I got away.” Dundee smiles.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t.”

“It’s not like they could charge you with anything. Not unless you had, like, drugs or something on you.”

“Or something,” Barry mumbles, glancing around again.

“Oh, fuck. Did you?”

“I… can we not discuss this in the open?” Barry asks and takes Dundee’s hand.

He leads Dundee down the narrow alleys and towards the storage room. Butterflies explode in Dundee’s chest and he pulls his hand from Barry’s, embarrassed at the reaction. Barry hides his hand in his jacket again and keeps his gaze on the ground. The guy in front of Dundee feels nothing like the guy Dundee met before; the guy with the easy grin and casual confidence and perception to pull Dundee out of a closet he’s been peeking through the slats of for years.

Barry checks over his shoulder to see if Dundee’s still following and Dundee would swear that Barry smiles at him, though it could just be the lighting. The butterflies in Dundee’s stomach mutate into an emotion Dundee usually only feels towards members of his club and it sets him on high alert. He cuts in front of Barry before he has a chance to open the storage door, blocking the way.

“Are you okay?” Dundee asks, a little shocked of himself wanting to know.

Barry brings his hands out of his jacket pockets, each curled into tight fists that he fights to unwind. Still looking down at Dundee’s shoes, Barry reaches up for the collar of Dundee’s jean jacket and pulls Dundee towards him. Barry’s breathing is quick, almost frantic, and Dundee tries to move Barry’s hands, but instead Barry grabs his hands and leads them to his waist. Dundee blushes at the bold statement in such an open space and backs up, but Barry follows him and presses him against the door. It feels nothing like last time where Barry took his time and allowed Dundee to follow him slowly down a path. This feels like being pushed into a pool and expected to know how to swim because you watched some videos on the internet and sure, they were really nice videos, but there’s a big difference between watching and doing.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Dundee says and grabs Barry’s hands. He tries to take them from his jacket, but Barry’s grip is immovable. “You don’t need to do this, we’re even. I know last time may have been a bit of a surprise offer, but it’s fine. You don’t…” Dundee trails off when he catches Barry’s gaze continuously slipping to the side.

At the end of the alley, half obscured by Fridgit’s wooden shipping boxes stacked shoulder high, is a sleek black car with dark tinted windows. Dundee almost writes it off, as lots of people park on the streets, until he notices the coal of a cigarette on the other side of the vehicle. Leaning against the car and half facing away from the alley stands a man in a ballcap obscured by shadows. Dundee knows the spot where the car is parked is directly in front of a fire hydrant: the man’s parking has to be deliberate or else he’s just waiting for a cop to come chase him. The coal of the cigarette goes flying and a second smoke is lit, he plans to be there for a while.

“Do you know who that is?” Dundee asks.

Barry shakes his head.

“How long has he been parked there?” Dundee asks, but Barry doesn’t answer. “Is that sick fuck just watching…? Oh my––!” Dundee jumps when one of Barry’s hands slides down and strokes Dundee’s cock through his jeans. “Fucking hell!” Dundee grabs Barry’s hand and pulls it away, but instead Barry knots their hands together, slots a leg between Dundee’s knees and rubs himself against Dundee, still not meeting his eyes. “I said it was fine, Barry. You don’t need to repay me. In fact, I paid you. I said thank you, that’s usually where the thanking train ends.”

Dundee ducks his head to try to catch a glimpse under the brim of Barry’s hat, but he almost wishes he didn’t. Barry’s eyes are lifeless, as if the mischievous spark Dundee had seen upon their first meeting had been snuffed out entirely. It sends a gross chill up Dundee’s spine more effectively than the cold ever could and he grabs Barry by the shoulders and pushes him to arms length. Barry fights his way back into Dundee’s arms, grabbing Dundee’s waist and tucking his face into Dundee’s neck, which is when Dundee finally hears Barry whispering.

“Please, please let me,” Barry says so quietly he may not be speaking at all.

“Let you?” Dundee asks, forcing himself to match Barry’s volume –– a semi-difficult task for a man who spends most of his days yelling orders. “Do you know who the guy in the black car is?”

“I have to be useful,” Barry whispers. “Please, I need to be useful.”

“Is he threatening you?” Dundee tries again to push Barry to arms length, but Barry grabs onto Dundee’s belt loops to keep them together and Dundee quickly gives up. It’s a little awkward that his body feels the need to react to Barry’s proximity and warmth, rather than listen to his quiet pleas and understand the urgency of the situation. Dundee tilts his hips away and hopes Barry didn’t feel anything.

“Please. They’re always watching. They’re always… they’ll know. If you leave now, they’ll know. You have to let me finish or they’ll kill––,” Barry gulps down the rest of his sentence.

Barry may be whispering, but Dundee hears those words loud and clear. He goes to look at the man and the black car again, but Barry grabs Dundee’s jaw to stop him and licks his neck. Dundee moves from trying to push Barry away to pulling him closer, letting his hands fall back to Barry’s waist and slip under his jacket like they’ve done this a thousand times before. It feels natural and Dundee tries not to hate that it feels good even with a possibly armed man lurking in the distance.

“What do you mean by finish?” Dundee asks, hoping to get off easy –– no pun intended.

“You gave me money,” Barry says. He begins unbuckling Dundee’s belt and pulling open his fly. Dundee’s too stunlocked to stop him.

“Yeah, but that’s your money. As a thank you for helping the other day.”

Barry shakes his head. “Doesn’t work like that. You gave me a lot of money and he saw. If you leave right now without me… you know … that’s just going to arouse suspicions. I already know what they’d do to me, but I don’t know what they’d do to you,” Barry says.

Barry’s voice dips lower at the end of his sentence, sending a tingle through Dundee he does his best to ignore.

“What? That’s fucking dumb. That’s personal money directly to you, they don’t need to get their fucking hands on it.”

Barry smiles against Dundee’s skin, pulling Dundee’s jean jacket and shirt aside and kissing his collarbone.

“They have their hands on everything,” Barry says.

Then Dundee sees it. The sleeve of Barry’s jacket has fallen back over one arm, exposing the raw skin of his wrist. Dundee grabs Barry’s face and forces him to meet Dundee’s eyes, then he tilts Barry’s head and exposes his neck, finding a string of bruises around it.

“What the fuck happened?” Dundee asks, gently holding Barry’s jaw to keep him from distracting Dundee.

“Please, let me do this,” Barry says, a strange note of finality behind his words.

Dundee’s absolutely sure that it’s the last time Barry will ask and if Dundee pushes him away again Barry won’t fight it. He’s also absolutely sure that Barry is terrified of Dundee’s answer either way. It’s a weird situation and Dundee doesn’t feel good about both answers. He rolls his shoulders and Barry takes it as a hint and starts to let go, but Dundee quickly pulls Barry back to him, hugging him to his chest. Part of him wants to take Barry by the hand and run, but the other part of him –– the part that knows he walked here from Vespucci –– knows that they could be gunned down before leaving the narrow alley. It’s likely why it was chosen: the perfect death funnel.

Dundee’s thoughts drift to his first encounter with Barry; was he also being watched then? Very likely, Dundee answers himself when his mind provides the make and model of the car parked at the end of the alley. Someone with that much money usually had the luxury of time to do such creepy things as monitor their money-making schemes.

Dundee wonders how much of the money he’d overpaid Barry that night actually went to Barry. He’d been carrying the cash loot from the Fleeca he’d recently robbed and didn’t have the nerve to count out individual bills, so he’d just handed over all his money. Pez had been pissed to hear Dundee had lost the money and none too pleased at the fake story Dundee had provided, regardless of how entertaining it had been. He thought Pez would’ve been delighted to hear about money-thieving chickens, but instead he’d just mumbled something under his breath. Dundee knows he can make the money back fairly easily, but he understood why Pez was upset –– especially after finding him stressing over the club funds in Bluey’s. Bondi was built roughly in a pyramid shape, but they still made sure their members were happy. Dundee wonders what kind of organization could look at someone like Barry and not go out of their way to make sure he was happy.

Barry shakes against Dundee and he realizes Barry is holding back a sob, likely imagining the gruesome end that would befall him after Dundee pushes him away again. But Dundee has no plans of losing Barry to a quick death. Instead, Dundee wraps a leg around Barry’s waist, throws his head back, and lets out the most exaggerated moan it would make a pornstar blush. He nods at Barry when he looks at him and reaches for the handle of the storage room behind him, but it doesn’t turn. Dundee jiggles the handle, but it remains locked. Something like panic overtakes him and he tugs on Barry’s jacket. Barry calmly moves Dundee’s hands to his shoulders, turns his hat around, and sinks to his knees.

“Here?” Dundee hisses, dropping his act. “What about in…?” He subtly tilts his head towards the storage room door.

“I always lock it behind myself when I’m done for the night, but I don’t have a key and the cops took my lockpicks.”

“I have lockpicks!”

“It’ll look suspicious if we go in there now. It’s fine, we can stay out here.”

“Fine?” Dundee squeaks as Barry moves his jeans lower down his hips.

He opens his mouth to say more, but then Barry draws Dundee’s cock from his boxers and licks the length of it. Dundee’s words collapse into a moan and he leans on the storage room door. Barry moves Dundee’s hands to his head before continuing to lick. Dundee knocks Barry’s hat off when he grabs without meaning to and he apologizes and instead combs his fingers through Barry’s hair. It’s soft and once started, Dundee feels like he can’t stop.

“Is this fine?” Dundee asks.

He means to refer to their stalking predicament, but Barry seems to take it as a challenge and he fits his mouth around Dundee’s cock and swallows almost all of it. Dundee moans louder than before and his hands in Barry’s hair follow the movement of Barry’s head as he presumably looks up at Dundee. Dundee doesn’t dare look down, knowing what he’d see and knowing with almost absolute certainty that he would come there and then.

The sounds of the highway fade and all Dundee hears are the wet smacks of Barry’s mouth and each frantic draw of breath he takes when he pulls back. Barry’s hands, lightly resting over Dundee’s thighs for the most part, begin to rub in small circles and shift higher and higher until he reaches Dundee’s stomach. Barry’s hands stroke over Dundee’s stomach and squeeze his sides. He runs his nails over Dundee’s skin, drawing a shiver from Dundee as he slides further down the door. Barry shimmies Dundee’s pants lower and Dundee reflexively tries to pull them back up. Barry chuckles and the noise vibrates around Dundee’s cock.

“Ah! Holy fuck, Barry!” Dundee struggles for a hand hold and grabs onto Barry’s shoulders.

Barry moves away with a quick lick to the tip. “You know, Croc––,”

Dundee winces and pushes Barry away. Barry sits on his heels and averts his gaze to the ground, his demeanour dropping into something unrecognizable and small. Dundee shifts on uneasy footing, wishing he didn’t have his cock out for this conversation.

“Um, Barry…”

“It’s fine. I get it.”

Barry starts to stand up, but Dundee pushes him back to his knees. Dundee hopes that Barry knows he just wants to keep talking, but he can see the muscles clenching in Barry’s jaw as if waiting for something violent and Dundee kicks himself for causing this reaction.

“No, it’s not fine,” Dundee says and Barry closes his eyes and tilts his head, exposing his less bruised cheek. “Can you not… I’m not angry! I mean, I am, but not at you. I’m annoyed that of all the fake names I could’ve chosen I went with that one.” Dundee sighs. “My name’s Irwin Dundee, mate, so please stop calling me Croc. I hate that fucking asshole, he impounded my car last week because one wheel was on the curb.”

“Irwin Dundee, huh?” Barry says. He’s still looking down, but now his gaze is somewhere around Dundee’s knee level and Dundee considers that progress. “I think I’ve seen your name in the paper,” Barry says.

“Maybe once or twice. I’m something of a celebrity in my part of town.” Dundee smiles in false bravado, but it feels bad when a dark look flashes across Barry’s face.

“Better than some other celebrities,” Barry says.

Dundee means to ask for clarification, but the thought dissolves from his mind when Barry surges forward and takes Dundee’s cock into his mouth again. Barry forces himself further than before, pulling off only incrementally with each small choking sound. Dundee wants to return to the conversation, finding he rather liked talking with Barry and that the words came easy, but now his words never make it past the first syllable. His hands find their way into Barry’s hair again and he lightly scratches his nails over Barry’s scalp. Barry shivers and moans, the sound vibrating around Dundee’s cock. Barry’s tongue presses into him and Dundee’s hips start to move on their own, gently pushing towards Barry. Barry grabs Dundee’s hips to steady the pace.

“I think…” Dundee says in a rush. “I might… You don’t have to.” He pulls Barry’s hair, but it has the opposite intended effect.

Barry moans and wraps his arms around Dundee’s thighs and squeezes his ass, as he takes Dundee’s cock deep in his throat and swallows around it.

“I think…” Dundee trails off, as nearly all coherent thought leaves him. “Barry,” he says breathlessly.

Dundee comes when Barry swallows around him again, panting heavily and collapsing into the door. He pets Barry’s head, combing his hair back from his face while Barry continues to lick Dundee’s cock. Dundee heaves the air back into his lungs and breaks into giggles and flinches from Barry when he nips at Dundee’s hips before pulling away.

“Fucking hell, Barry.” Dundee tucks himself back into his pants and helps Barry stand after he grabs his hat off the ground. Dundee wipes the sides of Barry’s mouth before he can think to stop himself. Barry blushes and Dundee clears his throat, suddenly realizing what he was doing. “Um… yeah, that was… something.”

Barry laughs, but Dundee hears the strain behind it and Barry’s eyes dart to the side again, looking for the man and the black car. It takes everything in Dundee not to open fire at the stalker when Barry quickly looks away and nervously plays with his coat sleeve.

“Can I ask you something?” Dundee puts his hands in his pants pockets, fingers closing around his lockpick. Barry nods. “Did the cop really take your lockpick or is that fucking weirdo making you stay in the alley to watch you.”

“No, Wrangler thought I’d stolen the car––,”

“Fucking Wrangler. Nevermind. Makes sense.”

“But I don’t think the guy is watching too closely. As long as I get the money, you know.” Barry switches his hat forwards again and pulls the brim low to cover his eyes.

“Well, here.” Dundee grabs Barry’s hand and presses his lockpick into his palm, closing his fingers tight over it to make sure the other guy at the end of the alley doesn’t see the hand off. “Give yourself some privacy.”

Barry tucks the lockpick away as quickly as he did the cash and Dundee hopes he isn’t making a mistake and giving people more reason to hurt Barry. Dundee fidgets, heart racing, and finally decides to reach out and adjust the collar of Barry’s jacket.

“I still have your hoodie,” Barry says, avoiding meeting Dundee’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah. I still have yours and I definitely haven’t been sleeping in it.” Dundee blushes, but he can’t stop the words from coming out. “It for sure won’t smell like weed and I one hundred percent didn’t spill anything on it and try to clean it with hand soap.”

Barry laughs. It’s more like an exhale through his nose, but Dundee counts it as a victory.

“You’ve been taking care of mine too, right?” Dundee asks. “Haven’t been using it as your special sock or anything?”

Another exhale laugh and Dundee smiles.

“‘Cause that thing’s been with me through some shit. It holds some fond memories.”

“Yeah, it’s safe,” Barry says. “Is there somewhere I can bring it?”

“You know what, you hang onto it and when you want to find me again just wave it like a flag and I’ll see it. Thing’s so vibrant you could spot it from space.”

“Okay,” Barry says. There’s a smile at the edges of his mouth and Dundee counts it as a small victory.

“Right. Um, see you around, I guess? I mean, we live in the same city, of course I’ll see you around, but like… yeah. Okay. Uh, bye.” Dundee makes a swift retreat down the alley, staying in the eyeline of the guy by the car rather than climbing the rooftops like last time.

It takes everything in him not to turn and watch Barry, but it feels safer this way. It also gives the guy less suspicion to think Dundee is planning something. Which he is.

Once clear of Fridgit –– and after he wrestles with his cracked phone screen to turn it to silent –– he sprints around the block and climbs up to an adjacent building. It’s dark and a few of the lamp posts have been knocked over from the frequent street races which pass this way, but the guy is still chain smoking and the ember of his cigarette is a trackable red dot in the blackness. Dundee watches the red blip go up and down, ash, up and down, new smoke, up and down. Dundee also checks on Barry and is just able to see him where he’s sat on the bench across from Fridgit. Barry sits with his feet on the bench and his knees tucked to his chest. Dundee can’t tell if it’s due to the cold or something else, but he has his suspicions. Barry takes out his phone and presumably sends a message and a second later the red dot is joined by a bright phone screen. The bright phone screen disappears into the black and then Barry’s looking at his phone again.

Dundee isn’t surprised that Barry lied about knowing who was with the black car, but it does make him concerned. He ducks out of sight and wrestles with his phone screen to reach his contact list as he stealthily makes his way across the rooftop and down a ladder. The call rings out and just as he’s about to hang up it connects.

“Hello, sir!” Edbert cheerfully greets, his Australian accent exaggerated. “Are you done being broody and mysterious in the fog, ‘cause Jordan had this great idea––,”

“Shutthefuckup,” Dundee hisses and Edbert is instantly silent. “Are you doing anything right now that’s important?”

“I mean, it depends how important it is getting someone out of a portapotty which may or may not have a busted lock,” Edbert says and Dundee faintly hears someone shouting in the background. It might be Finley. Possibly Antonio.

“Fucking leave him. I need you to stake out somewhere for me and it is of the utmost importance that you are not caught. Don’t take a personal car and don’t take anything with you that isn’t a camera.”

“Uh… my phone…?”

“Hell no! Leave that shit in the Billabong.”

There’s the rush of wind over the line and Edbert’s heavy breathing. “Can I assume that if I’m caught it’s a ‘whoops I’ll see you at Pillbox’ kind of deal?” he says, nearly out of breath.

“For the boys,” Dundee says.

“For the boys,” Edbert repeats solemnly and hangs up.

Dundee silently screams, punches the air, and frantically calls Edbert back.

“Hello?” Edbert answers.

“Fucking don’t hang up! I didn’t even tell you where you need to go!”

Edbert laughs. “Oh yeah.”

Chapter Text

Barry’s pretty sure he’s going to be deaf by the end of the night.

The music inside Pitchers is loud enough to rattle the glasses on the table and Barry nudges a few back from falling off the edge. He quietly sips his drink, the same one he’d been nursing for an hour, and glances around the bar. He’d been invited a few days ago by a promoter who’d cornered him at Burger Shot and had gone on and on about the grand opening, waving a flyer under Barry’s nose until he’d begrudgingly taken it. He doesn’t regret going despite the ringing in his ears that will be there for some time, but he does regret his choice of company to bring.

He’d been in Los Santos for a while, but his list of friends was quicker to say than the alphabet. He’d decided to call up a couple contacts and tell them about the opening, but the only person who’d shown up was someone who’d been personally invited by the Pitchers promotional staff to debut a new song. Honestly, Barry’s kind of glad she’d been swept up by the crowd because being near her only reminded Barry of his night at the casino. He’d arrived at Pitchers in a relatively good mood, but seeing the hearts on her cheeks and hearing her false cheer dragged him back to that night and Barry had felt himself slipping into a dark mood with no one to pull him out.

No one, at least, until a random guy with wild red hair and a mask and goggles covering most of his face compliments Barry’s hoodie. The same hoodie which Barry had exchanged for his own in a quick plan to keep someone he barely knew from going to jail. He’d like to say he wore it because it’s the only piece of vibrant clothing Barry owns, but really it feels a bit like a security blanket and a motivation to try new and wild things. It’s by this thinking that when a cute guy asks Barry to dance Barry doesn’t say the lie he’s been thinking of all night and instead accepts. The guy fawns over Barry’s eyes, but Barry’s pretty sure he hasn’t made eye contact with the guy since he asked Barry to dance. The guy also compliments Barry’s hoodie as they move in time to the thrumming beat, but Barry pretends he doesn’t hear, preferring to keep the hoodie to himself.

Barry tolerates the guy’s closeness, but doesn’t push for more even after the guy grabs Barry’s hips and presses himself to Barry’s back. Barry closes his eyes and the only thought in his mind is how Irwin Dundee’s face looked in the throes of pleasure. Truthfully: it’s an image that’s been haunting him ever since that night. Barry imagines the hands on him are Irwin Dundee’s, pulling him close and grinding himself against Barry. Then the guy behind Barry speaks in his ear, completely shattering the illusion and Barry tries not to sound disappointed when he responds, but the guy must sense it because he takes his hands off Barry’s hips. Barry makes a quick excuse after that and weaves his way through the dance floor to the bar. It’s impossible to get either of the bartender’s attention, as they’re both occupied chatting with groups of beautiful people at the other end of the bar and Barry looks around for something to throw.

“Oi, mate!” a familiar voice shouts beside Barry, managing to carry over the noise of the club. The bartender looks over and so does Barry, though Barry does a double take.

It’s been a few days since Barry’s seen him, but he supposes that’s enough time for someone to change their look entirely. Gone is the mullet and beard and instead there’s a thick moustache and an almost entirely shaved head except for a wide strip at the top which has been pulled up into a neat bunny tail. He looks much grumpier than before and his choice of clothing has moved from eccentric to retired uncle. It’s not an entirely bad look, just unexpected.

“Hi,” Barry says, turning to him.

He gets a friendly smile in return, but other than that is completely ignored in favour of ordering a drink –– Barry quickly throws in his order too, not knowing when he’d next get the opportunity. Barry fidgets with his sleeve and decides to take a leap, reaching out and grabbing his hand. He startles and pulls away and Barry’s confidence wavers, but Barry keeps moving forwards.

“It’s been a while,” Barry says.

A quick glance at a watch. “It’s been about four hours since they opened.”

Barry laughs and moves closer. Their drink orders are placed in front of them and Barry can’t help but comment. “Did they run out of VB’s?” He pulls his straw into his mouth with his tongue, keeping eye contact that’s met in fleeting glances.

“Why would that matter?”

“Well, cause it’s… it was a joke. ‘Cause it’s Australian.”

“Sir, I’m from Ohio.”

“Oh.” Barry’s stunned for a second and it’s enough time for the other man to take their leave of the conversation and turn towards the dance floor. “Did you want to dance?”

A quick glance up and down and Barry tries his best not to shrink under the assessing gaze. “No, thank you. I’m quite busy.”

“Come on, you won’t even have to pay me this time.” Barry jostles him with an elbow, but this seems to be the wrong move as something like a switch is triggered and the stiff posture adjusts.

“This time?” He places his drink on the counter and digs in his pockets for something. “Are you trying to solicit yourself to me for sex?”

“Wow,” Barry says, glancing around to see if anyone else heard. “You’re much more open about this. How about we just dance and if it leads to something, well… we’ll call this one on the house.”

“Is this a service being offered by Pitchers?”

“No, I just came here ‘cause I got a flyer for it.” Barry catches a glimpse of the woman he came with, sweeping across a raised platform in a graceful dance and into waiting arms like it’d been rehearsed. “I didn’t think––,”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to turn around.”

Barry swears the floor drops out from under him and all thought leaves him as he’s presented with a pair of handcuffs. “What?”

“My name is Crocodile Steve with the LSPD, badge number four-eighty. You are currently being detained under the reasonable suspicion of acts of soliciting yourself and-or others. Turn around, sir.” He holds up a badge with a matching photo and the pin of the Los Santos Police Department.

Barry backs away, mouth opening and closing yet no words coming out. He doesn’t know what to say, or should say, that would get him out of the situation and him not doing anything is likely only making it worse. It’s possible it could be a joke –– there were police strippers, right? –– but then Barry remembers the fake name Irwin Dundee had first given him and Barry knows it isn’t a joke. The cop keeps moving towards him, holding out the pair of handcuffs and Barry stutters out half-words and finally decides to run.

Officer Steve yells for Barry to stop, but he doesn’t listen. He pushes his way through the crowd, frantically digging in his pockets for his phone. He takes brief safety behind a raised platform and scrolls his contact list. Randy Bullet is the first option that comes up and Barry dials without hesitation. He catches sight of the cop just as he’s rounding a corner and he sprints towards the exit, forcing his way through a crowd of incoming partiers.

“Stop that man!” officer Steve yells to the bouncer, but Barry slips out in the confusion of people.

“Please pick up!” Barry yells at the dial tone. He runs down the street, not daring to look back when he hears the cop behind him. Barry runs across the busy street, not stopping to think of the danger.

“Jaywalking!” officer Steve yells, following Barry across the road.

The phone keeps ringing and Barry begs it to connect, but before it can a sleek gray and black sports car with broken windows pulls up alongside Barry and honks its horn. Barry keeps running and the driver lays on the horn to get his attention. Barry finally stops running and looks behind him, finding the cop much closer than he thought. Barry’s almost tackled, but he spins out of the way and goes to the car while the cop trips over his own feet and lands in a sprawl on the concrete. Just as Barry’s getting in the car he hears a shouted “taser!” and something hits the doorframe, but then the car is speeding off, leaving the cop on the sidewalk.

“Holy fuck,” Barry says, tucking his phone away. “Thank you so much, Randy.”

“Randy?” an Australian voice says. “I mean, I am a little bit, but let’s get you out of there first.”

Barry jumps in his seat, not expecting who he hears. Irwin Dundee sits behind the wheel of what Barry absolutely thought was Randy Bullet’s car, but now that the adrenaline is fading he can easily spot the differences. However, Irwin Dundee looks the same as when Barry last saw him, with a full beard and mullet, but now he’s wearing a denim jacket with a bunch of patches handsewn over the sleeves. He grins at Barry and drifts around a corner, narrowly avoiding a fire hydrant and hoping briefly onto the sidewalk to thread through poles.

“How did you know I was there?” Barry asks.

“Didn’t. Saw the cops chasing someone and then I saw the bright pink hoodie. Guess you wanted to see me again.” He winks at Barry and then spins the car in a tight circle to get around a stalled motorcycle left on the road.

Barry grabs his seat in one hand and the door handle in the other. “I’ve never been happier in my life to see you, Irwin.”

“Ew, no. Only fucking cops call me Irwin.”

“Okay, so then what do I call you? Maniac driver?”

“Tell me you weren’t impressed with that drift back there. Didn’t even scrape the paint.”

“Then why are the windows shattered?”

“Eh…” Dundee squeaks. “That happened before I got in.”

“Whose car is this anyways?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Hey, how about I call you Joey Rider?” Barry jokes. “Or Karl Jacker?”

Dundee laughs and the tight grip of nerves around Barry’s stomach that’s been there for the past week finally loosens. “Dundee, mate. You can call me Dundee.”

“Dundee,” Barry repeats. “Good driving.”

“Thanks, but this car is stolen, so if a cop tries to pull us over… maybe buckle your seatbelt,” Dundee suggests.

He reaches across Barry to pull the belt over him. He practically moves into Barry’s seat to be able to reach it and Barry can’t help but smell Dundee as he does: salt water and motor oil, like a mechanic shop on the sea. Barry’s mind helpfully replays the sounds Dundee made at Fridgit and when Dundee grunts at the effort of unsnapping the seatbelt from its auto-locked position Barry jumps. Luckily, at the same time, the car bounces off the curb and Dundee makes no comment on Barry’s reaction.

Dundee blindly tries to find the other end of the belt, jabbing it into Barry’s thigh a few times when he refuses to take his eyes off the road. Barry grabs Dundee’s hand and leads it in the right direction. It clicks into place and Dundee feels along it to ensure it’s secured, giving Barry’s leg a pat afterwards.

“So, Barry, why were you running from the cops?” Dundee asks casually, like they weren’t racing through downtown.

“I wasn’t running,” Barry answers quickly. He’s warm under the hoodie and he pulls at the neckline, hoping he isn’t sweating too much in it.

“Sorry. So, Barry, why were you calmly complying with the cops and waiting around to graciously be arrested?”

“I wasn’t –– Fuck!” Barry screams as the car flies through the air, over a ledge, between two trees, and lands on the road as if it never left.

“It’s fine,” Dundee says calmly. “I’ve done that before, though I wasn’t sure if this car would fit or not. It’s got a wide end.”

Barry’s heart is in his throat and he feels like he wants to throw up, but he also feels oddly untouchable. Nevertheless, Barry reaches for Dundee, grabbing the edge of his seat instead of his own, as if that would help any if they were to crash. “I was invited to the opening of Pitchers,” Barry says, scanning the road for any obstacles. He holds his breath as they weave through an intersection, barely missing colliding with a large delivery truck.

“Oh yeah! The queer bar! Yeah, my mate Pez was trying to get me to go. I don’t really like loud enclosed spaces with enforced liquor laws, it seems like a recipe for trouble. And not the fun kind.”

“Tell me about it.”

“How about you tell me?” Dundee says, shooting Barry a smirk.

Barry’s breath hitches and he makes some weird noise in his throat he isn’t proud of. “Right, I was in Pitchers and it’s fucking loud because everyone’s apparently going deaf––,”

“Got a problem with deaf people?” Dundee cuts in.

“Well, no, it’s just a comment, but the music is blaring and I was trying to get a drink and being fucking ignored.”

“Typical.”

“And I was debating throwing pretzels or something to get some attention when this guy beside me shouts at the servers and holy fuck was he loud. I don’t know if it was the ringing in my ears, or, um… or something else,” Barry says, correcting himself from almost saying something he’d regret. “But I thought I heard you. I thought that guy was you.”

Dundee slams on the brakes and the car slides to a stop in the middle of the road.

“Cunt, tell me you didn’t think that fuck wit Crocodile was me.”

Barry is silent for a long while, purposefully looking out his window and flicking a piece of loose glass out of the frame. Dundee reaches over and grabs Barry’s jaw to make him look at him. Dundee sounds angry, but he’s smiling and Barry can’t help but smile back, like it’s some inside joke they share. Which they kind of do, but Barry doesn’t want to think about the alternate world where he’d heard that cop orgasm and not Dundee.

“He’s from Ohio!” Dundee says and lets go of Barry, giving him a friendly pat on the cheek. “Fucker probably couldn’t place Syndney on a map if he was standing at the Opera House.”

“In my defense, it was loud!” Barry smacks Dundee’s arm and Dundee swats at him in return. A car honks behind them and Barry and Dundee stick their hands out the broken windows and flip them off at the same time before Dundee continues down the road, this time keeping to speed limits. “Anyways,” Barry continues. “He, uh… He tried to arrest me for prostitution.”

Dundee bursts into laughter. “You tried to hit on a cop!”

“I thought he was you!” Barry says and blushes. He looks out his window again to avoid looking at Dundee.

Dundee’s laugh dies out and he clears his throat. “Yeah, mm…” He clears his throat again.

“Not that I––,”

“No, course not––,”

“It was just––,”

“Business, yeah I get it.”

“–– Cause I think you’re… Yeah, business,” Barry agrees in a quiet voice.

The car gradually speeds up and Dundee turns onto the highway, taking the opportunity to go as fast as possible out of the city. Dundee weaves the car expertly through traffic in a manner that reminds Barry of a surfer cutting across waves. It’s oddly relaxing and kind of hypnotic. When there’s approaching sirens in the oncoming lane Dundee quickly takes the nearest exit then loops back onto the highway, avoiding them completely. Barry checks over his shoulder to see it’s only an ambulance, but the quick thinking is impressive nonetheless.

“You’ve done this a few times,” Barry says.

“A few,” Dundee agrees. “I figure we circle up to Sandy, get a different car, and then –– Did you ever get that drink?”

“No! Instead, I almost got arrested.”

“Right, so, we get a different car and then get you that drink.”

“Thanks,” Barry mumbles.

He’s a bit shocked at Dundee’s boldness to keep driving Barry around and now inviting him for a drink. It’s something friends did, not random people you’d professionally made orgasm.

Twice.

If Barry had managed to get a ride from Randy he’s certain that it would have entailed being driven away from Pitchers until Randy lost sight of the cops and then Barry would be promptly kicked from the car, with or without first making it up to Randy for helping. Going with Dundee had been the riskier option –– not that Barry had much of a choice –– but it has certainly been the livelier option. Instead of being left on a curb, Barry is treated to a whirlwind of impromptu sightseeing with Dundee pointing out all the little nooks and crannies a car could fit down, where a few good hiding spots are, locations where he’s had shootouts before. This last takes Barry by surprise, but in retrospect makes sense and Dundee doesn’t elaborate on who he’d been shooting or why. Which Barry is thankful for, just in case it somehow led back to the gang Barry worked for and he felt obligated to turn in information.

Soon they’re on the highway heading North and there’s nothing but road and trees and cars. No cool jumps for Dundee to point out or fascinating shops for Barry to ask about and the silence is deafening. In these instances, not that Barry was in these situations often as he mostly kept to the city and had no need for cross state trekking, usually he would chat up his driver and offer an alternate form of payment for the lift to save a bit of money. Dundee hadn’t asked for anything, but in Barry’s experience nothing is ever given for free.

Barry takes a breath and allows himself to settle into the necessary persona. He smooths back his hair blown wild from the busted window and turns in his seat to Dundee. However, soon as Barry tries to start the conversation about knowing he’d have to pay for the lift, Dundee holds out his hand.

“Mint?” Dundee asks.

They’re the unwrapped kind and it’s not at all what Barry was expecting. “Uh…”

“I swear they’re fine, they’ve just been in my pocket for a bit.”

“I’m… I’m good.” Barry sits square in his seat again.

“Suit yourself.” Dundee chews happily on the handful of mints and turns sharply into a waterside parking lot. “Were you going to say something?” Dundee asks, but Barry feigns ignorance. “You were gearing up like you were going to say something,” Dundee says and stops the car beside a bright pink convertible.

“I forgot what it was.”

“Shame.” Dundee gets out, circles around his stolen car, adjusting his coat and slipping a small pair of wire cutters from his pocket as he does. He takes one last quick look around, jumps into the bright pink car, and ducks under the dashboard to fiddle with wires. The car roars to life and Dundee leans on the door. “Going my way?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows at Barry.

Barry giggles. He isn’t proud of it and he bites his tongue to try to stop it.

“Hop in.” Dundee pats the seat beside him and Barry switches cars.

Back on the highway Dundee sets the pedal to the floor and Barry buckles his seatbelt before Dundee has another chance to lean into his personal space. Barry isn’t quite sure what he’d do, but he knows he’d avoided offering Dundee road head for a reason and he’s not quite prepared yet to find out why. He focuses in on a different question, hoping Dundee didn’t see him preening beforehand –– a move now entirely useless as the wind whips freely around them.

“Why do you have wire cutters?” Barry asks, speaking a little louder to be heard over the wind.

“In case I need to cut wires.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Gee, really?”

“Ask stupid questions.”

“Okay, how about this: where did you learn to hotwire a car?” he asks. Dundee’s jovial expression closes off and Barry can’t imagine what kind of nerve he must have hit, but he quickly backpedals. “No, I get it. Criminal secrets. It’s fine,” Barry says, watching Dundee’s hands tighten over the steering wheel.

“I was eight,” Dundee says, his voice barely carrying over the noise of the wind and the car engine. “My brother showed me.”

Barry nods and quickly drops the topic. “Do you think stealing a bright pink convertible was the best choice? Considering the cop got a good look at me?”

“Nah.” Dundee takes a pair of sunglasses from inside his jacket pocket and slips them on. “Where I’m taking you the cops don’t like to go.”

“Sounds appealing.”

“He’s a ping chaser, you’ll be fine.”

The ride back into the city is generally quiet and Barry gives his best efforts to start conversations, but Dundee just gives him one word replies. The bank on Bay City is swarming with cops and Dundee shouts at them as they fly past, but Barry ducks down in his seat. They round the corner and Dundee drifts into the parking across from Burger Shot. Barry’s still low in his seat and Dundee pats him on the shoulder and hops out, refusing to use the door. Dundee runs across the road to the little market beside Burger Shot and Barry quickly follows. He’s almost hit twice from different directions while crossing and Dundee’s waiting at the door to the shop laughing at him.

“You need to work on that,” Dundee says, slinging his arm over Barry’s shoulders and guiding him inside. He keeps his arm over Barry while they argue by the coolers over which drinks to get. Dundee whines when Barry picks out a sugary vodka soda and stays pouting by the coolers when Barry goes up to pay. The clerk smiles at Barry and comments to Dundee about letting his boyfriend choose. Barry keeps his gaze on the counter and hurries from the shop, pretending he didn’t hear Dundee’s reply to the clerk in a cooing tone.

When they’re running back to the car Barry hears the tinkling of glass in Dundee’s coat, but holds his comment until the car is moving again. “So what did you pick?” Barry asks.

Dundee pulls four bottles from his jacket and gives them to Barry to hold. “No idea, but there’s an apple on the label. I might just be hungry.”

“Wait! Go back!” Barry shouts.

Dundee flings the car in reverse, clipping a random local’s front bumper and nudging them onto the sidewalk, as he speeds back in the direction they came. “What? What’s wrong?” He pulls into the same parking spot and Barry drops all the bottles in the footwell and jumps out. “What’s going on?” Dundee shouts.

Barry runs across the road, this time only almost being hit by one car, and instead of returning to the little market on the corner he runs into Burger Shot. It’s eerily quiet and the speakers in the drop tile ceilings are playing music which Barry only hears every fifth or so note of. He jogs up to the counter and peers over the slide-server divider, checking for anyone working in the back.

“Hello!” A woman in a hamburger-head mask pops up from behind the counter.

Barry jumps. “What the fuh… Were you laying on the ground?”

“Welcome to Burger Shot!” she greets instead of answering.

Barry orders enough food to feed five people, rejects the offer of milkshakes and sodas (several times) and shyly asks for one of the kids' toys. The hamburger lady piles it all into one bag and holds it out to him, head tilted slightly to the side. She might be smiling under the mask, but with no way of knowing, her entire demeanour is nothing but unsettling. Especially with the empty seating and seemingly empty back work room and tinny music. Barry subtly pinches himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

“Don’t do murder, eat a burger!” she says.

It might be a mantra for her, so Barry says nothing and runs outside.

“That place is cursed,” Barry says, hopping back in the car.

“I got stabbed in their parking lot once,” Dundee says and pulls back onto the road.

Barry digs around in the bag, pushing aside the burgers and taking out one of the packs of french fries. He eats a few then holds the container in Dundee’s periphery, shaking it to get his attention. Dundee makes a happy sound and eats a few. They manage to eat an entire pack of fries by the time Dundee is turning down a side road and parking alongside a canal that leads to the ocean. Further down the road is another parking lot and a lifeguard tower, behind their car is a wall with glass pressed to the top ledge and blue graffiti sprayed across its bricks.

It doesn’t seem the most inviting place, but Dundee hops out like he isn’t afraid of being jumped and for some reason Barry trusts his judgment on this. Dundee slips his glass bottles back into his pockets and also grabs Barry’s sodas while Barry carries the bag of food.

“Okay, usually we’d be swarmed by people hopping that wall, but everyone must be asleep by now. Or they’re just being nosy and watching from the roofs,” Dundee says.

Barry glances to the rooftops, but doesn’t see anything. He clutches the Burger Shot bag to his chest, taking comfort in the false warmth, but then a real warmth grabs his hand. Dundee pulls him along, guiding him to the boardwalk before dropping his hand. There’s a few houses on the corner, but after that are small businesses with their storefronts shuttered for the night. Dundee points out a few, noting their worthiness with comments such as, “The owner of this tee shirt place held my stomach together once when he found me bleeding out. I still have the shirt” or “Best ice cream scooper in the business. Ask nice enough and they’ll throw in an acid tab instead of a chocolate flake”. Dundee also points out the tennis courts and then stops Barry by a hand on his chest and gravely warns him to keep out of it because apparently there’s a goblin who likes to play tennis and he will stab you if you interfere with his games. Then he cheerfully switches to another stall along the boardwalk and the tour continues.

Dundee leads Barry back and between two houses and into a narrow dead end alleyway with a couch at one end. More blue graffiti litters the walls, but the staggered street lighting doesn’t give detail to what the words actually say and any of the door lights from the houses that flick on as they walk past illuminate only a few feet around. Dundee points out balconies overlooking the alley, giving names to the people who owned the houses, but Barry doesn’t pay attention to it. He’s too put off by the ghost town-like quality of the alley, despite Dundee’s multiple claims that an entire gang lives in the area. There aren’t even any cars parked in the covered areas and Dundee’s voice echoing off the buildings added a strange almost movie set quality to the whole place. For the duration of the tour, a part of Barry braces for Dundee to say he’s joking about it all and it’s not until they’re at the front gate of the alley does this part relax.

It’s all very surreal and Barry just nods and follows Dundee, not knowing where he’s going. Eventually, the tour turns to the road then between buildings and Dundee starts to climb a ladder, beckoning Barry to follow. Barry’s not afraid of heights by any means, but he’s also still reeling from the strange tour and trying to process everything that by the time his brain catches up with the rest of him Dundee’s two ladders ahead and calling over his shoulder for Barry to catch up.

The climb is awkward with carrying the large bag of burgers and fries, but Barry manages to follow Dundee to a rooftop patio without dropping anything. Once he’s up there he spots a fire escape with actual stairs and Dundee grins and awkwardly laughs.

“Yeah, I guess we could’a gone that way,” Dundee says.

There’s a patio table and some chairs, as well as two lounger chairs. In the corner of the patio nearest the ocean facing boardwalk is a raised platform that must be the stairwell which leads to an inset of steps and a door for rooftop access.

“Or we could’ve gone this way,” Barry says, leaning over the edge of the staircase pit to look at the door. It’s heavily rusted and contains several heavy dents in it.

“Maybe if it opened, sure.” Dundee drops all the bottles onto the raised platform then grabs the two lounger chairs and throws them up there too. He hops onto the ledge and kicks the chairs into a nice position to face the beach.

Barry cautiously follows, taking each step towards his chair with a keen awareness of the sharp drop over the unfenced side. Once sitting he relaxes some, knowing he couldn’t accidently teeter over the edge. He opens the bag, pockets the little plastic toy, and begins divvying out the food when there’s a loud scraping noise and he’s pulled roughly to the side, almost lurching off his chair. Dundee yanks Barry’s chair even closer until the two frames are nearly pressed together then sits back and opens his burger wrapper. They eat in relative silence for a while, watching the beach under the moonlight. When they’re each one drink in, Barry speaks up.

“I can’t remember if I said it or not, but thanks for getting me out.”

“No problem,” Dundee says with a mouthful of fries.

“I was calling someone for help, but I doubt they would’ve been this fun.”

“Definitely not.”

Vespucci is quiet around them with the occasional car passing on the streets below. On the beach, a tractor pulling an industrial rake makes its slow way over the sand, combing it fresh for tomorrow. The sky is cloudless and full of stars, the moon bright and shining down over the pair, perfectly illuminating Dundee’s face as he tilts his head back to drink. Dundee’s eyes are closed and Barry openly stares for as long as he can.

Chapter Text

Since accidentally meeting Barry at the Fridgit parking lot, Dundee’s thought he’s seen him numerous times throughout the city. After his second encounter with Barry, Dundee went to the pier the next day to throw snails at seagulls and he thought he’d spotted him walking along the dock. Needless to say, the lawyer Dundee had gleefully approached had been very confused when Dundee ran up to him and grabbed him around the waist. In hindsight, Dundee’s glad for the mixup. He didn’t want to be his aggressive self around Barry and something about Barry made him naturally soften and yield easily under his touch. It’d never happened before.

At first, Barry touching Dundee so openly spooked him –– it kinda still does –– but Dundee is always one for new experiences and having a guy hit on him first was new. Usually, Dundee is the one chasing what he wants, but after his time with Barry it was like some invisible barrier had broken. He’d go to the gas station to buy rolling papers and the guy behind the counter would let his fingers trail over Dundee’s when giving back his change. Or, he’d be waiting at a red light and glance over to find the driver of the car beside him looking at him with heat in their eyes.

It was all a bit surreal, so when Dundee sees the pink hoodie sprinting down the road he doesn’t think much of it, until he catches a glimpse of the runner’s face. He follows at a distance, trying to work out if it’s the lawyer Tim Collins again or not as he runs across the road followed by one undercover cop and two uniformed cops. Dundee darts across the road on a red light and swerves towards the sidewalk honking his horn. The runner looks at him without actually registering anything and keeps running. He hears cops warn him to not interfere and he lays on his horn to get the necessary attention and make the guy stop running.

It is Barry and Dundee can’t believe his luck.

He jumps into Dundee’s car without hesitation and while usually Dundee would take the opportunity to play with the cops and give them a good chase, this time he sets the urge aside in favour of getting Barry as far from the cops as possible. He chats with Barry, hoping the easy conversation will lessen Barry’s death grip on his seat. He also tells Barry to put on his seatbelt, but it’s mostly an excuse for Dundee to reach across Barry and touch him. Barry grabs his hand to guide the seatbelt into place and Dundee barely resists the urge to turn his hand over and entwine his fingers with Barry’s like some lovestruck teenager.

Throughout the drive he continues to poke Barry into casual topics, asking Barry why he was running, and finding every excuse to touch him. The greatest excuse comes when Barry admits to thinking that the cop he was talking to was Dundee; Dundee grabs Barry’s jaw and forces him to look over. Dundee also takes the opportunity to check on Barry’s bruises across his face and neck, pleased that they’re healing nicely and no new ones have taken up space on Barry’s soft skin. It’s a little infuriating how much Dundee wants to touch Barry, to let his hand linger, to purposefully rest his palm across Barry’s thigh, but he doesn’t. He keeps it playful, at a distance, under a guise of friendly banter.

Barry had met him under professional circumstances and as much as Dundee wanted to reach across that divide he knew he couldn’t build the first step. It had to be Barry.

So he keeps his mind distracted –– for the most part –– in pointing out everything unique about Los Santos as he drives Barry around, answering Barry’s questions and throwing out tidbits of street smart trivia he figured Barry should know. He also throws out the casual suggestion of getting a drink. Barry doesn’t decline and Dundee has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling too wide before he carries on with his impromptu tour.

However, once they’re on the highway heading north in search of a clean car the conversation wavers out and Dundee drums his fingers over the steering wheel. He watches from the corner of his eye as Barry shifts in his seat, subtly turning towards Dundee while still looking forward. Barry fidgets and tucks the same bit of hair behind his ear several times. He clears his throat and some part of Dundee knows what he’s going to ask and panics. Dundee reaches into his pocket and offers a handful of mints to stop him, not wanting to hear Barry’s question in fear that he’d accept. Barry politely declines and settles back in his seat, but Dundee’s heart doesn’t slow any.

Dundee finds them a pink convertible he’s positive he’s driven before with real keys and quickly hotwires it. He’s giddy for the excuse to stay with Barry for such a long time, but reality shatters around him when Barry asks how he knows how to hotwire a car. Dundee tries not to linger on it, there’s no use thinking about the past and everything he could’ve done to prevent it, but it hangs onto him with whispers of failure in his ear. Barry jumps in the car beside him and Dundee reels in the urge to put his arm around the back of Barry’s seat, seeking whatever comfort is nearest. He wants to touch Barry again –– partially for the joy of it, but now more so for the physical comfort it would bring.

Dundee keeps his hands on the steering wheel and drives them back to the city. When he finds cops at the bank on Bay City clearing out a robbery, Dundee can’t help but throw a few insults their way. Barry ducks down in his seat, slipping underneath his belt across his chest and curling himself into the footwell as much as possible. The cops don’t do anything, as expected, but Barry stays low in his seat until they pull into parking. Dundee runs across the road and watches Barry dodge and weave his way through traffic like a deer learning to walk.

It’s a little startling, but he comes out the other side unharmed and Dundee pulls Barry against him with an arm over his shoulders. He keeps his arm there while they bicker over drink selection and Dundee catches the clerk fawning over them from the counter. Barry picks out a grapefruit flavored vodka soda and takes it to the counter while Dundee pretends to pout by the coolers, waiting for the opportune moment.

“What a fun choice,” the clerk comments.

“He’s a fun person!” Dundee shouts from the back of the store.

“Well then you are a lucky man,” the clerk says, continuing to ring up the order. “To have found such a person.”

“Plus it makes his lips taste good!” Dundee adds, making sure to sound appropriately affectionate. He can see Barry’s ears turning red and he bites back a grin.

The clerk laughs and accepts Barry’s money. Dundee’s already pocketed his own selection and the two run back to the car. Barry knows immediately what Dundee did, but rather than frowning and making Dundee go back and pay like Emma used to do, Barry just wants to know what he chose. It’s unusual to have found someone who so casually leant into Dundee’s criminal ways, but then again Dundee did find Barry turning tricks down a back alley, so it’s not that unusual.

Barry makes Dundee turn around as soon as they’ve left and he runs into Burger Shot. When he emerges he’s carrying a large paper bag and has a far off look of puzzlement. Dundee knows the vibe of Burger Shot well and he’s just happy Barry didn’t walk out with a knife in his stomach or someone else’s blood on his hands. Barry and him share one of the packs of fries on the drive through Vespucci and Dundee brings them to the ladder leading to the top of Big White. From there one can see the entire beach and Dundee’s eager to show Barry.

He climbs quickly and attempts to organize the strewn patio furniture before Barry makes it up. He throws the lounge chairs onto the raised platform and faces them towards the ocean, flopping into one and waiting for Barry to take the other. Barry follows him and hesitantly inches over to the empty chair, taking care to not look over the edge of the building until he’s sitting.

Barry opens the paper bag and removes the cheap plastic toy included with the meals. It’s an action figure from some cartoon Dundee’s never seen and it has glowing green eyes behind a black domino mask. Barry holds it in his hand, his thumb running over the details of the toy's face, before he clears his throat and hastily stuffs it into the pocket of the pink hoodie. He doesn’t comment on the toy as he takes the food from the bag, so Dundee doesn’t say anything about it either, but the presence of the toy brought a sadness to Barry’s eyes that Dundee wants to comfort.

He shifts on his chair, immediately determining that he’s too far away to pat Barry’s shoulder without being obvious. He regrets setting their chairs so far apart and he yanks Barry’s closer, almost throwing Barry off in the process. Barry distributes the food and the two watch the tractor on the beach comb the trodden sand smooth again. Dundee can feel Barry staring at him when he drinks and he consciously arches his spine and tips his head back, further exposing his neck. He sighs and smacks his lips and when he looks over at Barry he’s shoving a handful of fries in his mouth and looking in the complete opposite direction of Dundee. At first Dundee thinks he’s trying to avoid him, but Barry’s body is still tilted towards Dundee, even if he’s not looking.

“What brought you to San Andreas then?” Dundee asks. He takes a giant bite of his burger as an excuse to not talk while he waits for Barry’s answer.

“Uh…” Barry stalls. “Dead dog and a losing fight with a straight razor.”

“Okay.” Dundee thinks for a moment, thrown by Barry’s answer. “Will I be breaking any court orders if I ask how you lose a fight with a straight razor?”

Barry eats to avoid answering.

“Right,” Dundee says.

“What about you?” Barry asks with his mouth full and a hand up to cover it.

“I…” Dundee doesn’t quite remember why or how he came to San Andreas. He looks out across the ocean and his thoughts drift. He can’t recall ever stepping foot on a plane to come here. Nor a boat. He doesn’t even have a passport. Fuck, if it came to it, he’s pretty sure he could be deported. “I don’t remember. I just wanted to get away from the craziness for a bit.”

“So you came here?” Barry laughs.

“Yeah.” Dundee laughs too. It’s an easy thing to do with Barry, as automatic as breathing. Dundee clears his throat and adjusts on his seat, throwing the empty wrappers to the lower rooftop and sprawling out over the length of the lounge chair. “What did you used to do before you came here? Personal trainer? Professional athlete?”

“You greatly underestimate how much I’ve changed since coming here.”

“I’m saying you look beautiful, mate. Take the compliment.”

“Oh.” Barry drinks to break eye contact, but Dundee catches a glimpse of his flushed cheeks and shy smile. “I, uh, I used to be an accountant.”

Dundee chose the wrong time to take a drink. “Fucking what?” he sputters.

“Yeah, I managed the books of a business that specialized in tearing apart other businesses and selling their scraps like a chop shop.” Barry finishes his drink and opens a second. “It was fucking brutal. I could see how much money the company had, how fucking prosperous they were, and instead of reaching out to help the smaller businesses, they sunk their claws in. They bought out suppliers, out-bid markets, even… I mean, I could never prove it, but they even paid off a few people to look the other way to forget or lose documents. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t work for people like that––,” Barry stops suddenly and a cold distant look sets in. He’s sitting next to Dundee, but Barry might as well be on the other side of the city. “But I guess you go with what you know.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Dundee says and Barry snaps back to attention. “They sound like fucking cunts. I would’a burned down the building after me. Wait, did you?”

Barry shakes his head. “No, I just left. Nothing special about it. I put a piece of paper on a desk and walked out.”

“I guess that’s kinda cool. Didn’t give ‘em the time of day.”

“Yeah. Instead I wasted the rest of the day bleeding out on the bathroom floor.”

Remembering Barry’s words about the straight razor, fear grips Dundee and he reaches for Barry without second thought, grabbing his hand and turning his wrist upwards for inspection. Even with the moon it’s still too dark to tell if there’s scars, so Dundee traces his fingers along Barry’s wrist and up to the juncture of his elbow, yanking the hoodie up out of the way.

“What are you doing?” Barry asks quietly.

Dundee looks up, not noticing how close they are until that moment, but feeling no desire to move away. “Just checking something.”

“That’s not where the scar is,” Barry says and Dundee watches his lips form the words.

“Where would I have to look?”

“Nowhere I’d show in public.”

Dundee pulls back, his eyebrows drawing together as he thinks on Barry’s words. “Fucking… what?”

“It’s nothing. It’s fine. I provoked it. It’s my fault.”

Barry speaks quickly, hands fidgeting in his lap as he starts to turn away, but Dundee grabs his jaw to stop him. “You provoked yourself into fighting a straight razor?”

“No, I… It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! That sounds like the opposite of fine!”

“It’s whatever. It’s only… It’s not a huge loss.”

“A loss?”

“It’s nothing, Dee. I’ve moved on. Can you?”

Dundee drops Barry’s jaw, but doesn’t move away. “You called me Dee.”

“Yeah, is that not…? Do people not?”

“No, never.”

“Oh.”

They sit in silence for a while, watching the tractor wrestle with getting the rake behind him unstuck from around a lifeguard stand. Barry picks from a pack of fries and then tilts it towards Dundee in offering. The thick tension of earlier slowly dissipates and when the burgers and fries are finished Barry sits back in his chair with his hands in his lap and silently watches the beach with Dundee.

“This is one of my favourite spots in the entire city,” Dundee says. He wrestles with his chair to slouch it into a flat position then does the same to Barry’s. Dundee pats Barry’s chair when he continues to sit stiffly upright and flips onto his back to watch the stars. “Vespucci’s far enough out of the city that you can still see the stars at night. No skyscrapers lighting up the sky.”

Barry lies down, arms folded over his stomach. “I don’t know any constellations,” he says.

“Have you seen any pictures of ‘em? I don’t think anyone knows any constellations. They say there’s one that looks like a man wearing a belt, but it’s a load of shit. It looks more like a mountain range. Or that one! See that one there?” Dundee points at the sky.

Barry tries to track where Dundee’s pointing. “No.”

Dundee shuffles closer. “That!”

Barry tilts his head. “That’s the moon.”

Dundee moves entirely into Barry’s personal space, almost pressing his face against Barry’s. “That!”

“Oh. Yeah, the North star. What about it?”

Dundee drops his hand to his side, conscious of the fact that Barry moves his hand to his side as well so their pinkies touch. “Used to think it was the space station.”

“Wait… I think it is.”

Dundee laughs. “See? Constellations are fake.”

Pressed side by side and neither moving away, they continue to point out various star clusters making up wild names for each, until Barry makes the obvious comment. “I should probably go home.” He sits up and Dundee follows, grabbing his hand to keep him in his seat.

“Wait! They might be watching your apartment,” Dundee says. It’s a lame reason and he hopes Barry won’t pick it apart. Barry looks down at their hands and Dundee quickly lets go and adds to his reasoning, wanting more than anything for Barry to stay. “It’s Croc. If you gave the bar your credit card to open a tab he’ll likely get your name and stake out in front of your house for the night. I know I called him a ping chaser, but he’s got enough patience to stake out places if he thinks it’ll lead to more. Give it a day and he’ll get bored.”

“A day?”

“Uh, a night.”

Barry’s mouth twists like he’s trying to keep out a smile. “Are you suggesting I spend the night?”

Dundee regrets pulling their chairs together, certain that Barry can read his intentions clear in his eyes. “Fuck no, I wouldn’t invite you to stay at my place,” he lies. “It’s a fucking disaster,” he confesses. “I’m pretty sure there’s plans to throw out my couch because Collin’s convinced there’s mold growing in it.”

“I mean, I could just share your bed?”

Barry says those words with such confidence, such ease, that when Dundee’s voice cracks on his reply he feels like throwing himself off the side of the building. “You could,” he squeaks.

Barry plants a hand beside Dundee’s thigh and moves forward, forcing Dundee to lean away. “You’re not one of those blanket thieves, are you?” He playfully jabs Dundee in the shoulder and Dundee grabs his hand to stop him. “That why you’re embarrassed?” Barry slips his hand free and continues to poke at Dundee, dodging the attempts to stop him.

Dundee loses balance and falls backwards onto his chair. Barry follows and continues to prod at Dundee’s sides, easily finding all the ticklish spots across Dundee’s middle. Dundee squirms under him, swatting at Barry and trying to grab his hands. When Barry laughs and shows no signs of stopping, Dundee wraps his leg around Barry’s waist and uses it to leverage himself over Barry, throwing him onto his back on his chair with Dundee astride his hips. Barry finally stops and drops his arms to his sides as Dundee plants his hands either side of Barry’s head.

A strange surge of adrenaline kicks wildly through Dundee and he grins down at Barry, some weird half-laugh barking out of him. Barry huffs out a laugh, but his gaze keeps dropping to Dundee’s mouth. Each time he catches himself his eyes snap back up to meet Dundee’s and then quickly return to Dundee’s mouth. Dundee licks his lips, his smile fading along with all his coherent thought.

“Now what?” Barry asks.

Dundee’s sure Barry can hear his nervous heartbeat, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it as he adjusts himself over Barry’s hips. Dundee pushes his nose alongside Barry’s and Barry tilts his head upwards, better lining them up for what Dundee wants to do. Dundee’s arms shake and Barry wraps his arms around Dundee’s shoulders and pulls him down, forcing Dundee onto his elbows and pressing them together from chest to groin.

“I…” Dundee trails off, not quite sure what to say.

“You gonna do something or…?” Barry asks.

Their faces are close enough that when Barry speaks Dundee can feel his lips moving against his and it’s not as scary to lightly press his lips against Barry’s. Barry’s hands move along Dundee’s shoulders and down to his waist. Barry brushes his nose against Dundee’s again and Dundee’s eyes close as a breath shudders out of him.

“No,” Barry says. Dundee prepares to fling himself off the rooftop, but then Barry keeps speaking, “Open your eyes.”

Dundee does, finding Barry staring at him. Dundee blinks to bring Barry into focus, pulling away a bit when his vision continues to blur. Now certain of Dundee’s attention, Barry’s hands slip underneath Dundee’s jean jacket and shirt and press against his bare skin. His hands are warm and they soothe small circles along Dundee’s sides, rucking his clothes upwards. A shiver jolts up Dundee’s spine and Barry smiles like he knows something Dundee doesn’t –– which is probably true.

Dundee’s never kissed a guy before.

Not sober, anyways.

“It’s fine,” Barry says, easily reading the hesitation in Dundee’s eyes. “You don’t have––,”

Dundee doesn’t let himself think of things like grace or technique, or aiming, really. He closes his eyes and surges forwards and kisses Barry. It’s more of an aggressive pressing of lips, but he’s trying. Then Barry’s hands are slipping out from under Dundee’s jacket and he worries he fucked up, but instead of pushing him away Barry tangles one hand into Dundee’s hair and cradles Dundee’s cheek in his other. He gently moves Dundee’s head, tilting and positioning him with a light tug or firm touch and Dundee’s body responds without him.

Dundee jumps when he feels Barry shift underneath him, almost forgetting there was a body attached to the mouth kissing him. He holds himself awkwardly over Barry, trying not to crush him, but Barry’s hand moves briefly from Dundee’s hair to pressing against his lower back to get him to lie down again. When Barry’s hand finds its way back into Dundee’s hair he tugs lightly and Dundee chokes back a moan at the tingle that sparks across his nerves.

“You don’t need to hold back,” Barry says against Dundee’s lips. “I like the sounds you make.”

Dundee can feel himself slipping a little into his own mind, mentally stepping back and watching it happen, then Barry tugs on his hair again and snaps him back to reality. A moan falls from his lips and Barry muffles it. Another sound cracks out of Dundee when Barry licks his bottom lip and draws it between his teeth. The kissing starts to become less tentative as Dundee tests a few boundaries –– his own and Barry’s. Barry continues to say words of approval against Dundee’s lips until Dundee flicks his tongue out and Barry opens his mouth, then the only sounds are moans.

Kissing Barry is surreal and Dundee almost wants to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t asleep. Barry reads him like an open book and it’s nothing like his ex-girlfriend. Barry isn’t afraid to move Dundee or tell him if something is wrong. Dundee thought he’d be embarrassed at anyone telling him to stop trying to lick their molars, but he wants to impress Barry. Dundee pulls back after a while, quelling his aggressive kissing and simply meeting Barry’s lips. Barry’s hands grab Dundee’s waist and he eases Dundee away. Dundee presses one more quick kiss to the corner of Barry’s mouth and Barry grins up at him.

“That was unexpected,” Barry says. His hands tighten on Dundee’s waist, holding onto Dundee by his belt loops. “Nice, though. I didn’t think you’d do that, considering how you were when we first met.”

“I didn’t think I’d do that either,” Dundee says. He readjusts himself over Barry, keeping his hips from pressing into Barry. “I kind of want to do it again.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did it again.”

“I don’t… Okay, I’m going to say something and if you laugh at me I’ll either throw you off the roof or jump off it myself.”

Barry nods. “I promise not to laugh, but if I involuntarily giggle…”

It’s not an ideal response, but he needs to tell Barry before things get awkward. Dundee sighs. “I, um… It’s… I don’t know––,” Dundee stutters until Barry places a hand under his jaw. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Barry hisses out a laugh and quickly bites his tongue.

“Cunt, I know what I’m doing , but like, not with a guy,” Dundee says, growing quieter as he comes to the end of his sentence. “Not that I want anything,” he mumbles quickly.

Barry studies Dundee’s face for a while and slowly pulls Dundee towards him, guiding him with the hand on his jaw. “Just kiss me. You do that well enough.”

“You can’t go back to your apartment,” Dundee says, nose pressed against Barry’s.

“What?”

“I told you; the cops will be watching.” Dundee kisses him. “Stay here.”

“Like, up here? On the roof?”

Dundee rolls off Barry and sits in his own seat. “Well, eventually we could go inside and, uh, cross those bridges when it comes, but I mean, it’s nice out. We could just stay up here.” Dundee runs his hands over his thighs, suddenly aware of his sweaty palms. He really hopes he wasn’t dripping on Barry. He might throw himself off the roof if he was. He wipes his forehead and keeps his gaze firmly on the ocean.

Barry runs his hand up Dundee’s back and tugs lightly on his collar. Dundee gets the hint and lies down, tucking his hands under himself until Barry tugs on his jacket sleeve, moving Dundee’s hand to his side. Barry pulls up the hood of his borrowed pink hoodie and settles against his chair, watching the stars with a small smile on his lips. There’s a featherlight touch against Dundee’s pinky, but when Dundee reaches for it it’s gone. He watches Barry from the corner of his eye until he’s too tired to stay awake.

Dundee’s dreams are warm and fuzzy at the edges. He’s anchored by a tight weight around his waist and pressing against his back. Dundee leans into it and a low sound vibrates through him, dragging him slowly from sleep. He sighs and the arms around him tighten and there’s warm breath on the back of his neck. He blinks, squinting into the bright morning sun; there’s dew over his clothes and the lounge chair he’d fallen asleep on, his knee is cramped from the strange sleeping arrangement, and there’s someone asleep behind him.

Barry shuffles closer and that’s when Dundee realizes Barry’s arms are around his waist, one of his knees is pushed high between Dundee’s thighs, and perhaps the most concerning point of interest: Barry’s cock is hard against Dundee’s ass. Dundee slowly moves away and Barry moans and shifts his hips against Dundee.

“Fuck,” Dundee mouths.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep atop Big White. He was going to show Barry to the abandoned apartment around the corner Dundee hides in some times and leave him there for the night. He hadn’t planned to end up like this –– no matter how much he may enjoy it.

“Fuck,” Dundee whispers. He slowly moves forwards, only to be reeled in again as Barry nuzzles against his back. “Fuck,” he says, drawing it out.

Barry moans and shifts his hips against him and Dundee freezes. Barry keeps moving, a sluggish yet persistent pace, rolling his hips against Dundee’s ass. Dundee considers riding it out to avoid the embarrassment because it’s not too bad, until Barry’s knee moves upwards between Dundee’s thighs, sending a spike of lust through his body.

“Fuck!” Dundee startles and rolls off the lounge chair.

Barry partly follows him, coming awake in time to stop from falling off the chairs. “Fuck?” he mumbles, groggily lifting his head.

“Uh… Morning!” Dundee chirps and hops to his feet. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and holds it as low as it can go to cover his crotch, hoping that Barry doesn’t look down.

“Morn’?” Barry looks around.

His hair is slicked up on one side and there’s a pattern of lattice work on his cheek from sleeping on the lounge chair. His clothes glisten with the morning dew and at some point in the night he’d apparently pulled off his shoes. There’s a hole in one sock that’s been repaired with amateurish technique, but seems to be holding. Barry rubs his face and sits up properly, unknowing or uncaring of his half-hard state.

“Where the fuck…?” Barry asks and Dundee cuts in.

“You’re in Vespucci.”

Barry smacks his lips together and Dundee grabs an unopened vodka soda from under the chairs and offers it to him. Barry raises an eyebrow, but accepts and takes a few small sips before setting it aside.

“Trying to keep me drunk, Dee?” Barry asks.

Heat floods Dundee’s cheeks and he digs in his pockets for something to distract him. If it were any other person Dundee would think Barry is flirting with him, but it’s just a simple question.

“No, I just didn’t think to buy water,” Dundee says, keeping his gaze anywhere but at Barry. He counts the fast food wrappers that have blown into the far corner of the rooftop patio and then sees the Burger Shot toy peeking out of one of Barry’s boots. “Speaking of,” he says and digs in his pants for his wallet. He finds it on the ground and takes out all the bills he has, gets a rough estimate of the amount, and holds it out to Barry.

“Oh,” Barry says quietly. His shoulders slump and his smile drops, but he accepts the money without question. “Did you want anything else?” His gaze goes flat and he stares at Dundee’s chest, not avoiding eye contact but not seeking it out like he had last night.

Barry looks small, just like when Dundee found him at Fridgit the time they were watched in the alley, and Dundee knows he fucked up, but he bites his tongue. His heartbeat slams against his chest and every part of him wants to grab Barry and apologize, but he doesn’t know how he would word it in any meaningful way that doesn’t sound dismissive. He knows how it looks, what Barry must think, but Dundee’s tongue feels fat in his mouth and he can’t think of anything besides how good Barry looks in Dundee’s hoodie.

Barry chugs the rest of his drink, clears his throat, and swings his legs over the side of the chair to face Dundee like he’s preparing for something. Dundee’s mind springs into action at what the possibilities could be and suddenly words aren’t difficult.

“Use that for our next date. Bye!” Dundee says in one breath before he hops from the platform and all but throws himself down the ladder facing the Billabong. He sprints across the rooftops, briefly catching a glimpse of someone crossing the rooftops of the Billabong, before he drops down from the ledge. He lands wrong and his ankle almost twists out from under him, but he keeps running down the boardwalk, staying close to the shop awnings to avoid an eyeline from Big White. He curses himself under his breath and knocks over sandwich board signs as he passes it.

He reaches the alley beside his house and finds Collin leaning against the brick wall, silently smoking a cigarette.

“Fucking hell, cunt,” Dundee shouts, hand on his chest to keep his heart from bursting out.

“Mornin’,” Collin greets.

Dundee grumbles and pushes past him into the Billabong.

“Out for a morning run?” Collin asks.

Dundee keeps silent and continues into the twin garages across the way, sorting through the hanging sets of keys until he finds the right ones.

“Didn’t take you for an early riser,” Collin says, following him.

Dundee slides into the front seat of a car –– he’s not sure whose it is, only that it’s fast and blue and that’s all that matters right now.

“Mind you, I didn’t take you for a lot of things,” Collin says in a tone that suggests he knows more than he’s letting on.

Dundee revs the engine to drown him out and waits until he’s done speaking. “I’ll be out,” Dundee says and speeds off.

“Yeah you will,” Collin shouts after him.

Dundee crashes through the front gates of the Billabong and races North through Vespucci, keeping his eyes on the road and convincing himself that the pink blur he passed along the way wasn’t Barry. He spends the day in Paleto, ignoring phone calls and harassing the Farmer’s Market vendors until he gets thrown from the venue. He moves his way into the mountains and smokes joints by a river, critiquing fishers until the sun goes down and he makes his reluctant way back to Vespucci.

Chapter Text

The morning starts out awkward, but somehow Barry ends up with a handful of money equaling nearly five grand and butterflies in his stomach that aren’t caused by the height of the building he’d been left atop. Not that he doesn’t get vertigo carefully edging his way over the ladder to get down. It’s a steep drop and the metal is slick with dew and at one point Barry’s foot slips out from under him and he knocks against the ladder.

Once on the ground and walking back home he’s a bit stunned at his surroundings. There’s beautiful graffiti along every wide space of wall, elegant murals in beach motifs and one with blue cars against an Australian flag. There’s also a recurring spray tag of a skull wearing a bandana and it follows him out of Vespucci, watching him with a careful eye. It’s calming and helps quell the fear that he’s being followed by the same red car with tinted windows. It’s a public beach though and there’s lots of red cars; he’s just being paranoid and there’s nothing to worry about.

Barry’s practically singing as he walks down the sidewalk. He isn’t even fazed by the hungover partiers puking on the sidewalk near his apartment. All he can think about is Dundee; Dundee and his infectious laugh, his warm hands, his easy lie saying he didn’t know what he’s doing with a guy. That had been incredibly false, as he’d proven last night. It’d been so easy to sit in silence, watching the stars with Dundee until they’d both fallen asleep.

It’d been nice –– at least until the morning.

Barry stops outside his apartment and pulls the money from his pocket. He stares at it for a while before going inside, still disbelieving at what he held. It’d felt strange to accept it in the moment, unsure what the intention was behind it. He’s certain that Dundee wouldn’t have given him so much if he hadn’t used it as an excuse to flee from the rooftop as soon as possible.

Barry’s still a bit embarrassed at the way he woke up, but it wasn’t intentional even if he enjoyed it. He’d woken up pressed against Dundee’s back, rutting against him in desperate search of relief. Dundee had thrown himself away from Barry while Barry was still blinking into consciousness and it’d taken him a moment to figure out the reason for Dundee avoiding his gaze. When Dundee handed him the money, silently telling Barry that last night had only been a transaction, whatever special connection Barry felt on the rooftop had been shattered in moments.

Barry had been ready to take the night in stride as just another job, but then Dundee had said, “Use that for our next date”. Six words to rebuild what had been shaken in one action. He knows it’s unstable, but those words replay in Barry’s mind as he pulls off the pink hoodie, folds it neatly, and sets it on his bed. He’d planned to return it before the night was over, but now he’s not too certain when he’ll give it back; it’s too much of a comfort. His apartment is quiet and although it’s small it somehow feels too big without someone else with him. He paces around the kitchen for a long while, blushing everytime he thinks of Dundee’s parting words.

Next date, he’d said.

It wasn’t the implication of a ‘next’ that had Barry flustered, but rather the fact that last night had been a date at all. Barry didn’t do dates, it felt too complicated given his line of work, but Dundee had inserted himself neatly into Barry’s life without asking and Barry found he didn’t mind the intrusion.

In fact, he’s glad for it and it wasn’t just due to the obscene amount of money Dundee had no second thought in giving Barry. Nearly five grand this morning, like Dundee was breaking change for a twenty. Barry has no idea what Dundee does for a job, but it has to be profitable to be able to throw money around like that.

He carefully counts out the bills and adds it to his stash under the fridge then takes a nap for a few hours, hoping to resettle himself before nightfall. However, he’s entirely too antsy to sleep and instead stares up at the ceiling daydreaming. It only takes a short while before his mind goes back to the events of the night, focusing in on Dundee kissing him, but his daydreams decide to take it further. It’s too easy to imagine Dundee’s warm hands on him, running up his stomach and over his chest. It’s too easy to feel the phantom weight of Dundee atop him, pressing him into the bed. It’s too easy for Barry to slide his hand into his pants and imagine Dundee watching him with that dark look he’d seen last night.

Barry briefly considers taking his time and drawing it out, but the Dundee in his imagination is quick and efficient, so Barry copies him. He covers his mouth to muffle his moans for the paper thin walls and strokes himself quickly. He pushes his hips into his fist, squirming his way higher up the bed until he gives up and flips over. He can’t move his hand as fast laying on his stomach and his hips thrust against the mattress to compensate. He catches sight of the pink hoodie beside him and his hand slows, but before he has time to argue with himself he grabs it and buries his face in it. It smells like his own aftershave and he nuzzles deeper, searching for a trace of Dundee. He catches the faintest whiff of the ocean and he comes into his fist inside his pants.

He rolls onto his back again, carefully pulling his hand out and stretching it out over the edge of the bed, thinking that maybe he should have taken his jeans off first. The stain is noticeable and tacky against his skin. He carefully kicks out of his pants and showers. Afterwards, he digs through his scarce pantry and dips crackers in peanut butter, waiting for the sun to go down.

He stalls for another hour after dark before heading to Fridgit, first walking to Pitchers to get his bike. It’s well past his normal time when he arrives and he quickly stores his bike in the usual spot and jogs out to the road. He’s on his bench for a little under half an hour when a red sports car pulls up alongside him and rolls down the passenger window. Barry hops off his bench and stretches his arms over his head, letting his jacket ride high up his torso and show as much skin as possible. He saunters towards the car and leans into the window, tilting his hips and resting his chin on his hands.

“Lost, mate?” Barry asks.

The guy behind the wheel shuffles nervously, running a hand over his handlebar mustache, tightening the tie for his ponytail, and adjusting his tight black shirt. He takes a deep breath and turns towards Barry. “Hi,” he says without inflection.

Something tugs at the back of Barry’s awareness, but he doesn’t let his mind wander. He bats his eyelashes and runs a hand through his hair. “Hey.”

“Uh… yeah, I could use a hand,” the guy says, still without inflection. “If you catch my drift.”

It’s so painfully obvious what the guy’s after, Barry’s surprised he didn’t just yell out, ‘I’m looking for a hooker!’. Barry reaches into the car to open the door and slips inside. He points towards the Fridgit parking lot and rests his hand on the guy’s thigh.

“Yep, that is your hand. Right there.” The guy tenses and quickly speeds into an open parking spot. “Okay.” The guy looks stiffly towards Barry. “About the hand… That’s on my leg.”

“Why don’t we talk inside?” Barry’s not even done speaking before the guy hops out and goes down the alley like he’s been here before, but Barry’s never seen this guy in his life.

“So, do you have some kind of room you use? Or is it just the alley?” the guy asks. He looks around the shipping containers like he’s searching for an office plaque as Barry follows behind him.

Barry steps up to the storage room door and fits his lockpicks in. It takes only a moment for him to jiggle the lock and get the door open –– he’s done it so often he could probably hand-cut a key if he wanted. He waves for the guy to follow, but the guy seems distracted with something on the main road. Barry sighs and looks out the door, finding a black car with tinted windows at the end of the alley. The guy nervously ducks into the room and Barry closes the door. He thought his night at the casino reassured them about Barry, but supposedly not if they’re still monitoring him.

Barry unbuttons his jacket and leans against the shelves in a way he hopes is seductive. “What do you want then, mate?”

The guy digs in his pockets, humming and hawwing and finally turns to Barry with a badge in his hand. “I want you to turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

The entire world tunnels down to just that badge.

“What?” Barry says, but all he can think is, “Not again.”

“I’m Captain Randy Wrangler of the Los Santos Sheriff’s Department and I’m placing you under arrest for prostitution as well as breaking and entering.”

The cop walks towards him, taking a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. Barry’s done role play before, for a high enough price, but his gut tells him this isn’t fake and why isn’t he running already. He shoves the cop to get past him, but the cop grabs Barry’s arm and kicks out his leg, forcing him to his knees. The cop gets one of Barry’s wrists in a cuff, but Barry squirms out of his reach before he can get the second. Barry jumps to his feet and sprints for the door.

“Stop resisting!” the cop shouts at him.

Barry snaps the cuff onto his wrist beside the first loop, not needing it to be caught on anything while he runs. He slams open the door and is met by the flash of a camera at the end of an alley and an angry Australian voice yelling to him.

“Mister Benson!”

It’s Officer Steve.

Barry runs the opposite way, looking over his shoulder in time to see Officer Steve get into the black car on the curb — the one Barry thought belonged to someone else. Barry climbs atop crates and pulls himself to the roof. He’s about to get his legs over the edge when something sharp bites into his calf and a half second later he’s flooded with electricity. He rolls onto his back and thankfully not off the roof, as the taser runs its course. He twitches even after it’s stopped, but the fear of seeing the other cop pull himself up to the roof sets Barry running again. The taser prongs snap off from the wire and continue to gnaw at his leg while he runs, each step making him wince.

“Stop running!” the other cop shouts and then something metallic flies past Barry’s head.

He hears the cop swear and adjust something made of plastic and Barry can only guess that he’s reloading his taser. Barry runs across the rooftop with no real plan and absolutely no idea of any good hiding spots. He’s never had to run from cops before, he’s always had the gang looking out for him, he’s always been careful in his operations. He’s always ––

A taser prong hits Barry in the side, slipping under his jacket and pinching into him. The shock rolls through him and he collapses to his knees and rolls off the roof. He lands on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs and black spots dancing across his vision. He moans and pushes to his feet. He stumbles and keeps running, using whatever is in close enough reach to keep him upright, but the alleyway turns to open road and then abruptly to grass and a slope and Barry slips. He tumbles down the incline, coming to a stop at the side of a highway with red and blue lights flashing in his periphery.

He drops his head to the ground, too tired to get back up, and listens to the cops swarm around him. He’s flipped onto his stomach and his arms are wrestled into handcuffs. He doesn’t struggle against it this time, he has two taser prongs in him and a fuckton of bruises.

“Do you need medical?” a man asks by his side. Barry tilts his head towards the new voice. An older man with brown hair clean cut on the sides and a crisp blue button up shirt underneath a vest labeled ‘Detective’ kneels beside him. “Sir? You still with us?”

Barry groans and closes his eyes.

“Alright, I’m going to get EMS down here for you. Don’t go anywhere,” the detective says, muffling a laugh at his own joke.

“The hell did you do to him, Bundy?” the cop with the ponytail asks, coming closer with each word.

Barry didn’t know he was so close to him. He was never going to be able to outrun them. In hindsight, he should’ve ran for his bike.

“Nothing. He went down the hill and landed at my feet,” the detective replies.

There’s a surprised yelp and a loud crash of wooden boxes and shortly after Officer Steve charges onto the scene shouting, “Where is he? Where is that fucking criminal scum? Wuh… Bundy? You killed him.”

“I did not kill him,” the detective says with an exasperated sigh.

Someone lightly kicks Barry in the side and he groans. He tries to curl onto his side, but his arms are trapped behind him and he can’t protect himself.

It’s not a position Barry hasn’t been in before and he tries to let his mind drift, but the aftershock of the taser keeps him too aware inside his mind, unable to escape.

“He’s not dead, Croc,” the detective says. “Save your questions though, I’ve got EMS coming down. You’ll lose your whole sting operation if you start questioning an incoherent suspect.”

Sting. Operation.

Barry wants to puke. Of course the one time he shrugs off his intuition it’s actually correct. He should’ve turned the guy away as soon as he had that feeling, but he’d been too preoccupied by Dundee to see what was in front of him. The man with the ponytail is the same one who interviewed Barry when he was arrested for the suspected car theft. Barry would smack his head against the pavement, but he’s even too tired for that.

The cop with the ponytail roughly searches through Barry’s pockets and seems annoyed when the contents are only a phone, a travel pack of tissues, lockpicks, and a small pocket knife. Barry was told when he started at Fridgit to hide anything that would garner him the label of prostitute around the storage room and not in his pockets, which is why Barry keeps his lube and condoms in a ziplock bag taped under one of the empty shelves and not on his person. Regardless, the cop taunts Barry with insults that Barry can’t be bothered to fight at the moment, but the detective steps in and casually redirects the conversation.

Barry drifts in a strange limbo listening to the quiet chatter of the cops around him until the ambulance loads him into the back and takes him to Pillbox. The nurse treating him at the hospital is the same one who helped with his twisted ankle and she plays along with the assumption that Barry’s never been to a hospital before –– though she does pull up his information suspiciously quick, but no cops catch onto it. She removes the prongs and patches his scrapes and bruises, working around his handcuffed situation with a small frown on her lips. When he catches her gaze he tries to smile at her, but it falters and something like concern passes in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” Barry says when she asks if he has any more injuries. Her frown deepens like she doesn’t believe him, like she’s going to put more focus onto him and more doctors, however she nods and the cops lead Barry downstairs to the waiting cop car.

The ride to the Mission Row Police Department is quiet and Barry spends most of the journey trying to find a way to sit that doesn’t aggravate the bruise blooming across his shoulders. He’s brought in through the back entrance and takes the short walk to the holding cells. There’s one other person wearing all black detained in the first cell and they lean casually with their back against the bars listening to their arresting officer list off charges like a shopping list.

“Alright, Mister Johnson, in total, you’ve got––,” The officer in the ranger uniform takes a deep breath and lists out the charges like an auctioneer, “Criminal possession of a class one, stolen property in the third degree, misdemeanor possession of oxy, illegal street racing, attempted murder of a government employee when you ran over Shoe, resisting arrest, and reckless evading. How do you, oh, hold on.” He runs from the holding cells, talking quietly into his radio and entirely missing the guy in the cell flipping him off as he leaves.

“Right, you just wait right there, Mister Benson,” Officer Steve says, locking Barry into the farthest holding cell. “I’ve got to discuss your charges.”

He doesn’t uncuff Barry before leaving and Barry sits rigidly on the cell bed, tapping his feet nervously. The cell looks clean, but he suspects it’s due to the efficiency of being able to rinse down brick and concrete. He doesn’t trust the bed either, but he’s certain if he stands too long he’s going to black out.

The two cops argue in the corner and when the one in the ranger uniform returns they drag him into their conversation before he can finish processing. At one point they all turn to Barry and he tries to meet their stares, but it’s difficult when the room spins at the edges. The three turn back to their conversation, the ranger calmly looking over a clipboard full of papers and the other two arguing in growing volumes and wild hand gestures.

Officer Steve goes red in the face and he turns to the cop with the ponytail and shouts, “He didn’t even blow you?”

There’s laughing from the other cell and all three cops tell him to shut up. The ranger goes back to processing and Officer Steve and the ponytail cop stand in front of Barry’s cell. Officer Steve motions for Barry to come forwards as he opens the door and when Barry steps through he grabs Barry’s arm and leads him deeper into MRPD.

“We’re going to have a little chat,” Officer Steve says, guiding Barry towards interrogation. Just before they’re out of sight, Barry hears the man in the other cell ask for his phone call.

They sit Barry in the same interrogation room as before and go through the whole process of setting up a recording device and stating who all is present and when they get to the end of their speech Barry quietly asks for a lawyer. The ponytail cop keeps talking and it’s all presumptions about Barry and how he works and who he is as a person –– none of it flattering –– and Barry bites his tongue to keep from correcting him. Officer Steve scrolls through his phone for a moment before telling Barry no lawyers are available, which would be discouraging if he wasn’t standing in plain view of a mirror where Barry watched him scroll through an online personal grocery shopper.

“Is that thing on?” Barry asks, nodding to the recording device. His hands are still cuffed behind his back and are slowly going numb.

“Already want to confess? Yeah, it’s on. Go ahead.” The ponytail cop quickly checks the recording and leans back in his chair.

“Yeah,” Barry says, leaning towards the little microphone on the table. “I’d like it legally noted that when I asked for a lawyer, Officer Steve pretended to contact one, but instead did his grocery shopping and told me none were available. Don’t try to lie when you’re standing in front of a mirror, dickhead.” Barry smiles, proud of himself.

“How is he meant to do grocery shopping? We’re in an interrogation hold not a grocery store,” the ponytail cop says. “Are you high?”

“No, don’t try and spin this back at me. Your partner fucked up and you fucked up.” Barry concentrates beyond the throbbing in his head, trying to recall what he’d been told when he first started working for K. “What evidence do you have?”

The other two are quiet.

Barry glares at them. “That’s what I thought. Get me a fucking lawyer.”

The cops somehow find the most incompetent lawyer in the yellow pages, but the case is ultimately so flimsy that the only illegal thing Barry ends up charged with is trespassing. He’s given a minor fine and a warning to keep off Fridgit properties. The lawyer leaves as soon as Barry is released and Barry searches the yellow pages for a taxi while standing on the corner outside MRPD. They’re all booked and Barry stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts walking towards the alley leading to the bus station on the other side.

He’s not even at the alley when he hears the car pull up behind him. He takes his hands from his pockets and sighs. The car door opens and there’s a metallic click that makes the hairs on Barry’s neck rise.

“Hey, Barry,” a crisp British accent calls out. “Get the fuck in the car.”

Barry lifts his hands to his side and turns around. Randy Bullet leans casually out the passenger side window of his car, pointing a gun at Barry’s torso. Driving the car is a larger man in a strange demon mask who keeps a solid watch of the road. Randy waves the gun, motioning for Barry to get in the car and Barry complies without a word, valuing keeping his guts inside him. The driver speeds them away, throwing Barry into his seat and sending a flare of pain across his injuries.

“Barry, Barry, Barry,” Randy says, tucking his gun away. He unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs over the seats, dropping into the open space beside Barry. He throws his arm around Barry and pulls him close. Barry holds himself stiffly, his hands folded on his lap. “I’ve been hearing things about you recently, Barry. Why you talking to the cops, Barry? Telling them about how we operate, Barry?”

“I never said that.”

Randy pulls a switchblade out of his inside coat pocket and flicks it open. He lines the point under Barry’s chin and digs in until Barry tilts his head back. “That’s not what I heard, Barry.”

“I’d never talk to the cops.”

Randy moves the blade down Barry’s neck and lines it against his collarbone. “That’s not what I heard, Barry.”

Barry knows what Randy’s doing by constantly using his name and he tries not to fold to it. “What did you hear then?” he asks.

Randy slides the blade across Barry’s chest and down to his stomach. He gently presses the tip in, then continues lower. He holds the blade against Barry’s crotch, his other arm over Barry’s shoulders holding him in place. “No, Barry, how about you tell me what you told them and I’ll let you know if you’re lying or not.”

“That doesn’t––,” Barry stops when Randy presses the blade in. “Yeah, alright. Well I was arrested for prostitution––,”

“Hutch, stop the car.”

The car lurches to a halt, slipping sideways and knocking against the guard rail of the bridge they’re midway over. A few cars behind them honk their horns and divert around, with a couple locals shaking their fists as they pass, but Randy doesn’t look away from Barry. Barry breaks into a cold sweat and he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Do you know what’s on the other side of that railing, Barry?”

Barry shakes his head.

“Neither do I, Barry. Just like I don’t know the ending of your story. It could be good or it could be bad.”

“Um, like I said, I was arrested for prostitution, but they jumped the gun and had no evidence, so they had to let me go.”

“What else did you tell them, Barry?”

“Nothing of importance. Tried to hit on one of the cops when I realized how nervous it made him. I told him the reason he fucked up his investigation was because he was too scared to let a guy blow him.”

Randy’s hand over Barry’s shoulders runs up into Barry’s hair, combing through a few times in the wrong direction before grabbing on. He pulls and Barry winces. Randy moves Barry’s head, tilting it towards him. “What did he say about that, Barry?”

“I mean, nothing. The lawyer cut me off and directed conversation back to the arrest.”

“Hm. Have you been sleeping well? You look tired, Barry.” Randy studies Barry’s face for a moment before forcefully moving his head to face the front. “Does he look tired, Hutch?”

The masked figure in the driver’s seat looks into the rear view then back at the road.

“I mean, I am a little tired,” Barry says.

Randy smiles and Barry thinks that perhaps that was the wrong answer. Barry screams when Randy drives the blade into his thigh and he holds himself as stiff as possible to stop it from wiggling. Randy moves Barry’s head, forcing Barry to hold his gaze.

“What about now? Are you still tired, Barry?” Randy asks, tone casual.

Barry shakes his head, wincing again when the movement tugs his hair from between Randy’s fingers.

“Good. Now that you’re more awake, please continue with your story, Barry.”

Barry grits his teeth and fights the compulsion to curl himself around the injury. “They didn’t have evidence and the only thing I confirmed on record was that I’m gay. Nothing important.”

Randy hums and combs his fingers through Barry’s hair. Barry closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart, but it’s a pointless endeavor as Randy taps on the top of the blade, sending out spikes of pain.

“Nah, you ain’t sleeping yet, Barry. We’re going to have a little drive around and we want your company.”

Randy yanks the blade out in one swift pull and Barry grabs his thigh. He moans and presses against the wound, not quite feeling the pain but instead the heat of it. It burns through his leg hot as a fire iron, leaving the rest of him cold. His hands shake where they hold his leg and his grips tighter in hopes that Randy won’t notice. Randy pats Barry on the shoulder and leans over the front seat to take something from the glovebox. He hands Barry a travel first aid kit, but doesn’t try to assist, preferring instead to light a cigarette. Barry treats his stab wound as well as he can manage in the cramped space, feeling Randy’s eyes on him the entire time. He holds the travel kit in his lap when he’s done like its thin plastic casing would protect him in any way, but Randy grabs it and throws it into the front seat.

Randy clamps the cigarette between his teeth and presses the bloodied switchblade to Barry’s crotch again, leaving a thin line of blood along the denim. “You been to Paleto lately, Hutch?”

The car takes a swift U-turn and aims for the highway heading up North, dodging around cars to make the fastest route. Randy returns one arm around Barry’s shoulders as his other pats Barry’s leg. It would be a comforting motion were it not directly atop the wound.

“Go the speed limit, Hutch. We have all the time and it’s been a while since we’ve talked with Barry,” Randy says. The driver mumbles something in response, but Barry doesn’t hear it.

The car slows to normal highway speeds, slotting into traffic with ease. Barry wants to wave to the other drivers, flag someone down and get out of this car, but he knows the moment he looks away the blade in Randy’s hand is going into his leg again. He clears his throat and wraps his hand over the wound, trying to smother out the remaining twinges of pain. It’s mostly working, until Randy moves Barry’s hand away and Barry just has to endure.

“So,” Randy says, leaning back and propping his feet on the middle console. The driver casually pushes Randy’s foot a bit further from the gear shift. “How’s things been going, Barry?”

They roll to a crawl as they come up to a traffic jam and it takes everything in Barry to not throw himself out of the car. He could endure this; he’s endured worse.

Chapter Text

Dundee has been listening to Pez talk about finances for the last hour. It’s the same thoughts in different words and he’s going in circles just as much as Dundee is circling Legion Square. Dundee takes another hard left and his car drifts the corner by the Legion Memorial while Pez returns to his original argument.

“You don’t just lose nearly fifteen grand in less than a week,” Pez says. “I mean, you can, it’s you, but it’s not even tracked in the books. We use those books for a reason: keeping our fucking heads above the water. What the fuck did you even spend it on?”

“Beer and babes,” Dundee says. His record of drifted corners comes to a rough end as he turns too early and slams through a parking meter. The car sparks at the front and he knows instantly he’s lost a headlight. He pulls onto the sidewalk to investigate while Pez keeps talking.

“Beers and babes. Alright, yeah, sure. Got any receipts for that?”

“What’s this really about Pez?” Dundee pulls the broken shards from the headlight and throws them onto the sidewalk. A passing stranger scowls down at Dundee and Dundee makes the conscious effort to throw a few pieces directly in their way.

Pez mumbles sarcastically to himself, repeating Dundee’s words and then laughs. “Oh, I don’t know, Dundee. Maybe it’d just be nice to be able to pay bills once in a while.”

Dundee taps the headlight bulb and it flickers and finally dies. If he brings the car back in this condition he’ll be in trouble. He’s absolutely certain that this is Chain’s car and the guy was struggling with the asset fees, nevermind repair costs. Dundee stretches out his neck from the minor whiplash and catches a glint of something behind the front tire.

The parking meter’s top has snapped off from the pole and the money trap is cracked open and it lays underneath the car like a stealthy offering from whatever passed as a deity in Los Santos.

“Uh… I’m going to have to call you back, Pez,” Dundee says and quickly hangs up.

Dundee scans Legion Square for cops and upon finding none he slips into the car, grabbing the head of the parking meter under the guise of throwing rocks out from his footwell. He throws the parking meter money trap into the passenger seat and speeds away, leaving a trail of broken metal and glass. He doesn’t let up the gas pedal until he drifts to a stop underneath the construction site opposite Benny’s Quick Repairs. He shakes the coins from the parking meter onto the passenger seat one by one and tosses the broken object out the window.

It’s enough for a headlight fix with money left over to buy a sandwich from the vending machine in the mechanics lounge. Dundee pulls into the little shop and finds an open spot amongst the crowded workfloor. Dundee passes off his simple request with one of the workers and runs for the vending machine as his stomach growls in anticipation.

They’re fucking disgusting sandwiches, made with too much mayonnaise and not enough meat, but it’s more than Dundee eats in a normal day. He devours the whole thing in as little amount of bites as possible and crumples the foil wrapping into a small ball to launch across the workfloor at Benny’s head. The mechanic doesn’t even look up from his work and Dundee quickly grows bored of trying to annoy him and instead goes snooping.

He finds the main office door unlocked and peeks inside. There’s a desk covered in papers, a filing cabinet adorned with potted plants, and an invitingly soft looking couch. He flops onto the couch and kicks his feet over the end and closes his eyes. The wide window behind the desk is cracked and the breeze cuts through crisp and refreshing.

He’s pretty sure he could fall asleep here.

A crash, like something heavy toppling into wood pallets, echoes up from the alley beside Benny’s.

Dundee sighs. The city was full of poor drivers and a majority of them found their way to Benny’s the hard way.

However, the crash comes again and this time it’s accompanied by the weak cry of a person. Dundee jumps to his feet and he swings the window open further to eavesdrop. It’d either be a good old fashion street fight or a couple of the mechanics letting off some steam after a foul word. What Dundee expects though and what he sees could not be further apart.

There’s a perfectly maintained black sports car parked at one end of the alley and on the other is a black compact buggy with a gold livery of some intricate design wrapped over it. Between these two cars is a group of people: one looking out in either direction beside the cars with guns held at their sides, one with arms crossed and a katana on his back, two behind him idly chatting and smoking, and one kicking the ever-living shit out of a guy on the ground. The guy on the ground curls onto his side and the one over him kneels down to speak. Their quiet exchange doesn’t carry, but the nearest three’s laughter does.

Dundee’s off and running for the alley without a second thought. He’s pretty sure there’s a back exit downstairs that if he sits against he’ll be able to hear. It’s been a quiet day and this is the most exciting thing to happen thus far. He weaves through the workfloor and wedges himself into the downstairs hallway, fighting for space amongst the shelves full of parts. The sound of fists making impact gets louder until he’s standing at the fire exit and he can hear the group of men talking as clear as day. He sits on the floor and rests his back against the door, perversely wishing he had popcorn.

“You’re not as convincing a liar as you believe yourself to be,” a nasally voice says.

“We should’ve brought a crowbar. Do you think Benny has a crowbar you could use?” a fast talking voice says.

“He won’t learn anything if he dies,” a crisp British voice says.

Dundee feels like he should know the people speaking, but names elude him. Then he hears a voice he can name and his stomach drops.

“Please,” Barry begs. “I’m not lying. I didn’t tell them anything.”

“That’s not what we heard.”

Another sickening crack and this time instead of delight at overhearing a fight he’s not a part of, Dundee just feels ill. He’s never been one for stopping fights or stepping in where he isn’t needed, but he needs to stop this one.

Dundee rushes through the narrow hallway and across the workfloor, pushing over Benny in the process –– though the man simply picks himself up, adjusts his jumpsuit, and keeps working like nothing happened. Dundee bursts out of the front doors of the garage, momentarily disoriented in his rush before he gains his bearings and presses his back against the wall. He peaks around the corner in time to watch the man kneeling over Barry punch him in the jaw. Barry lands stomach down on the asphalt and he weakly lifts his head, gaze eerily locking onto Dundee right away.

“Hey, who the fuck is that?” the nasally voice yells and Dundee realizes they’re all staring at him.

Dundee ducks behind the wall just in time to avoid the shower of bullets knocking into the stone wall of the shop. One pings by Dundee’s eyes and he swears he catches his own reflection.

“Why are you fucking shooting?” the nasally voice asks.

“You spooked me!” the fast speaker says.

“Get him in the car. We can’t stay here.”

The buggy zips out onto the main road and towards the center of the city and Dundee peaks around the corner again. The three remaining manhandle Barry into the back of the black sports car and Dundee’s stomach roils with how limp Barry is, how easily he flops when they lift him. The others pile into their car and Dundee runs back to his own. He scoops up the collection of money from the parking meter and piles it on the nearest flat surface. Benny gives a distracted wave, already occupied on his next job.

The car with Barry dodges between traffic and as dull a comfort as it is, Dundee is still relieved to notice they’re taking a direct route to Pillbox. They circle the front entrance loop and Dundee stops at the intersection waiting for them to bring out nurses to help Barry, but the car never stops. It slows its speed to a jogging pace and the back passenger door opens. Barry rolls out onto the pavement and doesn’t move.

The car speeds off and Dundee doesn’t see where. He can’t look away from Barry’s unmoving form. His hands are tight on the steering wheel and he rolls slowly through the intersection to get a better look. The entrance bay is clear of cars and medical personnel and what he can see of the inside of the hospital is equally deserted.

“Help him,” Dundee whispers, waiting for Barry to do something. “Come on, Barry, move. Why is nobody doing anything? Help him,” Dundee says in growing volume. He directs his car towards the Pillbox entrance, not bothering to check the road for other cars, keeping his eyes on Barry the entire time. The car’s front tires jump the curb and steer into a bush. Dundee doesn’t even care. He scrambles from the car, shouting for help.

Barry twitches and tries to move, but quickly gives up.

“Barry? Barry!” Dundee kneels beside him, hands hovering over him and too scared to touch. “Fuck… Barry. Can you hear me?”

Barry moans and his head moves towards Dundee. His nose is bloody and there’s blood over his lips. He has an impressive bruise on his cheek and blood running from his hairline. Also, one leg of his jeans around his thigh is soaked in blood. It’s all the injuries Dundee sees, but the way Barry refuses to move means there’s some Dundee can’t see and he wants nothing more than the ability to reach inside Barry and make him feel better. Dundee runs his fingers though Barry’s hair, separating the blood clumped strands. Blood smears over Dundee’s hands, but he doesn’t care.

“Barry?” he whispers.

“Sir, please move away,” a woman’s voice at his side says.

Dundee doesn’t move. “Barry, come on.” Dundee lightly shakes Barry’s shoulder, getting a small moan in reply. “Barry!” He shakes Barry again before a nurse forces Dundee to stop.

“Sir, move away. Let us do our job,” she says as more hands join her in taking Dundee away from Barry.

Dundee wrestles with the hands pulling at him until someone makes the mistake of physically stepping between Dundee and Barry. Dundee is pulled to his feet and he catches a brief glimpse of the shiny badge on the person’s uniform before he swings. The hit is solid and the small park ranger stumbles and trips backwards over Barry still laying on the ground. The ranger swears and picks herself up and squares up to Dundee.

“Alright then, Mister,” the park ranger says, lifting her fists. “Don’t make this difficult and no one gets hurt.”

Dundee’s only seen her from a distance, but he knows it’s Tessa. He also knows she has a reputation of being one of the more level headed of the police department, which is why he’s baffled that she’s not grasping the seriousness of the situation.

“Someone’s already hurt!” Dundee says.

A small crowd has gathered in the short time since Dundee arrived and he’s pushed further from Barry as he’s loaded onto a stretcher. Ranger Tessa physically blocks Dundee again when he tries to follow and although she’s small she’s surprisingly unyielding. She crosses her arms and stands in the entryway of Pillbox.

“You can’t stop me,” Dundee growls.

“Is that what you told him?” she asks.

Her words throw Dundee, frustrating him with their irrelevancy. He tries to shove past her and he’s quickly grabbed and spun back towards the entryway loop, barely losing speed in the swift move. He stumbles off the sidewalk’s edge and catches himself against the ranger’s car. He turns to her again and it’s like she didn’t even move; she’s still standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“They can’t get away with this shit.”

“You’re making me upset, Mister,” she says.

Despite her voice sounding like a middle schooler on a job shadow, her eyes are cold and her stance betrays years of practice of dealing with people like Dundee. The loop over her taser is unlatched and Dundee has no doubt in his mind that if he tries again he’ll be shot with it before he can blink.

But he tries anyway.

He shoves past her and is almost through the swinging doors to the ER before he’s tackled. He tries to get to his feet again, but the tiny ranger is strong and she wrestles his hands into cuffs. It takes a few attempts and Dundee manages to get to his knees before he’s pushed to the floor again and finally detained. His chin smacks against the hard laminate floor, but the pain hardly registers. He shouts for Barry while the medical staff in the waiting room stare at him. Ranger Tessa stands over him speaking into her radio and Dundee drowns most of it out until he hears the words, “I got his attacker.”

Dundee flips onto his back and kicks his feet to pull himself upright. He glares at the ranger and she glares back at him, hand ready over her holster. “You think I did this?” he asks.

“I think you should keep your thoughts to yourself as at this time you are being detained for questioning,” she says.

Dundee snarls at her, but she doesn’t even flinch. If anything she actually smiles and that unsettles him a bit.

“You sound like Pickles,” she says.

“Who the fuck is Pickles?” Dundee asks, though he doesn’t really care.

Backup arrives quickly and Dundee is escorted from Pillbox in a flurry of creative swears. He’s placed in the backseat of the ranger’s car and she hums merrily to herself as she drives to MRPD. It’s a slow, melancholy song and it sets Dundee on edge. He swears he’s heard it before, but the memory is distant and dreamlike.

Inside MRPD, he’s stripped of his illegal items –– not much of a loss, just a handgun he’s been meaning to clean since forever and is lucky didn’t blow up in his face –– and he’s placed in a holding cell. It feels like hours before any cop acknowledges him, but in retrospect was likely only ten minutes. Ranger Tessa is backed by three other cops, one of which Dundee recognizes as the asshole Officer Steve who tried to arrest him last month for riding a pushbike on the sidewalk. Dundee glares at him, but he’s silent.

“You’ve been read your rights,” Ranger Tessa says, “But would you like a lawyer?”

“Depends what bullshit charges you’re trying to push,” Dundee says. He continues to stare at Officer Steve, waiting for him to blink first.

“Well, uh…” Ranger Tessa clears her throat. “You’re currently looking at assault and battery, illegal possession of a class one firearm, illegal parking––,”

Dundee’s lip curls, knowing who added that particular charge.

“––As well as, um… Prostitution,” Ranger Tessa says. “Would you like a lawyer?”

“Fucking… excuse me?”

Officer Steve opens his mouth to speak, but Ranger Tessa cuts him off. “Prostitution, Dundee. The exchange of sexual activity for money,” she says.

“No, I know what the fuck it means. But why the fuck are you charging me with it?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation. We’re going to be taking you into the other room to talk, but if you could save us all some time: would you like a lawyer?”

Dundee can’t believe their stupidity. “Yes!”

There’s another ten minutes of waiting while the cops struggle to get ahold of any available lawyers through the Judicial system’s app, until Dundee tells them a number to call directly. There’s a bit of a mad scramble after Dundee tells them the name and the other officers work quickly to compile the relevant files while Ranger Tessa goes upstairs to greet Reggie Might. Dundee cheerfully greets Reggie and then asks who the fuck the small cunt is trailing after him.

“This is my duckling! Usually when I get a call from MRPD for a cell rep, I send him, but for this I thought it would be best to hold his hand because he’s only covered a trespassing charge so far. Say hi to the scary criminal, duckling!” Reggie says.

Reggie pushes the smaller man out from behind him and gives him a generous shove towards the bars. He knocks his forehead against them and Reggie laughs. The new lawyer wears a suit with sleeves too short and his tie knot crooked. His hands shake around his MDW pad and his voice wavers as he reads the police report to himself. Soon enough the cops are escorting Dundee into interrogations and going through the formal process of setting up the recordings. The cops ask about the incident outside Pillbox and Reggie prompts the newbie lawyer to take over answering for Dundee with nonsense platitudes that has Reggie dropping his head into his hands. When the questioning leads nowhere the cops ask for a private conversation with the lawyers outside.

Dundee slumps onto the table and moans. He’s never been as bored. He’s been in this room for over an hour and has said under fifty words, half of which was swearing directed at Reggie for telling him to shut up and let the lawyers do their jobs. Now he’s left alone again and he’s absolutely sure if this goes on for an hour longer he’s going to plead guilty just to get the fuck out. He doesn’t even know if Barry is okay and every time he’d tried to ask the officers he’d been yelled at by Reggie to shut up.

He can hear Reggie yelling again, his voice coming faintly from behind the one way glass. There’s more shouting and it finally goes quiet. A moment later Reggie slips into the interrogation room.

“Dundee, I have a question for you,” he asks and shuts the door behind him.

Dundee glances at the still recording microphone. “Uh… okay?”

Reggie leans on the table. “This is important. Are you paying attention?”

“I don’t care whatever deal you all are making back there, just ask your dumbass question, cunt.”

Reggie speaks quickly, rattling off information and numbers and names at a speed that Dundee can’t track. Dundee asks for him to write it down and Reggie throws his blank legal pad across the room and keeps going. Most of it sounds like important information and Dundee tries to concentrate, but is soon lost in the jumble of information once more and he zones out, waiting for Reggie to finish.

Dundee stares at Reggie when he’s done, assuming there’ll be a punchline, but the lawyer doesn’t blink. “What the fuck are you on about?” Dundee asks.

Reggie slams the table and turns to the glass. “Point made.”

“I don’t…” Dundee starts, but Reggie leaves the room again. “I don’t get it!” Dundee shouts after him. Dundee stares at the table in confusion, vaguely listening to the shouting behind the glass. After a while the cops return with a clear bag full of Dundee’s seized items, a smaller bag with his phone in it, and a paper for him to sign. Dundee’s never had to sign anything before during his arrests, but he’s desperate to get out of this room with its encroaching walls and humming lights that he signs it the moment he’s given a pen and while it’s still being explained to him. “I don’t care,” he says, throwing the pen when he’s finished and snatching up the bags with his items. “I literally do not care for whatever fucking story you want me to agree with.”

“They’re dropping the pr––,” Reggie starts to say, but Dundee waves him off.

“Sure, yes, okay, just get me the fuck out of here.”

He’s uncuffed from the table and he follows close behind the ranger, shoving past her once the door is open. Reggie tries to call him back into the room, yelling to him about the paper he signed, but Dundee’s never cared about receipts before and he’s not going to start now. He needs to get out of the station, the walls are starting to tilt towards him and the roof feels lower and lower, crushing him into the linoleum. Once he’s in the main waiting area of the station he throws himself against the doors, trying to fight back the vicious sound that wants to tear out of him when they don’t open. He can hear Reggie trying to talk to him, he hears words like ‘subpoena’ and ‘monitoring’, but he doesn’t care; there’s nothing in his phone he wouldn’t brag about to a cop and he’s pretty sure he’s always being monitored –– if not through bank access then by the hundreds of police crawling across the city like ants.

He drops his forehead against the glass door, muttering to himself about the stuck door as the panic in his chest chokes his words.

He’s softly pushed aside by Ranger Tessa and she painstakingly sorts through her keychain to unlock the door. They open and Dundee hesitates, expecting to be jumped by corrections officers and forcibly dragged to jail, but they never come. He jogs down the steps, throwing one last look at the cops in the doorway talking to Reggie and the other lawyer, before he jaywalks across the street and runs down an alley.

He pulls out his phone and stuffs the bag in the nearest dumpster. He wipes the fingerprints from the pristine screen and quickly swipes through to his contacts. The first number he dials rings out, but the second one connects right away after a strange click.

“Yo,” Collin answers. He’s louder than normal, but still barely heard over the revving of engines.

“I need a ride to Pillbox.”

Collin sighs. “Whose windshield did you fly out of?”

“No one’s. I’m seeing a…” Dundee stops. What is he supposed to call Barry?

“Seeing double? Seeing a light at the end of a tunnel? Seeing clearly now the rain has gone?”

“I’m meeting someone. Pick me up by MRPD.”

Collin makes a noise of agreement, somehow still sounding disapproving, and hangs up. Dundee’s always been impressed he can do that, he’s like a father without the commitment of children. Dundee finds the nearest bus stop and sits down to continue the process of moving his items back into his pockets. There’s keys that he’s sure aren’t his and a couple of wrapped candies alongside his wallet he isn’t sure he had in his pockets, but he eats them anyways while he waits.

Collin picks him up on his motorcycle and Dundee tries to tell him his story of how he was arrested this time, but he knows Collin isn’t listening. He drops Dundee off at the front doors of Pillbox and speeds away without a backwards glance. Part of Dundee feels like he should ask about the hasty departure, but he also trusts that if it’s club business they’ll be able to handle it without him for a day.

He barges into the main waiting room shouting loudly for a nurse. There’s a teenager holding an ice pack against his chin and he scowls at Dundee’s volume. There’s also Nancy behind the desk, but she doesn’t look up from her paperwork as she points to something behind Dundee.

“Pillbot, could you take this?” she says.

“Please lower your voice. This is a hospital,” a robotic voice chirps at him.

Dundee turns and comes face to face with a large automaton made of black metal with green light cracking out from between its panels. It chirps a noise in greeting and Dundee takes a step back. He’d heard Pillbox was going automated, but this wasn’t what he expected. The artificial eyes of the automaton scan him from head to toe and it whirs and beeps, but doesn’t do anything else. 

“Uh… G’day, champion,” he says.

The robot chirps again. “Good day.”

“I’m looking for someone that was brought in here, fucking I don’t know… two hours ago?” Dundee scans the waiting room, trying to steal glances to the hallway beyond the double doors. It’s pointless though because the hallway turns and even the ICU is kept behind locked doors with a viewless hallway.

“Name?” The robot produces a clipboard from behind its back and waits.

“Barry,” Dundee says and realizes his immediate problem. “Um… I don’t know the last name. Tall fucker, brown hair, currently looks like someone took a bat to him?”

“You are not on the designated contact list,” the robot chirps and tucks the clipboard away.

Dundee grits his teeth and braces for a second battle against incompetent government employees.

Chapter Text

If it weren’t for the steady beep of machinery at his side and the low hiss of oxygen pushing through the tube under his nose, Barry would swear he’s underwater. Low sounds are muffled and fight against the higher persistent ringing in his ears that shifts in octaves depending on how he holds his jaw. The muscles in his hand twitch and pain sparks in fireworks across his wrist and up to his elbow. He moans and tries to sit up and his ribs creak in protest. They shift loose inside him and before he’s even pushed up onto an elbow each breath has become a shallow wheeze. He tries to leverage himself upright with his legs and yelps in pain as a fire bright pinpoint digs into his thigh. It feels like the knife is still inside him, like the boots are still kicking him, like the pavement is still burning across his bare skin.

A small sob breaks out of him as he collapses back onto the bed, every ounce of energy drained from him. He tries to cover his eyes from the vibrant lights overhead, but soon as he moves his shoulder screams at him to stop. He tries to blink back his tears to no avail.

“Oh! Don’t try to move,” a woman’s voice tells him. She speaks low and calm, but a part of Barry knows what happens when people speak to him in low quiet tones and he doubles his efforts to flop his way out of the bed. “Oh, dear. No! Stop wiggling, you’ll pull the machines!”

Barry manages to roll onto his lesser bruised side then cries out in pain as his ribs shift into place. The nurse rushes to his side, but Barry’s eyes can’t bring her into focus and then suddenly there’s two of her. They move out of sync and Barry’s head throbs at the impossibility of doubled vision reacting in two separate manners.

“Grab the––! Yep,” the first nurse says, hand extended over Barry.

“Watch the cords,” the second nurse says, a gentle hand trying to guide Barry to lie down again.

Barry kicks his legs, trying to ignore the pain until it’s the only thing he can think about. He wants to keep going, to flip himself off the bed, but it’s too easy to fall onto his back and let the morphine wash over him.

“Could you note that in his chart?” the first nurse asks.

“Already on it. Have they dealt with that crazy man in the waiting room?” the second nurse asks.

The first nurse laughs, but it sounds strained. “No, he’s still arguing with Pillbot and I have a feeling he’ll be there for a while. He seemed pretty––,”

The world falls under water again and a warm darkness washes over Barry. He doesn’t dream and it feels like only seconds have passed when he’s jolted from sleep by banging. It echoes through his wounds and he’s trying to scurry away from it before he fully comprehends that it’s coming from the door to his room and not from blunt instruments bashing him to the ground. His heart calms again, lowering from his throat as the adrenaline leaves him in a sudden rush.

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave!” a man says, his voice muffled through the door.

“No, I fucking won against that tin can fair and square!” Dundee yells.

“Nancy watched you pour soda over his circuits!”

“Well, maybe if you lot came to talk to me instead of leaving me with Mister Dial Tone out there––!”

“Sir! Please lower your voice!”

“No!”

Barry smiles and settles back into the blankets, oddly comforted by the loud Australian yelling in the hallway. He stretches out an arm towards the door, wildly thinking that he could open it from across the room, and promptly falls back asleep.

This time the sleep is like being tossed around in the ocean and he wakes gripping the railings of the bed. He mumbles something that the nearby nurse must understand only by intuition because they’re grabbing a kidney dish and tucking it under his mouth just before he throws up. His ribs clack in protest of the violent movement and he falls asleep because staying awake would acknowledge the pain of moving.

Warm fingertips trail a lazy path down his stomach and between his thighs. Barry moans and arches into it and a hand slips under his back and pulls him towards a mouth that presses softly against his skin. There’s a low hum and a tongue licks his stomach while the fingers continue to drift between his thighs and over his hips. Barry stretches and smiles at Dundee, combing his fingers through his hair. They’re both naked with the bedsheets independently twisted around their lower halves. Dundee kisses Barry’s stomach again before moving his way upward and straddling Barry’s hips. He kisses Barry’s collarbone before he rolls them over and pulls Barry on top of him. Their movements wrap the bedsheets tight around Barry’s waist and trap his cock from touching Dundee’s. Barry huffs and attempts to wriggle out, but instead stills as Dundee’s hands skim down Barry’s sides to grab his hips. He pulls Barry towards him in slow persistent waves, moaning and digging his fingers into Barry. Dundee groans and pushes up into him and he tucks his face into the crook of Dundee’s neck, panting as Dundee rocks them both towards a quick finish. Barry twists his hands into the sheets on either side of Dundee’s chest and props himself up over him, momentarily stilling his hips. He shivers when Dundee runs his thumbs in slow circles over his hips and smiles up at him. Barry bites his lip and Dundee’s gaze drops to watch for a moment before he wiggles an arm up between them and brushes his thumb over Barry’s bottom lip, tugging it from between his teeth. Barry leans down and closes his eyes.

A speaker set into the roof calls a doctor to the front desk.

Barry blinks and the sunlight cutting through the hospital room window isn’t as blinding as before and when he twists his head to look around, the pain isn’t an immediate spike down his nerves. He eases himself upwards, still searching for Dundee as the last threads of the dream fade and leave him with the stark reality: he is alone.

He yawns and stretches, cutting it short when his ribs loudly click. He shuffles himself first slowly onto his elbows and then to a slumped sitting position against the pillows, accidently tugging the cords and IV with him as he adjusts himself. He removes the bulky plastic clamp from his right pointer finger and the machine beside him screams in protest. He covers his ears, too tired to wrestle with the dials that might make it stop. Though he does try to push the screaming machine further away.

Not even half a minute later, a nurse bursts through the door, frantically scanning the room before finally registering Barry sitting upright and not dead. She tucks her red hair behind her ears and switches off the machine. She efficiently removes his IV and silently checks over the numerous bandages –– moving awkwardly quick over the stab wound in his thigh and turning her back to him as she fills out his chart. Barry clears his throat and tries as subtly as possible to hide his fading erection under the thin hospital sheets.

“You’re free to leave whenever you’re comfortable, Mister Benson,” the nurse says.

Barry’s memory clicks into place once she speaks and he hides his face in his hands. Of course it’s the same nurse who helped with his twisted ankle. He swears he never sees her anywhere else in the city, but whenever he goes to the hospital she’s always there.

“Um, nurse…?” Barry trails off, completely forgetting her name.

“Emma Gaine,” she says, still not looking at him as she moves the machinery to one side of the room.

“Is there…” He bunches the bedsheets in his hands as he searches for the least suspicious way to ask his question. “When I was dropped off, did anyone stay?”

“Like a visitor?” Emma turns to him, one slim eyebrow raised.

“No, uh, the people I was with. Are any of them waiting for me?”

“One man tried to come back here, but he was told to stay in the waiting room after arguing with medical staff and damaging Pillbot.”

“Okay,” Barry says, mind blank of any other response. He’s grateful he’s no longer attached to a heart rate monitor or he’d scare her with how quickly his pulse skyrockets. “Is there a back exit?”

Emma helps him get dressed after she watches him struggle to bend at the waist and then guides him down the hall to the elevators that lead to the downstairs back entrance. He’s met with his own reflection in the polished metal of the elevator doors and he can’t stop staring.

For the most part his face is untouched except for the split lip and bruise on his cheek from where his face hit the asphalt. Most of the injuries are internal and a majority of the outer ones are in places easily hidden by clothes. He adjusts his shirt collar to cover a bruise and catches sight of the fading rope burns on his wrists. He gives up trying to hide them after that, resigned to the fact that when he returns to his bench he’s going to have visible injuries. He just hopes it doesn’t deter customers or attract the wrong crowd; he’d hate to have to start carrying a gun.

Emma watches him adjust and fuss over the bulkier dressings under his clothes and she assures him they’ll be able to come off in a couple days, but her tone suggests she knows Barry’s ripping it off tomorrow morning. The elevator hitches down a floor and Barry has a joke on hand, but before he can say it her pager goes off and then her phone starts ringing. She checks the pager then answers the phone with a deep sigh.

“Is he making demands again?” she asks the person on the phone. She nods along with whatever they’re saying then rolls her eyes. “He’s just saying that shit ‘cause he thinks I won’t kick his ass out of here. I––,” She stops and Barry hears the loud clattering that echoes over the call. “If he breaks the fish tank I’m banning him from the hospital. I don’t care, Nancy, he’s always going on about relatives that know medicine as well as a hospital, let him go to them. No, do not let him behind the counter! Nancy!”

The phone call ends abruptly and Emma watches the light above the door reading out the floor levels. Soon as the door slides open she’s out with her phone in hand, not waiting for the elevator again, but instead sprinting for the stairs.

“Keep going that way,” Emma says, pointing down the hall behind her. “There’s a bus station across the road that’ll take you anywhere in the city. There’s also a taxi that circles around there poaching customers, don’t let him overcharge you. I need to go, my fucking ex is threatening to airdrown the fish from the aquarium upstairs.”

“He sounds delightful,” Barry says.

She gives a withering laugh in reply and just before the heavy fire-door closes behind her he hears her yelling into her phone, “Put the fucking fish back!”

Then the door clicks shut and it’s quiet.

Barry limps to the side of the empty hallway and leans against the wall, one hand cradling his ribs as he works on steadying his breathing. If someone like Emma wasn’t afraid of confronting someone that sounded like a wild hurricane then Barry could walk out of the hospital. He just has to take one step out the door, but his feet refuse to move and the short walk from him to the door might as well be miles.

The hallway twists and it takes Barry a moment to realize it’s himself that’s slowly falling over and he presses against the wall. He didn’t have to leave as quickly as he did, he could’ve stayed another night if he’d felt like it, but the thought that the hospital was unguarded against anyone who wanted to come or go made Barry uneasy. It’d be so easy for anyone to find him in his sleep and continue where they’d left off. Knowing he’d receive near instant medical care would probably dare one of them to go further than they had the other day.

“They don’t know you’re down here,” he whispers to himself. “No one uses the back exits, that’s why they’re locked most of the time.” It comforts him until the more concerning thought presses its way forward. “Oh fuck, what if it’s locked.” He hurries to the door and startles when it slides open automatically.

All too quickly he’s out of the hospital and faced with the reality that the rest of the day is his to continue. He checks his pockets for his wallet and phone, a little surprised when he still has both, and then checks how much cash he has on him. It’s just enough for the bus fare, but not enough for lunch and his stomach growls in protest, demanding food now. He hadn’t been able to stomach the plain hospital food Emma had tried to offer him before he’d left and he’s regretting not taking it.

He checks the time on his phone and steps blindly out onto the entrance loop.

A blue muscle car with half its engine jutting through the hood drifts towards the hospital and Barry looks up just in time to jump out of its way. It comes to a halt in front of him, engine idling in a menacing growl. Barry checks himself over for injury and begins to walk around it, but the car rolls forwards to block him.

Barry bites his tongue and clenches his jaw tight, determined not to cry. His injuries flare in sympathy to the knowledge of coming pain and he works to keep it from showing on his face. He could endure another round, especially after the hospital patched him as good as they did. He’d do anything to assure those he worked for that he hadn’t snitched on them, that he’d never say anything foul about them to the police. He’s not quite sure whose car this is, but he supposed it could be any of them with the car provided through their vin scratch business. The passenger door swings open, but instead of a rough voice ordering him inside, he’s greeted by a man who sounds freshly plucked from the Southern states of America.

“Howdy!” the man says cheerfully.

Barry leans down to peer into the car. The man smiling at him wears a white cowboy hat, further adding to Barry’s guess about his state of origin, as well as a similar denim jacket he’d seen Dundee in before. He has a rough five-o-clock shadow and a smudge of motor oil on his cheek. The man clears his throat.

“This is usually the part where you say something back,” the man says.

“Uh, I don’t think they take inpatients this way. Entrance is around the other side.”

The man laughs. “Right, yeah. Get the fuck in.”

It sounds like the man’s joking, but too often Barry’s been on the other side of laughter that was swiftly followed by a fist. He quickly gets into the car and the man drives him from the hospital. Barry briefly considers sending a text for help, but comes up short on who to ask, so he fidgets nervously and keeps his gaze forward.

“So, what’s your name?” the man asks, his tone cutesy and –– if it were any other circumstances than what could only be called a casual kidnapping –– somewhat flirtatious.

“Barry. Barry Benson.” Barry twists his hands together, hoping it’ll hold off the shaking building in him. “What’s yours?”

“Collin McKinley, your local enforcer. Pleasure to meet you.”

Barry’s blood runs cold at the title and he tries very hard not to let it show how it affected him, but his leg starts jumping in nervous displacement and once started cannot stop. He knows what enforcers do, what they’ve done to him, and he can only hope that Collin has the same courtesy to drop him at the hospital when he’s done.

Collin rolls down his window and lights up a smoke. Barry sighs and rolls up his sleeve.

“So what do you do, Barry Benson?” Collin asks.

There’s a weird emphasis on Barry’s name, like Collin doesn’t believe it’s real. Though it made sense, as those in Barry’s profession tended not to use their real names. Barry had stopped giving a fuck.

He briefly considers listing his quick fixes, but doesn’t. For situations like this he knew how to answer. “Pretty much anything,” he says. He knows his tone sounds dull and he’d likely be scolded for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to upsell. Not after just coming out of the hospital.

“Uh huh.”

Collin doesn’t sound impressed and Barry fights himself to smile. It tugs at his split lip and he quickly checks to make sure it isn’t bleeding again.

“You rob houses or do oxy?”

Barry’s heart races. “No, never. I’d never do that, I swear.”

“All right, calm down. Geez.”

Collin gives him a strange look from the corner of his eye and everything in Barry tells him he’s failing this interrogation just as he did the last. He wraps an arm around his middle before forcing himself to return it to rest within Collin’s reach, making sure his sleeve is out of the way.

“You a car chopper then? Nimble with your fingers?” Collin steers with his knees for a moment and mimes the action of lockpicking. “Christmas trees and bumble bees?” He smokes and ashes out the window.

“I mean, once. When I first moved here and was left out in Paleto without a way back to the city.” It’s an easy enough lie and too far gone to history for anyone to fact check.

“How’d you get to Paleto in the first place?”

“I was kidnapped and taken to a bank to be a meat shield.”

“Classic,” Collin laughs.

“Yeah. They weren’t too bad,” Barry says and bites his tongue to stop from saying more.

“Okay, but like, what do you actually do?” Collin asks.

“I mean, do you want a list? Only a few work well in cars, so I don’t really know…” Barry trails off when Collin looks at him again with an expression that Barry can’t name.

“Actually, you know what, it’s fine. I think I’ve got it.”

Barry nods. “Got somewhere specific to go?”

“I was gonna ask you,” Collin mumbles, dragging out the last of his cigarette. “I think I know a good place we can go where we won’t be disturbed.”

Barry watches the cigarette's coal press against the filter and subtly moves his arm closer to Collin. The pain never comes though. Collin rolls the last ends of his smoke between his fingers, letting the ash fall out the window, and drops the filter into an empty coffee cup wedged near the gear shift. Barry quickly pulls his sleeve down before Collin changes his mind about using an ashtray.

“You ever been to Vespucci?” Collin asks.

The question feels like a trap.

Collin has the same jacket as Dundee and Dundee had taken Barry into the heart of Vespucci a few days ago. However, Dundee had never mentioned the significance of it and Barry wonders if he’d crossed some kind of line. He wonders if maybe he’d wandered into gang turf without some higher up permission and now he’d be punished for it.

“Once. A few days ago,” Barry says.

“Just once? Wow. Must’a been quite the excursion for it to be a one time thing. What were you doing?”

“Something tells me you already know.” He doesn’t want to say Dundee’s name and throw him under the bus as someone who’d told Barry it was okay to be there, but it’s quickly becoming his only option.

“Sure, but I want to hear your answer.”

“I was…” Part of Barry doesn’t want to label what it was, but Collin’s waiting patiently for an answer and Barry doesn’t want to know how short the fuse is. “Working,” he says. The word feels wrong to describe the night between Dundee and him, but technically it isn’t a lie. After all, he’d been paid.

“Working,” Collin repeats. He doesn’t sound impressed. “Well, we’ve got this rule in Vespucci, Barry. We don’t care what shady shit you get up to –– I mean, except for drug pushing because we will put a bullet in you if you’re doing that shit in our turf. All we ask for is a phone call to let us know you’ll be in the area.”

“I thought it’d be fine,” Barry says quickly and then mentally curses himself for speaking.

“You thought it’d be fine,” Collin slowly repeats. It seemed to be a habit of his when he received an answer he didn’t like. “And what made you think it’d be fine.”

“I mean, Dee was with me. He invited me. I figured that meant it was okay.”

“Who?”

“Dee?” Barry says, less certain now of using Dundee’s name. He had no idea how other gangs ran their ranks, the name could be as useless as traffic lights to the blind. “Uh, Dundee?” he clarifies when Collin keeps silent.

“Dee,” Collin repeats.

“Irwin Dundee.”

“Yeah, I know who he is. What job were you two doing?”

There’s a hint of a smirk on Collin’s face and Barry has the oddest impression he’s waiting for a dick joke. Barry shuffles uneasily in his seat. He remains silent and looks out the window. They’re driving straight towards the alley of properties Dundee showed him, the place he’d called the Billabong. A cold sweat breaks across his skin and his heart flips wildly inside his chest. He picks the furthest building and tracks it, hoping to quell his nausea.

The last time he’d wandered onto gang turf he wasn’t first invited to; he was nearly drowned in a bathtub. That had been for the people he worked for and he can only imagine how an unfamiliar gang might choose to punish him, but none of his thoughts are giving him the option of a simple slap on the wrist. Maybe he’d be shot for assuming he was free to come to Vespucci just because Dundee said it was okay.

At least his medical file is fresh in Pillbox’s record.

However, instead of bringing Barry to the beach for a summary execution, Collin turns the car down a narrow one way street –– dodging against the flow of traffic –– cuts across a parking lot and pulls up outside of a bar at the corner. The fluorescent blue neon above the door reads Bluey’s. Collin shuts off the engine and turns to Barry.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he says, getting out. “First rounds on me.”

Barry hesitates, but decides that following Collin voluntarily would be better than being dragged inside by a limb. The outside of the bar is nothing incredible; the shades on the front windows are drawn to cut out the sun and there’s some crude graffiti on the stone walls. It’s written along the underside of a window ledge and Barry wonders if it’s even been seen. Inside is initially dark due to the low lighting and near black wood of the floors and pillars, but after his eyes adjust the one word Barry would describe it by would be: homely.

The bar is lined with tin in a fashion that reminds Barry of a scrapwork treefort. There’s a few booths against the walls, a low stage with sound equipment and some instruments, and tables scattered around the open floor with stools haphazardly tucked around them. Nearest the window are large potted plants that appear to be either very well kept or entirely fake, as well as a few smaller ones behind the bar amongst the shelves of liquor. A surfboard with the word Bondi hangs behind the bar and there’s a signature at the fin which Barry can’t make out. At the current hour there’s only a few people drinking, but they pay little attention to Collin and Barry. There’s three people at one booth, a man in a wheelchair at one of the tables, and a man with bright red hair asleep atop a bunch of papers at the bar.

Collin pretends to check his phone for a moment while Barry’s looking around, but Barry catches him digging into a potted plant by the door and moving a small black usb to his pocket. Collin looks at him, but doesn’t comment so Barry keeps his mouth shut and his comments to himself and follows him to the bar.

“God, does no one work in this forsaken place?” Collin asks and walks behind the bar.

Barry sputters and looks around for anyone who might take offense, but instead someone at the lively booth raises an empty pitcher and calls out, “Another when you’ve got a chance, McKinley.”

“Pour it yourself, you lazy fuck,” Collin yells back.

The other two at the booth roar in laughter as a man with a mohawk wearing a similar denim jacket slides out from his seat. He mutters to himself as he refills his pitcher, but it seems good natured and he lingers at the bar for a moment to talk while he enters something into the till set into the bar. Barry’s intrigued at the light jabs the two easily throw at each other as despite the man’s rough appearance, he’s oddly soft spoken.

“Thought you’d be gone all day on your little side quest,” the man says, bumping the till closed with his hip. “I’m guessing then you found––?” the man says, but Collin starts coughing exaggeratedly and tilting his head none too subtly towards Barry. “Oh,” the man says, looking Barry over.

Barry tries not to fidget and ducks his head in awkward greeting, aware of how battered he looks. “G’day, Mate,” Barry mumbles, looking at the kangaroo patch on the man’s vest pocket.

“Yeah, makes sense,” the man says and returns to his booth. A moment later there’s more laughter and Barry has the oddest sense they’re laughing about him.

“Thanks for the lift, but I should probably get going. I can walk from here,” Barry says, pointing towards the door. It’ll be a painful walk back to his bike, but he’s itching for a private space where he can poke at his wounds and map out his week to accommodate his injuries. He can already tell he’s going to have to take some things off his list and he’s not too certain at the moment if he were to get on his knees if he would be able to stand up on his own.

“Nah, you’re staying,” Collin says and begins mixing a drink for Barry. “Sit the fuck down.”

Barry quickly takes the nearest stool. “Are all of the people in here…?” Barry makes a vague gesture towards Collin’s jacket. Collin glances around at the others in the bar and sets a glass in front of Barry before snapping open a beer for himself.

“Nah, just a few.” He wipes down the counter and throws a few discarded glasses in the small sink under the liquor shelf behind him. “Chain! It’s your shift!” he yells to the man with the mohawk. “Fucking switch to water, cunt.”

The man moans, but slides the rest of his beer towards the people Barry can’t see on the other side of the booth. Collin grabs two shot glasses and an opened bottle of whiskey and motions for Barry to follow him through a door near the bar. Barry hesitates, but the look Collin sends him over his shoulder sets his feet in motion without him.

Barry’s oddly surprised when he sees more plants and a metal staircase leading down towards a large room with a pool table. There’s also a couch with a blue jacket hanging over the back and two small tables at either end of it. The same dim lighting of upstairs carries through in this small space, but the pool table is lit by a hanging fixture made of stained glass. The patterns of the glass seem innocuous, but upon further inspection he sees that what he thought were intricate flowers are actually bouquets of cocks. There’s another doorway underneath the stairs, but it’s closed and Collin briefly checks it to ensure it’s locked. Collin sets the whiskey and glasses on the end table nearest him and gathers the balls scattered across the pool table.

“You play?” Collin asks.

Barry blinks, momentarily lost inside the memory of how solid a pool cue could be against shins. “What?”

Collin stifles a laugh. “Pool. You know how to play?” He throws a cue stick to Barry and continues to shift the balls around until he’s happy with the colour arrangement. He sips his beer and fiddles with his phone for a moment before sliding it into his front jacket pocket.

“I mean, I’ve knocked a few balls around in my time,” Barry says, studying the stained glass light over the table.

Collin chokes on his drink and laughs. “Yeah you have.” He circles the table like a putter assessing the green. “You know how this works then. Want first crack at it?”

Barry downs half his drink, shifting his focus to the cue ball. He’s not quite sure how Collin knew his drink of preference, but it’s a comforting hold before the inevitable break in what could only be a friendly facade. “Fuck it, why not,” Barry says and lines up his shot. He has no idea what the fuck is happening, but if he’s waiting for his death he might as well have fun. He tries to bend over the table and his ribs shift inside him. He moans, one hand dropping to the table to steady himself as Collin comes closer. He stands at Barry’s side, one hand hovering near Barry’s back like he’ll actually catch Barry if he falls over. “I’m fine,” Barry says quickly, trying to adjust his stance without wincing.

“Just take it slow,” Collin says. “Don’t hurt yourself for the fun of it. You just gotta ease into it.”

Barry bites back a moan and works his way lower, holding himself on his elbows for a moment while his injuries realign. He huffs out a breath and waits until the pinching in his lungs isn’t as rough as before. “I’m good.”

“I can go easy on you if you want.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Collin grins and stretches out alongside Barry to rub chalk onto the tip of the cue. He makes a noise as he reaches out, something in mild imitation of Barry’s grunt of pain. “I’m just gonna rub this on here before we get too carried away.”

“Yeah thanks, forgot that was a thing,” Barry says, slightly out of breath.

“Been a while since you’ve done this?” Collin asks and leans against the edge of the table.

“Long enough that I seem to have forgotten about that.” Barry makes his first shot, barely cracking the set and letting out a long moan as his injuries along his right shoulder flare up in pain. He drops the cue stick to the table and wraps a hand around his middle, trying to hold back the chain reaction running from his elbow up to his shoulder and down to his ribs. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Okay. Maybe we shouldn’t. I feel bad.”

“No, I can do this,” Barry says through grit teeth. He’s not quite sure what he’s trying to prove to a total stranger he’d only met today, but something in him makes him want to try.

Collin pulls all the balls back to start and lines the cue ball in front of Barry. “What if I get behind you instead? You know, Ghost it?”

Barry laughs and lines his shot. “I can do it. It just might hurt me a bit.”

Before Barry has a chance to shoot, a wild noise erupts from Collin’s jacket pocket. Collin calmly rests his stick against the table and takes out his phone. The noise is indistinguishable as words, but at the least Barry would swear it’s yelling. A couple of swipes and the noise stops. Collin grins and slides his phone into his jeans pocket and smiles at Barry.

“Sorry, I had a, uh…” He coughs to stop what Barry clearly hears is a laugh. “An alarm set.”

“Kinda sounded like screaming.”

“Yeah, it’s what gets me up in the mornings.”

Despite his injuries Barry manages to get rather far along before Collin overtakes him and wins the first round. Collin pours them each a celebratory shot and Barry drinks this time not because he knows being drunk made the beatings hurt less, but because he’s genuinely having fun. Collin is easy to talk to and he follows Barry’s lead through jokes like they’ve had this friendship for years. At some point he stops looking over his shoulder for someone coming to hurt him and he doesn’t even jump when the man Collin called Chain knocks on the railing above them and asks if they want the fries that someone ordered and never ate. When Chain brings them down he pulls Collin aside for a conversation that isn’t as quiet as he thinks.

“Is he calling you too?” Chain asks, glancing over Collin’s shoulder at Barry.

Barry occupies himself with loudly shuffling the balls into position. He eats a couple fries and turns his back to them, hoping that it’s a good enough ruse to make them think he can’t hear them.

“No, what’s he saying?” Collin asks.

“I mean, it’s hard to make out ‘cause he’s fucking going a mile a minute, but he seems upset.”

Collin starts laughing. When he tries to hold it back it dissolves into a wheeze. Chain looks between Collin and Barry and when Collin can’t answer through his tears, he turns and goes back upstairs. At the top of the stairs, a thought seems to stop him and he looks over the railing.

“I’m going to assume everything’s fine then,” Chain says.

“Yeah, everything’s––,” Collin clears his throat, finally getting a hold of himself. “Everything’s fine, but if he asks: you don’t know where I am.”

“You’re in the Barrio. Got it.”

“Cunt!” Collin throws a fry at him, but it lands short and falls between the steps. Collin pours them another shot each, tapping his glass against Barry’s. “Right. Want to break again? If it’s easier you can just bowl the cue ball at them, no shame in it. My five year old niece does that and she manages to win a few rounds.”

“Shut the fuck up, Collin,” Barry says around a laugh.

Chapter Text

Dundee’s unsure about the legality of calling a robot a person, but regardless, if he were to destroy Pillbot inside the hospital he’d probably still be arrested for terrorism. The automaton stands guard at the doors leading to the back rooms, refusing entry to anyone not dressed in scrubs. Dundee had a brief thought of sneaking into the employee-only spaces and dressing up as a doctor, but his plan quickly unraveled with the discovery of the keypass system; turning the whole thing into a more elaborate idea than he felt was necessary. He also considers throwing himself from the bridge next to Pillbox and calling for medical aid to allow him into the restricted areas of the hospital, but the last time he hurt himself it, well, hurt, so that plan too is quickly scrapped. He begs Nancy for status regarding Barry, but she doesn’t look up from her paperwork except to collect clipboards from the doctors. Not that she doesn’t try to help.

“How are you related?” Nancy asks, not looking at Dundee, nor at the paperwork which would confirm any answer Dundee would give.

“I’m not,” Dundee says.

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Husband?”

“No.”

“Can you provide a number to call to confirm you’ve been forgotten from the emergency contact list previously provided to medical staff?”

Dundee hates every answer he’s given. “No,” he says, jaw tight around his words.

“I’m afraid then, that you’ll simply have to wait, Mister Dundee. Our facilities are around the corner and the vending machines are over there.” She doesn’t point anywhere and continues to sift through paperwork.

“Another for you Nancy,” a nurse says.

Dundee’s face down on the front counter, grumbling to himself in hopes that Nancy will take pity, but he jolts to attention when he recognizes the voice.

“Emma!” he shouts, startling her.

“Oh!” She holds her hand to her chest and takes a few steps back, likely seeing the wild look in his eyes. He’s also certain that if there wasn’t a desk separating them she probably wouldn’t have acknowledged him. “Hello, Irwin.”

He tries to suppress the wince at the name. “Can you… I need to get back there.” He points to the doors Pillbot hasn’t moved from guarding.

“Uh, sure. Who are you visiting?” She jiggles the mouse of the computer behind the desk and preps to type in a name.

“Barry.”

There’s a bit of typing and Emma bites her lip as she closes tabs and stands back up. “You’re not on his emergency contact list.”

“Fucking so?”

“I can’t allow you back there.”

“I fucking brought the cunt in. I want to see him!”

There’s a robotic chirping from behind him and Dundee yelps when Pillbot speaks, not knowing he’d be standing that close. For being made of metal, Pillbot is surprisingly quiet.

“You are not on the list,” Pillbot says, arms crossed. The green lights under his plating flicker with hints of red and Dundee’s never seen an automaton before, but he knows that can’t be a good thing.

“Well who is on the list?” Dundee asks, turning to face Pillbot.

“Not you.” If a robotic voice could ever be programmed to sound smug, Pillbot would have it.

A wild rage in Dundee snaps and he lashes out, punching Pillbot square in the jaw. He hates the robot’s witty retorts and if it wanted to act like a human Dundee was going to punch it like a human. It’s just unfortunate that the metallic plates composing Pillbot’s structure did not react like human flesh.

Dundee yells as his punch does nothing but send a rocket of pain through his wrist. He is absolutely sure he’s broken it, but he tries again regardless, hating that the robot makes a funny chittering noise as if it were laughing at him.

“Irwin!” Emma jumps the desk and wedges herself between Pillbot and Dundee, grabbing his hand for examination. Her touch is soft and caring and a part of Dundee hates that he could never love her the way she needed, she was always too good to him.

“I’m fine,” he growls, glaring over her shoulder at Pillbot.

The automaton's pixel-fake face changes into a hard frown and it crosses its arms and returns to standing in front of the doors.

“You’re going to break your wrist doing that,” Emma chides, gently flexing his wrist.

Dundee hisses and Emma guides him over to the waiting room chairs. She sits him down, pressing on his shoulders to ensure he got the message, before she jogs to the back rooms being guarded by Pillbot. Dundee maintains a staring contest with Pillbot until she returns with medical wrap and an ice pack. She wraps his wrist and holds the pack against the swelling. She keeps checking her watch and Dundee feels guilty about taking her time, but curiosity has always been his weak spot.

“Got somewhere to be?” he asks.

“It’s a hospital, Irwin,” she says. “I’ve always got somewhere to be.”

He jerks his hand from her grip. “Alright, go then.” He slumps back in his chair, but rather than leave, Emma settles next to him and studies him as he glares at Pillbot. “What?” he asks when she continues to watch him.

“Who is he?”

“Who?”

Emma laughs. “Okay, Irwin.”

She sits with him for a while until her restless checking of her watch snaps at Dundee’s nerves.

“Fucking go if you have to.”

“I just, I need to check on… someone.”

Emma cuts herself off before saying a name, but Dundee would place his life savings that she almost said Barry.

“Yeah? What’s wrong with ‘em?” Dundee asks, casually flexing his hand and only slightly wincing at the responding pain.

Emma looks around and lowers her voice. “We had to medically put him under when he wouldn’t stop wrestling with the doctors trying to check his injuries. He should be waking up soon and I want to make sure he gets his pain meds on time.”

Dundee makes a noise, a plan already forming. Emma holds out a hand for the melting ice pack and tucks it into the pockets of her scrubs. She stands and pulls his face up to meet hers with her hand under his chin.

“You know the policy, Irwin, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want, so long as you don’t harass the people.” Emma kisses him on the top of the head and walks towards the back rooms. Pillbot moves aside for her and another nurse, herself and Emma already talking quietly amongst themselves and blissfully unaware of Dundee running out the front doors.

Dundee feels Pillbot’s eyes on him and he quickly moves to the side of the building and down the three flights of stairs towards the lower parkade. There’s never any cars parked there –– in fact there’d been talk about turning it into a small park for recovering patients –– and for Dundee’s purposes: it’s perfect. He jogs down the street until he finds the nearest 24/7 and buys the cheapest tin of lighter fluid on the shelves. The cashier behind the till seems to recognize him and reluctantly rings up his order.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to burn down your shop,” Dundee says, but it doesn’t seem to reassure the cashier.

“Right on,” the cashier says, but keeps a wary eye on Dundee from the doorway of his shop as Dundee jogs back to Pillbox.

Dundee briefly considers writing some elaborate message with the fluid, something about medical neutrality and political motivations, but in the end can’t be fucked to take the time. He empties the entire tin in a haphazard pile with a tail leading towards the steps of Pillbox and throws the empty tin in a nearby bush. He backs away to the tail and sets his lighter to it, surprised when it lights faster than he imagined. The fire burns steadily and even catches a few stray leaves that blow in the wind and land in the grass, continuing to smolder. Dundee makes a speedy retreat back to the hospital and runs directly to Pillbot.

“Holy fucking shit, Pillbot! There’s a fire in the parking lot!” Dundee says, trying to sound equally panicked while also remaining quiet enough that Nancy wouldn’t hear and call the appropriate authorities. “You gotta do something!” He peaks over Pillbot’s shoulder into the back room hallway where a fire extinguisher hangs. “Get the ––! The fucking thing! Fucking leg it!”

Pillbot chirps and a tiny alarm echoes out of its speakers as it turns and opens the door to the hallways. Dundee holds the door open for Pillbot as it pulls the extinguisher from the wall and runs from its post.

“Lower parking!” Dundee calls before Pillbot gets outside and disappears from view. “Fucking dumb ass.” He slips into the back hallway and sneaks along the walls, peeking around corners and checking every door to find an unlocked one. He doesn’t know if it's by chance or luck that the first unlocked door he finds is a supply closet, but he wedges himself into the far corner to hide as he hears quick footsteps approaching.

The sounds of the hospital echo through the small room from the heating vent near his feet and Dundee briefly considers crawling though it before he sees the size. He does however crouch down and press an ear to the wall to better listen in, closing his eyes and trying to pinpoint distinct voices in the clutter. The warm air that wafts out smells like burning dust and Dundee forces back a cough, holding his hand over his mouth, lest he be found and thrown from the hospital. It isn’t until Dundee hears the slam of a fridge and the smell of coffee that he realizes he’s listening in on the staff room kitchen. He’s about to leave and find another hiding space when he overhears Emma talking with the other nurse Dundee had seen.

“You honestly don’t think he did it?” the other nurse asks.

Emma laughs. “Why would he be waiting if he did?”

“I don’t know! Maybe because he’s a fucking psychopath and wants to finish the job.”

There’s a light tinkering like metal against porcelain and the scrape of chairs over linoleum.

“If he wanted to get to him for that reason we wouldn’t have gotten Barry’s body in the first place,” Emma says.

Dundee flattens himself against the wall to hear better.

“We would have gotten a report from a hiker telling us they found some poor guy on the side of Mount Chiliad or washed up on the shores. So, no. I honestly don’t think Dundee did it,” Emma says. The other nurse makes some comment under her breath, but Emma continues, “Besides, if it came to it in that regard, I have no doubts we’d have the entire BBMC in the foyer instead of just their Prime Minister acting like a love-struck fool––,”

Dundee pushes away from the wall before he hears anything else and trips over a bottle of bleach left on the floor. He tries to catch himself from falling and grabs for anything to hold him up. The shelf of linens tips over and Dundee’s right foot gets stuck in an empty mop bucket. The bucket slides away and Dundee topples backwards into the door, catching the door handle on his jacket and slamming his head against the wood of it as he goes. He lands in a sprawl halfway out the closet and he’s too stunned to hide before Pillbot spots him through the window in the door and walks over.

Emma’s words play over in his mind as Pillbot lifts him up and tries to chastise him for sneaking into restricted areas. Pillbot tries to tell Dundee that it knows Dundee lit the fire in the parking lot, but all Dundee hears is ‘love-struck fool’ playing on a loop.

He’s not. Not really. He’s just a caring person who saw someone he knew who didn’t deserve to get the shit beat out of them in an alley. He doesn’t care about Barry.

“Unauthorized!” Pillbot screeches at him again, pushing Dundee towards the waiting room.

Dundee tries to slip out of Pillbot’s grip, just for the principle of it. He couldn’t be seen being pushed about, he had an image to maintain, but Pillbot’s grip is iron and there’s no vulnerable human parts to poke at to ease its grasp. It keeps hold of Dundee all the way to the chairs, releasing Dundee’s arm only once Dundee is seated again, then it returns to its guard of the doors.

“Just so you know: I wanted to sit down!” Dundee yells at Pillbot. He folds his arms and slumps down in his seat.

The two stare at each other, their gazes only broken by the flow of patients and workers passing through the hospital. A few hours pass and Dundee grows bored of the game. He tries pressing Nancy for more information, but when he hears the whirring gears of Pillbot click into movement he makes an excuse and returns to his seat. Dundee itches to move and Pillbot watches him pace the waiting room, its artificial eyes tracking Dundee’s every step. Eventually, Dundee caves and he approaches Pillbot.

“Just answer me one thing,” Dundee says. “Is he okay?”

Pillbot whirs and clicks and just when Dundee thinks he’s going to get an answer, Pillbot says, “One thing.”

“You… fuck head.” Dundee yearns to punch it again, but his fist still hurts from the last time. “You absolute, fucking piece of trash technology.” Dundee knows he’s getting louder with each word, but he can’t help it. He’s wasted half his day here waiting for an answer and if they were going to make his life miserable then the least he could do would be to return the favour. “Fucking standing there like a lamp post doing nothing!”

Any attempt at a civil conversation breaks down after that as Dundee pulls out every obscure insult he can imagine and a few he makes up on the spot. Pillbot doesn’t react to them –– not that Dundee was expecting an emotional response from a robot –– but it irks Dundee more to not have something to fight and when someone makes the mistake of walking a little too close to him he lashes out in their direction too. Dundee knows it’s entirely justified, as they almost bumped into him with their coffee, but even they don’t fight back.

A one sided shouting match breaks out between him, Pillbot, and the random man with the coffee that Dundee knows he’ll easily win. The man with the coffee keeps backing away, not wanting to engage in the fight, but Dundee needs this. He needs something to take his anger. However, Pillbot intervenes before it can escalate into a true fight, grabbing onto Dundee’s wrists once again and holding him back as the man with the coffee is allowed through the doors into the back.

“Why him?” Dundee yells. “Why?” He fights against Pillbot and manages to wriggle his way out, but he suspects Pillbot let him go.

“We will alert the patient to your presence when they awaken,” Pillbot says. “Please return to the designated waiting area.” It spins Dundee and nudges him towards the waiting area again.

Dundee’s positive he’s going to go crazy inside these walls before that happens. 

He sprawls himself over two of the chairs and opens his phone to pass the time. He tries to lose himself in social media, but stops when he realizes he’s checking every user name for ‘Barry’. He plays solitaire for an hour, loses interest and has the brief notion of throwing his phone across the room for the fun of it, but he’s kind of proud of his unshattered screen. He isn’t quite sure how he’s managed it this long, as he could have sworn it broke last week after he fell off a roof. Regardless, it’s refreshing to not have to painstakingly work around the cracks and chips.

He ends up texting a few members of his club, telling himself he’s checking on the day’s progress when really it’s for the hopeful distraction he knows they’ll provide. His texts go largely ignored and the few that come back aren’t enough to draw him from boredom.

‘K,” is an answer from a few, with no further details given.

‘I’m hiking with Chain. We found a dead rabbit. I’m keeping the skull,’ Stevie answers.

‘Fuck off I’m doing mental gymnastics,’ Pez answers.

‘got bik stuk rof,’ Edbert texts back, along with a photo of him on a rooftop somewhere in Vespucci. He has a split lip. After a moment there’s a second message, ‘pls send elp’.

Finn texts him a selfie of him in Vespucci with an upwards angle and a distant glimpse of Edbert on a rooftop.

Then Dundee’s phone rings and he answers it before the first ring is even done. “Hello?”

“Hi, are –– wow, you answered that fast,” Jesse says.

“Because I’m bored, Jesse!” He hangs his head over the side of the chair and adds in a mumble, “And thirsty.”

“Hm. Want some company?”

“I––,” Dundee stops himself from accepting. He sighs. “No, I don’t want you to suffer too.” Truthfully, he knows he doesn’t want to share Barry with anyone yet and as soon as one of the club members finds out, everyone finds out.

“Oh, I don’t mind. Where are you?”

“I, um, I’m, uh, going through a tunnel.” Dundee makes a static noise with his mouth. “Oh no, I think the signal is fading. Jesse! Oh no!” He hangs up and drops his phone to his lap. He ignores every phone call after, only checking each name that pops up. When Collin’s name continues to come up, he answers.

“You’re not going through a tunnel,” Collin says.

“What? I can’t hear you!” Dundee makes static noises. “The tunnel’s going underwater!”

“I’m looking right at you.”

Dundee startles out of the chair and looks around the waiting room. Nancy continues to sort clipboards and paperwork. The kid with the ice pack to his face has come and gone. A few other people have passed through the doors, but so far no one from Bondi. He briefly considers asking Nancy if she’s seen anything, but he decides against it.

“Where are you?” Dundee asks.

“Why are you still hanging around the hospital?”

Dundee starts roaming the waiting room and adjacent halls and then the bathroom. “Private business.” He kicks open a bathroom stall, half expecting to find Collin crouching above the toilet to keep his boots from showing under the stall door, but it’s empty.

“If you’re going to be out of commission for a few days, we need to know so we can plan accordingly.”

“I’m fine.” Dundee returns to his seat in the waiting room, resigned to not finding Collin’s hiding place.

“Then why are you––,”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

Collin sighs. “You told me you were over Emma.”

“I am!” Dundee watches a group of doctors move in a distracted herd through the hospital, passing jargon back and forth and complaining of long hours.

“You told me you met someone.”

“I did––!” Dundee’s brain catches up with the rest of him. “When did I tell you this?”

“Just now,” Collin says, but Dundee’s only half listening.

The doctors stop at the vending machine as one orders a soda, but leaves it in the tray as their colleague distracts them with questions. They continue on to the food vender with their drink forgotten and eventually they all move through the door guarded by Pillbot.

“Gotta go,” Dundee says and hangs up.

“Wa––!”

Dundee has exactly twelve dollars in his pocket at this moment and a forgotten drink in a vending machine would make a difference if he would buy food later or not. He’s not certain at how clearly he’s thinking –– considering he’s been sitting under humming fluorescent lights for almost a whole day –– but he rushes from his chair and swipes the forgotten soda from the tray and returns to his chair. He’s about to crack the top when a shadow looms over him and mechanical chirping draws his attention upwards.

“Unauthorized,” Pillbot drones, pointing at the drink.

“Fucking excuse me?”

“You have stolen.” Pillbot continues to point at the can of soda.

Dundee pushes to his feet. “What about it? It’s a drink, not a bank robbery.”

The conversation goes quickly downhill after that and Dundee’s patience with the hospital’s automaton comes to an end. He shakes the can and pops the tab, pointing it in Pillbot’s direction and letting it spray into the automaton’s panels. The lights flicker and spark and the digital face glitches between emotions.

“Muh-thur,” Pillbots generated voice scales between pitches as the gears inside whir to life. “Fah-curr. Un-leh-gull!” The screen composing Pillbot’s face shifts to display a giant red exclamation point and an error code.

Dundee laughs, triumphant at the failing robot while Nancy continues to sort papers. She looks up briefly when Pillbot’s voice controls fail completely and every word out of him is a foul curse.

“Yeah! Fuck you!” Dundee shouts, flipping off Pillbot.

“Fah-Kkkk,” Pillbot stutters and the word comes to an abrupt end with a sound like someone slamming on a piano. Dundee jumps away when Pillbot snaps to attention and falls into a default stance before all the lights shut off and the whirring falls silent.

Nancy sighs and picks up the phone. She types out a code into the number pad and then the speakers overhead click on with her announcement, “Security to main lobby.” After a moment she adds, “Custodial, as well.”

Dundee wastes no time stealing the card pass from Pillbot’s utility belt and running. He makes it through the door into the back hallway without interference, but there’s a scuffle in the lobby as people arrive to deal with the malfunctioned robot. He knows he needs to find Barry’s room instead of a hiding place and he wastes no time. He peaks into every window and scans the names written on the whiteboards of the shared rooms. He bursts into the main ER and then runs back out when he finds his ex-girlfriend and another nurse talking in the corner. Emma does a double take when she sees him and runs after him when he leaves. Dundee starts running down the hallways and he makes it to the private elevators before Emma can reach him.

One floor up is the fancier, private rooms and Dundee checks every chart hanging near the doors until he finds B. Benson. Dundee doesn’t know if it’s the right room, but the admittance time seems close enough. He grabs the chart and reads it, but the handwriting is rushed and the letters jumble themselves in his brain. He takes photos of the chart with his phone, wincing when he reaches the page with a diagram highlighting Barry’s injuries. It’s surprising that there’s nothing listed as broken and he instead finds the phrase ‘highly bruised’ several times over. He stops reading when the hastily written check-ins start to detail the patient crying in his sleep and makes mention about suggesting therapy once the patient is conscious. He replaces the chart to its hook and knocks, waiting for a response. He is about to enter the room when the elevator down the hall chimes open and a large man steps out.

“Hey! You aren’t supposed to be up here!” the bald man in blue scrubs shouts.

Dundee tries to feign ignorance, but he’s the only one in the hallway.

“Yeah, you.” The man points at Dundee and comes closer, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Sir, you’re going to have to leave!”

Dundee’s never done well about backing down from confrontation, no matter the opponent’s size. “No. I fucking won against that tin can fair and square!” Dundee yells.

“Nancy watched you pour soda over his circuits!”

In truth, Dundee feels a little bad about Pillbot, but only because its dying whirs sounded like a trapped small animal. “Well, maybe if you lot came to talk to me instead of leaving me with Mister Dial Tone out there––!”

“Sir! Please lower your voice!”

“No!” Dundee shouts louder. “You want to do something about it, do it. Come on.” Dundee raises his fists, but the man doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not fighting you in a hospital,” he says, arms still crossed.

“Why not? Plenty of bandages around for when I beat your ass.”

“Those are strong words, sir. It would be a shame if you couldn’t live up to them.”

The man drops his arms to his sides and Dundee’s heart soars, thinking that now he’ll finally be able to let out the nerves boiling inside of him. However, before any first punch is thrown, Emma rounds the far corner of the hallway, out of breath.

“No! No fighting in the hospital!” she says, somehow raising her voice without actually yelling.

She runs towards them and there’s a fleeting moment where Dundee wonders if she’s going to tackle one of them, but she stops beside the other man and gently pushes him away from Dundee.

“No fighting in the hospital,” she says again, quieter now that she’s near.

Dundee pouts and crosses his arms. “He started it.”

“I don’t care. I’m ending it,” Emma says. The other nurse backs off, grumbling to himself and retreating to the elevators as Emma places herself between them. “What did you do to Pillbot?”

“What’s the big deal?” Dundee asks. “Drop him in rice.”

Emma sighs, but there’s a fond smile when she addresses him. “Irwin, it’s a very expensive –– It’s a prototype from –– You know what, yeah. Okay. We’ll put it in rice. What are you doing back here?” She glances at the chart to B. Benson’s room, her eyes narrowing as she thinks.

Dundee’s always been a little afraid of her intelligence, even before they dated. He clears his throat and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets to quell the urge to set the chart on fire. “I needed to visit someone and no one was giving me information about him.”

“We can’t just give out information on people, Irwin. You of all people know this.”

“I swear, you unplug a guy’s respirator one time and no one forgets about it.”

“Irwin,” Emma warns.

The other nurse waiting by the elevator takes a step forward at hearing Emma’s tone. “I suggest you return to the waiting room, sir. Where you can wait for further information,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a request.

Emma reaches out and pats Dundee’s arm, keeping her hand there to nudge him along. She motions towards the elevator and waits for him to move before dropping her hand from his arm. “He’s going to be here overnight. You might as well go home and get some rest.”

Dundee takes the words for what they are: the only news she can give him, though he stays and returns to his seat in the waiting room. He watches in delight as Pillbot is wrestled onto a trolley and taken into an elevator leading to the underground parking. No one comes to take Pillbot’s place guarding the doors, but Dundee watches a few doctors swipe keycards, each looking over their shoulders at Dundee first before doing so.

Dundee sighs and slumps down in his seat, knowing with absolute certainty he wouldn’t be able to get into the back hallway again. He closes his eyes to escape the piercing fluorescent lights and when he opens them again there’s a stiffness to his neck and back and the clock hung over the main reception area tells him he’d fallen asleep in the waiting room for a long while. There’s a few people in the waiting room with various levels of non-violent injuries and they all seem to have taken to working around Dundee while he slept.

Dundee wrestles his way to his feet, something snapping back into place in his joints as he stretches, and the woman reading a magazine beside him startles as if she hadn’t noticed him. Or maybe she thought he was dead. Hard to tell when Dundee doesn’t give her a second glance. He’s too fixated on marching over to Nancy’s desk –– does she ever sleep? –– and asking about Barry. He’s given the same response as yesterday and something inside him snaps again.

He isn’t sure if it’s the exhaustion driving him or the need to drill it into the heads of the medical staff that this could all have been avoided if they’d simply answered Dundee’s questions, but one minute he’s arguing with Nancy and the next he’s elbow deep inside the waiting room aquarium grasping at the exotic fish. Nancy calmly asks what he’s doing and Dundee ignores her, his fingers brushing the top fin of the nearest fish. He stands on tiptoes atop the chair he’d pulled over and wobbles for balance as he works his arm deeper into the water.

“Sir, again, what are you doing to the fish?” Nancy asks, leaning over the reception desk. “And would you kindly stop?”

“Oh? So you can ask questions and demand answers, but when I do it it’s fine to ignore.” Dundee grabs hold of a fish and pulls it from the tank.

“Sir, put the fish back.”

Dundee doesn’t answer her as he steps off the chair.

Nancy sighs and picks up the phone. She starts dialing a number as she asks him, “What are you planning on doing to the fish?”

Dundee shrugs and lifts the fish up to eye level to examine it. He swears he can see his reflection in its buggy eyes. “That’s private information,” Dundee says and pats down his vest pockets.

“Do not put it in your –– hello,” Nancy says into the phone. “He’s awake.”

Dundee’s briefly stunned wondering who Nancy would have personally called to tell them he was awake. He checks his own phone; low battery, but still functional, thus ruling out any of his club, as they would’ve immediately called him. He inches his way closer to the reception desk, trying to overhear the other voice.

“He’s making vague allusions about our operating procedures using the lobby’s fishtank occupants as an example. He currently has the small yellow fish in his hand, though I believe it’s still alive. Are you with Mister Benson now?” Nancy asks.

Dundee holds the stolen fish to his chest and scrambles over the desk, desperate to snatch the phone away from Nancy, but the receptionist is too quick, too practiced at dealing with the nonsense Pillbox went through on a daily basis. She kicks her roller chair at him and takes the phone set with her as she walks around the desk. Dundee tries to step over the chair, but ends up with one leg through the arm rest and wrestling for stable footing. The fish in his hands starts to squirm and he almost drops it.

“I don’t believe we have the authority to ban anyone from hospitals,” Nancy says. She yanks the phone cord out of Dundee’s flailing reach and circles back the other way before Dundee can catch his footing. “Mhm… Yes, I’ve heard about them too. Hold on, I may lose reception in a moment, Mister Dundee seems keen on pulling the phone line.”

Dundee yanks the cord from the desk plug and holds it triumphant above his head, finally wrestling his way free of the roller chair. “So you do have updates!” Dundee says. He tosses the phone cord over the desk and Nancy places the set atop the counter.

“Please return the fish, sir.” She frowns at him and tilts her head towards the fish in his hand.

Dundee drops it into a glass of water left on the desk and hops to the other side. Nancy doesn’t move from her spot, not shuffling uneasily in place, and it always surprises Dundee how unflinching the unassuming receptionist is –– though it could be that seeing hardened criminals come in crying about their cuts and scrapes forcibly shows one their more vulnerable sides. It’s difficult to find someone intimidating once you’ve seen them cry.

“So?” Dundee asks.

“He’s being discharged today and that’s all I can tell you,” Nancy says. She reaches around him for the cup with the fish and returns it to the tank. It swims to the bottom and hides among the fake reeds. “If he wishes to reach out to you, he will. In the meanwhile, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the lobby if you are not actively seeking treatment nor waiting for someone.”

“But I am waiting for someone,” Dundee says. His phone starts to vibrate with an incoming call and he silences it without looking.

Nancy raises an eyebrow. “He’ll be out in a minute,” she says and returns to her chair, wiping the dirt from the leather seat. She plugs the phone in again and makes a call.

Dundee watches the doors to the back hallway, but after ten minutes pass he turns to her again.

“I’m sure you’ll be contacted in due time,” Nancy says, expectant of his question.

“How long does it take to process someone to leave?”

“Hm?” She looks up from her papers. “Oh, he’s already left, sir. I’m sure you’ll receive a call from him soon enough.”

Dundee swears and sprints for the front doors. “I don’t have his number!” he shouts.

It’s a bit of a lost cause, but he runs around to the other side of Pillbox, taking the steps to the lower parking two at a time. He doesn’t expect Barry to be waiting for him, but he still feels something cold settle over him when he finds the lower entrance empty. He walks slowly down the road, choosing not to steal a car to drive home and instead letting himself wallow in his sadness.

He can’t help the annoyance that slowly digs its claws into him the further he gets from the hospital; he was the most concerned about Barry, yet he’d received no word on his recovery and had actually been arrested under the suspicion of harming him. Dundee balls his hands into fists, praying that someone bumps into him so he has an excuse to throw a punch, but the locals on the street part around him like oil through water.

He’s fifteen minutes into his walk home when his phone rings: Collin .

He huffs and braces himself for Collin to make a joke about him walking a lonely road, but instead there’s just rustling.

“Hello?” he says a little louder, on edge that maybe Collin’s been kidnapped. It hasn’t happened in years, but there’s always the possibility. He turns up the volume on his phone and presses the speaker closer to his ear.

There’s more rustling and then a voice Dundee knows isn’t Collin’s says, “I mean, I’ve knocked a few balls around in my time.” His words are muffled by fabric against the phone, but Dundee knows it’s Barry.

Dundee stands frozen on the sidewalk, too stunned to do anything but keep listening.

“Yeah, you have,” Collin says, a laugh in his words. “You know how this works then. Want first crack at it?”

There’s a few taps and thuds, but nothing Dundee can place as a proper setting even as his mind tries to fill in the mental images. He imagines the storage room at Fridgit and Barry pulling his hoodie over his head –– only, Dundee still has that orange hoodie. Something Dundee doesn’t want to label as jealousy tries to dig into him, but he refuses to feel its talons that already have a solid grip on him.

“Fuck it, why not,” Barry says.

There’s a quiet thump and after a moment a moan. Dundee practically stops breathing so he can hear better and it’s either by blessing or curse that Barry’s next words are louder, as if Collin’s moved closer to him.

“I’m fine,” Barry says, breathless.

“Just take it slow,” Collin says. “Don’t hurt yourself for the fun of it. You just gotta ease into it.”

There’s the rustling of fabric against the phone and Barry moans again. He hears Barry’s breath coming short and fast and slowly stabilize. “I’m fine,” Barry says, sounding anything but.

“I can go easy on you if you want,” Collin suggests.

“I’m fine.”

“What!” Dundee shouts, unable to help the word that slips out of him.

Barry’s breathing is loud, even against the muffled quality of the call and Dundee bites his tongue to keep himself from shouting again.

“You sure?” Collin asks. There’s a thump and Collin groans, his next words coming out strained. “I’m just gonna rub this on here before we get too carried away.”

Dundee strains to hear the slick sounds that would accompany his mental images, but the loudest noise is the occasional thump or rustle of fabric.

“Yeah thanks, forgot that was a thing,” Barry says, slightly out of breath.

The Barry of Dundee’s imagination has a dark flush to his cheeks that runs down his neck and under his collar. He pictures Barry bent over one of the empty shelves of the storage room, bracing on his elbows and looking over his shoulder. In an act of cruel sabotage, his mind’s eye places Barry in Dundee’s pink hoodie and nothing else.

“Been a while since you’ve done this?” Collin asks.

“Long enough that I seem to have forgotten about that,” Barry says. There’s a thump and a clatter and then Barry moans, the sound sweetly drawn out and dying with a whimper. The rustle of fabric almost muffles Barry’s quiet, “Fuck.”

“Okay. Maybe we shouldn’t. I feel bad,” Collin says.

Dundee can’t help himself. “Yeah, you should feel bad! The man was beaten in an alley and now you’re trying to fuck him!” He receives some odd looks from people walking near him on the street and he quickly moves away for some privacy.

“No, I can do this,” Barry says.

Dundee admires Barry’s tenacity, but it doesn’t stop him wanting to beat Collin’s face in. The man claimed to have more humanity than Dundee, but then did shit like this when he thought no one would know. Dundee would have some choice words for him when he found him. He marches over to the nearest car and smashes the window in. He minorly shocks himself while hotwiring, too distracted with trying to listen in on the conversation.

“What if I get behind you instead? You know, Ghost it?” Collin suggests.

Barry laughs and Dundee hates that he wasn’t the one to cause it. “I can do it. It just might hurt me a bit,” Barry says and the last bit holding Dundee back falls away.

“You mother fucking hypocrite!” Dundee shouts as the car comes to life. He throws the car into gear and flies out of the alley, already scanning for Collin’s bike. “You low level piece of scum not worth the effort to clean off a dog’s asshole! Fucking come crying to me when I hurt your feelings, but then you turn around and try to fuck someone straight out of the hospital? Fuck you! Fuck your fucking bullshit morales! Fuck your stupid bike! And you better hope you hid yourself well, mother fucker, because when I find whatever dingy alley you’ve taken Barry into I promise you I am going to kick in your fucking teeth until you shit out dentures. Lying sack of…” He stops, realizing the line’s gone dead.

He isn’t quite sure when that happened.

He screams wordlessly at the disconnected call and opens his phone contacts. He sends a push bike off the road in his distraction and a moment later Edbert calls.

“What?” Dundee shouts.

“Was that you in the green sentinel? Or are we at war with GSF and I missed the memo?” Edbert asks.

“Where’s Collin?” Dundee’s still shouting, but he can’t find the reason to lower his voice.

“Alright, so it was you. Um, I haven’t actually seen him today. I woke up about an hour ago to do my shift at the tow yard––,”

“Call me if you see him.” Dundee hangs up. He misclicks a number and has a brief shouting match with the wrong person before hanging up on them too. Second try he calls the right person. “Jordan!”

“Hey Dundee,” Jordan says, slow and cautious. “What’s… what’s happening? I mean, how are you?”

“Where’s Collin?”

“I haven’t seen––,”

Dundee hangs up. He works through a few Bondi numbers and a suspicious amount of them pick up on his mood before he has a chance to ask them where Collin is and he hates himself for implementing the emergency phone tree system, regardless of how useful it’s been in the past. He just needs one of them off guard and to let something slip, but the more time he wastes with those in the loop, the further out the news reaches, and regardless if Dundee is their Prime Minister or not, it had long been ruled by unanimous vote to not give in to the angry demands of any singular member without a collective meeting regarding the decision.

Dundee doesn’t want it to come to a vote. He doesn’t want to have to explain to everyone why he’s pissed that Collin bought the time of a prostitute. He’s not ready to face what it means.

He slams his steering wheel and tries one last number.

“Hello!” Chain greets cheerfully, a far cry from the others with their careful greetings and quiet tones.

“I fucking hate how many alleys this city has! Do you know how many alleys there are? Millions. Thousands. It’s like someone took a map of all the buildings and thought, ‘hmm, how many tiny crevasses can I fit in this one square block?’ and the answer is a fuckton. It’s stupid, it’s like, are they afraid of making buildings touch? Why can’t buildings touch? It’s not the nineteen hundreds, Chain, buildings can touch if they want to!”

“Okay…?”

“You haven’t seen Collin have you?”

“Yeah, I mean, almost every day. Why? Did something happen to him?”

“No, but something’s going to.”

“Should I be getting war supplies?”

“No. Just let me know when you see him.”

Dundee doesn’t get any calls back all day and it’s probably for the best. He’s certain that if he’d received any calls within the first two hours of leaving the hospital he would request they come with guns. Now, it’s well past sunset and Dundee has resigned himself to not finding Collin. He’s perched on the grass hill across from Fridgit, watching the alley with the storage room while knowing that no one was inside. No one’s been around all night, not even the mysterious car and the chainsmoker who watched them that second time are there. It’s just Dundee and his own chain-smoking –– joints, though, as he couldn’t handle the stomach ache smoking nicotine this late at night did to him.

He’s numb to the cold of the night and the chittering of his teeth as dew sets over his boots. He’s seen exactly three races fly past him on the highway and two cop chases circle the scrapyard. He’s missed five calls from Bondi, one from Emma, and one from Charles, likely inviting him to the race he’d seen. He’s not interested in any of it.

He considers writing a note to Barry and pinning it to the storage door, but he talks himself out of it. Not only for his embarrassingly poor penmanship, but for the fact that by leaving any note on a place Barry had managed to keep secret he’d be revealing said secret. He knows what it’s like to have secrets yanked into daylight without warning.

He crushes the filter of his joint under his heel and wishes for alcohol.

He gets back into his car, resigned to leaving and drinking himself to sleep that night, when a familiar white mustang with a blue stripe down the middle circles Fridgit and pulls into the parking lot. Dundee crouches down in his seat and peeks over the dashboard to watch.

The car pulls into the parking lot, but doesn’t stay long. A tall man in a baseball cap and a black leather jacket steps out. The man slips off the leather jacket, seems to argue with the driver about it, before he leaves it on the passenger seat, revealing the thick bandages wrapped around his hand. He gives a short wave to the car as it reverses out and leaves. As the car turns away its headlights illuminate Barry, showcasing the rough state of him and Dundee winces.

Dundee ducks low in his seat again when the mustang rolls to a stop almost directly in front of his stolen car and for a moment Dundee thinks Collin’s seen him, but then his phone chimes with an alert: new race available, hosted by Patriot. Collin drives off without seeing him and Dundee stays, watching over Barry.

For a while, Barry paces in the Fridgit parking lot. He keeps glancing towards the bench across the street and looking up whenever he hears someone in the distance, but each time his gaze returns to the ground and he continues to pace. Despite giving every appearance that he’s waiting for someone, when someone does walk the sidewalk near Fridgit Barry ducks behind a stack of crates and doesn’t emerge until they’ve rounded the corner. Barry leans against the stack of crates and wrestles with a medicine bottle before dry swallowing a few pills. He pulls out his phone and types something out then continues to pace.

Dundee’s not sure what Barry’s waiting for, but he has the strangest feeling to check his own phone for a message, despite Barry not having his number. There’s a bunch of missed text messages, but nothing from an unknown number.

His finger hovers over an icon on the home screen, a voice inside his head telling him to check Twatter. He almost doesn’t, just to prove a point, but he clicks and stares in disbelief at the newest message at the top of the local Los Santos feed. Zero replies, zero retwats, zero likes, yet there it was, fresh for Dundee to read.

Barry_Benson: I lived.

Dundee looks up from his phone at Barry and back at his phone. He hits the reply button and thinks for a while on what to say, before his reply is unexpectedly shut and it returns to the main feed. Dundee frantically scrolls, trying to find Barry’s message again, but it’s gone. He looks up at Barry who’s staring at his phone before he tucks it away, crosses his arms over his chest, and disappears behind the scattered crates of Fridgit.

There’s the sound of a motorbike racing from the scrapyard and Dundee waits patiently for Barry to reemerge, but he doesn’t.

Dundee starts his car and marks on his GPS the starting waypoint of Collin’s hosted race. It’s been a few minutes and already started, so Dundee runs the track backwards, driving against the flow of traffic and keeping a sharp look out for Collin’s car. When it flies past him without incident, Dundee skids in a circle and speeds to catch back up to Collin.

He knocks Collin’s bumper and Collin must think it’s a joke because he waves at Dundee over his shoulder and holds up four fingers to indicate his place in the race. Dundee doesn’t care. He forces the stolen car to the edges of its speed to keep up and pull alongside Collin’s mustang before he swerves into him. He sends his own car drifting around a corner, but it’s quickly maneuvered back onto the road, meanwhile Collin goes flying. Dundee hears the scream as the mustang jumps the edge of the road and plummets into a ditch. Dundee stops at the top of the skid marks, looking down at the car as it spins in a circle and comes to a stuttering halt at the edge of a river.

His phone starts ringing.

“What the fuck was that cunt?” Collin shouts at him when he answers.

“I could ask you the same question!” Dundee shouts. “Why the fuck are you fucking someone who’s just come out of the hospital?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me!”

“Who said anything about fucking him? And why do you care?” The mustang sputters to life and quickly dies, but Collin continues to try to start it. “It’s my life.”

“I fucking care, when you try to act all high and mighty, calling yourself above my morales, but then you pull this shit.” Dundee steps out of his car. “Did it feel good, Collin, hearing his grunts of pain?”

“No, felt fucking horrible. Personally, I think he’s a pretty cool guy and if I ever find out who did that to him I’ll find an excuse to punch them.”

“Then why did you feel the need to add to it?”

“What?”

“Just because you pay him doesn’t mean he isn’t worth something more.”

“The fuck are you going on about? Pay him?”

“I know what you fucking did! I heard everything!”

“You…?” Collin laughs. “Yeah, sure. You heard everything.”

“So you admit to it?”

The mustang roars to life and begins creeping up the hill. “Yeah, alright, fine. I spent the afternoon with him. Like you so easily implied: anyone can buy his time. Why do you care if it’s with me?”

Dundee hangs up as the mustang’s front tires catch the edge of the road. Dundee pulls his gun and Collin yells at him from inside the car, but instead of opening fire like he really wants to do, he circles the car. He shoots out every tire and returns to his car and drives away. He slams the steering wheel a few times, needing the pain in his palms to prove he did something.

Collin calls him back.

“What the fuck!” Collin yells.

“Next time you try and tell me to do better, when I know about the shit you’ve done, I’m aiming for you.”

Collin is silent for a long moment. “Why do you care though?” he asks, no longer yelling.

“I don’t––!”

“We do fucked shit all the time, but apparently me with a prostitute is too much for you?”

“We do, but––!”

“Oh,” Collin says and laughs. “Oh!” His laugh turns into a wheeze.

Dundee wants to spin around and run him over, but tells himself it’s a waste of gas.

“Oh, I get it,” Collin says, a hint of a smile in his words.

“No you don’t. Shut up! Stop laughing!”

This makes Collin laugh more. “Dundee and Barry sitting in a tree––!”

Dundee shouts wordlessly at him.

“K-i-s––!”

Dundee hangs up.

Collin tries to call back, but Dundee ignores it, not wanting to hear anything else about Barry. He drives to Harmony to ask to borrow a car from the mechanic up there, already agreeing to split the winnings as the keys are being handed over. He outlines a race and waits for people to join, repeatedly kicking Collin from it when his alias shows up. Collin calls again and texts him telling Dundee to let him in the race, but Dundee ignores that too.

He knows with absolute certainty that if Collin joins the race and starts goading the others into pestering Dundee about Barry, he’ll blow up. Quite literally. He has a grenade in his closet that was a late birthday gift and he’s been waiting for an opportunity to use it. However, he doesn’t want to get banned from racing again, so he takes the simplest route and continues to kick Collin from the race.

The racers seem chill and none mention the absence of Collin nor the gun shots they must have heard on the last track, but a few give Dundee more space. He’s collecting entry fees at the starting gate and Barry is still on his mind. Part of him thinks he should have stayed at Fridgit to make sure Barry was okay. He moves down the line of racers, thanking each as they hand over the money.

“It’s Bart, man,” one racer tells him after giving him five hundred dollars. “I told you before. Bart. Not Barry.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Dundee wants to hit something, but he curls his fists and shoves them deep in his pockets. “Sorry, Barry,” he says, moving to the next racer.

“Bart!” the man yells at him.

During the race Dundee ignores the radio call outs and turns his music up until it’s rattling his brain. It’ll probably cost him his hearing in his other ear in the long run, but the thrumming guitar and smash happy drums keep his mind occupied. He crosses the finish line first and quickly moves onto the next race, slowly building up a sizable collection of winnings. He continues to call people by the wrong name and eventually resigns himself to sitting in his car, watching the others mingle.

He’s at his last race of the evening when his passenger side door opens and Mickey invites himself inside. Dundee doesn’t say anything, privately too scared he’ll say Barry’s name. He nods at Mickey.

“Hello, Dundee,” Mickey greets and holds out a pre lit joint for Dundee to take. “Is this sad boy hours or are you planning something? Either way: may I join you?”

“Yeah,” Dundee says, not confirming either.

Mickey sits in silence with him for a while before speaking, “I’m leaving Chang Gang.”

Dundee inhales too fast and chokes.

“It’s been a long time coming and everyone knows it. I might leave with a bullet in the back of my skull, or ocean water in my lungs, but in either case I wanted to ask a favour of you.” Mickey waits for a response, but Dundee’s too busy bent over the steering wheel choking on smoke to speak. “If I survive I fear it may not be with all of me and I need you to find me after it happens. Either set up my funeral or show me how to steal cars again, whichever state you find of me.”

“What the fuck, Mickey,” Dundee wheezes. “You can’t just drop that on someone.” Mickey pats Dundee’s back and with a final wheeze Dundee pulls himself upright. “What’s with the change of heart? Thought you loved those assholes.”

“I thought I did too, but they hurt someone I care about and quite frankly, I don’t think he deserved it. He’s a kind and honest man and they nearly killed him for it.” Mickey fidgets with his phone and pulls up a photo that he tries to show Dundee, but Dundee’s not interested in blind dating. From the corner of his eye, Dundee catches the image of someone sitting astride a motorcycle. “I actually think you two would hit it off if you met. I’ve already been talking you up to him.”

“I already got someone, Mickey,” Dundee says. “Besides, as you told me yourself once: I’m an unlovable cunt.”

“I never said unlovable and I’m a bit of an asshole too, you know this, but I just…” Mickey drops the rest of his smoke out the window. “He told me I could be something better and I believe him.”

“This guy sounds like a fucking idiot.”

“Maybe he is, but he’s got a point. I don’t do anything there. I’m a glorified assistant fetching them bank access codes and thermite instead of itineraries and tea.”

“They won’t let you leave there alive, Mickey. You know everything about them.”

Mickey bites his lip, but Dundee knows he agrees.

“It’s not happening now,” Mickey says. “Just… soon. I talked to Garrett—,”

“You already told one of them? Oh, you are a dead man walking, mate. Get out of the car, I don’t want to bring this back with brain matter on it.”

“Let me finish! I talked to Garrett about the possibility of me moving up in the ranks and he said, and I quote, ‘Oh, you don’t want that Mickey, but if you give it a month or two I could see some higher ranks opening up’.” Mickey fidgets and looks out his window as if regretting discarding his smoke so soon. “Thing is though and I know this with absolute certainty: every high rank is taken. So, maybe, if you see me or Garrett on the streets and we don’t recognize you, or… if you don’t see us at all, maybe just keep this in mind. I’ve always thought of you as a friend, Dundee, despite the amount of times you’ve gotten me arrested.”

Mickey grabs Dundee by the neck and holds him still as he quickly presses a kiss to his cheek and swiftly exits the car. The smoke in Dundee’s hand burns down to his fingertips without him noticing and he drops it into the footwell, stomping out the last of the embers. He drives in silence up to Harmony to return the car he’d borrowed for racing. He pays the owner a cut of his winnings and steals another car from the motel down the street.

He returns to Vespucci and quickly says good night before he can be pulled into any conversations. He hears someone yelling at him for bringing a stolen car into the Billabong, but he can’t bring himself to worry about it. If they cared so much, they could move it themselves.

He locks his door behind him and adds the deadbolt too. It’s overkill and he knows if anyone truly wanted to break into his house there were easier ways, but he needed the illusion of privacy, just for a bit.

He sits on his couch and lays his earnings out on the table to count: nearly fifteen grand. He’d thought it’d been a rough night, but truthfully this is the second most he’s brought home in one evening from racing alone. The only time he’d earned more was when Stevie was in debt with an upcoming loan payment and Dundee had brought her nearly thirty grand in a ziplock bag. He cared about Stevie and didn’t like to see her suffer when he knew he could help.

He doesn’t give himself time to think about what it means as he goes to the kitchen and searches for a ziplock bag. In the end he has to tip out his weed and reuse a bag, but it works. He recounts the earnings, takes off the extra to make it a round number, and tucks it safely inside. He likes to believe he’s made some of his better decisions without thinking and it’s by this non-thought that he takes a sharpie to the bag and marks it: B. He stares at the letter for a while, waiting for the ink to dry and for his heart to stop trying to fly out of his chest. Then he tucks it into his jacket pocket and hangs it by the front door to stop himself from going back to Fridgit.

He’d find him another day and hopefully he could apologize for –– and here his mind goes blank.

Apologize for what?

Dundee isn’t his caretaker.

He briefly considers taking the money from his jacket, but he yawns and goes to sleep instead, lying to himself that he’ll give the money to Pez in the morning.

Chapter Text

Barry braces himself against the dusty shelving of the storage room, trying his best to stay on his elbows as a rough hand presses down on his back.

“Yeah, bend over and take it. It’s probably the only way you’re useful,” says the man behind Barry as he continues to thrust into him.

Barry’s incredibly bored and has been since they’d started, but he still lets out the occasional moan to give the impression that he’s not mentally planning his week. The man behind him drives his cock in deeper and Barry hates that a genuine noise cracks out of him as it rubs over his prostate. This spurs the man to move faster, filling the empty room with the sound of bare flesh meeting, but at least the speed ruined his angle. Barry wants to cover his ears, but the last time he did that the man handcuffed him and almost forgot to uncuff him before getting back in his Interceptor. There’s a pouch on the man’s utility belt where his handcuffs are and the pouch’s open button is cold against Barry’s skin like the man’s waiting for any excuse to use them. Every pocket of the man’s belt prods into Barry’s ass, but Barry does his best to ignore it. The cop never pulls his pants down more than is necessary to get his dick out, meanwhile prefering to shove Barry’s jeans down to his knees, trapping his legs and subtly reminding Barry there was no point in running.

The hands on Barry move to his hips, yanking him roughly back as the man reaches climax and pushes deep into Barry. He grinds his hips into Barry, savoring the moment before pulling out and tying off the condom. He drops it into a small plastic bag he’d brought with him and tucks it into his pants pocket to dispose of later.

He’s one of the few who consistently bring their own condoms even though Pillbox’s medical coverage was enough to keep any diseases away. Barry suspects it’s more of a want to keep his DNA off any scenes. He’s also one of the few who don’t care if Barry comes or not, which Barry’s privately glad about. It’s hard to be excited when your partners spend the minimum amount of care on you, or snickers at you when you whimper in pain. The worst he does is slap Barry’s ass when he’s done… and sometimes during.

In any case, Barry’s glad it was him tonight and not the other Interceptor driver with the fake nails. She liked to press Barry against walls and ride his thigh while stroking him. She usually wouldn’t stop until he came, delighting in the small noises she could draw from him as he shook in oversensitive agony. This cop is always quick and efficient, barely breaking a sweat heavy enough to smudge the eye-black on his cheeks. The main downside to him would be his enthusiasm at not having to pay Barry. He knew Barry couldn’t even go to those he worked for regarding the issue, as their involvement would ultimately out them to their operations. The one time Barry had pressed him about the money he’d laughed and said, “What are you going to do about it? Call the police?”

The cop smacks Barry's ass and he winces, feeling the pain of other healing wounds clench around the action. Barry rests his head on his arms as he brings his breathing back under control. The cop hadn’t asked why Barry’s skin is marred in bruises and Barry hadn’t told him why. This cop didn’t care about the marks that would occasionally turn up on Barry’s skin. As long as Barry would bend over for him, he’d keep coming back.

“The good news, Barry,” the cop says, buckling his belt. “Is that I’m not going to impound your bike tonight for illegal parking. Least, not while it’s on Fridgit grounds.”

Barry understands the greater meaning: he would pay his parking fines in other ways. He’d tried to argue to be paid once to the cop and been met with “It’s just fucking money, doesn’t mean anything if it’ll come back to me in your taxes anyways.” After that, Barry doesn’t argue.

“I’ll see you around, officer,” Barry calls over his shoulder as he slowly works his way upwards from his elbows and pulls up his pants.

The cop waits until he’s outside the storage room before clicking his radio back on and notifying dispatch that he’s finished with his paperwork and asks about any active situations. Barry watches from the doorway as he jogs back to his Interceptor and turns on his lights and sirens and speeds away from Fridgit. Barry makes sure he’s presentable and pulls the door closed behind himself as he returns to his bench across the way from Fridgit. He sits gingerly, trying to position himself in a way that didn’t cause a spiderweb of tingling nerves along his bruised thighs or back. He slouches forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, and waits for his next customer.

In the meanwhile, he lights a joint and calls Mickey.

“Downbad Mickey,” he greets Barry.

“I know it’s you, I called you,” Barry says.

“I know, I just like the way it rolls off the tongue. What’s up?”

Barry considers for a moment and shrugs, knowing Mickey can’t see his indecisiveness. “I don’t know, I thought I’d just check in. Make sure you’re still alive.”

“Kicking and screaming.”

“I take it Garrett hasn’t told anyone else yet then, if that’s the case.”

“Or they care a lot less about me than I thought.”

“Mickey… they beat the shit out of me because they thought I’d done something.”

“That’s different. That was business, this is…” Mickey stops himself from saying the words, but it still hurts. “I mean, I guess it’s business too, in a sense.”

“You don’t need to backpedal, Mickey. I get it. You’ve known them for longer, it makes sense they’d be more lenient with you.”

“In any case, I haven’t talked to any of them yet. Except for you and Garrett, but no offense you don’t really count and Garrett’s, well, Garrett.”

Both are silent for a moment and Barry appreciates that the city is silent in that moment too, allowing him to remember. “Did I ever tell you Garrett paid for my rent for five months when I moved here so I wouldn’t be entirely out of pocket trying to pay rent without savings?”

Mickey doesn’t say anything.

“I tried to, um––,” Barry clears his throat. “Pay him back for it, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I don’t know… I guess I just mean to say that as a collective they might be assholes, but separately they’re all right. Maybe you just need to tell them one by one.”

Mickey hums. “I’ll be waiting a bit first before pulling that trigger. Though speaking of paying back, how are the heels treating you?”

Barry looks up and down the quiet street. “Yeah, great.”

“You haven’t worn them again, have you?”

“Yeah, no.” Barry laughs and Mickey does too.

“Fucking spoiled,” Mickey says with a laugh.

“Spoiled? I nearly broke my ankle and almost got mugged that night because of them!”

“Oh?”

“Well, I say almost mugged, but really they just laughed at me when I fell over and then drove me to the hospital because they felt bad for laughing at me.” There’s something else about that night that Barry’s sure he’s forgotten, but he can’t put his finger on what it is. “Anyways, those shoes are cursed and you can have them if you want.”

“Gladly! I’m going to look so fabulous strutting around, you’ll rue the day you gave them up.”

“Doubtful. I wish I’d never put them on.”

“You had one night with them, they must have brought you something good.”

A car engine draws closer, slowing the nearer it gets to Fridgit until Barry sees a blue muscle car. It stops in the middle of the road, presumably catching sight of him, before it shuts off its high beams and slowly rolls towards him. Barry stands and tries as subtle as possible to rearrange his rumpled clothes.

“I’ve gotta go, Mickey, I’m either about to be shot or paid.”

“Okay, bye, don’t die!”

Barry tucks his phone away and stretches his arms over his head, hiding his wince as best he can for his injury stiff muscles. He scratches his stomach, lifting his shirt up in the process and giving the driver what he hopes is an alluring display as he stands beside the open passenger window. “Alright, mate. Looking for something?” Barry dips at the waist, rocking back on his heels and tilting his hips as he rests his arms on the open window. “Maybe looking for –– Dee?” Barry doesn’t try to mask his surprise at seeing who’s driving. He’d expected Dundee to follow the same route as all the rest: a flash of infatuation which quickly fades after they’ve come to their senses.

Dundee’s hands adjust over his steering wheel and it takes him a second to meet Barry’s eyes. “Uh, hi,” he says and swallows comedically.

Barry hides his smile against his arms. “What are…? I don’t have your hoodie.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to have it.”

Barry kind of regrets not wearing it and quickly changes topics. “You running from cops?”

“No.”

“Looking for something?”

“… No.”

“… Looking for some one ?”

Dundee bites his lip and refuses to meet Barry’s gaze. “Can you not stand like that? I can see you wincing.”

“Yeah, it’s––,” Barry stands, twists his shoulders to work a muscle free around his back and squats next to the door. “I’ve got a few bruises.”

“A few?”

“I was in the hospital for a day.”

“I know.”

“You––?”

“So why are you out here?”

Barry steadies himself, grabbing onto the door frame and resting his chin on the edge. “Gotta make a living. World doesn’t stop turning just ‘cause some poor cunt’s prescribed bed rest for a week.”

“Fucking hell. Get in the car.”

“Okay,” Barry says cheerfully and hops in, momentarily forgetting about his injuries. He hisses when he sits too firmly back and eases himself against the seat. “You can just pull into the parking lot right there.” Barry points to the usual parking next to the alley and continues to point at it as Dundee passes it. He drops his hand to his lap. “Or you can drive around the back, that’s fine too. I can still do mate’s rates for you, since you’ve previously tipped so nicely.”

Dundee’s hand moves to his vest, feeling for something in the outline before returning to the wheel. He continues to drive them further from Fridgit and Barry knots his hands together.

“You missed the turn off,” he says quietly, unsure if Dundee even heard him when he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t repeat himself as Dundee drives them away from Fridgit, east through the Southside, and then up a mountain.

The muscle car’s wheels spin for traction on the loose bits of dirt, but they manage to crest the ridge unharmed. Dundee turns the car off and without the distraction of music the air turns tense with unsaid words. From their vantage point the city is a sea of lights and distant noise. Dundee shifts in his seat and Barry turns to face him, bringing one leg up under him. He grabs the steering wheel for leverage as he pulls himself closer, but Dundee leans away. He knocks his head into the window getting out of Barry’s reach and Barry flushes and stumbles for a recovery.

“Oh, did you want to move to the backseat?” Barry asks, looking over the seats. The back seat is filled with take out wrappers and mechanics tools. There’s also a discarded beach towel and a pair of jeans, both of which Barry doesn’t know the cleanliness of. It doesn’t look the most comfortable, but Barry’s dealt with worse.

“What?” Dundee says, voice cracking around the word.

“I mean, here’s fine too.” Barry bends down, but Dundee grabs his hand before it reaches Dundee’s jeans and then he pushes at Barry’s shoulder to move his head away from his lap. “Okay, if you’re going to kick me out of the car and say ‘walk, bitch’, I’d like you to know someone’s already pulled that joke and it’s lost its humor.”

“I’m not going to make you walk.”

“Then tell me why you brought me out here.”

Dundee is silent for a while, his fingers tracing a shape in his vest. Barry watches the pattern, hoping it’s not a gun. What Dundee does remove from his jacket is a ziplock bag stuffed to the brim with money. Barry reflexively scans around to make sure there’s no one’s looking, but doesn’t move to take it or even acknowledge it. It actually takes Dundee placing the bag in Barry’s lap for him to touch it. By rough estimate there’s maybe twenty grand in it, if all the bills are hundreds –– as it looks from the outside.

Barry’s hands shake and he feels himself step away from his mind without any way to stop it.

“What would you like?” he asks, tone flat as he undoes his seat belt.

He’s kicking himself that he didn’t tuck any travel packs of lube in his jeans, stupidly keeping it in the storage of his bike and under the shelving of the room. He hopes there’s lube or at least a fine enough substitute amongst the trash of the backseat. If not, spit will have to do. He absently traces over the fading rope burn around his left wrist, not noticing the action until Dundee lays a hand atop his to stop it.

“Nothing,” Dundee says. “I don’t want anything.”

“Then I can’t take this.” Barry tries to hand the money back, but Dundee shoves it at his chest. “Please, I can’t.” He wrestles with Dundee and they drop the bag into the footwell as they continue to fight, shoving and pulling at each other.

He’s not meant to turn down customers like this. When it’s this amount, he’s meant to take it and bend over. He’s meant to be a warm moaning body for them. The only way for Barry to be useful, as the cop had pointed out. He has no other skills to offer and if any one else heard Barry turning down this payment for as silly a thing as pride –– or for a crush, though he refuses to call it that even to himself –– they’d be wondering if Barry had any use at all. He doubts he’d get another chance like the casino to prove himself.

At some point they’ve moved closer and are nose to nose when the fight goes out of Barry. “I can’t,” Barry says. To him, it sounds like begging and he can only imagine how Dundee must hear it. He closes his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” Dundee says. He sounds stern, but he isn’t moving away. “What if I do want something from you?”

Part of Barry doesn’t want to know what Dundee would pay twenty grand for, but he’s always been curious. “What do you want?”

Dundee’s forehead knocks against Barry’s as he brings their faces closer together. “I want to kiss you,” he says, the words dying into a whisper.

Barry opens his eyes, drawing back a bit to get Dundee into focus. “That can’t be everything,” he says, images of ropes and blood replaying in his mind. “You have to want more.”

Dundee is bright red and he’s looking down at Barry’s left shoulder where his hand rests. He grabs a little tighter to Barry’s jacket, accidently pressing against a bruise, but also drawing Barry back into his own mind through the flash of pain.

“I… do,” he says at length.

Barry waits.

“I…” Dundee stops on a weighty pause, testing a few words in his mouth before he speaks. “Want you to come to Vespucci.”

Barry waits even longer, watching words half form on Dundee’s lips before being reworked.

“I want you to spend the day in Vespucci,” Dundee says and then after a quick thought adds, “With me.”

Barry blinks at him.

Dundee’s request is the furthest thing from what Barry could’ve imagined. He’d been thinking of rough hands and painful angles in a cramped backseat, but instead was offered the beach and a kiss. It feels a bit scummy to keep using Dundee’s money for simple things, but then again Barry’s no longer an accountant and if someone wanted to pay twenty grand for a peck on the lips, so be it. He leans forwards, intent to check off boxes and move away from the awkward negotiations stage of the evening, but Dundee grabs his jaw.

It’s not a rough grab, in fact it’s entirely the opposite. Dundee cradles Barry’s jaw like a delicate thing, thumb brushing his bottom lip. Barry’s breath catches and his hands find Dundee’s wrists, unsure if he wanted to pull them away or hold them in place. Dundee’s nose bumps against his and he tilts his head, not questioning how he knew that this is what Dundee wanted by the simple action. The first press of lips feels like an affirmation of location, but then Barry presses harder. He draws Dundee’s bottom lip between his teeth and Dundee gasps and pulls Barry closer, his arm wrapping around Barry.

The kiss morphs from something quick and innocent into a rough demand from both of them. One of Dundee’s hands finds its way into Barry’s hair, scratching his nails along the scalp in tandem with the press of their lips. Barry knots his hand into the front of Dundee’s shirt and follows after him when Dundee starts to shift around. Dundee blindly aids Barry into straddling his lap, neither wanting to break their kiss for long. Barry grabs the seat by Dundee’s shoulder to give himself some idea of how much space he had, but it all feels equally like too little and too much. One of Dundee’s hands falls to Barry’s waist and squeezes and Barry quickly moves it away from a patch of bruises, redirecting him to instead grab his thigh. Dundee uses his new handhold to pull Barry closer to him, his hips rolling to try to meet Barry’s. Dundee licks Barry’s lip and traces his tongue over Barry’s before moving back to more chaste kisses. Both of his hands move to rest over Barry’s thighs and eventually he breaks the kiss off.

Dundee looks down at his hands and bites his lip. He’s impossibly red and Barry gives a playful tug at Dundee’s shirt collar, trying a peak to see how far down the blush goes. Dundee chuckles and covers his mouth to hide his smile.

“Barry,” he says –– Barry resists the urge to label it as ‘fondly’. “I can’t drive us to Vespucci if you’re blocking the view.”

Barry slides back into his seat, but not before he presses a quick kiss to Dundee’s lips. He catches glances of Dundee from the corner of his eye as they drive down the highway and he finds himself smiling every time he looks over. He has a fleeting fancy to reach across and squeeze Dundee’s thigh, but it’s a precarious deal they’ve made and although Barry feels safe with Dundee, he knows nothing is certain. He picks up the ziplock of money and ensures its full seal before tucking it into the front of his pants. Dundee looks over and Barry thinks he’s going to comment on it, but he doesn’t say anything.

In Vespucci, Dundee parks in the same space as last time, first honking his horn at the brick wall behind them and sighing when he receives no response. He rushes around to the passenger side of the car to help Barry out and places himself firmly at Barry’s left side to whisper to him.

“I promise, there’s usually a greater response.” Dundee rolls onto his toes to peer beyond the brick wall, but the alley is quiet.

Barry smiles. “No, I’m sure your gang is very scary.” Barry bites his tongue, but then decides to push his luck. “And real,” he adds.

Dundee sputters for a response, but upon finding none he playfully shoves at Barry. The two walk towards the beach as Dundee tries to defend his so-far-unseen gang, telling Barry about its founding with Dundee as its Prime Minister. He deftly avoids the topic of a Vice-Prime Minister when Barry tries to joke about it, trying to compare the inner rankings to Parliament. Barry doesn’t immediately pick up on the mood shift this topic brings and Dundee lashes out, turning on Barry and asking him why he was afraid to accept the money. It’s a swift redirection that sets Barry on edge and reminds him that for as much as he’s built an image of Dundee in his head, he still doesn’t know him that well. After all, he’d had a certain image of the gang he worked for before he started working for them and that image had quickly been proven wrong.

“I don’t believe you meant to give me this much, is all.” Barry knows it’s a poor reason, seeing as the bag is transparent, but he doesn’t know how to articulate to Dundee the kind of expectations Barry would be required to fulfill with that amount of money. Regardless if Dundee asked or not, at a certain payment threshold, definite things were expected and word would travel fast if someone didn’t meet them. There were eyes everywhere in Los Santos.

In fact, Dundee could have been sent from someone higher up to test Barry.

It had happened before.

“It’s just fucking money,” Dundee grumbles. He stomps away, going to the edge of the waters as Barry sits on the sand. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Tether by tether Barry loses himself in the granules of sand and none of his usual grounding techniques are working. The ziplock of money feels like a hot brand against his skin and he pulls it from his waistband and throws it down the beach, its heavy impact in the sand drawing Dundee’s attention back to Barry. The shape of Dundee moving along the night’s horizon is a blue blur, pacing in front of Barry before going towards where the ziplock of money fell. Dundee retrieves it and stands at Barry’s feet, hand outstretched to return it, but when Barry doesn’t take it he kneels and tries again.

Barry doesn’t hear the ocean anymore, he hears laughter and music. The sand under him is fine silk sheets and the shape looming over him is powerful and dangerous. A voice in Barry’s head tells him to yield and he does, unfolding from the tight grip of his knees and leaning back on his hands to assert the impression that he’s relaxed –– despite every muscle in his jaw grinding his teeth together. The shape above him smiles and Barry recognizes it for a split second as not belonging in his private nightmares, but then a hand touches his thigh and Barry lashes out on instinct.

“Cunt!” Dundee yells, cradling his nose. He moans and curls forwards, dripping blood onto the sand. “Fuck, you got me good.”

Barry blinks at Dundee for a moment before moving to his side, tripping over the sand and landing on his knees. “Holy shit, I am…” He hates the nervous laughter that bubbles out of him and he presses a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck me for trying to make a connection.” Dundee pinches his nose and sits on his heels. “Fucking hope it isn’t broken, but if it is I’m blaming you for ruining date night.”

The words take a second to register in Barry’s mind, too focused on the blood and checking his pockets for the travel pack of tissues. “Date night?” Barry echoes back, needing confirmation that he heard correctly.

“I’m just going to use all of this,” Dundee says, taking the entire pack of tissues. “Not even our ex-members punched me before getting kicked and they had every right to, but I touch your leg without asking and you pretty much flatten my nose. Remind me not to piss you off.” Dundee holds the tissues under his nose and sits beside Barry. “Is that like, a personal thing? Or professional? Hands off the merchandise, kind of deal?”

“No, I didn’t even mean to!” Barry apologizes. He’s not looking forward to the retaliatory punch that will come his way once Dundee’s nose has stopped bleeding, but he knows it’s deserved.

“I get it. I bought one kiss from you and no free samples.” Dundee holds up the ziplock. “Though, is this you asking for a refund?”

“I honestly didn’t mean to hit you. I thought you were someone else.”

“I feel sorry for them.” Dundee pulls the tissues away and checks the bleeding. It’s mostly stopped, but now there’s dried blood on his nose and moustache. “How about we forget you tried to brain me and we restart this evening? I’ve got a little stash up there with a few liquor bottles and some joints.” He points to the top of the lifeguard tower and stands, continuing to rub dried blood from under his nose and dabbing at it with tissues. Dundee tucks the ziplock of money into his denim jacket again and Barry privately mourns the loss. “I’ll show you where to jump up.”

It’s not difficult to get to the top of the lifeguard tower, as there’s a few ladders, but Dundee seems insistent on pointing out every protruding nail or patch of rust. He leads them to the top platform of the tower and then circles it, tapping against the wall until he finds a loose board. He yanks it aside, uncovering a hidden stash of bottles and a cigarette case. He cheers and turns to Barry with his findings.

“I remembered!” He grins at Barry and sits on the edge of the platform, patting the space to his right for Barry to sit. “I was drunk as a skunk when I put that shit there, but quite frankly I’m surprised it stayed there at all.” He wrestles with the cork of a bottle, grunting as he attempts to wiggle it loose by sheer force.

Barry takes out his pocket knife and gives it to Dundee, watching in fascination as Dundee massacres the cork, but manages to get it out. Dundee licks the wine off the knife without a second thought and Barry’s transfixed by this simple action. Dundee licks his fingers too where wine has dribbled over them, before he takes a sip. He folds the knife and hands it back and Barry quickly tucks it away.

“Right, before I restart this evening I want to know one thing.” Dundee holds out the bottle for Barry. “In return I will tell you why Bondi has no Vice Prime Minister.”

“Wait, Bondi? You named your gang after a beach in Australia?”

“Seemed fitting,” Dundee says with a shrug. He shakes the bottle at Barry, who finally takes it. “Why won’t you accept that I was happy to give you this in exchange for a kiss?” Dundee takes out the ziplock of money and sets it between them.

Barry drinks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He drinks more before handing the bottle back, hoping it’ll give him the excuse to say anything. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, manually trying to shake his brain into working order. “I have no problems taking money from people,” he says, eyes still closed. “It’s what follows an exchange of that amount of money that’s usually the issue.” He pulls the sleeves of his jacket lower to cover his wrists and feels Dundee shift beside him.

“Oh. I see.” The swish of liquid as Dundee drinks. “So, that amount of money would’ve bought… I see. Okay. Good to know. I will not be paying you large amounts of money then, if that’s the case.”

Barry tucks his knees to his chest and clenches his jaw. The bottle bumps against his shoulder and Barry takes it and drinks without opening his eyes, quickly handing it back after.

“Good to know,” Dundee says again. “Right, fair’s fair.” Dundee huffs and Barry hears the flint of a lighter before Dundee continues in a quieter tone. “Suppose it’s always about money in the end. That’s why we ain’t got no Vice Prime Minister. She, uh… she tried to kill me, Barry. Or rather, tried to have me killed. She thought I was reckless, incapable of change, and bound to drag the club under. Joke’s on her though ‘cause we’ve been stronger than ever since she left, even if she did take almost half the club with her when she went. Fuck ‘em, they weren’t Bondi. They were here for the wrong reasons and it took nearly dying to see that. They cleared out every account they had access to and fled Los Santos. Last I heard they were all scattered across the globe, doing their own shit.”

Barry has no response and simply drinks when the bottle is passed to him.

“I do have one more request of you before we restart this evening,” Dundee says.

Barry opens his eyes and tilts his head to look at Dundee. The wine bottle sits between them with half of an extinguished joint pressed under its rim and Dundee’s turning the ziplock of money over in his hands.

“I need to tell you something and you need to never tell another living soul.” Dundee sounds serious and it makes Barry lift his head and turn to face him. “The only person I’ve done this to was a county clerk, only it was in exchange for her life.”

“What?”

“I really wanted a pilot’s license, but that’s not the point. I’m… I’m bribing you, Barry Benson, and you had better agree to keep this secret in exchange for this bag of money.”

A surprised little laugh cracks out of Barry before he tempers it back down. “And what’s this secret?”

“No, you have to agree to keep it first. Take the bribe, Barry.” Dundee holds out the ziplock and waits.

“This feels––,”

“Barry, take the money,” Dundee says sternly.

Barry snaps into action at the tone, but doesn’t actually pull away once he’s holding the ziplock and they both continue to hold either end of it, staring at each other for a prolonged moment.

“My secret? My horrible, deep, dark, most vile unusual thought, so obscene no one would think it was me, is…” Dundee waits, slowly pushing the money towards Barry. “I want to hold your hand.”

Barry laughs, full and genuine.

“Shut up! It’s not funny!” Dundee twists around to look behind himself, fully shoving the money at Barry in a haste. “I’m being completely serious. You can’t tell anyone I told you that. I’ve got an image to maintain as the fearless leader of the Bondi Boys Motor Club. I can’t have people mocking me about how I’m getting soft.”

“I dunno, Dee,” Barry sing-songs, holding the ziplock on his lap. “We haven’t reset the evening yet and I still remember you rolling your hips under me in the car. I wouldn’t say you’re getting soft. In fact, maybe the exact opposite.”

Dundee flushes bright red and chugs back a fair bit of the first bottle as Barry laughs. Dundee laughs too, but it’s guarded and a part of Barry wonders about the genuineness of the confession. Barry wipes his palms on his jeans and then snakes his hand into Dundee’s. Dundee looks over at him and Barry shrugs.

“Two can keep a secret,” Barry says. “Now about this restart, will there be more alcohol because you seem to have drunk a fair bit of this one.” Barry taps the nearly empty bottle.

Dundee points to the hiding spot. “Should be more in there.”

Barry drops Dundee’s hand, trying not to think about how quickly his hand gets cold, but catches Dundee staring at his hand like it’s not his own. Barry sorts through the bottles and startles when a folded piece of tin foil falls out. He almost throws it off the side of the tower, thinking it’s trash, but instead carefully peels back the layers to reveal four small squares of colourful design.

“Holy shit,” Dundee says, suddenly standing at Barry’s back. “I forgot those were in there.”

“Is this what I think it is?”

“It most certainly is.”

“Okay, when you say ‘reset evening’ are you thinking like, full wipe? ‘Cause if we take this –– and I kind of want to take this –– that joking phrase might come true.”

“Most jokes come true. It’s how half the people in my club found their life partners.”

“Alright, if we’re going to––,”

“We most certainly are going to.”

“–– I don’t want to be wandering around with twenty grand in my pockets,” Barry says.

Dundee removes the two remaining wine bottles from the stash and replaces them with the ziplock bag of money before shoving the wood panels back into place. He wipes the dust off his hands and reaches for the tin foil, tipping one of the squares onto his thumb. The design is a little pink heart and he smiles at it before reaching for Barry’s mouth.

“Open up,” Dundee says.

“Okay, but will we remember that’s in there though?”

Dundee shrugs. “Or it’ll be our surprise for next time. Say ahh .”

Barry pokes out his tongue and Dundee presses the acid tab against it. Barry draws Dundee’s thumb into his mouth and sucks on it once before pulling off. Dundee is speechless and slack jawed and there’s no resistance when Barry takes the acid tab with an orange smiley face on it and wiggles his finger into Dundee’s mouth. He traces over Dundee’s bottom lip when he’s done and gently taps the underside of Dundee’s chin to close his mouth. Barry gathers the wine bottles and tells Dundee they should probably get off the roof before it sets in, lest their night be ruined again by hospitals.

They start walking towards the Dean World pier and about halfway there Barry stops them. He moves the bottle in Dundee’s hand to the other side then grabs his hand and continues walking. Somehow, they get lost along the way and end up stuck inside the skatepark for nearly an hour, taking turns running up the sloped corners and attempting to grab the edge, laughing hysterically at each other as they try to get out. They laugh even harder, Barry collapsing against Dundee’s shoulder in breathless giggles, when Dundee turns around and finds the steps right behind him. They lay against the walls of the skatepark for a bit, catching their breath. After getting out of the skatepark they continue towards the pier, until both are caught by the mesmerizing display of lights along the ferris wheel. They watch the lights spiral and swirl in alternating blues and purples. When the display of lights dissolves into jagged red stars exploding from the center of the ferris wheel, there’s an anxious twist of nerves in Barry’s stomach and his hand tightens around Dundee’s. They both turn and start walking back along the beach towards the lifeguard tower without exchanging a word.

A little ways from the pier Dundee gasps and grabs Barry around the middle. He presses his face to the side of Barry’s and points out towards the water. He chirps gleefully, before he takes off at a sprint, pulling Barry with him. They both trip into the ocean and Dundee’s original goal is momentarily forgotten as both fall into a friendly splashing competition. It’s only when the jetski knocks against their heads that it’s remembered it’s there.

Dundee pulls himself up onto it and starts hotwiring it, but something better and parked further out at sea catches Barry’s eye. He doggy paddles over to the speedboat with his wine bottle tucked under his arm and rolls his way onboard, laughing in surprise at the physical drain of this simple action. Then he looks back at shore and finds it further than he’d thought. He watches Dundee complete his hotwiring process then look around for Barry and yell his name. Barry ducks down before Dundee sees him, giggling when Dundee jumps off the jetski to look for him. Dundee makes little waves through the water as if trying to part it before he dips below the surface.

Meanwhile, Barry searches the boat for the keys, lifting seat cushions and crawling under the front seats. He manages to lockpick the glovebox and by pure luck finds a set of keys. It takes a couple tries to fit them into the ignition, but Barry blames the key for its gelatinous form refusing to cooperate. He carefully guides the boat towards where he last saw Dundee, praying he doesn’t hit him in the dark. He cuts the engine early and lets it drift closer. He whisper-yells Dundee’s name, self-conscious about how far his voice would carry along the empty beach. There’s no response, but then there’s a thunk from under the boat and Barry races to the side. He flails a hand in the water until he feels denim and pulls. Dundee breaks the surface coughing and sputtering.

“What the fuck, Barry!” he whines, flopping into the boat like a fish and rolling atop Barry. “You parked a boat on me!”

Barry laughs and Dundee bobs up and down where he rests on Barry’s chest and this makes Barry laugh harder. Dundee quickly catches onto what’s making Barry laugh and he moves in exaggerated motion as he laughs, going back and forth from staged laughter with jittering motion into the real thing. Slowly, their laughter dies out and Dundee rests his head on Barry’s chest for a while longer before getting up and claiming the driver’s seat.

“Keys!” Dundee says, repeating the word over and over while turning the wheel back and forth.

“No, don’t take them out! I’m pretty sure it’s actually a fish of some sort, but it started the boat so I don’t care. But be careful! Don’t let it bite you.” Barry takes the passenger seat and sets the lone surviving bottle of wine in the built-in cooler between them.

Dundee pokes the key a few times before starting the boat and in a short time they’re skipping across waves, making their way steadily north. The further from the city they drive, the brighter the stars get, until they’re up in Paleto and Dundee’s kicking the anchor over the edge of the railing.

Barry pulls his arm into the sleeve of his jacket and tries to wring out as much water as possible, but his clothes are soaked through and starting to chafe. He stands up and wobbles to the middle of the boat before wrestling out of his jacket. He drapes it over the side of the boat and grabs the hem of his shirt. He catches Dundee staring at him, but rather than the twist of nerves of being watched Barry feels the unmistakable urge to show off. He slips out of his shirt and twists out the water before laying it atop his jacket. When Barry looks up from the water, Dundee is facing the other way.

Barry shifts on his feet, trying to decide the right course of action, but it’s difficult to concentrate and it’s not just due to the drugs. He pulls at the crotch of his jeans, trying his best to mitigate the rubbing, but quickly decides it isn’t worth the pain and unbuttons his jeans. At the sound of a zipper Dundee looks over his shoulder.

“Ah, shit,” Dundee says and looks forward again.

“I couldn’t sit in damp clothes anymore. Hope you don’t mind.”

“But all of–– You were fully–– I mean––,”

Barry giggles and he feels it across his skin like the wind, but warm and soft. He doesn’t stop to consider if it’s actually him blushing. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the underwear’s staying on.”

“I’m not disappointed,” Dundee says quickly. “I feel like I should, I don’t know, ask permission now because I was going to do the same thing.”

Barry sits on the back bench and unlaces his boots. “You don’t need my permission to take your clothes off.”

“But I do!”

“Why?” Barry asks. He tucks his shoes under the bench and stands to peel off his jeans. His underwear is decorated in little red hearts and he’s glad he actually managed to clean his laundry a couple days ago, instead of him being caught in the holey briefs he uses when he’s reached the bottom of his closet. He’d likely throw himself into the ocean or simply suffer the damp denim chafing were that the case.

“Well, for one I don’t have any more bribery material if I fuck up again and ruin the evening.” Dundee moves to the middle of the boat and Barry stands in front of him, arms crossed. “And for two, I don’t want to offend you if I take my pants off and––,”

“Oh my God!” Barry covers his face, muffling his laugh.

Dundee’s hands come up to grab Barry’s and he gently moves them away from his face. “I really don’t want to ruin the evening,” he says softly. “But I want to take my pants off because I am fucking itchy and it’s driving me crazy.” Dundee tries to stay serious, but a smile creeps onto his face as he speaks.

Being this close to Dundee and with the static of acid still under his skin, pushing aside the lesser nerves that would usually tell Barry to not do something, it’s easy to ignore the fear. A part of Barry is still acutely aware of how precarious the situation is, especially being this far out at sea with a dangerous man, but that part is the quietest it’s ever been.

“Barry?”

Barry doesn’t answer him, but instead grabs Dundee’s jacket by the collar and pulls it off his shoulders. Dundee doesn’t say anything as Barry removes Dundee’s jacket and it falls to the deck with a heavy splat. Dundee licks his lips as Barry grabs the hem of Dundee’s shirt and tugs him closer. Dundee’s breathing speeds up and he lifts his arms for Barry to pull his shirt over his head. Barry bites his tongue and leans in, heart fluttering when Dundee preemptively tilts his head. Before their lips touch Barry drops to his knees and Dundee staggers when the boat rocks on a sharp wave. He grabs Barry’s shoulder and Barry looks up at him. Barry smirks and then grabs Dundee’s jacket and stands.

“I’ll wring these out. I assume you can manage your pants?” Barry says and turns around. He holds back a laugh at the noise Dundee makes and silently twists the water from Dundee’s clothes.

“That was cruel,” Dundee mutters. “And now I’m cold.”

Barry finishes with the shirt and jacket while Dundee’s still wrestling out of his pants and he sits sideways in the front passenger seat and watches. Dundee’s wearing leopard print briefs and his tan lines are hilariously mismatched. Barry counts three across his shoulders and arms and two on his legs. Dundee almost falls off the boat at one point, until he sits on the deck to finish dealing with his pants. Barry takes the wine bottle from the cooler and pulls out the cork, amazed at how easy it goes, as he watches in mild amusement.

“Just keep drinking and you’ll forget about how cold it is.” Barry says. He takes a long drink, momentarily distracted when Dundee stands up and leans across Barry to hang his pants over the front windshield to dry. Barry takes another quick sip then holds out the bottle for Dundee.

Dundee takes it and sits down on the deck between the side-mounted bench seats and motions for Barry to join him. The two sit in comfortable silence until Dundee shoves the cork back in the bottle and lies down. He continues to flop about in the space, knocking against Barry until Barry gets the hint and stretches out next to him. It’s cramped and there’s a minor struggle for elbow space before Dundee wedges his arm under Barry’s head. Barry is a stiff plank beside Dundee until the lull of acid and the intricate patterns of the stars melt him into a puddle. Dundee however, keeps twitching every few minutes and after it happens again Barry sits up and looks at him.

“Sorry,” Dundee says before Barry says anything.

“The fuck are you doing?” Barry asks, a hint of a laugh in his words.

“I keep thinking I’m going to fall upwards and then the boat fucking––,” Dundee jolts again as the boat drops on a wave. “That! And I know I’m not going to fall into the sky, but it feels like a very real possibility.”

“Is this another excuse to hold my hand?” Barry asks and lays back down. “You don’t need to keep making up reasons.” He reaches across Dundee and grabs his hand, holding it in front of them like a seatbelt. Dundee jolts again, but not as badly. Barry lays one leg atop Dundee’s. “There. You’re not going to float away.”

Dundee’s hand tightens in Barry’s. “If I do, you’re coming with me.”

Barry can’t tell if it’s the acid or purely Dundee himself, but he’s fascinated by the rough textures of Dundee’s palm and he traces his fingers along the marks and calluses. “I think I’d be fine with that,” he whispers and looks up at the stars swirling above them in the endless dark sky.

It’s the second time Barry falls asleep beside Dundee, but this time he wakes up some ungodly hour before dawn with the wind cutting across the water and chilling him to the bone. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself as he turns onto his side. It doesn’t help though and Barry rolls over again to look at Dundee, still fast asleep and lightly snoring. Barry watches him for a while before he tucks himself close, hoping to siphon off some of Dundee’s body heat. What he doesn’t expect though is for Dundee to throw his arm over Barry and drag him to his chest without waking up. Barry holds his breath, not wanting Dundee to wake, but the other man is deep asleep and doesn’t even stir when a nervous laugh bubbles up in Barry. Barry adjusts himself, curling closer and falling back asleep with a smile on his lips.

When he wakes up some hours later, the boat is safely docked in Paleto and Dundee is gone, but Barry finds he’s not disappointed in it. He’s a little annoyed that he has to find a ride back to the city, as the thought of going back out on the ocean makes his stomach roll, but it’s a minor inconvenience. Barry traces the lines of his palm, the phantom touch of Dundee’s hand still weighing on his mind. He’s unsure if he’ll go back to Vespucci to get the money, but regardless he’ll happily keep Dundee’s secret.

Chapter Text

Dundee wakes up laying on Barry’s chest with his arms around Barry’s waist and he hates that it’s in the cramped confines of a stolen boat and not the plush luxury of his bed. He slowly moves off and Barry whimpers in his sleep when Dundee accidentally pushes against one of his bruises. It shocked Dundee last night how mottled Barry’s skin is and he’d caught himself staring multiple times at Barry moving so fluidly without complaint. It amazed him that Barry had barely complained, but looking back without the haze of alcohol, drugs, and lust, there were instances where Barry flinched, but barely cracked a noise or recoiled at the contact. If anything, Barry had moved into it and in some ways that concerned Dundee more.

After Dundee carefully moves off, Barry curls into a tight ball. Dundee pulls his clothes on as stealthily as possible, trying his best not to rock the boat and wake Barry. He drapes Barry’s jacket over him and Barry’s phone slides out of the pocket. It clatters to the deck and Dundee freezes, watching Barry’s face for any reaction. When Barry continues sleeping, Dundee takes his phone and messages himself, not bothering to save his number on Barry’s phone when he does.

He stretches and looks around, finding himself much closer to shore than last night led him to believe. He’d felt miles at sea, but he doesn’t know if that’s the truth or if perhaps their anchor wasn’t as strong as the tides and they’d drifted towards the shores of Paleto in the night. Either way, he starts the engine and coasts towards the shore. He digs around in the boat’s storage and finds rope that he uses to properly anchor the boat to a rock on the shore.

Before he leaves he watches Barry for a moment longer, curled under his jacket and hiding his face from the morning sun. The sight makes Dundee’s heart beat wildly and he jumps off the boat and runs along the shoreline to push the thoughts from his mind. He has a minor flash of guilt about leaving Barry half-naked on the boat, but they’re far from any town and Barry had nothing of value anyone would want to steal.

Items aren’t the only thing one can take, some deep voice at the back of Dundee’s subconscious interjects.

Dundee slows to a walk, still leaving the boat though he does give it one more look over his shoulder before he climbs up an embankment and begins the process of hitchhiking down the highway. Dundee can’t get the image of Barry’s bruised skin out of his mind though and when someone pulls over to offer him a lift Dundee runs back down the embankment. He finds the nearest cropping of trees and hides in a bush. It’s a poor vantage point to watch the boat from, but he still sees when Barry wakes up around fifteen minutes later and Dundee sinks low into the leaves.

Barry stands, but it’s not without stiff movement and using every nearest handhold to keep himself upright. He wraps an arm around his stomach where Dundee saw the greatest collection of bruises and he hopes that him sleeping on Barry didn’t aggravate any wounds.

“Wait, no,” Dundee says to himself, crawling backwards out of the bush. “I don’t care. I don’t!” He runs through the trees until he meets the highway and keeps running until the stitch in his side forces him to stop. He has no idea where he is and the thought of calling anyone for a lift is mildly embarrassing, but as usual San Andreas proves to be smaller than it seems and a dark blue muscle car speeds past him before slamming on the brakes and reversing.

Dundee recognizes the blue Tulip with the white stripe down the front almost instantly and he contemplates hiding in the trees again, but before he has a chance to run the passenger window rolls down and a woman with blue and purple hair leans across the seats.

“Is that you, sir?” Fey asks, squinting at him through her sunglasses.

“Yes, hello Ophelia.” Dundee subtly checks his pants are zipped and adjusts his jacket collar around his neck. It’s dried stiff in the wind and it pokes against his skin like a constant reminder of where he spent the night.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she asks, opening the door for him.

Dundee knows there’s a certain recklessness of getting into a car with Ophelia Dawson, but he’s also aware that at any moment Barry could appear at the side of the highway also looking for a lift. He gets in and tells her to drive. She slams her foot on the gas and the car’s end fishtails wildly before righting itself and continuing down the highway.

“What are you doing in Paleto?” she asks, looking away from the road for too long and swiping past a local’s car. They shake their fist at her and attempt to ram her back, but it’s barely noticed over her erratic driving.

“I could ask you the same thing, Fey. Why aren’t you in Vespucci?” he says, anger leaking into his words. However, Fey’s been at the brunt end of worse anger and hardly seems fazed at his tone.

“I’m getting supplies from Willie’s, like I do every week,” she says. “When you weren’t answering your phone Pez wanted to declare you officially dead by the way. He may have thrown your couch out into the alley as his first move as new Prime Minister.”

“That fucking weasel.”

“It was destined for the trash anyways.”

“Maybe! But I wanted to throw it off the balcony. Why does he get to do it?”

Fey giggles at his whining tone and takes out her phone. “I’ll tell someone to take it back inside then.”

The car swerves as she scrolls her phone and Dundee resists the urge to reach over and grab the steering wheel, knowing that the only way to learn was through doing. But, he also knew that one would need to be alive to learn. “It’s fine. Forget it,” he tells her and sighs in relief when she puts the phone away. “And I’m not dead, just my phone.”

“Need a new one?” Fey asks, holding hers out in offering.

“It’s just the battery. I didn’t think I’d be out all night.” Dundee scowls and hunches in on himself, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying anything more. Though a part of him wants to tell her about Barry.

“Please don’t puke in my car,” Fey says, looking him over.

Dundee adjusts in his seat. “I’m not going to puke in your car.” It’s only a minor lie, as a part of him still feels like everything is swaying gently side to side. He leans against the door, just in case, letting the wind of the open window cool his clammy skin.

“It’s just… the last time you were out all night, Twatter speculated that it found the Yeti and now I find you in a forest in Paleto looking like…” she doesn’t finish her sentence.

Dundee folds down the sun visor mirror and recoils at his reflection. His eyes are bloodshot and there’s dark bags underneath. His hair is a wild mess and his clothes are rumpled and covered in pine needles. He brushes himself off and Fey protests at the mess, but he ignores it. “I slept on a boat last night,” he says. “I didn’t plan on it, I was waiting for my clothes to dry.”

“Ah, yes, boats. Famously known for causing red eyes and ––,”

“All right! I was drinking too! And I did a little bit of acid. What do you want from me?”

“Only for you to not puke in my car,” she says.

“I’m not going––,” Dundee spins for the open window and vomits onto the highway.

“There it is.” Fey pulls to the shoulder of the road and parks. She gets out and retrieves a couple of bottles of water from her trunk and gives them to Dundee. “You were looking a little green, but I thought maybe if I didn’t say anything about it you’d be fine. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

Dundee pants and leans against the door. “Take me to the Billabong, Fey.” He holds a water to his neck, sighing at the cool touch.

“Yes, sir,” Fey says with a smirk and continues the drive in silence.

Dundee vomits once more just outside of Vespucci, but after that his gut settles and the day carries on as normal. It’s not until the sun starts to set that his mind returns to Barry. He climbs to the top of Big White and perches on a ledge to watch over the beach while his mind churns. It’s nearly as sickening as the morning and Dundee lays back to watch the stars emerge from the dark, but even that reminds him of Barry. He refuses to label anything in his heart or mind, knowing that it was likely to change several times over, so what was the point. However, his mind keeps drawing up images of green sea glass eyes and his heart stutters, his mind replays Barry’s laugh and Dundee’s breathing quickens.

He wants to puke.

He hates it, but he honestly does try.

He curls over his knees and tries all manner of breathing techniques, but all he ends up with is a woozy head and a dry throat. He needs to physically purge himself of the strange fluttering in his stomach. He hates it because he knows it’s not a hangover from the wine or trailing effects of the acid. There would be no easy way to get this feeling out of him.

“I don’t care,” Dundee says to the empty rooftop. “I really don’t.” He collapses into one of the patio chairs and lights up a joint.

“Okay, fine, but I still feel bad about it, though in my defense: I really needed to pee.”

Dundee jumps and spins around as Pez walks up the inlaid set of steps across the way. He’s zipping up his pants and although he’s wearing his signature mask and goggles, Dundee can tell by the way he’s walking that he’s smiling.

“Fucking Christ, Pez,” Dundee sighs, hand over his chest trying to push the fear back down. For just the briefest of moments he’d thought it was Barry.

“What? There’s a drain and it’s supposed to rain tonight.” Pez takes the chair beside Dundee and stretches out languidly, hands behind his head. “So what are you up to tonight?”

“Nothing,” Dundee says, too fast.

Pez looks over. “Really? I have a hard time believing that.”

“I can have quiet nights.”

“I’ve never seen you have a quiet night.”

“Well, I would hope so!”

“I––,” Pez bursts into laughter, catching onto the unspoken suggestion. “Not like that. Fucking… quiet night.” Pez chuckles.

Dundee means to be silent for a moment while he thinks, but the question pops out while he’s still mulling the thought over. “Do you think I can’t be quiet?” The words are almost a mumble and he’s a little surprised Pez even hears him.

“Um… I think you have moments of outward silence.”

Dundee looks out across the Billabong, surprised to see it filled with life this late in the evening. He spots a few denim jackets sprinting across rooftops, followed by the unmistakable sound of a paintball gun. Laughter carries up from below, followed by joyful screams, and more paintballs. He thinks he hears Edbert’s manic cackle before it’s cut short in a shriek and the sound of something heavy falling into an open dumpster. Part of him wishes Barry were here, if only to prove to him that Bondi was more than one person, more than Dundee.

He smiles fondly, but it twists into a scowl when he catches Pez watching him from the corner of his eye.

“What?” Dundee snaps.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Pez snatches the joint from Dundee’s fingers and lifts the bottom of his mask to take a drag.

“Do you ever wish you could start over?”

“I swear, if you bring up alternate lives again––,”

“No, I just mean, do you ever wish you could redo how people see you?”

“No.” Pez fans out a hand as if on display. “Have you seen me? I look fabulous.”

Pez is wearing mismatched shades of red, but oddly it suits him. Dundee hums in agreement and lays back to look at the stars.

“What about you?” Pez asks, turning on his side to look at Dundee, the stolen joint now wedged into the vents of his mask. “What would you change? Reckon you’d start dying your hair again?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dundee quietly says, trying to find the constellations Barry invented amongst the clutter of stars. He doesn’t know how to tell Pez that it goes deeper than looks, but Pez has always been a little too good at guessing inner thoughts and his next words stun Dundee.

“Reckon you still would’ve killed that man?”

Pez doesn’t mention a name, but they both know who he’s talking about. He haunts Dundee, an ever constant reminder of what he became for that man, a threshold he crossed and knew not how to return from. Dundee swears he’s seen him a few times on the streets, but there’s plenty of flat caps in the world; it made sense that a few would make their way through the shops of Los Santos.

“I know how everyone sees you,” Pez says. “I still think of you as the dumb cunt high on pingas falling over the sidewalk outside Hayes, but that person would not have been able to create what we have now. We need this Dundee, but… I know what you mean.” Pez is quiet for a moment and when he speaks it’s soft. “I had that for a while too, before he destroyed it.” Pez looks at his hands, clenching and unclenching.

“I sometimes wish you lot never saw half the dumb shit I do.”

“But then what would we laugh at?”

“Collin falling over?”

Pez laughs. “Yeah, alright, I’ll give you that. It’s fucking hilarious to watch him eat shit.” Pez pulls the dying joint from his mask and throws it to the ground and stands. “Well, you’re obviously up here doing some deep interpersonal reflection. I’ll interrupt another time.” Pez pats Dundee’s shoulder and makes his way quickly down the ladder facing the Billabong. He stops halfway and calls up to Dundee. “Hey, uh, if he feels the need to come and bother you later, I’d like to apologize in advance. We don’t always swap notes.”

“It’s fine, Speedwagon.” Dundee takes out his phone and scrolls to the new contact he’d saved this morning. “If he wants to come say hi, it’s fine. I just might not be here.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Pez’s boots tap against the metal ladder. “Alright, you’d better remember you said that,” Pez yells and slides down the ladder.

Dundee bites the skin around his thumb and paces across the rooftop as he hits dial on the number. It rings for a while and Dundee’s almost grateful to hang up, but at the last moment the call connects. There’s nothing but silence for ten seconds before a voice speaks, sounding almost as confused as Dundee is for wanting to call.

“Uh… Hello?” Barry answers.

Dundee contemplates hanging up, but it’s too late. “Hi. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up tonight. Nothing, um, no stress if you’re busy or if you’ve got work to do. I just… I wanted to see you again.” Dundee winces at his last sentence, hating how whiny his voice goes.

More silence. “Sorry, who is this?”

Dundee’s stomach drops. “It’s… Dundee.”

“Oh.” Barry’s tone shifts and Dundee doesn’t want to speculate, but it sounds like he’s smiling. “Dee. Hi.”

“Hi.” Dundee’s heart skips at the nickname and he fights to keep a stupid grin off his face.

“How did you get my number?”

“Yeah, sorry, I kind of stole it.”

“At least you left me my shoes.”

“You’re not my size.”

“I think I’m exactly your size,” Barry says, voice a low rumble in Dundee’s ear.

Dundee looks around to make sure no one else overheard.

“Sorry, I think I’m still a little bit high,” Barry quickly adds at Dundee’s extended silence.

“No, it’s… You’re right.” Dundee speaks quietly, checking each ladder to ensure no eavesdroppers. It’s a strange conflict of emotions when he doesn’t find Pez lurking.

Barry huffs out a laugh. “So you want to hang out, huh? Spending the night on a boat with me wasn’t enough?”

Dundee bites back his response and leans against the railing. He couldn’t keep on this track with Barry, it would destroy them both when Dundee ultimately fucked it up. He knows he needs to end it, or at least clarify that he didn’t care for Barry, but to do so over the phone would be a bad idea. He knows he’s too distractible over the phone and if Barry caught on to this he had no idea where the conversation would go.

Though a part of him wants to find out.

“Where are you?” Dundee asks, instead of the question he wants to know. It didn’t matter what Barry was wearing and most likely it would be some iteration of jeans and a tee shirt. Dundee closes his eyes and forces the mental image of Barry in his pink hoodie and a pair of short boxer briefs from his mind.

“Where do you think I am?”

Dundee is off Big White and into a car in record time.

The view from the highway overpass shows just how many shadowy nooks one could hide in, but from his vantage point he could find no one watching. It seemed that whatever mysterious figure intent on watching Barry had either found a better hiding place or had seen to their satisfaction that Barry was capable of his duties. Dundee still spends a while on the bridge, scanning for police cars –– undercover or otherwise. When he’s certain that there was no trap ready to spring he circles Fridgit a few times. Barry’s not on the bench, but by the third lap Dundee finds him standing near the shipping bay, smoking under a light.

Dundee’s eyes track him as he speeds past and nearly slams head on into a lamp post. He scrapes the side of the car and fishtails into a parking space out front of Fridgit, slotting neatly between tall crates and hidden from the road by a shipping container. It’s by practice that Dundee doesn’t immediately panic and instead steps out like he’d been planning to clip his car, but his hands faintly shake with adrenaline. Barry, however, isn’t as fine with the collision and he drops his smoke and runs over.

“Dee!” he shouts, coming to a stop in front of Dundee and looking him over. He checks for a head wound and grabs Dundee’s hands. “That was graceful, but are you okay?”

Dundee opens his mouth, ready to tell Barry that he should fuck off, but nothing comes out. He can’t accept Barry’s concern as genuine; no one’s care for Dundee is ever genuine, even his own club laughs at him when he’s thrown from a car. It had to be fake, Barry only liked him because Dundee gave him money.

“Dee?” Barry smiles at him, but it falters at the edges –– a slip Dundee’s been waiting for. “D––?”

Dundee grabs Barry by his jacket and hauls him close. He kisses Barry, hard and rough, muffling Barry’s noise of surprise. Barry squirms against him, pushing against Dundee’s chest. Barry brings his hands to Dundee’s jaw, trying to adjust their angle. Dundee doesn’t budge and instead bites at Barry’s bottom lip. He pushes Barry’s hands away and tugs him closer with a hand at the back of his neck. Unsure of where to touch, Barry holds his hands out at his sides as small sounds escape him. Dundee presses harder, deeping their kiss and licking into Barry’s mouth. Barry tries to say something, but it’s lost in the frenzy and the wild pulse in Dundee’s ears.

With one hand around Barry’s neck keeping him near, his other hand moves to his pants. It’s a bit of a struggle to unbutton and unzip his jeans, but he manages, continuing to kiss Barry in the process. He grabs one of Barry’s hands and guides it to his waist, sliding it under the waistband of his jeans. Barry’s other hand rests on Dundee’s hip on the other side and Barry shimmies Dundee’s pants lower down his hips. Barry tries again to soften his touch, gently tracing his fingers along Dundee’s hips, but Dundee knows it’s not real. No one touches Dundee gently, they slap him, they punch him, they point accusatory fingers for his fuck ups, they beat him with belts and say he’s worthless, it should’ve been you not your brother .

Dundee bites Barry’s lip a little too hard and Barry whimpers, but doesn’t move away. In fact, Barry moves closer, fitting a leg between Dundee’s and rolling against him. Dundee rests his hands on Barry’s shoulders and nudges him away, breaking their kiss. Barry tilts his head in question and in answer Dundee pushes Barry’s shoulders, harder and harder until Barry drops to his knees. He doesn’t look up at Dundee, but reaches for his pants like he knows what Dundee’s going to ask. He tugs Dundee’s pants lower, hesitating for a second before sliding Dundee’s underwear down as well. Barry only moves Dundee’s clothes low enough to reach his cock.

The air is cold against Dundee’s exposed skin and he shivers. Barry spreads his hands against Dundee’s hip and presses a soft kiss against it, but it annoys Dundee more than anything and he knots a hand into Barry’s hair. Barry looks up at him and Dundee hates Barry’s green sea glass eyes wanting to meet his, so he looks at Barry’s lips. He pulls on Barry’s hair, forcing his head back as he slips his thumb into Barry’s mouth. Barry opens his mouth without force and Dundee holds him there for a moment, circling his thumb over Barry’s tongue, before taking his cock in hand and guiding it towards Barry.

There’s no gentle exploration such as the first night Dundee had stumbled upon Barry. No soft touch raising goosebumps across his skin and spilling vibrations along his nerves wherever Barry’s fingers went. Dundee is hard, but he can’t quite distinguish when it happened nor does he want to think on what it is that aroused him most. He pulls Barry forward and there’s a brief moment when Barry braces himself before fitting his lips around Dundee’s cock and swallowing it. Dundee’s breath hitches and he can’t bring himself to look away as Barry closes his eyes and works his way lower. Barry’s tongue wiggles against the underside of Dundee’s cock and Dundee’s hips thrust forward without warning.

He expects Barry to pull off or hold Dundee’s hips against the car, but he doesn’t. Barry bobs his head, sucking and flicking his tongue around Dundee when he slides back up to the tip. Dundee’s fist tightens in Barry’s hair and when Barry swallows around him Dundee pulls him closer. There’s a brief panicked flail from Barry before his hands settle against the car either side of Dundee’s hips. Dundee tries not to miss the feeling of Barry’s hands resting against his hips. He holds one hand against Barry’s jaw and combs the other through Barry’s hair. Barry leans into it and moans around Dundee’s cock.

A wild noise cracks out of Dundee and his hips stutter and push his cock deeper down Barry’s throat. Barry chokes around it, but forces himself to keep still. Dundee can see the strain in Barry’s composure, the shake of his arms, but he holds Barry close. Barry swallows again and Dundee moans.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Dundee whispers, closing his eyes.

One of Barry’s hands wraps around the base of Dundee’s cock and squeezes. Dundee squirms against the car, indecisive in his want of pushing into Barry’s hold or moving away and savoring it. He doesn’t linger on the thought for long though; he doesn’t care and this is just a quick thing to satiate a want. The only thing he cares about is if someone catches them.

“Fah… Faster,” Dundee says, breathless. He grabs Barry’s shoulder, bunching his jacket in his fist. His other hand ghosts over Barry’s, but sharply pulls back when a spark of electricity jumps up his arm. Instead, he grabs the car’s broken side mirror.

Barry pulls back, but keeps the head of Dundee’s cock in his mouth, as his hand speeds up, stroking Dundee quick and tight. Dundee pulls at Barry’s jacket, trying to curb the urge to curl in on himself the nearer to the edge he gets. His hips start to rock, meeting Barry’s strokes and forcing more than the head into Barry’s mouth with each thrust. Eventually, Barry takes his hand off Dundee’s cock entirely and simply lets Dundee thrust into him. Occasionally, a muffled sound will escape, but Dundee can barely hear it over his own ragged breathing.

He tugs on Barry’s jacket a few times, fast approaching the end and thinking Barry would pull off, but he doesn’t. Dundee’s hand holding the side mirror switches to Barry’s head, knotting his fingers into Barry’s hair and holding him in place. Dundee’s not sure if any words escape him as he comes, most likely just curses and noises if anything, though he bites his lip to hold back Barry’s name.

As the aftershocks roll through him, Barry jerks in his hold and Dundee untangles his hands to instead grab the frame of the car. Dundee’s eyes flutter open and the first thing he sees is Barry wipe his eyes with his jacket sleeves before he cleans off his lips and chin with a tissue he pulls from his pocket. Dundee quickly tucks himself back in his pants before his hands return to the car frame to keep himself from fixing Barry’s mused hair. Barry sits back on his heels and waits, staring at the pavement. Dundee waits too, unsure of what to do now that the itch had been scratched.

Because that’s all this was.

An itch that Dundee got someone to scratch.

Nothing more.

Dundee digs his nails into his palms.

Barry wipes his eyes again and sniffles, still not looking up, not offering any joking quips he’d been so fast with the other times.

Dundee feels hollowed out, the blissful afterglow leaving him in seconds at the sound of Barry’s sniffles. He clears his throat, hoping the feeling would lessen in the presence of noise. It doesn’t. If anything, it amplifies the silence that follows.

After a while of this strained silence Barry sighs and stands. He tucks his hands into his jacket and still doesn’t speak. His jaw is clenched and his gaze flits from spot to spot, never looking at anything higher than Dundee’s knees. Despite Barry’s size, he seemed to be shrinking in on himself, curling smaller and smaller the longer neither of them spoke.

Dundee clears his throat again and digs into his pockets for his wallet. He takes out three bills and hands them to Barry, tucking them into Barry’s pants pocket when Barry doesn’t take them. There’s an awkward shuffling of feet as Dundee continues to wait, wanting Barry to say something, but when he doesn’t Dundee gets into his car and drives.

He drives and he doesn’t know if it’s north or south, just that it’s a road. He barely registers when it ends in a cul de sac and the car hops the curb and continues up the mountain until he reaches the ridge. He shuts off the car and sits in silence, looking out over the city lights below him. It’s an odd kind of peace that’s broken by his phone ringing.

“Hello?” He doesn’t bother to check the number before he answers.

“Hi,” a voice says, so quiet, so unsure, that Dundee contemplates hanging up.

It’s Barry.

Dundee doesn’t say anything.

“Why’d you run off so soon?” Barry asks.

“What do you mean?” Dundee asks. He knows how he sounds, how distant and harsh he could be over the phone when no one could see the expressions he makes; when no one can see it hurts to be that person to shatter people’s worlds. When it’s easier to trick himself into thinking he doesn’t care.

Only this time he doesn’t care. Really.

“I don’t know, I thought maybe we could… go for a walk, or something.” Barry gets quieter with every word, as if Dundee’s cold stare could be felt over the call.

“I tend not to hang around vending machines after I’ve got my purchases,” Dundee says.

He hates the words as soon as he says them.

“Oh. Okay, well, if––,” Barry says.

Dundee hangs up.

He half expects another call back, but none comes. He stares at his phone waiting for it, declining every call that isn’t Barry’s number, but it never happens.

Dundee calmly tucks his phone into his pocket and gets out of the car. He brushes the hair from his face as a laugh bubbles up.

Then he screams.

He screams and swears and kicks the car.

He keeps screaming and kicking until there’s a dent three sizes larger than his boots.

Then he screams because his feet hurt.

Then he screams because the car won’t start.

Then he screams because he fucked up. He’ll always fuck up. He’ll keep fucking up, that’s why he can’t keep good things in his life, that’s why he can’t have good things in the first place.

And finally, voice nearly gone, but knowing he wouldn’t need it for anything important, he kicks the car one last time and begins walking along the ridge towards the housing development down the hill.

A part of him hopes that someone heard him screaming and would ask why, and another part of him just wants the comforting bliss of no one knowing. He didn’t want to find the proper words to explain why being around Barry scared him or why he hated that he wanted to continue being around Barry while knowing that it had the potential to tear him apart. He couldn’t understand why anyone would actively choose to feel like this and so instead he chooses not to feel at all.

He smiles, telling himself that this is the better option.

He wanders the hilltop houses until he finds a house party. He bribes his way in and buries himself on the dance floor. He takes whatever shots are passed around, uncaring of what the alcohol is or if it’s just alcohol. He doesn’t want to remember the night and he tries to curb his displeasure when no one in the party has any drugs harder than weed. He attempts to lose himself in the music, but the pressure of being watched grates at his nerves until he’s a livewire jumping at every brush of skin against his.

He covertly scans the party, half expecting to find Barry at the edges of the crowd, but instead finds a woman. She doesn’t look away when Dundee meets her eyes. She licks her lips and tilts her head, beckoning Dundee over. He stops dancing and looks around him, expecting her to be addressing anyone else. When he looks back at her she crooks her finger, nodding when Dundee points to himself. He can’t help the little loopy grin that finds his lips as he weaves through the crowd towards her. She’s beautiful and even as off-kilter as he is, Dundee knows this.

She’s lean and tall, with short light brown hair and green eyes. Her cheeks are flushed either through alcohol or excitement and her lips are full and red. She’s wearing low rise pants and a denim vest with a cropped orange shirt underneath and Dundee knows it’s solely with the intention to show off her tanned skin and flat belly.

It’s not as toned as Barry’s.

Dundee shakes his head and leans an arm against the wall by her head. He looks down at her and smiles.

She’d looked taller from across the room.

She giggles and introduces herself and Dundee immediately forgets her name.

It’s Bar-something. Barbara or Barbie or Barcelona, it didn’t matter, what matters is that she takes Dundee’s hand and leads him to the upstairs bathroom. She’s talking the whole time, commenting on his dancing, making personal remarks about the music or the people they pass on the stairs. It’s not until the bathroom door closes behind them that Dundee snaps a little into his senses.

He shifts awkwardly on his feet, still feeling the lingering pain of kicking the ever-living shit out of the stolen car. She moves closer to him and he backs himself against the counter, overwhelmed by the cloud of her perfume flooding his nose. He squints and tries not to sneeze.

She doesn’t waste any time with niceties and Dundee’s kind of glad for it. She plasters herself against his front and flings her arms over his shoulders. She kisses his neck and writhes against him. He places his hands at her hips and tilts his head for her, closing his eyes and letting the sensations run through him. She moans and it throws him for a second when her voice isn’t as low as he expected. She undoes his jeans and slides her hand in, rubbing the heel of her palm above the base of his cock. He gasps, hands tightening around her waist. She takes her hand from his pants and his eyes flutter open as she traces his lip with her thumb before holding her palm expectantly to his mouth.

She raises her eyebrows and giggles when Dundee flicks his tongue against her palm. She watches, bottom lip caught between her teeth and hips rolling against his. When his tongue has swiped over her palm a few times, she slips her hand back down his pants and grabs his cock. Her grip is too soft, her palm uncalloused and Dundee thinks that it should feel good, the smooth glide of her hand, but it’s not what he wants right now. He wants her to squeeze tighter, to tug his hair and call him a monster.

Regardless, his body responds without warning, his cock twitching in her grip and his hips pushing towards her. She giggles and guides one of his hands up to her chest. She strokes him slowly as his hand moves under her shirt and cups her breast. It’s soft like the rest of her and Dundee squeezes, wanting it rougher. He circles his thumb around her nipple and she bites his neck. He knows there’ll be a hickey and he hates that the first thought at it is a dark wonder of how Barry would react to seeing it, knowing he didn’t put it there.

He begs for more and she drops to her knees. It’s nothing as eager as Barry and she spends a majority of her time pressing kisses against his length. Eventually, he takes himself in hand and strokes himself while she sits patient with her mouth open. He thinks it should be hot, but he has no inclination to move the hair from her face or touch her as she smiles up at him. The longer it carries on, the less need he feels and it’s a quick shiver and a sad dribble that ends it. She frowns at the results and moves in to clean him off with her tongue, but Dundee pushes her away and cleans himself off with a wad of toilet paper. He just wants out of the bathroom now, but he supposes there’s some decorum to accepting an invite to a bathroom at a houseparty.

She stands back up and spins their positions, jumping onto the counter and wrapping her legs around him. She squeals and giggles and grabs his hand to suck on his fingers, exaggeratedly moaning around them until Dundee pulls them away. He doesn’t draw anything out, but shoves his hand down the front of her unbuttoned pants and wriggles his fingers about until she squeaks in surprise. He slips his fingers into her and works quickly to bring her to the edge while trying not to cramp his wrist from the strange angle.

After, she tries to give him her number and he claims his phone is dead while he’s taking it out of his pocket and calling a cab. He thanks her for her time and she corrects him on the guess of her name, the word Barbara coming out of her with more venom than she had inviting him in. He catches her pout before he closes the bathroom door behind him and leaves the party. He meets the cab he called as he’s walking down the street and there’s a brief debate wherein Dundee has to convince them he’s the one who called. The driver is blessedly silent the entire ride, only speaking once they’ve arrived in Vespucci to ask Dundee where he wanted to be let out. Dundee directs him onto the boardwalk and towards the bike shop, wanting to get into his house without seeing any of his club and having to answer a million questions.

He showers and scrubs his skin red, but can still feel Barry’s hands on him. He stands under the water, only reluctantly getting out when the water goes cold. He wanders the house in a towel, dripping onto carpets and leaving puddles of water across the hardwood. He examines his beard in the mirror, carefully trimming and shaping it to convince himself he isn’t stalling. When he finds his electric razor in the drawer, he shaves off a strip in the side of his mullet before he has time to rethink. He stares at his reflection for a long while before he finishes shaving his hair into a mohawk with shorn sides. Eventually, he settles on the floor in front of the coffee table and opens his laptop. He rests his chin in his hands and watches the cursor of the search page blink at him.

The paranoia of being walked in on eats at him until he checks the door locks. This wasn’t something he wanted his club to find him doing. They’d seen him set explosives, torture a cop, and nearly murder a man in cold blood, but there’s a certain privacy to what he wanted answers to and although he’d get faster answers asking someone in the club with the experience, he knows he couldn’t face the embarrassment of asking. He plucks at the threads of the carpet while he thinks of the best set of keywords to use, but knows he’s stalling and forces himself to search it simple and blunt.

How to: blow jobs .

He scratches his nails through the new short hair near his temple as he reads. His nose gets closer to the screen with each new descriptive article from an independant queer journal he’s never heard of, until he’s nearly cross-eyed reading about first hand accounts of sucking dick.

It’s where his search starts, but not where it ends, as endless articles bring more questions Dundee decides he finally wants answers for.

What means when kissing guy feels good?

Am I liking guys as a guy but still like girl?

Not straight but not gay?

Define: bisexual.

Chapter Text

Barry doesn’t expect to see Dundee after their last meeting at Fridigt. It had been tense and quiet; Dundee crashed his car and then Barry sucked him off. It was a strange night, to say the least, and one that left a weird impression on Barry. So when Dundee calls a day later with a chipper tone, Barry’s surprised at the offer to go to the movies. The way Dundee words it sounds like a date and Barry has to convince himself that it’s just another job. He’d taken location based jobs before, this would be no different. He tucked a couple of travel packs of lube into his jeans and waited out front of the theater for Dundee.

The ticket booth clerk eyes Barry with suspicion as he completes another pass on the sidewalk. He contemplates purchasing the cheapest ticket to avoid a loitering charge, but he couldn’t justify the cost of a ticket he’s not sure he’ll use. Dundee might be planning on taking Barry into a back alley or he could not show up at all — an option that’s becoming more likely with every passing minute. Barry’s moments from calling it and returning to Fridgit for a semi-stable night’s pay when his phone rings.

“I was driving around Fridgit trying to find you because I had the idea to pick you up, but you weren’t there and I don’t know where you live, then I remembered phones exist and I could just call you,” Dundee says as soon as the call connects.

“Uh, hi.”

“Hi. Where are you?”

“At the theater.”

“Fuck sakes,” Dundee groans and hangs up.

Barry smiles fondly and tucks his phone away. He turns to the ticket booth clerk and says, “He’s on his way.” It’s unnecessary information for them, but Barry wants justice for their pitying looks. He hasn't been forgotten, Dundee is on the way.

The ticket booth clerk doesn’t care and Barry feels silly that he does. It’s a job, not a date and Barry reminds himself of this when he stuffs his hands into his jeans and the foil edge of the lube packet pokes between his knuckles. He wonders if Dundee will be as rough as yesterday and not bother with it, if he’ll laugh at Barry’s eager preparedness and push into him with spit and determination, or if the shy gentleness of their first two interactions will resurface. Barry doesn’t know and even with his own experience, every whispered rumour he’d heard about Bondi can’t help him guess either way: Bondi are reckless, Bondi are brutal, their leader doesn’t give two shits about people he hurts, their leader —

Is driving the speed limit and pulling safely into a parking stall adjacent to the theater. The window isn’t smashed and the outside looks freshly washed.

Dundee steps out of the blue muscle car and locks it before he fusses over his blue button up shirt and brushes off his beige slacks. Barry feels severely underdressed in his jeans, black shirt, and brown leather jacket, but at least there’s no blood stains. Dundee’s beard is trimmed and his wild mullet has been shorn back into an unwaxed mohawk with buzzed sides. He lingers by his car talking to himself and when he spots Barry across the way he freezes, clearly not expecting to be watched.

Barry waves and then it’s an awkward moment of pointedly averted gazes while Dundee walks over. Barry starts towards the alley, but Dundee heads for the ticket booth. Barry’s breathing picks up as the two start talking and the ticket booth clerk looks over at Barry and laughs.

Before Barry was placed at Fridgit he would walk the block near Vulture Le Culture. It was told to him that this was so people knew who he worked for and didn’t try to short him money or take advantage, but he knew it was so the employees could keep tabs on him and report back. It was common for people in Barry’s social circles to keep tabs on him and although he isn’t certain of Bondi’s hold in Los Santos, it was very plausible that the person Dundee was speaking with worked for him. The only person Barry had met that he knew with absolute certainty had any personal connection to Dundee was Collin, but he knew there were more. Dundee claimed they were an actual club, after all, that usually implied more than two people were involved. Collin had also told Barry that day in Bluey’s that most of the patrons in the bar at the time were Bondi.

Dundee laughs again and accepts something from the ticket booth clerk. He walks back to Barry with a skip in his step and enough of the fear leaves Barry to give him the confidence to ask, “What did he say?” It’s a simple question and he prays he isn’t overstepping.

“‘Enjoy your movie’,” Dundee says, holding out a ticket to Barry. “Then I said ‘you too’ and we had a laugh.”

“What?”

“In my defence, I thought they said ‘have a good night’, so really it’s on them.” Dundee folds his ticket. “I’m fucking deaf in one ear, alright? Forgive me my social disgrace. Anyways, the movie's about to start.”

Dundee holds out his hand and Barry simply stares at it, so he loops his arm with Barry’s and leads him into the theater. It’s a couple minutes past opening and the lobby is empty. Dundee buys popcorn and a large soda with two straws and pockets a chocolate bar when the cashier looks away. He hands Barry his own popcorn and Barry waits patiently for the other shoe to drop. Barry’s not sure if Dundee is looking for something a little more daring, but there’s an office with its door ajar, a bathroom across the lobby, and a theater ending its showing. If Barry were to guess which Dundee would take, he’s betting on the bathroom: easily lockable door and not likely to be rushed if noticed for its inaccessibility.

However, Dundee walks for the closed theater doors and holds them open for Barry. When Barry doesn’t move, Dundee motions him forward and when they step into the darkness Dundee takes his hand and leads him further inside. Dundee chooses a row near the back right of the theater, close to a speaker, and Barry can’t hear anything Dundee’s whispering to him as they take their seats. Barry sits rigid while Dundee reclines to his right and throws his feet up on the seat ahead.

The popcorn is addictive and Barry finds himself absently eating as the movie rolls. It’s easy to let himself get lost in the mindless explosions and action on screen, but then Dundee adjusts in his seat, sinking lower, and an internal reflex in Barry tells him it’s time. He sets his popcorn on the empty seat to his left and looks about, but their corner of the theater is empty, most preferring the center front seats. It gives the illusion of privacy and Barry tells himself he’s fine with it.

Barry slides off his seat to kneel on the ground, but Dundee doesn’t look down at him. Barry places a hand on Dundee’s thigh and it briefly draws his attention, but not in the way Barry expects.

“Did you drop something?” Dundee asks, dropping his feet from the chair back and glancing around at the floor, but his attention returns firmly to the screen. “You’re missing the action, B.” He tugs on Barry’s jacket and Barry allows himself to be pulled back into his seat.

Barry can’t consider it a mistake, but heat floods his cheeks at the failed attempt and he doesn’t wait long to try again. He rests his hand on Dundee’s thigh and squeezes. Dundee jumps as an explosion rocks across the screen and he grabs Barry’s hand. Dundee swears under his breath and brings their entwined hands up to the armrest. Barry expects Dundee to move his hand over to his crotch, so he lets his arm go loose to not fight against Dundee, but instead Dundee simply holds it. Barry keeps his hand limp in Dundee’s, but Dundee’s thumb starts tracing circles across the back of Barry’s hand and Barry’s hand reflexively curls tighter.

Barry keeps himself facing forwards, but tilts his head until he can watch Dundee from the corner of his eye. There’s a gleam in Dundee’s eyes as he watches the violence flash through the dark theater and Barry’s momentarily distracted at Dundee’s faint smile, illuminated by movie prop gun flares.

It’s not usually a question Barry has to ask, but usually by now expectations would be made clear to him. All that’s clear to him is that Dundee likes the movie. Barry licks his lips and leans over to Dundee and whispers in his ear. “Do you want my hand or my mouth?”

Dundee ignores him, or doesn’t hear him over the actors screaming at each other. Barry shuffles closer in his seat and bumps his nose into Dundee’s cheek and Dundee turns to him.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Dundee asks. “Fuck, I should’ve sat on the other side.”

“No, I… I just…” Barry grabs Dundee’s sleeve and toys it between his fingers, the motivation to ask Dundee what he wants stifled by unease at the situation.

“Oh!”

Dundee adjusts his coat and Barry’s sure he’s gotten the message this time, but clearly not, as Dundee takes the chocolate bar from his pocket, unwraps it, and offers it to Barry. When Barry doesn’t take any he snaps off a chunk and waits until Barry takes it. Barry nibbles at the edge of the chocolate, trying to look seductive, but Dundee’s attention has already returned to the movie. Barry tries once more to get at Dundee’s pants, but Dundee grabs Barry’s hand and again holds it in his. The repetition of the action guaranteeing it’s not an accident shocks Barry from his usual routine and he sits quietly in his seat watching the movie, not daring to pull his hand from Dundee’s again. It’s rough and warm and Barry tries very hard not to think about it tugging on his hair or cradling his jaw, but the phantom touch of that night teases him still.

The movie ends and the lights go up and people start to leave the theater, but Dundee remains in his seat. This, Barry thinks, this is the moment Dundee was waiting for. He keeps his hand in Dundee’s and moves his other to Dundee’s knee. He leans over in his seat, nuzzling into Dundee’s neck, and is promptly knocked in the nose by Dundee’s chin when he turns excitedly to Barry.

“What an ending! Can you believe they killed the –– oh, shit! Barry!”

“It’s fine!” Barry stands up and cradles his nose. “It’s my fault.”

“No, I didn’t know you were so close!” Dundee stands up too, hands hovering in a broken reach for Barry. “Why were you so close?” Dundee says quietly, likely not meaning to speak the thought aloud.

Barry pushes aside the embarrassment for anger. “It’s fine! Let’s get out of here before someone yells at us.” He grabs Dundee’s hand like it’s second nature and it’s not until they’re standing outside on the sidewalk that Barry fully comprehends what he did. He quickly drops Dundee’s hand and takes a half step away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lead you around.” Dundee reaches for him and Barry closes his eyes and braces for a fist to his jaw. He flinches when Dundee’s hands settle featherlight over his jaw and hold him in place as Dundee presses a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Barry opens his eyes and Dundee is still close, almost nose to nose. He gives Barry a shy smile.

“Better?” Dundee asks.

Barry’s nerves spill over and no longer content to wait patiently for something to happen to him, Barry surges forwards and kisses Dundee. He hopes it’s a significant enough catalyst for what Dundee wants him to do that they stop tiptoeing around why Barry was really here. Dundee had made it clear last night: Barry was a convenience people paid for, but this toying with Barry’s time and patience and feelings for Dundee is driving him to madness. If this helped Dundee finally drag Barry into an alley and force him to his knees again, so be it.

Only, the violence Barry expects never comes.

Dundee keeps the kiss chaste, not even biting at Barry’s lip or grabbing his jaw tighter. Dundee smooths his thumbs along Barry’s cheeks and the touch is so unlike the rough handling Barry deals with daily –– and even last night –– that he leans into it, chasing more, and when Dundee pulls away a broken whine slips out of Barry. Barry blushes and the confidence he’d felt in the dark theater about knowing what Dundee wanted from him is gone. It leaves him wrong footed and unsure and when Dundee reaches into his pockets Barry holds himself perfectly still, but instead of a knife or drugs or countless other horrible things Barry imagines in a flash, Dundee takes out his wallet.

“I’d love to stick around, but I promised everyone I’d only be gone for three hours and if I’m late they’ll start sending out rescue teams.” Dundee takes out two grand from his wallet –– Barry counts it alongside Dundee’s quick collecting –– and hands it to Barry. “This is for the taxi, get home safe.”

His hands close around Barry’s like he’s afraid Barry will drop the money. Barry can’t find the words to tell Dundee he rode his motorcycle here and the money’s unnecessary or the fact that a taxi from here would cost under twenty dollars. Dundee lingers, biting his lip and holding onto Barry’s hands. He waits for something and when Barry does nothing he hesitantly drops Barry’s hands with a final pat.

“Until next time, Barry.”

Barry’s certain Dundee is going to kiss him again and when Dundee doesn’t he tries to contain his disappointment. Dundee’s phone starts ringing and he sighs before he answers.

“Yes?” Dundee continues looking at Barry while listening to the person on the phone ramble, but his expression quickly shifts from soft admiration into deep concern. “Where? Landmark?”

With that Dundee goes sprinting for his car, speeding from the parking lot without a backwards glance. Barry doesn’t take it personally, he knows the hectic fanfare of organizing a group of individuals as chaotic as Bondi; he’s seen Mr. K on the phone enough times yelling orders. However, when Barry’s driving home he passes a mess of cop cars and a turtled blue muscle car and there’s a clench of fear in his gut he never feels when he knows K and his gang are in trouble. Barry slow rolls the scene and dares to get close enough to a cop chatting on their radio. He overhears her complaining of everyone getting away and he thinks he hears Dundee’s name, but the news is sufficient to make him leave when the cops start noticing his lingering presence. That night, after he’s stored the money from Dundee in the lockbox under the fridge, he watches the news carefully for mentions of the incident and falls asleep holding Dundee’s pink hoodie to his chest.

Three nights later, Barry’s on his knees again in the storage room of Fridgit with a cock in his mouth. He works absently, automatically, following the hormonal cues of his client to draw them quickly to orgasm. There’s a tug on his hair in warning and his mind skips back to Dundee and he moans. His client finishes quickly after that and pays him, a lopsided grin on their face as they count out money. This is a new client, one recommended by Mickey, but someone Barry knows will be around again. He tries to flirt with Barry afterwards, riding the lust and endorphins, and Barry tries to shut it down by telling him he has very protective people watching out for him but they’re interrupted by Barry’s phone ringing. The client catches the name of the caller and his face pales. Given the timing and the reaction, the client probably assumes the one on the phone to be the ‘protective people watching over Barry’ and he quickly apologizes to Barry for flirting and leaves. Barry finds he doesn’t want to correct the client’s assumptions.

“Are you doing anything right now?” Dundee asks as soon as Barry answers.

“Making money. Why?”

“Oh, okay. Then why’d that guy run out of there like you were offering free circumcisions with every blowie?”

“Where are you?”

“On your bench.”

“I have a bench?”

“I like to think of it as yours.”

“I’ll be right out. Don’t scare anyone away.”

“Would never dream of taking business from you. Man’s gotta make a living.”

Barry hangs up and finds himself smiling at the short interaction with the knowledge that Dundee is waiting for him. He dusts off his jeans and brushes his hair into order. There’s no mirror and he hopes for the best as he opens the door and steps into the alley. The silhouette of Dundee sitting on the bench startles him for a second, his brain telling him it’s someone else, but then Dundee stands up and waves at him. His watchers don’t normally wave at him. Barry jogs over and Dundee’s apologizing before he’s even crossed the street.

“Sorry about running off and then not calling you for three days. I thought I had a warrant, no, I’m pretty sure I had a warrant and I didn’t want cops trying to poke into your business if they felt the need to poke into mine. It wasn’t like we even did anything big, it was just a stolen car, but you never know with these fucking dogs: I heard about a guy who got beaten up by the old chief of police while he was handcuffed in the lower Pillbox parking. I didn’t want you to end up like that, so I left my phone on the counter for the weekend, but it’s not like I need it anyways because my club all live on the same block and if someone needs me they just come over and say hello. But you can’t just come over and say hello and I feel bad that I couldn’t explain that to you because then they’d think you’re harbouring a fugitive or some shit. It’s not even the correct charge, not even the definition of a fugitive, but I know they’d try to push it. They’re always doing dumb, shady shit when it comes to me and my club and I didn’t want you tied up in that. Anyways, hi.”

Barry blinks at him, letting Dundee’s words settle into coherence in his mind. “So, what you’re saying is: sorry for not calling?”

“Yeah? Isn’t that what people do after a date?”

Dundee keeps talking, but all Barry hears is a whooshing noise. He can’t tell if it’s his heart or his breathing or a whir of machinery keeping him alive in this fever dream in the moments before the flood of reality takes him again like all his dreams. He stares at Dundee’s lips, trying to make the sounds into words again, but all he can hear is Dundee saying ‘date’.

Was it a date? Is that how dates went?

Barry’s been on a few before he moved to Los Santos, but they were much more formal and seemed to follow a predetermined pattern pointing towards an obvious marriage, with filtering questions about himself and his family’s health history and how he planned to pay for his now-ex-wife’s lifestyle. He was always certain it was a date and there’d always been expectations of him during these dates: opening doors, paying for things, dressing nicely…

Oh .

“Anyways, I promise I won’t throw up on you,” Dundee says.

Barry’s attention snaps back to him. “What?”

“I mean, it’s only happened once and that’s because Jordan bet me that I couldn’t eat five churros before everyone was done with their roller game and then Junior no-ballsed me. Joke was on Jordan though ‘cause he’s the one I threw up on.”

“I don’t get how that’s relevant?”

“I asked if you wanted to go to Dean’s World.”

“Oh. Would this –– as like, a date?”

“It’s starting to sound like it’ll be a tour. Have you been there before?”

“A few times. I was kidnapped there once.”

“Ah, yes. That happens. Don’t worry though, no one’s going to fuck with you and if they try I’ll shoot ‘em.”

Barry blinks at Dundee, stunned for words.

“Allegedly,” Dundee adds, looking around.

He offers his arm to Barry and Barry notes that although he’s wearing the same blue button up as last night he looks more comfortable in it with the addition of the patched denim vest over top. On the back of the vest is a large patch with a skull wearing a bandana and the words ‘Bondi Boys Vespucci’ embroidered on it. There’s also a bulge at the small of Dundee’s back under the vest that Barry knows from experience is the size and shape of a pistol.

“I’m…” Barry trails off, thumb pointed over his shoulder at the alley. He’s only had two clients so far and a third that had backtracked before Barry had touched them. He’d classify it as a slow night, but a job is a job.

“I guarantee the alley will be there when we get back.” Dundee shakes his elbow in invitation.

“What if I miss someone?”

“There’ll be more horny cunts in the city, but Dean’s World closes at –– well, actually I’m not sure when it closes, but I do know the food vendors eventually sell out.”

Barry stops himself from explaining about the occasional check ups he would receive. That was private business and he’d been warned before about talking about it, regardless if that person knew already or not. The people he worked for valued silence about their business above all else. They didn’t even like it when Barry called them to request a meeting to discuss business.

“Won’t your club need you?” Barry asks.

“I gave them thermite, guns, and a pack of spoons; they’re set for the night.”

“Spoons?”

“Keeps them occupied, multi-use: musical instrument, melee weapon, world record nose balancing, the fun never ends. Come on, just a few hours?”

Barry checks the time on his phone. “A few hours, but if I get a phone call and I have to go? I have to go.”

Dundee smiles at him, wide and beaming, and loops his arm into Barry’s. He leads Barry down the road, rambling about all the attractions of the pier, and Barry’s half convinced they’re going to walk the entire way there before Dundee veers off the path and into a small gated area near the end of Fridgit. It’s the small lot where Barry was helped into a car when he twisted his ankle and he’s a little startled to see the same car again.

He stops in his tracks, but Dundee carries on. He slips into the driver’s seat, still listing fun pier activities, and doesn’t notice Barry standing still at the bumper. All at once, that night’s memories click into place and the foggy recollection of the people who’d helped him to the hospital returns to him. Barry shivers, remembering the weight of Dundee against his back holding him pinned to the car and the low whisper in his ear.

“Coming?” Dundee asks, leaning out the window.

Barry calls out a response, but it cracks. He clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything more. He quickly gets in and buckles his seatbelt, remembering how Dundee drove. Except, Dundee signals, waits for a safe break in traffic, and merges onto the road where he calmly follows the flow of traffic. Barry leans over to check the speedometer, unsure now about Dundee’s driving abilities.

“Something wrong?” Dundee asks, ducking his head and trying to follow Barry’s eyeline, thinking he’s tracking something outside the car.

Barry sits back in his seat and folds his hands in his lap. “Nothing.”

“Alright.”

Dundee doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t say anything more and it’s a quiet drive to Del Perro Pier. The car rattles along the wooden planks of the upper boardwalk to parking, the only spot left being a tight nook that Dundee carefully wedges the car into. He parks far left into it and leans over Barry to open his door after noting that his own would not have room. Barry’s just about to undo his seatbelt when Dundee climbs across and over Barry to get out. There’s a brief moment where Dundee is straddling his lap and fleeting as it is, it's enough to send heat to Barry’s cheeks and blood to his groin. He adjusts himself in his pants when Dundee’s distracted dropping coins into the parking meter.

The boardwalk is alive with lights and people and sound from every direction. Dundee beelines his way through the crowd towards a food vendor and purchases a churro for himself and Barry. It’s an ungodly creation loaded with too much cinnamon and sugar and after a few bites Barry passes his off to Dundee, who accepts with child-like glee. They ride the roller coaster and Dundee pretends to throw up on Barry’s lap, but it’s just an excuse to put his hand on Barry’s thigh until the ride’s over. They go around to the different stalls, very quickly falling into a routine of scamming the vendors for lower prices or free samples. Dundee manages to talk one guy into giving Barry one of the plushie kangaroos the stall is selling, rambling some story about how Barry’s dying after Barry happens to sneeze. Barry plays along and by the end of it they’re also given food and drinks.

Dundee takes his food to one of the picnic tables and Barry follows, but he sits rigidly, barely picking at his food. He moves closer to Dundee when others take up the unused part of the bench and start loudly conversing. The strobing lights strung overhead reflect off the strangers jewelry, flashing vibrantly under the canopy of lights. The loudspeaker at the Burgershot on the pier clicks on and starts playing an awful jingle in an attempt to draw in customers and Barry’s surprised it works because he wants to stab his eardrums with the plastic cutlery. The strangers laugh loudly, nasally, drawing attention from passersby and Barry tries to slink lower onto the bench, to blend into the wood. There’s a wild confusion building in his brain and he wants to leave, but can’t; Dundee bought his time and Barry would follow that.

Only, Dundee’s suddenly standing and he picks up Barry’s food as well. He starts walking away and when he notices Barry isn’t following, he circles back and grabs Barry’s hand. They take the food back to the car and Dundee drives them to the beach under the pier, parking in the tunnel. It’s mostly quiet and there’s no flashing lights or hectic crowds. Barry makes a point to mention that them being parked here blocks traffic, but Dundee tells him it’s a bike lane — like that solves the issue. They eat in silence for a while, listening to the live music being performed above them, but Barry has questions and he has to know.

“Do you want anything?” he asks.

Dundee looks over and says around a mouth full of fries, “If you’re not hungry, the burger will keep, but I’d eat the fries if I were you. They don’t tend to taste good cold.”

Barry places his container on the dashboard and turns in his seat to face Dundee. “No, I mean sexually.”

Dundee, mid-way through his drink, starts choking. “What?” he squeaks.

“‘Cause last time when I tried at the movies you kept pushing me away.”

“I never…?”

“I asked if you wanted my mouth or my hand and you acted like you didn’t hear me.”

“That’s because I didn’t hear you.”

“Well, I’m asking you now. What do you want?”

Dundee sips his drink and thinks. Then he starts the car and brings them out of the tunnel and around the other side, stopping under the pier near the water. The music is louder and the dark ocean reflects the neon’s of the rides above them. Dundee shuts off the car and gets out. He walks around to Barry’s door and opens it with a flourish, extending his hand to Barry. This near the water, the music from the stage is louder, but still at a reasonable volume to hold a conversation.

“I’d like a dance,” Dundee says. As if on cue, the wild rock music shifts into a slow ballad.

“You can’t just want––,”

“You don’t know that.” Dundee grabs his hand and pulls him from the car. He holds Barry’s waist in one hand and Barry’s hand in the other and starts a stilted shuffling in a circle. “Sometimes I sneak into house parties just to dance.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Well, the free alcohol and drugs are a plus.”

“There it is.”

Dundee laughs and spins Barry from his hold and yanks him back in. They do another few circles and Dundee tries to dip Barry, but his hold is off and Barry tips backwards too far and falls, pulling Dundee down on top of him. Barry wheezes out a laugh and Dundee grins at him and apologizes.

“Next time we’ll go somewhere quieter,” Dundee says.

“Next time?”

Dundee pulls back, flustered. “I, well, I assume that’s if you want to. It’s completely up to you.” Dundee rolls off of Barry and onto his back, staring up at the boardwalk.

Barry folds his hands across his stomach and looks over to Dundee. “If I want to?”

“‘Course.”

“It’s not normally an option for me to decide,” Barry says and Dundee furrows his brows.

“Next time I call you, feel free to tell me to piss off.”

Barry pushes up to his elbow. “I wouldn’t tell you to piss off.”

“Really? I’d tell me to piss off.” Dundee picks sand from his nails. “If I had the option, I’d never want to meet me.”

“Well, that’s where you and I differ then because I’m quite happy I met you.”

“Shut up. You’re fucking lying.”

“No!”

“Lies!”

“Dee!”

“Lies! Lies! Lies! Li––,”

Barry kisses Dundee, cutting off his words, though Dundee does try to keep saying ‘lies’ with Barry’s lips against him, so Barry rolls atop him. He straddles Dundee’s hips and knots his hands into Dundee’s short hair. Dundee keeps trying to speak, but what little he gets out is negative and cruel and Barry keeps kissing him until he stops talking. Dundee grabs his hips and Barry rolls against him once, testing the strange limits Dundee had yet to outline, to see what was expected of him. However, Dundee pulls back and Barry quickly gets off him and stands, offering a hand to Dundee.

“I guess I should get you back.” Dundee holds onto Barry’s hand and neither moves towards the car.

“We could also finish our food.”

“… Yeah, we could do.”

They side step towards the car, reluctantly dropping hands when they reach it. Barry circles around to his side, but instead of getting in he grabs his container and sits on the hood of the car. After a moment of quiet contemplation, Dundee joins him. They eat in silence and when Dundee rests his hand on the hood of the car, Barry places his overtop. Dundee turns his hand over to thread his fingers through Barry’s and the two continue to eat in silence. Barry is dropped off at Fridgit a couple hours later and Dundee stops him before he can hop out, a gentle tug at his sleeve keeping him in his seat.

“Here. For the game tickets,” Dundee says and rummages in his pockets.

“I didn’t even––,”

Dundee holds out a handful of money, an elastic wrapped around it. Barry quickly grabs and pockets it, the reflex in him to hide monetary transactions now deeply ingrained. He doesn’t count it, but it looks to be a few grand –– more than the game tickets that he didn’t buy; just like last time, Dundee paid for everything.

“Until next time,” Dundee says.

Dundee’s hands around the steering wheel clench and Barry knows he’s waiting for something. Barry undoes his seat belt and slides closer. He gently turns Dundee’s face towards him, a hand under his chin guiding him. Dundee’s eyes are pinched closed and Barry presses a soft kiss to his lips that Dundee immediately deepens, one hand coming off the steering wheel to grab the back of Barry’s neck.

Barry waits for the rough push urging his mouth down to Dundee’s crotch, but it never comes. Dundee’s fingers scratch lightly against his scalp and then Dundee pulls away. Dundee’s hands return to the steering wheel, white knuckled and faintly shaking, but Barry doesn’t draw attention to it.

“Don’t forget the ‘roo,” Dundee says as Barry’s getting out.

“Course not.” Barry tucks it under his arm and steps out onto the sidewalk. “Good night, Dee.”

Dundee mumbles something back, but it’s too quiet to hear and muffled by the loud roar of his car’s engine. Barry holds the plushie kangaroo to his chest as he watches Dundee drive away. He carefully tucks it into the storage of his motorcycle, folding it around the roll of money Dundee gave him. He doesn’t even think about returning to work and he rides his bike home, the biggest grin on his face.

It’s some time just before dawn two days later when Dundee calls, sounding frantic. The shrill ring of Barry’s phone jolts him from sleep and he rolls off the bed and lands on the floor. He’s reaching under his bed for the baseball bat kept there while his sleep addled brain tries to catch up. He swings once towards his blankets, missing his phone by inches and flipping it right-side up to display the caller.

“Dee? Something wrong?” Barry answers, words slurring together. He sits on the edge of the bed and wipes the sleep from his eyes.

“Get dressed,” Dundee says, a tone of urgency in his voice.

Adrenaline shocks Barry and he’s awake in moments. “Why?” He’s pulling on his jeans and switching out his shirt as he talks. “What happened?” A thousand scenarios fly though his head, each more grave than the last.

“Just get dressed! Can you meet me somewhere?”

“I only have my bike.”

“Ooh, what bike?” Dundee’s voice shifts a pitch, the urgency leaving it as he latches onto this new topic.

“A cliffhanger. Is this urgent?” Barry pushes into his boots.

“Like, upgraded?”

“Is this urgent?” Barry repeats, louder.

Dundee hums. “I mean, kinda?”

“Just tell me where to meet you.”

Barry’s outside on his bike, pulling up his GPS on his phone when it fully clicks where Dundee wants him to drive. He contemplates calling back, thinking it might be a cruel joke to wake him up before the sunrise. Ultimately, curiosity gets to him and he heads towards his waypoint without calling back.

He tries for the shortest route, but regardless it’s a long way to drive. The imposing figure of Chiliad looms before him as he pulls up to the tram station. The parking lot is empty and Barry parks as close to the building as possible and locks his bike. There’s still long shadows in the surrounding forest, not yet dispersed in the rising sun. Barry wraps his arms around himself and leans against the tram station, waiting. He has no idea why Dundee wants to meet in the middle of the forest, but if something were to happen it wouldn’t be the first time he’d voluntarily driven towards danger.

K was a busy man, it’s how it worked: you came to him to receive your punishment. Unless you really fucked up, then they went to you.

“It’s fine, you didn’t fuck up,” Barry tells himself as he takes out his phone, but it’s hard to believe. He dials Dundee’s number and strains to hear for a ringing phone in the forest, but there’s nothing.

“Barry!” Dundee answers. It sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel.

“I’m here. Where are you?”

“Fuck, you’re quick.”

“Yeah, well, people tell me to be places I usually have to be there fast.”

“Right. I had to catch a ride with someone so I’ll be there in a minute if he doesn’t drive us off the edge of the bridge first. See you soon!”

It doesn’t take long before a large boxy truck the same colour as Dundee’s muscle car is rolling into the parking lot. It looks vaguely militaristic and Barry’s surprised when it’s Dundee hopping out of the passenger seat and not an armed gunman. Dundee argues with the driver and Barry turns to the forest to pretend he doesn’t hear.

“Okay! Go!” Dundee hisses at the driver.

“What? I can’t meet your date?” the driver asks, a laugh barely contained in his jovial tone.

“It’s not a date!”

“You told Collin you were going on a date.”

“Collin… lied.”

“Uh-huh. The same Collin who said ‘no secrets among patches’? That Collin?”

“You’re making me regret bringing you into that rank, Jordan.”

“I just want to make a good impression, you know? See what he does for a living, ask if his intentions are pure for our sweet Prime Minister.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Jordan!”

There’s a metallic thud and Barry looks over his shoulder. Dundee kicks at the truck again, but the driver accelerates out of the way, gravel kicking up behind its large wheels. The driver spins out the back end, turning the truck to face Dundee head on. Barry squints to see past the headlights, but the windows are tinted. The engine revs and Barry braces for violence, but the driver is laughing and slowly inching backwards to avoid Dundee’s flailing kicks.

“Get! Go!” Dundee punctuates each word with a missed kick at the front fender and at the edge of the parking lot the truck honks and tailwhips around and drives off. Dundee composes himself, brushing his hair back from his face, before he turns to Barry. “So that was one of my club members,” he says, walking towards Barry.

“If this is urgent shouldn’t he help?” Barry asks. He heard the word ‘date’ from the driver, but he needs to hear it from Dundee for it to be true.

Dundee’s cheeks flush and he walks quickly past Barry towards the building office. “No, no we certainly don’t need his help,” Dundee says.

“Is there someone else you could call?”

“Trust me, they’ll all hear about it. We’ll be lucky if they aren’t already waiting at the top.”

“On the phone you made it sound like an emergency.”

“It’s not!” Dundee says, spinning to Barry. “It’s not an emergency, I just needed to get you up here fast.” Dundee fidgets and stuffs his hands in his denim jacket.

“Why?” Barry leans closer, finding a strange delight that he could make Dundee squirm.

“I…” Dundee’s breathing picks up and his eyes dart frantically for a safe spot to look, settling on the notice board tacked to the building’s side. “I thought maybe…”

“Hm?”

“I wanted to watch the sunrise.”

“Oh my god,” Barry says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I hear all these rumors about Bondi: ‘ooh, don’t fuck with them, they’re crazy, their leader’s a madman’, but you’re actually a teddy bear.” The blush in Dundee’s cheeks spreads further and Barry lowers his voice. “A plush, soft teddy bear. Maybe instead of that kangaroo I should cuddle you at night.”

Dundee’s gaze whips back to him, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. Barry grabs Dundee’s jacket pockets and crowds closer. He ducks to press his nose against Dundee’s neck, grinning when Dundee tilts his head for him.

“You wanted to watch the sun rise with me, hm?” Barry whispers. “When did you think of this? This morning? Day before?” Barry turns them and walks Dundee backwards into the side of the building. “In the restless hours between days when everyone else is sleeping? Is that when you think of me? In the darkness where no one can see you? Where no one can judge how you might react?” He fits a thigh between Dundee’s and presses and Dundee lets out the faintest whimper. Barry rocks gently side to side and continues to whisper as Dundee’s breathing staggers out into breathy moans. “Where no one can see what you do when you picture me?”

Nervous laughter erupts from Dundee. “How…? How did…? What makes you think I do?”

The admission that Barry’s wild stab in the dark is true momentarily stuns him. He was guessing, it’s an old trick he used to use on his clients before he started taking the blunt approach; he’d lead on that he’s fantasized about someone who looks like them while he gently coaxed a reaction from them. Only, in this case: it’s true and apparently reciprocated. A surge of pride runs through him and he tries his best to temper it.

“How long does it usually take until your hand is down your pants? An hour? Twenty minutes? Do you even wait until you’re in your bed, tucked warm under the blankets, before you touch yourself? On the nights when you’ve forgotten to turn off the lights, do you close your eyes? Is it easier that way to imagine it’s my hand?” Barry can’t help himself from licking a stripe up Dundee’s neck. He smiles when Dundee melts against the wall. “It’ll be harder after today, after knowing that I don’t really care where we are. If you wanted me to, I would have wrapped my mouth around you in that theater. All you had to do was tell me.” He swiftly pulls away and Dundee nearly falls over, no longer held up by Barry. “Right! Tram ride?” Barry whistles to himself as he circles the building towards the main office, leaving Dundee flushed and panting against the wall. Before he leaves eyeline he catches Dundee palming himself over his jeans and drop his head towards his chest. “Come, Dee!” Barry calls, knowing how the order sounds, but too ecstatic to care.

He steps into the office and ducks as a mobile in the likeness of the tram and surrounding trees jostles above the door, musically clinking together. The office is small and packed with knick-knacks designed to sell to tourists; coffee mugs with Mount Chiliad plastered on it, key chains with a silhouette of the tram above the treeline, numerous prints of Mount Chiliad or the forest or the view from inside a tram, and much more. It’s frankly everything Barry hates about going to tourist traps and he quickly works his way through the maze of aisles towards the teenager behind the counter. She’s reading a magazine and doesn’t look up when he approaches. He clears his throat in acknowledgement, but she simply points to a sign that lists the prices of the offered attractions and snaps her gum. There’s one listing for Yeti sightings that Barry doesn’t believe for a second has actually yielded any hard evidence.

“When’s the tram running?” he asks, taking out his wallet.

The teenager sighs and flips the page of her magazine. “The tram is a wonderful way to view the scenic forests of San Andreas. This slow moving appreciation is sure to lift your spirits––,”

“We aren’t tourists, mate. You can cut the crap.”

The teenager looks up, expression dull and eyes tired. “Then why are you out here?”

“Uh…”

The office door flies open and Dundee rushes inside. “Barry! Where are you?”

The teenager smiles. It’s not friendly, but more so conspiratory. She steeples her fingers and rests them under her chin. “There’s options for private trams.”

Barry starts counting out money. “Yeah, sure that––,”

“They’re double the price.”

“What! Oh my… fine .” Barry looks at the price board and quickly hands over money before he has a chance to rethink it. Even if the parking lot was currently clear, there was always the risk that someone would show up five minutes before boarding and then they’d be stuck with the strangers for just under an hour. For what Dundee probably had planned for Barry’s time, he’d likely want privacy.

The teenager grabs Barry’s hand and presses a stamp against his wrist before handing over his change. Barry waves Dundee over to be stamped and Dundee proudly presents his wrist. There’s a fading stamp from an unknown club higher up his wrist and Dundee momentarily takes his arm back to lick over it and try to scrub it away.

Dundee traces his fingers over the stamp reverently while they wait for the tram, sitting outside at a picnic bench. There’s an old man asleep in a chair next to the loading platform and he awakes with a jolt when a bell rings. He pushes himself from his chair with a groan and Dundee and Barry watch him slowly shuffle across the platform and pull a lever as a bright red tram inches into the station. He grunts with the effort and the tram nearly misses the platform. He opens the door to let the passengers out, but this early there’s no one. He looks around in confusion before checking his watch and laughing to himself. He turns slowly towards Barry and Dundee and motions them forwards.

“This is the guy in charge of a contraption that’ll hang us thousands of feet above the ground?” Dundee whispers.

“Scared?” Barry whispers back to him and walks over, leaving Dundee sputtering out an answer behind him. Barry presents his stamp to the old man and after adjusting his glasses on his face the man waves Barry through. Dundee doesn’t even bother to show his stamp as he steps on after Barry and the man doesn’t even care.

The door is sealed after them and the man shuffles over to the lever again. He strains to pull it in the opposite direction and then the tram jolts and starts slowly towards the edge of the cliff. The tram is tall enough that Barry needs only to duck and it’s roughly the length and width of a king-size mattress. There’s benches on either side and all around windows to the open mountain view. The morning is foggy with lifting dew and within minutes the platform is gone from sight, leaving only the very tops of trees and the high ridges of the distant mountains. The thick fog is like being adrift in the ocean and Barry subtly pinches his palm to keep his thoughts from drifting too.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Barry takes a seat at the front of the tram, looking at the forest below to double check that they weren’t in fact free floating through the sea. He digs his nails into his palm until the pain returns the news that he is currently awake.

Dundee sits on the other bench, hands folded in his lap and looking out the side of the tram. “Amazing.”

He doesn’t sound amazed and when Barry looks at him, he shifts restless in his seat, subtly trying to adjust himself in his pants. Barry takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the reason for the call.

He changes seats, moving to sit on the same bench as Dundee. He pretends to look outside at the view, but really watches Dundee from the corner of his eye. Dundee holds himself stiff, trying to move as little as possible as he catches distracted looks at Barry. Barry stretches out his legs and moans. He brings his arms up to the seat back and where his fingers brush against Dundee’s shoulder he switches to a gentle rub. Dundee relaxes into it with minimal fuss and Barry grabs more firmly, massaging his thumb into Dundee’s shoulder over his jacket. He hits a point where Dundee starts to lean towards him and he focuses on it, letting Dundee shimmy closer so Barry can more easily reach.

“Um…” Dundee says after about five minutes. He’s clearly been gathering his words since the tram started, so Barry sits quietly and lets him find the rest of his sentence. “You said that you didn’t care where we were. Is that… was that true?”

Finally, Barry thinks, normalcy.

He slides across the bench seat, closer to Dundee, the hand on his shoulder more firmly gripping and pushing to tilt Dundee towards him. He leans close, but not enough to kiss him –– though he does note that Dundee tilts his head up expectantly. He brings one leg up to the bench seat to better tuck himself into Dundee’s side and his hand on Dundee’s shoulder moves to the back of his neck, briefly squeezing just to hear the stutter in Dundee’s breathing, before he moves it up into Dundee’s hair. He lightly scratches his nails against Dundee’s scalp and when Dundee tries to speak, his words stutter and slur and Barry chuckles.

“That’s a yes then,” Dundee says after a few false starts.

He relaxes into Barry’s hand, his clenched fists falling open in his lap. Barry moves Dundee’s hands off his lap, carefully placing them either side of him, before he palms Dundee over his jeans. Dundee hisses and bucks into Barry’s hand. The tram sways gently and Dundee forces his hips back onto the seat.

“Gonna have to be gentle with this, I guess,” Dundee mumbles, watching Barry’s hand roll against him.

“I trust we won’t plummet to our deaths. Or is that a personal preference?” Barry kisses Dundee’s neck.

“We can always sue if we crash. It’s been a while since I’ve voluntarily been in a courtroom.”

Barry hums in agreement and nips at Dundee’s neck. Dundee squirms, an excited little chirp bursting from him before he bites his lip. Barry tilts Dundee’s head further back and sucks a mark on his neck. There’s a fading bruise there and Barry pauses, unsure if he’d been the one to make it. He bites over the bruise to mark it deeper.

Dundee’s hands come up to grab Barry, one gathering the front of his shirt in a fist and the other grabbing Barry’s knee on the bench. Dundee’s thumb rubs circles over Barry’s knee and moves steadily higher and inwards. Dundee moans Barry’s name and Barry growls in response and straddles his lap. The bench is narrow and clearly not made for this kind of activity, but Barry pushes close and there’s enough room to keep his knees from slipping off the edge. Both of Dundee’s hands grab Barry’s hips, trying to keep him on the bench. Barry rolls his hips against Dundee and Dundee’s hands flail for a moment, coming up to grab Barry’s sides, his jaw, and back down to his hips, tugging at Barry’s belt.

Barry kisses Dundee and he pushes at Barry’s lips urgently, biting Barry’s bottom lip and flicking his tongue out to meet Barry’s. Barry grabs the hem of Dundee’s shirt and lifts it. He runs his hand over Dundee’s stomach, runs his nails along Dundee’s side, then pushes his hand under Dundee’s shirt and up towards his chest. Barry teases his fingers over Dundee’s nipples, drawing a low moan from him that vibrates through their kiss. A noise squeaks out from Barry and Dundee pulls back, panting.

“The fuck was that noise?” he asks.

Barry licks his lips, staring down at Dundee’s. “What?”

“That squeak.”

“I don’t know. The tram?”

Barry doesn’t wait for further questions; he kisses Dundee again and brushes his thumb across Dundee’s nipple, teasing it to a nub he gently tugs. He rolls his hips against Dundee, setting a rhythm with the tugs. Each noise drawn from Dundee breaks beautifully around his breathy moans and after a short while he pulls back and drops his head back against the window. Barry starts to move away, but Dundee’s hands fly up to grab Barry around the waist, holding him in place.

“Keep going,” Dundee pants. “Fuck, please keep going.”

Barry pauses, mesmerized by the sight of Dundee under him, vulnerable and wanting. It was kind of addicting to have someone want him, even if they were paying for his time. Barry smooths his hand down Dundee’s chest and Dundee arches into it, chasing after Barry’s hand until it settles over the button to his jeans. Barry shuffles closer, Dundee’s bucking nearly tipping him off the bench, and Dundee moans when Barry rubs against him in the process.

“You’re going to push me off the bench,” Barry says.

Dundee laughs and moves his hands up to Barry’s shoulders. It’s a subtle thing, but the last time Dundee did that he’d wanted Barry on his knees. Barry shifts backwards and despite Dundee’s whining, he lets Barry go without issue. Barry drops to his knees between Dundee’s legs, pushing his legs apart to allow him closer. Dundee’s hands knot into Barry’s hair and this is something he understands.

He runs his hands along Dundee’s thighs, pressing in close around his cock without touching it. He leans in and mouths at Dundee’s thigh, leaving a wet patch against Dundee’s jeans from his tongue. Barry winces as Dundee’s fingers tighten in his hair and he reaches up to touch Dundee’s hand. Soon as he does, he quickly tucks his hand back under himself and braces for a slap as Dundee untangles himself from Barry’s hair, but what he gets is far more confusing.

“Sorry,” Dundee whispers and lays his hands at his sides. “Didn’t mean to be rough.”

Barry freezes and glances up at Dundee, but his eyes are closed. All Barry can think about are Dundee’s hands in his hair holding his mouth on Dundee’s cock while tears blotted Barry’s vision and Barry gagged for air. Dundee didn’t seem to care too much then and this situation isn’t much different. Maybe Dundee just didn’t want drool on his jeans.

Barry wipes his mouth and works quickly on getting Dundee’s jeans open. He doesn’t even have to ask Dundee to lift his hips to adjust the bunch of his jeans, Dundee chases after the faint pressure of Barry’s hands, bucking upwards while his hands grip the edge of the bench seat. He teases the hard outline of Dundee’s cock in his underwear and Dundee whines. Barry doesn’t try to draw it out, knowing how Dundee is currently –– he’s avoided being slapped thus far, he’d like to continue it. However, when he tries to dip his hand into Dundee’s underwear, Dundee stops him. He holds onto Barry’s hand as he slides forwards off the edge of the bench to his knees, coming face to face with Barry.

None of his clients bring themselves to his level. His clients order him around, push him down, tower over him. The last person that got to his level was Garrett a few months back, but that was only because he needed to help Barry to his feet after getting the shit kicked out of him for pissing off Mister K. Dundee isn’t Garrett, Dundee is a wild variable Barry’s finding he no longer has a definition for and Dundee is the one pushing himself out of Barry’s simple boundaries.

Dundee releases Barry’s hand and gently cups Barry’s jaw. Barry goes lax, not knowing what to expect and Dundee chuckles.

“Haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already putty,” Dundee says.

Barry laughs, but it’s airy and nervous and he hopes Dundee can’t tell. Dundee brushes his nose alongside Barry’s, his lips ghosting over Barry’s and sending sparks along his nerves. Dundee’s hands move around to the back of Barry’s neck, his arms resting on Barry’s shoulders. Barry tilts his head, waiting, but Dundee is waiting too and the anticipation makes Barry want to crawl out of his skin. Barry moves into Dundee, wanting and needing to break the tension of the moment. The kiss stays gentle, but Dundee’s hand tightens in Barry’s hair and he knows Dundee’s holding back.

Barry crowds closer, intending to crawl onto Dundee’s lap if he’ll let him. However, Dundee pushes at Barry’s shoulders, guiding him to lay back. Barry’s hands come up automatically to loop around Dundee’s shoulders as Dundee moves to straddle his lap. Dundee rolls his hips against him and although Barry knows he’s here for Dundee, it’s difficult to block out the thrill of lust that runs up his spine. Barry moans and arches into Dundee. It’s part performative and part surrender to the lust fogging his brain. He knows it’s never good to let himself over to his own urges while on a job, but it’s difficult when he feels like this around Dundee. Dundee runs his hands down Barry’s sides and Barry pleads for more. Dundee ducks his head to Barry’s neck and shushes him. Barry bites his lip to shut himself up, but after Dundee bites his neck he nearly bites through his bottom lip to stay silent.

“Okay, so you liked that,” Dundee mumbles to himself and keeps going.

Barry whines and considers pushing Dundee away –– after all, Barry’s supposed to be the one making Dundee feel good –– but it’s been a while since anyone touched Barry with such concern for how Barry would feel that it’s making his brain a bit fuzzy. Dundee nips at Barry’s neck, changing to broad licks and soft kisses to keep up with the string of noises tumbling out of Barry despite his best efforts to seem unaffected. Barry clings to Dundee’s jacket before he forces his hands to unclench. He moves his hands down Dundee’s sides, coming to rest at his waist. Dundee rolls against him again and Barry grabs the sides of Dundee’s jeans. He means for it to be a way to move Dundee off of him so Barry can get back to his job, but he finds himself tugging Dundee against him, setting a rhythm that pushes little groans from Barry with each trust. He lets go on one side to prop an arm behind himself to help leverage himself against Dundee.

“Fuck yes,” Dundee mumbles against Barry’s neck, pushing him gently to the floor of the tram again. “How do I get more of these sounds out of you?” Dundee asks, a light laugh under his words. “What do you want?”

The question stuns Barry.

What does he want?

No one asks him what he wants. He asks people what they want or they simply take it.

Dundee, lost in his distraction of kissing Barry’s neck, doesn’t notice when Barry goes glossy-eyed staring up at the ceiling of the tram. He continues to bite marks onto Barry’s neck and then he pulls Barry’s shirt to one side and sets in on his collar bone. Barry’s breathing hitches and he can’t tell if it’s from panic or response to Dundee’s mouth on his skin, but there’s no misinterpreting the noise Barry makes when Dundee runs his hand down Barry’s stomach and over his crotch.

“Fuck!” Barry moans. He closes his eyes when Dundee does it again, his hand at Dundee’s waist tugging at him. Dundee unzips Barry’s jeans and the sound barely clears the fog of Barry’s senses, but when it does he tries to sit up. “No, I’m not… It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

He expects it when Dundee pulls away, but not when Dundee flips them over and grabs Barry’s ass, rocking Barry’s hips against him. “Better?” Dundee asks.

Barry nods because at least like this he has the leverage to please Dundee. And he tries, he really does, he has the thought to shimmy downwards and fit his mouth around Dundee, but the moment he moves he shifts perfectly against Dundee. Pleasure rolls through Barry, as it does Dundee who groans and moves Barry’s hips for him again. Barry collapses against Dundee’s chest, his hips rocking without his own control. He brings his hands up beside Dundee’s chest, completely intending to move, but then he sees Dundee.

Dundee gazes up at him through half-lidded eyes and a smirk on his lips. Barry finds himself leaning closer without meaning to and then he’s kissing Dundee. He’s kissing him, but more to the point he’s taking over it. He licks Dundee’s bottom lip and past his teeth. Dundee’s hands knead Barry’s ass, pulling Barry tighter against him and Barry moves into him. Small noises pass between them and Barry doesn’t know who makes it, only that it’s good and he wants more.

He breaks their kiss and stoops to bite a mark onto Dundee’s neck. One of Dundee’s hands moves into Barry’s hair, tugging and petting. Barry growls and reaches between them to adjust himself when the pleasure moves off center. He loses himself in brief distraction, toying with the head of his cock, but Dundee draws him back, slipping his hand down beside Barry’s and mimicking Barry’s motions.

Barry’s hand moves away, letting Dundee carry on without him. It’s selfish and entirely outside of the norm for his job, but he wants this. He wants this and Dundee is letting him have it. Dundee may come to his senses later and reprimand him for the lack of attention, but Barry finds it hard to care with Dundee’s fingers circling him over his underwear and wanting more.

“More?” Dundee asks and Barry realizes he asked.

“I’m… This is fine.” Barry rests his forehead against Dundee’s shoulder and when Dundee draws his hand away Barry whines.

“More?” Dundee asks again. He licks his palm and fits his hand down the front of Barry’s underwear.

Barry swears and bucks against Dundee’s fist. He bites Dundee’s neck and then kisses him, deep and open, swallowing the low moans Dundee makes. Dundee’s hand picks up pace before it’s abruptly gone. Barry stops kissing, simply trying to draw air back into his lungs, as a shudder works through him.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Dundee says, voice low.

Barry rolls his hips and adjusts himself where his hands rest on the tram floor to either side of Dundee. Dundee’s hand runs along Barry’s stomach, before moving into his underwear again. He teases his fingers around the head then wraps his hand around Barry’s cock.

His hand is warm and slick and tight and Barry bucks into it, chasing after the pleasure. He moans and Dundee mirrors him as his hips move under Barry. Barry pants against Dundee’s neck and twists a hand into the front of Dundee’s shirt, needing something to tether him lest he float away inside his own mind.

“Just like that, beautiful.” Dundee continues to encourage Barry, drawing him closer and closer to the edge.

The sounds Barry makes get louder and louder until they’re nothing more than breathless whines. He tries to reciprocate, but his limbs are jelly and he can find no energy to do more than writhe against Dundee. Dundee –– as much as Barry thinks it’s an act –– seems lost in bliss himself, rolling against Barry in time to the steady pump of his fist over Barry’s cock. Dundee circles his thumb around the head of Barry’s cock and slips his other hand underneath the back of Barry’s shirt, running his fingers along Barry’s spine.

It all feels too good and the guilt starts to creep in cold alongside the pleasure of Dundee’s touch. Barry starts to lock up, hands balling into tight fists and hips coming to a stuttering halt over Dundee’s, but Dundee doesn’t stop.

“It’s fine, beautiful, I’ve got you,” Dundee mumbles.

His deep voice rumbles in Barry’s ear, sending tingles along Barry’s nerves. Dundee’s hand is warm at his back, rubbing soothing circles along his spine. Barry presses his nose into Dundee’s neck, lost in the smell of aftershave and ocean. He opens his mouth and licks along the line of Dundee’s pulse, feeling it flutter in an erratic beat under his tongue.

Barry doesn’t deserve to feel this good, he’s meant to be the one servicing, but it’s all too easy to let himself sink into Dundee. Dundee squeezes his fist around Barry and it’s perfect and Barry doesn’t know if he’s saying anything intelligible to give any indication that what Dundee is doing feels good, but it feels good regardless. Barry moans as Dundee’s hand over his back moves to scratch along his side. Dundee whispers Barry’s name and then Barry’s coming, urgently bucking his hips into Dundee, trying to push nearer, to wrap himself entirely in Dundee.

Soon as Barry’s thrusts turn less urgent, Dundee takes his hand from Barry’s pants and shoves it down his own, stroking himself quickly. It doesn’t take too long before he’s moaning Barry’s name again, a shudder running through him as he melts in bliss. His hand comes out to rest at his side, an exhausted laugh slipping out. He pushes his hair from his eyes with his other hand before poking Barry in the side.

“Got any more of those napkins?” he asks, looking down at Barry already digging into his pockets for the travel pack of wipes.

They stay on the floor for the rest of the ride and get off the tram at the top of the mountain, jumping out at the last second before the tram tilts forward and starts moving back down the line. The air at the top of the mountain whips around Barry’s face, lifting his jacket from his sides and poofing out his shirt. He laughs and spreads his arms, feeling freer than he has in years. He grins out over the treetops at the pink and orange sunrise and when he looks over his shoulder he finds Dundee watching him with a small smile.

He should feel embarrassed and he waits for it to come, but it doesn’t. There’s only the warmth of Dundee smiling at him.

Barry runs through the tram house, whooping and laughing, coming outside and finding a ladder leading to the roof. He climbs it, wanting to be higher, wanting to touch the sky and shout and scream with the overwhelming flood of happiness coursing through him.

It’s possibly mania from poor sleep, but it could be something else, something he doesn’t want to name because just naming it would shatter the delicate thing it is.

There’s another set of boots across the tram station’s metal rooftop and then a warm hand against his back. Barry turns around, finding Dundee behind him, and he throws his arms around Dundee’s neck and kisses him. Dundee kisses him back, pressing a smile to Barry’s lips. They stay up there for a while, until something catches Dundee’s attention and he grabs Barry’s hand and pulls him off the roof with him and over to a pair of off road motorcycles that have been left unattended beside an observation platform.

Dundee lockpicks them and shows Barry how to handle it before challenging him to a race down the mountain. Barry tries to yell about helmets, but Dundee whoops and in the next second is gone. Barry wobbles at the start, but once he gets rolling and finds his balance it’s exhilarating. They race down the mountain, whipping around corners and flying over dirt jumps. At one point, Barry misses a turn and goes over Dundee’s head, landing hard on the grass and barely catching himself. His back wheel spins out, sending him sideways and slipping down the hill. Dundee shouts after him, yelling advice on how to correct the bike. It’s hard to hear over the rev of the engine, but Barry manages to stay upright and find his way back to the path. Dundee shouts praise at him and Barry is almost taken off his bike by a low hanging branch when he glances over his shoulder to smile at him.

The race is quickly forgotten about when Dundee finds a trail leading to a small creek under a waterfall and they spend the morning roaming the area. Afternoon comes and they find themselves on the opposite side of the mountain, following game trails. As the sky starts to turn to darker shades and they find themselves atop Chiliad again, their original race is remembered and they take off in a cloud of dust. They continue down the mountain, leapfrogging positioning until at last they spill out onto a small trail leading towards the highway. Dundee spins his bike in a circle, dropping the kickstand in the same motion, and hops off. Barry is less graceful and accidentally drops his bike sideways when he dismounts. Barry’s shaking with adrenaline and Dundee’s overflowing with praise, citing Barry’s almost-fall and a few of the jumps, that he doesn’t notice Dundee take out his wallet. Dundee takes out a significant amount of cash and tucks it into the front pocket of Barry’s jeans while he’s talking.

“For the tram tickets,” Dundee says, though Barry knows that amount could buy a week’s worth of tickets and still have money left to tip the operator.

“That more than pays for the tickets,” Barry says, briefly thumbing the edge of the bills –– all hundreds.

Dundee waves a hand. “We’ll find some way to make it even.”

It’s such an easy comment and the mood between them is light and joyful, that Barry doesn’t think twice about his response.

“Or you could get your change from my asshole,” Barry says with a laugh, remembering Dundee previously calling Barry a vending machine. Something which Barry now believes was simply a flash reaction and not entirely true, given today and all their quaint evenings prior.

What Barry expects is a joint laugh of them reminiscing over Dundee’s comment made during a one-off feeling. What he gets is Dundee shutting down. He turns from Barry, shoulders dropping and hands fidgeting to pick dirt from under his nails. Barry waits, his smile slowly dropping from his face the longer Dundee’s back is turned.

After an extended silence, Dundee mumbles, “I gotta go,” and jumps back on his stolen bike. He races off without a backwards glance and Barry is left alone at the side of the highway.

Barry walks his bike to the side of the road and tucks it behind a guard rail, still visible from the road but blocked from accidental ramming. He’d seen the bulky tracker affixed to the frame and knows someone will be around eventually to claim it.

He contemplates going back for his bike at the Chiliad trams parking lot, but he’s closer to the city and could simply get a taxi out in the morning for it. He has the money for it now.

He starts walking the highways towards the city, his thumb hooked towards the road in beg of a ride. It’s little under half an hour of walking before someone in a tow truck pulls over to offer him a lift. Barry directs him to the vague area of his apartment and slips him one of the hundred dollar bills in payment. The driver tries to offer change, but Barry shuts the door on his words and runs across the road. He hides in a stairwell until the tow truck passes him and then he sprints to his apartment.

It’s quiet in the parking lot, the usual hoodlums of the stairwell not there to attempt to light Barry on fire or mark up the walls in crude graffiti, though the parking lot is full of expensive cars. It wasn’t unusual for there to be the occasional party in the complex, but it’s eerily quiet. The distant music from Dean World is louder than the complex at the moment. Barry makes his way to his door and slips inside, pulling the deadbolt after him. He sheds his jacket as he walks through the dark apartment, dropping it to the carpet and going directly to his bedroom and pulling on Dundee’s hoodie. It had become something of a calming weight as well as a reminder of the man he had grown fond of over the course of their outings, despite the still uncertain footing Barry felt. He thumbs the edge of the bills in his pocket and goes to his kitchen, but when he reaches the fridge he freezes.

It’s pulled about two feet from the wall and there’s a pile of dust and fur and mouse droppings swept to one side and scrape marks the same width as the lockbox where Barry kept his money. He spins on his heel as he flicks on the nearest light, the uncovered bulb in the kitchen illuminating the men sitting on his couch, armchair, coffee table, and waiting patiently by the front window. Barry recognizes them, but in that instant he wished they were random burglars. He’d have better luck facing off against random thieves rather than the six men in his living room.

Chapter Text

“‘Sup, Benson,” Ramee says, finishing loading bullets into the magazine and sliding it into his gun. He gets up from the couch and circles the edge of the room, coming up to Barry’s side.

Barry recognizes all of them, but he almost wishes he didn’t know who they were so the terror in his veins wouldn’t be quite as cold. They’re all spread across the living room and Barry can’t help but kick himself mentally for not noticing they were there. The high of his day with Dundee had dulled his awareness, tunneling his focus to only thoughts of that man. Even now, Barry can’t help but hope that when they kill him they don’t get his blood on Dundee’s hoodie.

Mr. K sits in the armchair in the corner, his pose relaxed despite the large katana resting on his lap. Randy stands at his side, gun drawn but at ease. A man wearing a demon mask reclines on the sofa smoking through the mouth of his mask and Barry knows it’s Hutch from the bald head. Barry recognizes Taco, regardless of the simple bandana mask he wears, plainly because of his name tattooed across his bare stomach. Taco sits on the edge of the coffee table, Barry’s lockbox open on his lap as he counts it. Though the sixth doesn’t wear a mask, Barry isn’t too sure about him, but he thinks he’s heard a few people call him Demon. It’s probably not his real name. He stands by the window, arms crossed and likely keeping track of outside traffic. Barry sees no weapon drawn on the sixth, but he has no doubt in his mind that there is one.

“Barry Benson,” Mister K greets with a smile. It’s not a friendly smile and Barry fights the compulsion to shudder. “How was your evening?”

“Uh,” Barry’s voice cracks and he clears his throat. “Good.”

“See many people?”

“A few. It’s the weekend, so, you know, there’s, um. I heard there’s a concert at De––,”

“That’s not what I refer to and you know it.”

“Yeah, I, uh… Yeah, a few people.”

Mister K hums, nodding solemnly. “And do these people like you?”

“A few come back.”

“And are they wealthy people?”

Barry’s gaze darts to the lockbox. He knows what K’s searching for and he knows Barry’s answer. Barry’s not the highest earning on their payroll and they kept meticulous track of how much Barry brought them monthly. The amount in the lockbox is enough to cover four months and most of it has been added within the last two weeks.

“They pay my rates,” Barry says.

Randy steps closer and Barry knows it wasn’t the answer they wanted. Randy holsters his gun and flicks out a switchblade. Barry backs up, but the apartment is small and he hits the low wall dividing the living room and kitchen. Randy pulls Barry forward with a rough yank on his hoodie, tripping Barry to his knees. Barry hits the threadbare carpet hard, barely catching himself before Randy kicks him sideways. Barry rolls onto his back and Randy sits on his chest, pinning Barry’s arms out to his sides. Barry kicks his legs and attempts to buck Randy off, until Randy raises his knife in warning and Barry goes still.

“I don’t know what you must think of us in the privacy of your own home, Barry, but we know what you do.” Mister K leans forwards, looking down at Barry. “You’re aware we monitor our assets very closely and until today we had no reason to flag you as a potential risk. You work and bring us a consistent income, we didn’t think it would be a harm to let you have your fantasies. Clearly though, this is more than a pipe dream.” Mister K looks over to Taco.

“Eighty thousand seven hundred and fifty,” Taco says, closing the lockbox and setting it on the coffee table beside him. “And a movie ticket stub.” He cracks his knuckles and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Barry knows that number is wrong, but he doesn’t correct them.

Low whistles and murmurs of disbelief circle the room. Barry’s certain it’s just for show. Considering only the fridge is displaced and not his entire apartment, they knew how much was in there. Barry had his suspicions they’d been watching him, this was proof of how close that gaze followed him. He glances around, trying to find where a camera would be placed, but his focus falls back to the knife in Randy’s hand. It’s the same one that’s previously been in Barry’s thigh. Randy lines the tip of the blade against Barry’s chin, pressing down until Barry opens his mouth to avoid the blade further digging into him.

“Eager lad!” Randy laughs. He takes the knife away, but holds his thumb against Barry’s chin, keeping Barry’s mouth open. Barry’s never been more aware of his tongue, held rigid and flat against the back of his lower teeth. “You been learning new tricks, Barry? Finding new depravities so people will pay you more? What’ve you been doing, Barry?” Randy takes his thumb away.

“Nothing! Nothing else!” Barry says, eyes on the knife.

“One time with a private client –– that you were ordered to take –– and a month later you’ve got eighty grand in your mattress?” Ramee asks, leaning over Randy’s shoulder. “What else have you been doing?”

“Nothing!” Barry says again, louder.

“You go back to him? You know he would tell us if we asked.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“It’s gotta be something, or else you’re skimming profits off the top, Barry,” Randy says. The knife returns, this time resting on Barry’s bottom lip, the tip knocking against Barry’s teeth when he speaks.

“I haven’t been. I’m still making my usual payments to you,” Barry says.

The knife is cold against his lips and even colder when Randy slides it into Barry’s mouth to rest over his tongue, pressing it flat to stop his words. Barry holds himself perfectly still, taking shallow breaths through his nose. His hands ball into fists, mainly for his own calming benefit rather than to ready a punch, though currently it’s doing little to calm him, as his arms are still pinned to the carpet by Randy’s knees like an insect against a corkboard. There is little reasoning with those who’d broken into his apartment; once they had an idea in their head the decision was likely already made and one outcome of the night might just be Barry’s death. There was a time where Barry would have welcomed such an outcome; now he wonders who will return the pink hoodie to its rightful owner.

“This is double any income you’ve previously brought us through your Fridgit post. Unless that’s not the only place where you’ve been attracting clients,” Mister K says. He lightly pokes his katana to the side of Barry’s head to make Barry look at him. Randy refuses to move the knife to accommodate and it tugs at the edge of Barry’s lips. “You know what happens if you don’t have our protection, Barry.”

Barry looks forward again and nods.

He knows. He still has the scars from the last people who tried to take advantage of his good nature. That night knocked sense into him, as well as giving him reason to take the offer to work for Mister K. The week after Barry agreed to work for him, when the same people came back to try another round with Barry, they’d swiftly been taken care of with a single phone call to the man currently sitting on Barry’s chest. Those people were never heard from again and Barry’s certain that they’re dead.

“I know,” Barry says, his words garbled around the knife in his mouth. The blade nicks his tongue and he tries his best to swallow the blood.

“It’s our grace that has afforded you such protection. I would hate to see you out on your own. I can only imagine what horrors would befall you,” Mister K says.

Barry has no doubt in his mind that most of those horrors would come at the hands of those in this room, but he keeps that thought to himself.

“It’s by our hand that you have clients at all. If I felt like it, we could kill everyone you ever touch; take their heads clean off before you even knew what was happening.” He adjusts the katana in his grip, turning the blade to shine in the lamp light. “Do you understand what that means?”

Barry nods, the blade nicking his tongue again. Mister K is silent and Barry knows he’s waiting for an audible answer, despite the knife in Barry’s mouth. “I understand,” he says. He hopes it’s intelligible.

“I’m going to ask you once and I expect the truth, Barry,” Randy says. “Or else it won’t be a cock sliding down your throat.”

The primeval urge of survival finally rears its head and Barry squirms underneath Randy, trying again to buck him off. The weight of Randy on his chest isn’t an oppressive thing, yet his brain starts a terrible feedback loop urged on by the knife held against his tongue: you can’t breathe. Barry bites hard around the knife to keep it in place and manages to work one arm free from under Randy’s leg. He grabs Randy’s hand holding the knife and pulls it away from his mouth, but Randy has two hands free and he easily grabs Barry’s arm and pins it over his head, stabbing the knife through the cuff of the hoodie sleeve to keep Barry in place. The knife misses Barry’s wrist by millimeters and Barry doesn’t know if that was intentional or not. Randy pants at the effort of maintaining his position and he chuckles when Barry quiets under him again.

“You aren’t painting yourself in a favourable light here,” Hutch says, his mask bobbing as he speaks. “You got any snacks?” He gets off the couch and carefully steps over Barry’s legs to wander around the kitchen, aimlessly opening cabinets.

“Stop getting your fucking fingerprints everywhere!” Ramee says.

“Why?” Hutch asks, coming up from behind the counters with a box of granola.

“Because if we kill him we don’t want our fingerprints everywhere, do we?” the one by the window says, still watching out at the parking lot. “There’s sirens a few blocks away. Seems stationary.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Hutch says, mouth full. “If I want to kill a guy, I’m gonna kill him. In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy myself.”

Barry can hardly hear them over the whooshing in his ears. The world is underwater and half of him is trying to convince himself he’s dreaming, but the pain in his mouth is too real to ignore. He coughs and blood splatters across his chin, drawing attention back to him. He hates the sudden shift of eyes on him, the reality that they were here for him and only him, the sobering truth that he might die tonight because he decided to store money under a fridge. He could’ve given it to someone to hold or buried it somewhere, but he liked the illusion of having the option to at any point vanish from the city.

“So as you know, we’ve been watching you,” Mister K says, carrying on like nothing happened. “We’ve noticed a certain change in demeanor after your night at the casino hotel which leads me to want to ask: what have you learnt since then to accumulate such funds this quick?”

The image of Dundee comes to Barry and a cold fear takes him as his imagination places Dundee dead under Mister K’s boot, the katana jutting from his chest and Mister K cheerfully twisting it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barry says.

“Come on, now. You’re helping us. We want to make the others as productive as you. Share your secret.” Mister K leans forward to whisper to Barry, though Barry suspects the others can hear him just fine. “Is it drugs? Numbing yourself to take more? We won’t judge if you do; might even be able to get you a better price. Did you buy a tongue ring with a vibrator? No, wait, you don’t… that’s someone else.”

“I didn’t do anything special!” Barry says, looking at Mister K upside down. It makes him uneasy to bare his neck to Randy, but he needs Mister K to see he’s being genuine. “I haven’t even had that many––,” he bites his tongue, aggravating the wound and drawing more blood into his mouth.

There’s a brief silence and everyone in the room is frozen. Barry thinks for a moment that his last comment won’t be noticed, but it’s a more delusional thought than his personal funds.

“Haven’t had that many what ?” Mister K asks, deadly calm.

“I…” Barry looks around at the others, half-expecting them to chirp in with inane conversation, but they’re silent and watching. “I told you, I still get clients, that hasn’t changed.”

“So what did?”

“N-nothing!”

Mister K motions to Randy, just a simple flick of his fingers that Barry briefly wonders is a tick, before Randy’s fist connects with Barry’s jaw. Barry’s head snaps to the side with the impact and he coughs blood onto his carpet. He blinks the stars from his vision and pulls the room back into focus, dazedly realizing that Randy is shimmying backwards off his chest and moving Barry’s other hand over his head. Barry goes easily, ragdoll loose from the punch and too preoccupied trying to stop the vibrating behind his eyes. The heel of Mister K’s expensive leather boot presses over Barry’s other sleeve, holding his arm in place.

“There are things I like in this world, Barry Benson,” Mister K says.

Barry looks at Randy, still shimmying down Barry’s body until he’s straddling Barry’s calves. Barry weakly tries to kick him off, but Randy finds the same place on Barry’s thigh he stabbed a while ago and digs his thumb into it. Barry cries out in pain and kicks harder, until the fight goes out of him and he closes his eyes until the pain suddenly stops. Randy lifts his thumb off the scar and instead pushes the pink hoodie upwards, exposing Barry’s stomach. Randy produces another knife from somewhere and traces the muscles of Barry’s abdomen with it. Barry sucks in his stomach to avoid it, but Randy follows, drawing cold circles that move lower and lower.

“I like finely tuned cars and sharpened knives,” Mister K says. “I like a nice wine.”

Barry briefly wonders if he means wine or whine .

“I like Italian leather,” Mister K says, his boot twisting the sleeve of the hoodie under the heel and pinching the edge of Barry’s arm in the process. “I like people who listen.”

There’s a sigh from the kitchen and the box of granola slides back into the cabinet.

“I like symmetry,” Mister K says.

As if waiting for his cue, Randy starts undoing Barry’s jeans and tugging them down his hips.

“And most of all, I like secrets. Just not those kept from me.”

Randy bunches Barry’s jeans down to his knees, wrestling with the denim to keep the fabric from bulking up and getting in the way. He grabs the outer waistband of Barry’s boxers and slices downwards, repeating the motion on the other side and pulling the scrap of fabric out from between Barry’s legs. The torn garment is thrown aside and then the knife settles against Barry’s skin, tracing the sharp tip featherlight along the mangled scar running up the inside of his thigh towards his scrotum. The dysfunctional nerves along the scar spark to life and Barry holds himself perfectly still, not even daring to breathe.

He’s terrified it’ll come out as a moan.

“I like symmetry,” Mister K says again. “Almost as much as I like hurting people. Truthfully, I don’t care what answer you’ll have for us. Either you tell us the truth of how you managed to squirrel away eighty grand when I’ve heard talk from others that you say we take too much for you to survive on. Or, you lie to us and Randy gets to practice his forgery skills.”

“It’s a fucking mess, I ain’t gonna lie. Whoever did this was a lunatic,” Randy says and digs the tip of the knife into the inside of Barry’s other thigh. A thin cut opens under the knife. “But, I think I can copy it.” He adjusts his hold, subtly twisting the blade. “Go on then. Tell me some bullshit so I can carve you.”

“Your deposits into the lockbox have been… sporadic,” Mister K says, reclining in his seat. His foot lifts from Barry’s sleeve and as much as Barry wants to cover himself, he doesn’t move. “A couple thousand every few weeks, if that. But within the past month you’ve been going to it almost every two days, always with amounts over five grand. Where are you getting the money?”

“It’s work!” Barry says, voice high and frantic, eyes fixed on the blade against his thigh. “It’s all from jobs.”

“If it’s from jobs, then where’s the proper percentage owed for those who provided you your workspace? And before you lie and say they were private jobs I would like to remind you that there is no such thing for you. Everyone knows you’re ours.”

“I took the owed amount out before I did anything else,” Barry says. “The rest is tips.”

“Tips,” Mister K repeats, slowly. “You made eighty thousand grand on tips.”

“Yeh-yeah?” Barry stutters.

“The person with the least amount of transactions on record.”

“Mhm.” Barry no longer trusts his voice.

“Tips,” Mister K says again.

Around the room, the others shift in place, seemingly already aware of Mister K’s mood. Barry likely would be shifting too, were it not for the knife pinning him in place. Randy watches Mister K with a small smile on his face, eagerly awaiting the go ahead to tear into Barry’s thigh. Barry watches Randy, waiting for the sudden spike of pain from the knife. It’s nothing more than a faint widening of Randy’s eyes, but it’s enough of a head start for Barry to know what’s coming.

Before Randy can move, Barry yanks the knife from his pinned hoodie sleeve and slashes at Randy’s face. The blade catches across his eye and blood follows in a sleek line. Randy reels back, dropping his knife in favour of cradling his bleeding eye. He swears and shuffles himself blindly towards the half wall, cursing out Barry as he goes. Barry pulls up his pants while everyone is stunned at Randy’s screaming. Barry manages to get to his knees before there’s the unmistakable sound of guns being readied. He freezes and drops the knife.

Ramee is the first with his gun on Barry, but the others quickly follow. All except for the one by the window who frantically waves for their attention. “Don’t shoot!” he hisses.

“I wasn’t going to kill him,” Ramee says. “Maybe just take a finger or two. You can lose a finger or two, right? As far as I know, it’s usually not you putting things in people.”

“Don’t shoot!” the man by the window says again, louder. “There’s a fucking raid happening a few doors down.”

Sure enough, after those words a loud thud vibrates through the floors and walls as presumably a door is broken down. Barry finally allows himself to take his eyes off the threat in front of him to notice the flash of red and blue through his front window. He has the brief idea of yelling for help, but Ramee adjusts his aim towards Barry’s throat like he knows Barry’s thoughts.

“They’re sweeping windows,” the one by the window says, ducking low behind the curtains.

In the kitchen, Hutch grabs the box of granola again and backs from the view of the main window. Randy feels blindly along the walls, heading in the vague direction of the bathroom. Taco places the lockbox on the coffee table and goes to Randy, guiding him into the bathroom and digging through the cabinet under the sink for a first aid kit. Mister K and Ramee corner Barry into the bedroom, their guns at their sides. Flashlight beams sweep across the carpet and walls and faint radio chatter moves along the outside of the door. Mister K tells Barry to stay, tapping his katana against the carpet, then pulls Ramee to the other side of the room to whisper.

Barry tucks himself against the bedroom door and presses a hand against the cut to his thigh. At the lack of underwear, blood leaks warm down his leg and seeps through his jeans in a splotchy mess. The surge of adrenaline has left Barry tired and a part of him still hopes this whole evening is nothing more than a terrible dream, but he knows it’s not. He wants to sit on the floor and not have to deal with anything, but every move he makes is scrutinized by Ramee or Mister K. The one by the window hasn’t looked away from his watch, keeping a diligent eye on the cops outside. No one has noticed that Taco left the box of money on the coffee table within sight of the bedroom door and on a clean path to the front door.

It would be so easy for Barry to grab it and run, but if he were to take it his hands would be full and the extra seconds he would spend fumbling with the door could possibly cost him his life. Sure there were cops outside, but Randy had taken out two knives so far and Barry had no doubt the others had their own as well; Barry could be stabbed before he’s even out the door and none of the cops would ever know.

Barry’s thought of running once before. He’d imagined packing a bag of the sparse personal items scattered around his apartment and catching the next flight out of San Andreas. In this scenario he would’ve had time to clear out any trace of himself and vanish back into the general populace, just as he had done the first time he’d disappeared from society. He isn’t sure where he would go, but this moment is his only chance and if he doesn’t run he might as well throw himself onto Mister K’s sword because they’ll never accept any answer Barry has to explain where he got so much money in such a short time. Or worse, they’d believe him and then promptly cut that perceived hindrance from Barry’s life.

He looks at the lockbox of money sitting on his coffee table and tells himself that dumpster food is better than death before he sprints for the front door. He hears Ramee and Mister K yell after him and when he gets the door open a knife flies past his head and slams into the wood doorframe. He doesn’t stop to think about how many more knives are potentially flying his way.

There’s shouts behind him telling him to stop, but he doesn’t listen. He hops the railing of the second floor balcony, plummeting to the hard concrete of the parking lot and landing in a heap. The parking lot is awash in red and blue lights, cops shuffling about as they drag plant after plant of cannabis from apartments on the first and second floor. One cop asks him to stop, mistaking Barry’s fear of the gang behind him as the guilty conscience of the weed’s caretaker, but Barry doesn’t listen to him either and he zig zags through the crowd towards the road. He spares a glance behind him towards his door, barely catching sight of the guns hastily being tucked away and the finger pointed in his direction. Randy, a fresh bandage over his eye, yells something, but it’s lost in the general commotion.

The yelling attracts the attention of the cops and a few guns are pointed towards Mister K. Barry runs faster, knowing he’d have a precious few moments without their gaze as they lied to the cops about their purpose in the apartment complex. Barry knows they’ll lie, maybe they’ll use Barry as a scapegoat for their reasoning too, because the suites currently being raided are also property of the gang — though the plants currently being confiscated are only a minor fraction of the weed they produced. Barry has toured through their major operation up North and afterwards been left with the main grower for an hour or two ‘as a tip for good production numbers’.

Barry looks behind again as he runs, expecting a charge of cops rushing after him, but the street is empty and the lights are getting further and further away. He slows to a walk, a hand to his side for the sting of pain in his muscles, as he looks around for a proper escape. His wallet is still in his bike parked under mount Chiliad and his other money is sitting on a coffee table in an apartment he’d never felt safe in. The only money he currently has on him is the stack of cash Dundee tucked into his jeans and though it would be enough to disappear for a while, it wasn’t enough to outrun Chang Gang, so Barry considers his options. There’s an abandoned bicycle half hidden in the hedge and a taxi parked at the corner. The driver taps away at their phone, clearly focused on a point and click game of some kind, and he startles when Barry knocks on the window. The driver guiltily tucks his phone away and rolls down the window. He gives Barry a strange look, but speaks civilly, if stilted.

“Liu’s taxi service. Where do you need to go?” the driver asks, lowering his round sunglasses to look Barry over.

Barry takes the money from his pocket and leans into the window as he starts counting out bills. “I need you to drive past that scene up there and make it as plainly obvious as you can that someone’s in the backseat.”

“Aight, hop in.”

“No, just you.”

The driver gives him another look over before pushing his glasses back into place. “A bit unconventional.”

“You might be chased.”

The driver smirks. “I’ve gotten away from cops before.”

“It wouldn’t be from the cops.”

The driver’s smirk fades. “That’ll cost you extra.”

Barry shoves all the money from his pocket towards the driver. “Here. Take it all, I don’t fucking care. If you get pulled over, you never saw me, you have no idea about me, I don’t exist.”

“Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Barry says, ducking out of the car again as the sound of expensive cars idling echoes down the street.

“Yeah, I know. I was — It doesn’t matter.”

“Go!” Barry urges and runs towards the hedge. He pushes his way into the plant, squinting against the branches that whip at his face. He squats on the dirt and hugs his knees. His face itches and it takes him a moment to understand that it’s the drying blood on his chin causing it. He carefully wipes his face with his hand and cleans his palm against his jeans, avoiding smearing more blood over Dundee’s hoodie. There’s already flicks of his blood drying across the hoodie’s front and a tear through the sleeve from Randy’s knife, Barry isn’t about to add more damage to it.

The taxi driver speeds away and as promised makes an obvious display of watching the apartments, letting his car idle in an awkward gear to make it louder than normal and stall when he rolls forwards. When the first sports car pulls out the taxi skips forwards urgently and fishtails its way down the road. When it looks like he won’t be followed he makes a display of addressing a fake person in the backseat who’d presumably be ducked down before he speeds off again. There’s a brief moment where Barry thinks his plan has failed, before the line of cars he knows belongs to Chang Gang rush after the taxi. Barry counts every car until the last is out of sight, then takes the abandoned bicycle and pedals the opposite way, heading South. The cut in his thigh stings with each rub of his jeans over the injury, spilling more blood, but he grits his teeth and does his best to ignore it.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he doesn’t stop. He turns whenever he hears sirens and hides at the nearby revving of high end cars approaching. He zig-zags through streets and a maze of back alleys, keeping out of the reach of street lights and peeking around corners before he frantically pedals across the roads. It’s an indeterminable amount of time later that he finds himself between two tall buildings, their chipped white painted bricks covered in moss and graffiti. Barry’s thighs burn and not just from the knife, at some point the bike Barry stole caught a nail in the front tire which now lays flat. It’s possible he biked half the city with the flat tire.

His throat is raw and he finally realizes the harsh rasp he thinks is his breathing is actually the ocean. He can smell it on the wind that cuts down the alley. It also mixes with the rotting garbage of the nearby dumpster and weed, churning the bile in his stomach. He cups his hands around his mouth in an attempt to settle his breathing and it mostly works, until the rooftops overhead explode in a rapid burst of popping. There’s wild laughter like a hyena and more popping and the tapping of boots along a ladder. Barry holds his breath and jumps off the bike, leaving it where it falls as he presses himself against the wall behind a dumpster. There’s too many rooftops, too many corners where someone could hide as easily as him and his gaze darts from spot to spot trying to find the source.

“You shot me through a billboard, you fuck!” a young Australian shouts between his peals of laughter. “No! We agreed using scopes was cheating! It’s paintball! Why are you so try-hard?” His voice fades as he runs further along the rooftops. “Oh, look at me! My name’s Jesse and I can bullseye womp rats in my T-16!”

Barry cranes his neck in an attempt to see the speaker, but he’s gone, taking the sound of splattering paintballs with him. Barry counts the passing time to himself, waiting for the man or anyone else to return and when he doesn’t, Barry sprints from the alley, heading towards the open air and stumbling when his boots meet the sand. He catches himself from falling and keeps running, heading towards the looming structure of the lifeguard tower at the edge of the beach. He didn’t even realize he’d biked to the beach, it was just an instinct drawing him towards Vespucci, but now that he’s here that tower is the perfect lookout spot.

He knows he’s being hunted by those he works for and as much as he wants to retreat to familiar places, it’s also the first place they’ll check. Not that the familiar was ever safe to begin with, but Barry always let himself imagine it was. He’d ignored the quiet looks he’d received and the eerie nature of his employers knowing exactly where he was at all times, but he could no longer afford to play dumb. He would spend the night at the tower and come dawn — or whenever his exhaustion afforded him to next wake — he would make his way North into the forest. He’d seen plenty of wild garden plots he could steal from and there was a hunting store he could buy a few supplies from after he’d picked a few pockets. He’d had rougher living before coming to Los Santos, he just had to make it at least a week alone for the attention to fall off him and his employers to move onto their next target. He could do a week without drawing attention to himself.

He climbs the lifeguard tower using the same route Dundee had shown him, taking extra care to avoid catching the pink hoodie on any nails or jutting panels of tin. He paces the top deck for a while, scanning the beach and waters, until his adrenaline abruptly leaves him and he drops to the rooftop. He flips up the hood, pulls his knees to his chest, hugs his arms around himself, and watches the lights from the lifeguard tower dance across the calm sea waters at the edge of the beach. It could’ve been hours, it could’ve been minutes, but he’s eventually pulled from his meditation by someone climbing the ladder up to his platform. His heart jumps up his throat, trying to take his stomach with it, and Barry tucks his head between his knees and hopes for a swift death.

“Oh!” a lazy drawl exclaims, halting for a moment on the ladder before continuing upwards. The roof panels rattle under Barry as this new person walks around him. “There you are.”

Barry manages to hold back a sob, knowing it would only spur them on to use harsher methods to get more noises from him.

“Jordan told me you were out for the night. I didn’t think he meant up here. Good news: cops didn’t bother collecting bullet casings, so you can keep that uzi for now.” The man stands behind Barry, shifting from foot to foot as he waits for a reply. After a moment, the man lights a smoke and the sweet smell of weed drifts over Barry. “Also, I got an interesting phone call last night from someone who said you threatened to cut off their pinky toes and shove them in their ears. Collin said he was with you and told me the full context. Frankly, anyone who comes around Vespucci claiming they don’t know we hold the turf and acting dumb when they’re informed otherwise is asking for a rearrangement of their limbs.”

Barry’s breathing picks up and his hands grip tight to the borrowed hoodie. The man behind Barry continues to happily smoke, not knowing he wasn’t talking to who he thought he was. Barry contemplates if his best option is to ask for forgiveness before or after he throws himself from the lifeguard tower and if either option would spare him his life for overhearing what he has. He closes his eyes and wishes desperately for the man to stop talking, but he continues to ramble on in his slow drawl, happily holding a one sided conversation.

“Personally, I’m surprised all you did was threaten the cunt, considering what you’ve done in the past for people who don’t call before stealing some unlucky bastard's car to chop to bits. Speaking of which,” the man continues and Barry contemplates summersalting off the roof to avoid even having to look at him. “I got a shipment of grenades in. I put one in the shoebox in your closet. You know, the one with those boots you stole a couple weeks ago? It’s kinda wedged between the heels to keep it from rolling about, but still, please be careful when grabbing it. Last thing we need is you in the ICU again. Collin barely got through it the last time. Did I ever tell you that fucker threatened me with a bat if I ever told anyone I saw him crying? There were five of us in there, why’d he single me out?” The man’s words are harsh, but there’s a hint of a laugh to his tone. “I mean, fair enough, I told everyone about the time he got emotional watching that animal shelter ad. Sarah Maclaughlin though; the woman knows how to make a person cry.”

Barry can’t do it anymore. The longer he stays quiet the worse it’s going to be when the man realizes Barry isn’t who he expected. His breath hitches in his throat around words he never says.

“Anyways, how’d your date go? Jordan said you tried to kick the front bumper off his truck when he tried to introduce himself. You’re not really helping the ‘females go away’ bit when you don’t allow people to talk to your dates.” The man crushes his smoke under his heel and waits.

Barry shifts around, bringing his hands up to cover his head as he thinks about his options.

“That bad, huh? I was wondering why you were wearing the pink hoodie, you usually only break it out when you’re feeling some kind of way. Did –– hang on.”

Barry feels the man grab the wrist of Barry’s hoodie and twist it around.

“Is this blood?” the man asks, kneeling beside Barry. “Dundee?” the man asks, putting a hand on Barry’s shoulder and gently forcing him out of his curled position.

Barry quickly shuffles away as the man reaches for a gun tucked into the back of his pants and aims it at Barry without a second thought. Any trace of humor is gone from the guy as he lifts up a radio and quickly comms out a simple phrase: “Lifeguard tower, now.”

He doesn’t move his gun from Barry as he studies him, not that Barry expected him to, but his focus moves over the hoodie again and again, his eyebrows knitting in concentration while keeping his questions to himself. He appeared to be relatively young, but battle scarred in a way that marked him immediately in Barry’s mind as belonging to a gang life. His hair is dark and shaggy under a black cowboy hat and there’s bags under his eyes alluding to a fight with insomnia. His hands keep the gun trained on Barry as Barry shifts about, pulling himself further away from the guy in an attempt to find the quickest route down and away from the situation. However, the guy is between Barry and the ladder.

“Hey, stop moving,” The man says calmly, as his gun tracks Barry’s head.

The man wears a similar denim jacket to Dundee with the addition of two patches at the front left breast pocket which say “Jesse” and “Sgt at Arms”. The man –– Jesse –– relays some more information when his radio cracks to life with several people shouting into it at once.

Barry hadn’t believed before that Bondi was anything more than a couple people and is now being proven horribly wrong as several dark blue muscle cars come careening across the beach from multiple directions. The first one that reaches the lifeguard tower comes to a rolling stop and a man with dark skin and buzzed bright red hair jumps out before it’s fully stopped, waving a pistol around and shouting at the top of his lungs. He’s wearing short shorts and a denim vest with patches.

“Aight! Where is he? Where’s the cunt who stole the PM’s favourite hoodie! That’s justification for war! Ey? Where is he!” the red-headed man in shorts yells.

More and more cars pull up, each carrying one or two people with denim jackets and guns. Barry can’t feel his hands anymore and it might be the cold of the night wind or it might be the sad reality that he’ll likely die tonight at the hands of a different gang because he decided to wear a pink hoodie. He lifts his hands up when a few people climb up to the platform he and Jesse are waiting on. Barry recognizes one of them as the man who’d driven Dundee up to the Chiliad trams, but the other two are new faces, though all wear the denim jacket. There’s a woman with blonde hair and a leopard print skirt and a young man with a gnarly face scar carrying a large paintball gun. He aims the paintball gun and Barry braces himself, but instead he shoots Jesse square between the shoulderblades.

“Motherfucker!” Jesse shouts, momentarily taking his gaze –– and gun –– from Barry. “Why, Edbert?”

Edbert rubs at his cheek, just underneath the scar, where a small round bruise has started forming. He shrugs and grins at Jesse. “Never let your guard down, man. Rule one of Rogue Paintball.”

Jesse swiftly turns his gun on Edbert and Edbert’s tone shifts, turning high pitched and fast.

“I mean, it might be rule three or four. I think I remember reading that rule one was actually: don’t shoot your friends with real bullets.” Edbert has his hands raised and he starts shuffling backwards to hide himself behind the woman with the leopard skirt who is whispering with the truck driver man. “Stevie!” Edbert says, fully ducking behind her even as Jesse drops his aim.

“He’s not going to shoot you, Ed,” the woman says, moving out of the way regardless. She stands off to the side and lights a cigarette. “Why’d you call us all here for some random in a pink hoodie?” she asks Jesse and then addresses Barry, “No offense though, because you do look good in bright colours. Maybe like, an orange or something would suit you. Have you tried wearing orange before?”

“I called you all here because as Junior so eloquently pointed out, he’s wearing Dundee’s hoodie,” Jesse says, absently waving his gun to point to Barry.

Barry flinches, expecting it to go off.

“You break into his house?” the man in shorts yells up from below. “You only take his hoodie or you rummage through his underwear too? Come on, be real. You take a whiff of his undies while you were in his closet?”

“No, I didn’t––!” Barry says, cutting himself off in a startled gasp when Jesse’s aim returns to him and the woman smoking a cigarette takes a brief moment to pull out a gun tucked at the back of her skirt. “I didn’t break into his house. I don’t even know where he lives!”

“Oh, it’s that one,” Edbert says, pointing across the beach to the row of houses facing them. “The one right at the corner. Ground floor front window’s a little dodgy and the screen pops out easily enough if you give it a light knock. It’s just the laundry room, so he never locks that door to the main stairs leading to the actual house.”

The truck driver leans over to Edbert again and the two exchange a quick hushed conversation in which Barry catches snippets.

“It’s not the same guy, Jordan,” Edbert whispers, eyeing up Barry.

“I’m telling you, it is,” Jordan whispers back. “You might have spent that night watching a road, but I spent it watching him. I was also at Chiliad, Edbert. It’s fucking him.”

“Why the fuck’s it even matter though? If this guy thinks he’s got any sort of claim––,” Edbert aims the paintball gun and Barry flinches. “Just cause he may or may not have played tonsil hockey with the PM––,”

“Have you seen Dundee call in a personal bodyguard with anyone else he’s ever slept with?”

“Wait, what?” Jesse turns to the whispering pair. The two hum and haw between them, trying to divert attention away, but Jesse tells them to spit it out and Jordan speaks up.

“Dundee called us down to La Spada to play watchdog over this guy a while back,” he says, pointing to Barry.

On the ground, a young man with a blond mullet and a backwards cap yells for Jordan to speak up. The woman next to him with blue and purple hair asks if this is any of their business or if they should just shoot Barry and carry on with their day. She says it so calm, as if she were ordering a pizza and asking for topping recommendations, that something breaks inside Barry. His breathing stutters and refuses to even out as a tremor crawls a slow path from his gut down to his toes. He’s not even aware of it, but he crouches on the roof, hugging his knees to himself.

“I know it’s his day off or whatever,” Edbert says, pulling out his phone. “But maybe we call Dundee in on this one. I know we have a fucked history of doing things to club member’s exes, but it’s Dundee. I wouldn’t feel good about either decision without knowing.”

“No!” Barry shouts, pulling back his hood and staggering to his feet.

The woman in the leopard print –– Stevie, if Barry heard correctly –– winces at what she sees. She bites her lip and ducks her head to get a better look, tilting her head in examination.

“Please don’t call him,” Barry says. “You don’t… I don’t want to bother more people. I can just, I’ll just leave it here and I’ll get out of Vespucci. I didn’t mean to bother anyone.” Barry starts to pull the hoodie over his head and his shirt rides up with it, clinging through static that jumps across his skin.

Stevie winces again and tucks her gun away. While Barry struggles to take the hoodie off, Stevie puts her hand atop Jesse’s and lowers his gun. She steps between them and Barry, her eyes sweeping over the bruises across Barry’s torso. She covers her mouth, but it doesn’t stop the quiet curse she mumbles to herself. Barry finally manages to wrestle the hoodie off himself and Stevie swears again at the new set of bruises revealed across his arms. Now standing, he uses the hoodie to hide the patch of blood across the front of his jeans, but he knows it’s too late.

“Is that blood?” Stevie asks, pointing to Barry’s thigh. “Are you bleeding?”

“Hey! Hey, what’re you mumbling about up there?” the one in shorts yells, taking a few steps back in an attempt to better see over the ledge. “Get the hoodie off this idiot and if he don’t want to give it back, pop a round in his foot.”

Stevie reaches out a hand to Barry like trying to calm a wild animal. “No one’s going to shoot you,” she says.

“Like fuck I won’t!” the one in shorts yells.

“Junior!” Stevie yells to the man below. “Can you just give us a minute? Please.”

Junior sighs and throws his gun onto the passenger seat of the car he’d rolled from before he takes out a radio. “Well? You heard her. Fuck off and go back to your business.”

Slowly, Bondi gets into their cars and leaves one by one until only Junior is left below. He paces for a moment before calling up to the others. “I’ll be watching from the rooftop, if that motherfucker goes for any of you, I’m putting a bullet through him.”

“You can watch,” Stevie says and turns towards the others on the roof. “You should go too.”

Jesse’s eyes narrow under the brim of his hat. “You sure?”

Stevie nods, but he remains unconvinced. “Wait with Junior if you want, but I feel like you’re just scaring him more.”

Barry tries to straighten his spine, to prove a point that he’s not intimidated even if it’s a facade, but pain spikes out from the cut on his thigh and he flinches and hunches over. He hates the wobble in his voice put there from years of having knives and guns pointed his way, the instinctual shake as he waits for inevitable pain. It’s a joke that Bondi is leaving him unharmed. It has to be. They’re retreating back to better positioning and then when Barry least expects it, when he thinks his freedom is granted, that’s when they’ll strike. Right now though, right now Barry can’t afford to show weakness no matter how much pain he’s in.

“Should I take the––?” Jesse begins to ask, pointing to the hoodie, but Stevie steps in his way.

“Leave it,” she says and Jesse holds up his hands in surrender and tucks his gun away. She looks towards Edbert and Jordan, and Edbert gives her a sheepish look.

“My gun doesn’t tuck away as neatly,” he says, wiggling the large paintball gun at his side.

Stevie sighs and points towards the ladder. “I won’t be long, I just want to talk to…” She trails off, looking over to Barry.

“Barry,” he fills in for her.

“Barry,” she repeats with a smile.

It’s the smile that unnerves Barry. No one smiles at him and means it.

At least, no one until Dundee.

Barry brings the hoodie up to his chest, hugging it to him as the remaining three talk amongst themselves.

“Wait, before you go,” Stevie says, grabbing Edbert’s arm. “You said Dundee asked you to watch this guy? Sorry –– Barry –– he told you to watch over Barry. What was the context for this?”

Edbert shrugs. “I don’t know. He called me up in a panic one night a few weeks ago, told me to drop all my shit at the Billy except for a camera and go to La Puerta. Jordan was with me, mainly cause I didn’t realize he was in my car––,”

“What did you see?”

“Some guy––,” Edbert waves to Barry. “Sitting on a bench for a long time, taking people back and forth towards a storage room at Fridgit.”

“Fridgit? Isn’t that where…?” Stevie trails off, looking over to Barry again.

Barry tries not to shuffle around, but it’s difficult under the scrutiny. He picks dried blood off the back of his hand.

Stevie sighs and softens her tone. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine. It’ll just be a short talk. I just want to know about Barry.”

“Listen, I already tried to ask about Dundee’s intentions with him and got a boot dent in my bumper for it,” Jordan says. “But if you want to try again, be my guest.”

“I appreciate the confidence booster, Jordan,” Stevie says deadpan, her arms crossed. “He won’t hurt me. I’m not even confident that he won’t fall over mid-word.”

“I’m fine,” Barry says, more to assure himself, though it doesn’t stop the trembling of his hands clenched tight around Dundee’s hoodie.

Stevie ushers the others off the platform and then sits on the ledge, her feet swung over the edge. After a moment she pulls the gun from the holster at her back and places it gently on the roof. She pats the space beside her and motions for Barry to join her. He sits, his knees tucked to his chest and when he doesn’t move closer, she moves to his side. She gives him a quick once over before offering him a cigarette. He doesn’t accept.

“If you’re cold, you can put that back on,” she says, waving her cigarette at the pink hoodie.

Barry’s cold, but this feels like a test in all the small ways that the gang used to push him, so Barry sets the hoodie behind him. Stevie hums and looks out at the dark night. Without the hoodie to hide it, the bloody patch across Barry’s jeans is larger than he thought and still growing. He’s not sure if it’s just the slow leak of blood through the fibers or an artery that refuses to clot, either way it’s a constant and horrendous reminder of what almost happened to him two hours ago. He was almost mutilated for the daft idea of personal funds and now he has nothing.

That fact sinks in and Barry’s gaze goes unfocused, staring at the blood patch on his jeans.

He has nothing.

The truth is cold and bitter and Barry starts to shake again until Stevie puts the pink hoodie on his lap. She tells him to put it on and Barry follows her instructions without thought, tugging the sleeves low to cover his hands. There’s blood freckling the front of the hoodie that Barry coughed up and a splash across the left arm from Barry’s attack on Randy. Barry absently rubs at the splatters on the front, trying to brush them away like water droplets and accidently rubbing them into wider and wider stains.

“Barry?” Stevie watches him, the corners of her mouth tight. “I think you’re making it worse.”

Barry chokes back a noise and forces his hands under his thighs. “Sorry,” he says. He wants to poke and prod at the wound on his thigh, but it feels tight and hot. It’s a fifty-fifty chance that it’s still open. Either way, it hurts and he bites his tongue when Stevie reaches over like she’s going to touch it.

“How did this happen?” she asks.

Her tone is quiet and level and the part of Barry too used to harsh, accusatory words makes him bite his tongue harder. When he doesn’t answer her she moves her hand away and Barry releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“So,” she says, flicking her cigarette over the edge and lighting another. “You’re him.” She smiles at Barry and folds one leg over the other. Her skirt rides up, revealing a small blade strapped to her upper thigh. The metal handle is decorated in the same leopard print as her skirt.

“What do you mean?” It’s not his place to ask, but he’s tired and if he’s about to be held ransom for a grudge between Bondi and Mister K, Barry wants to know.

“What do you know about Irwin Dundee?”

Another test. Barry glances to the gun resting on the platform beside Stevie’s hip, loaded and waiting for a wrong answer.

“Just what I’ve heard through rumors,” he says. She motions for him to elaborate. “The violence, the chaos. But…” He holds back, uncertain if it’s a secret or not. “I don’t know if I believe them, not after what I’ve seen.”

Stevie hums and ashes her smoke, not saying more. Her silence continues and in the absence of words, Barry feels the compulsion to continue.

“I mean, I’ve heard about you lot. Hell, I’ve accidentally walked into active gunfights with you at one end and the police at the other, but it’s hard to line those rumors up to Dee –– to, to Dundee,” he stutters, correcting himself.

“You walk into many active gunfights?” she asks, glancing over the blood on the hoodie and letting her gaze settle on the patch of blood on his jeans.

“No, not usually.”

“Who’d you piss off?”

Barry bites his lip and doesn’t say.

“That’s fine. I know it wasn’t him.”

“I never––,”

“In fact, I’m pretty sure if he saw you right now he’d be on the warpath in seconds and you’d see just how true those rumors are.”

“Please don’t tell him.”

“I won’t, but that means we can’t stay up here. Like Ed said, Dee lives just over there.” She tilts her head to indicate the house at the corner where three figures with guns at their sides pace across its rooftop. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

Barry laughs, but it’s a nervous reflex at the harsh reminder how royally fucked he is right now. Thinking over it, he was stupid to go to such an open space after Mister K made the remark that he could take a person's head off before Barry could realize what happened. It’s all he can think about now and he scans the other rooftops and then the nearby overpass for the glint of a scope and Randy’s shock of white hair.

“I don’t,” Barry tells her, standing and positioning himself nearer to the tower and out of sight of higher places. “But I won’t be staying here much longer. Thanks for not shooting me, but I should be going.” He moves briskly towards the ladder, but Stevie grabs his sleeve.

“Wait, I didn’t mean to scare you off.” Stevie drops his sleeve as quickly as she’d grabbed it. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I shouldn’t be here.” Barry looks to the bridge again.

“I mean, I have a place you could stay. If you want? It’s close by and you could wash off the blood.” She crosses her arms and tries to keep her eyes from dipping to the bloody patch on his jeans. “I promise they won’t shoot you,” she adds, misinterpreting Barry’s constant checks of the higher perches. She quickly descends the ladder and radios in her intentions while she waits for Barry. “We’re off the lifeguard tower, I promise he’s not kidnapping me. I’m going to make sure he has somewhere safe to go tonight.”

“You don’t have to,” Barry says, the exact same time as someone echoes his sentiments over her radio.

“I know I don’t have to,” Stevie says into her radio, meeting Barry’s gaze. “But I’m going to.”

She leads him towards the back road Dundee had previously parked along and where before the rooftops had been clear of watching eyes, tonight several people track Barry as he and Stevie pass behind the Billabong. It’s only when Stevie tells them off over the radio that Bondi scatters from sight, though no doubt still watching from better hiding spots. Barry waits until they’re out of eyeline before he asks Stevie why she’s helping him. It has to be a cruel joke and she’ll finish what Randy started, maybe take an ear as well for the fun of it.

Stevie briefly looks over her shoulder to see if Barry is still following her before she speaks. “There was a period of time where BBMC were cruel motherfuckers to anyone who entered Vespucci,” Stevie says, taking out a keyring and meticulously sorting through them. She steers them down a back alley a street over from the Billabong where a pink SUV with leopard spots spray painted on it and its engine block set halfway out the hood sits under a raised sundeck. “We would rush to swarm whoever happened to stumble along the beach or whatever fresh faced newbie was buying a bike. We ran pockets and shot the ones who complained.”

She opens the door and motions for Barry to go ahead. Dread fills Barry, but he follows her direction, stepping into the dark house.

“We ran everyone out of Vespucci who we didn’t personally approve of, until after a while it was only us. Honestly, Barry, it got really lonely.” Stevie flicks a light switch and the hallway illuminates, showing off walls covered in picture frames. Barry had expected a messy torture chamber, not a cozy residence with flowers by the door. “With no perspective of the outside world, we tore each other down and tried to rip ourselves apart again and again, but you know what stopped it?”

Barry tucks his hands into his pockets and pulls himself as small as possible, terrified he’ll knock something off the walls.

“All of us found people outside of the club, outside of Vespucci, who were eager to remind us of how good we had it to have each other, how they wished they could be a part of it, how they envied the bond we shared.” She laughs. “Bond; Bondi. That was unintentional.” She toes off her shoes and carries on down the hall, not waiting to see if Barry would run, now that the door isn’t blocked.

Truthfully, Barry considers it, but the warm interior of the house only serves to remind him of how tired he is and how nice it would be to finally sit. His stomach growls, reminding him he’d neglected to eat all day during his time with Dundee and he grabs his stomach in an attempt to silence it before Stevie hears. After a moment, wherein Stevie keeps talking, Barry pulls off his shoes and follows her. The hall carpet is plush and freshly vacuumed and breaks into hardwood where it meets the main room of an open plan kitchen and a cozy sitting room.

“Slowly, these few people were allowed closer to us, closer to the beach, closer to BBMC. At times, it felt like a trap. We watched these few with the paranoia of catching them talking to cops, telling everyone about how BBMC functioned, spreading rumors that people would be quick to believe because no one ever sees how we really are, they only hear stories.”

Barry feels heat flood his face in embarrassing remembrance of his earlier words.

“We were slow to trust those the other members brought in, not out of distrust of Bondi, but out of love for each other. We were some of the first to care about each other, but we were also the worst at expressing it. I think we’ve slowly improved at that –– some more than others. But most surprising to me on this slow path of opening up to outsiders was Dundee. He found Emma at a strange time in the club’s development and he threw himself head first into it because he saw how happy the rest of us were with our relationships. He liked to brag about how happy he was that he'd found her, how he’d planned to marry her, how he’d stop shooting cops because it made her upset. But truthfully Barry? He complained about her a lot.”

Barry follows Stevie through the house into the kitchen where she starts pulling out pots and pans from under the counter and vegetables from the fridge. She takes a large knife from a drawer and pointedly ignores Barry when he backs into the living room, though she does look briefly when he nearly topples backwards over a side table and knocks a small picture frame with macaroni glued over it to the carpet. Something sad passes over Stevie’s face and Barry makes sure to replace the picture frame and ensure that no macaroni fell off. The photo is of two blonde women, and though Barry only recognizes Stevie, there’s familial similarities.

“I don’t think he really knew what it felt like to be happy, so when someone gave him that attention, that level of affection he hadn’t had before, it was easy to convince himself that it was what he wanted. After all, it wasn’t like anyone else was particularly jumping at the opportunity as up until a month before that he was a cunt to civilians in Vespucci.” She pauses mid way of cutting into a red pepper. “Or, I guess, not just civilians, but in this example civilians. She’s a doctor, it pretty much counts. I think the worst thing I’ve seen her do is accidentally shoplift a bag of bulk cashews, but I don’t think that counts because she went back and paid for it before she left the parking lot. Anyways, that isn’t the point.”

She resumes chopping and Barry takes the opportunity of her diverted attention to walk around and look at the numerous photos decorating the walls of the sitting room. The same set of people are in all of them and there’s one large photograph of all of them together wearing the denim jackets Barry now knows as a trademark of Bondi.

“In the past month, I’ve started to notice a pattern of behaviour in him I saw when he’d first started dating Emma; before the shiny wore off the new toy and he was stuck in his realizations that he wasn’t as happy as he claimed to be. That shine wore off in a week, this one still sparkles. Sometimes I catch him staring at his phone like he’s waiting for it to ring. Does he have trouble remembering to call you back too?”

“He’s called me a few times.” Barry leans in to better see the photo of Dundee mid-cannonball jump into a once tranquil lake somewhere in the mountains. He doesn’t appear to be wearing any pants. Barry can’t stop staring at Dundee’s carefree smile and he finds himself unconsciously mirroring it.

“Barry?”

Barry jumps as Stevie appears at his side holding a large blue towel folded with some clothes atop it. He tries to make it not obvious as to which photo he was examining, but Stevie smirks like she knows.

“I said, you can use the shower down the hall to clean the blood off,” Stevie says, handing Barry the items. “There’s a clean set of clothes and a pair of boxers I forgot to give one of the guys at Christmas. I don’t know if they’ll fit you…”

“It’s fine.” Barry takes the clothes off the top and tries to hand them back, but Stevie refuses.

“I haven’t seen jeans that bloody since I was in high school,” Stevie says.

Barry tries to think of a deflection, but she’s right. The blood is starting to dry now, but it’s a sizable stain covering almost his entire thigh and dribbling down to his calf. His pants are stiff along the blood patch and are horribly itchy. He quietly thanks her and she shows him to the bathroom.

“I’ve got double hot water tanks, so don’t worry about taking your time,” Stevie says, starting the shower. She leans in to test the temperature and quickly snatches the two razors off the built in shelf. Then she turns and opens the drawers under the sink. “There’s shampoo in there and conditioner. It’s lavender scented, so don’t fall asleep.” She tries to hide it, but Barry sees her tuck a pair of scissors into her jacket. “There’s also a clean washcloth in there if you really want to scrub at the… yeah… but, try not to go too hard or it might reopen. I’ll give you gauze and everything else once you’re out and dry. I’ll make sure you won’t need stitches or anything, though if you do we can just have someone come over to do it so we don’t have to go anywhere.”

Barry is speechless. He clutches the towel and clothes tighter to his chest, watching Stevie criss-cross the bathroom to pick up stray towels and clothes. Several sentences start and die on his tongue before he finds his nerves. “Can I ask something?” Barry asks before Stevie can leave the bathroom.

“Of course.” She throws the pile of laundry down in the hallway.

“What’s your role in Bondi? What do… not to sound rude or anything, but what do you do?”

Stevie smiles. “I’m the Chaplain, sort of. I take care of the emotional wellbeing of everyone.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“I’d do it even if it wasn’t my official role. I love them all, Barry. I love them and I love the ones they care about because it makes them happy. That’s why I’m doing all this. I care about Dundee’s happiness and Dundee’s happiness involves you.”

She’s about to close the bathroom door when Barry feels the words bubble up unexpectedly, drawn to the surface by Stevie’s kindness. “Getting strong deja vu right now,” he says with a small laugh he doesn’t entirely feel. He tries to catch his tongue between his teeth, but the words keep happening regardless. “Promise you won’t come into the shower later and try to kill me?”

Stevie looks at him for a long moment before pulling the gun from where it was tucked at her back and setting it atop the pile in Barry’s hands. “The safety’s on, but be careful because it’s loaded. Oh, and before you start to wonder, no the door’s not busted, the lock is that push and twist one, but it’s finicky in its age. You really gotta lean into it for the lock to catch. Okay, enjoy your shower! Dinner will be ready when you’re out.”

Stevie closes the door and calls from the other side for Barry to lock it, but she doesn’t wait around to see if he does. He places the pile of clothes on the bathroom counter and listens to her footsteps fade before leaning on the door to lock it. True to Stevie’s word, the lock takes a few tries, but eventually catches with a loud clack. Barry picks up the gun and leaves everything else as he paces the bathroom, a familiar itch coming over him.

He could run. He could climb out the bathroom window –– he could fit through it, easily. He could run and never look back.

He checks the gun; full magazine, clean barrel, recently polished.

He continues to pace the bathroom, scratching at the dried blood flecked across his chin. He runs his hand under the spray of water and roughly scrubs at his face.

He accidently splashes water onto the hoodie, so he pulls it off. He carefully folds the hoodie and sets it on a dry section of the counter. Then he accidentally splashes water onto his shirt, so he takes that off too, not taking the time to fold it, but dropping it at the edge of the shower. Then it feels strange to be standing in the bathroom shirtless, cupping water into his hand to scrub across his body, so after checking the door is still locked he finally strips down and steps into the shower. He sets the gun on the ledge of the bathtub within reach and tips his head backwards under the water, letting its warmth wash over him as his shoulders finally lower.

A loud rushing fills his ears as the clack of high heels echo across linoleum tiles, but when his eyes fly open there’s no one else in the bathroom. Water continues to hit against the built-in shelf in rapid succession, a steady knock that Barry repeatedly looks over to confirm is the source of the stiletto-like sound. He waits for a shrill voice to call to him, screeching unpleasant over a nickname he never liked, but it’s silent. He pulls the shower curtain back further, exposing more of the empty bathroom and getting a clear view of the door. He scrubs the dried blood off his legs and pokes the knife wound, agitating a bit of blood to the surface. Once it’s cleared, he can’t help but run his fingers over the old wound on his other thigh, shuddering when his nerves misfire hot against his hand. He turns more towards the spray of water while keeping a sightline of the bathroom door.

There’s an ivy plant on the top of the built in ledges with two novelty rings in the shape of cats beside it, likely forgotten from the last time the shower was used. There’s two kinds of shampoos, one lavender and one mostly empty bottle of pine scented 3-in-1. A set of nail clippers balance near the edge of the shelf and a bar of soap sits beside it with a heart hand-carved into it.

As much as Barry wants to sink into the water for longer, the urge to cover himself overrides the want of luxury and he turns off the shower within ten minutes. Once he’s out and wrapped in a towel he checks the door; still locked. He dries quickly and steps into the clothes given to him by Stevie before staring at himself in the large mirror. He hadn’t taken note of the clothes Stevie had given him, but now he can’t stop staring. She’d given him what was likely her pajamas and as such they sat a certain way. The fleece shorts end well before mid-thigh with the pant legs of his boxers poking out the bottoms and the tank top is loose and flowy, highlighting the muscles of his shoulders and arms. Barry runs the towel over his hair a few more times before deciding it’s dry enough and hanging the towel over the shower curtain railing. He opens the drawers under the sink as quietly as he can and searches for bandages, managing to find a well supplied first aid kit. He pokes at the wound in his leg before deciding it wouldn’t benefit from stitches and wrapping it tightly in gauze that sticks out past the borrowed shorts. He picks up the gun, flicks the safety off then on, and tucks it into the back of his waistband. He kicks his clothes to one side and grabs Dundee’s hoodie, hugging it to his chest as he steps out from the bathroom.

The smell of frying vegetables hits him like a wall and he follows it into the kitchen. Stevie hums to herself as she pokes at the contents of a large wok, adding dashes of spices from various glass jars. It vaguely reminds Barry of a witch at a cauldron. She looks up when Barry takes a seat at one of the stools tucked under the island and she smiles at him.

“How do the clothes fit?” she asks.

Barry pulls at the waistband of his borrowed shorts. “Yeah, good. I’m surprised they fit.”

“They’re, um… some clothes one of the boys left here a bit ago.”

“Oh. I thought…” Barry trails off, looking at the patterned pink hearts on the trim of the shorts.

Stevie switches off the stovetop before turning to Barry. “If you give that to me, I can wash it.” She points to the hoodie and Barry feels the need to hide it from her, but it’s a useless reflex, she’s already seen it. He shakes his head. “It has blood on it,” she points out.

“Not a lot. I can get it out, it’s fine.”

“Barry,” Stevie says with an almost sad smile. “It’s been covered in more blood than that before. It came out then, it’ll come out now. Let me throw it in the wash. It’ll be fine.”

She holds out a hand for it and Barry reluctantly gives it over. His eyes follow her down the hall towards the laundry machine and continue to watch the machine when she returns to the stove and begins scooping out food.

“It has a hole in it,” Barry says and Stevie hums in reply. “Do you have any thread I could use?”

“Uh, maybe? If not, there's definitely sewing needles in the first aid kit I see you found.” Stevie covers the pan and turns to him with two plates heaped with food. “I hope you're not allergic to anything,” she says. “Kind of a blindsight to ask now, but I figured I’d still ask.”

The washing machine jumps into a violent spin and Barry winces, hoping there’s no loose threads to catch and tear the hoodie apart.

“It’s not super complex, I’m still learning, but Collin’s been teaching me a few things about cooking and this is currently my favourite thing to make. It’s just fried veggies and rice, but it’s good.” She sets a plate in front of him and takes a seat beside him. “I would offer you a proper bed, but I’m pretty sure Fey will be back tonight. The couch is big though, it should fit you.”

Barry hunches in on himself, trying to be smaller.

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone taller than Dundee in a long while,” she says around her food. “I’ve always wondered what his reaction would be.”

“He’s never really commented on it.” Barry eats, slowly picking off vegetables one by one before his hunger gets the better of him and he digs in with more enthusiasm.

“I’m sure he’s had his thoughts. He’s certainly made enough illusions about it.”

“What do…?” Barry stops himself mid-question, deciding it’s not his place to ask, but Stevie answers regardless.

“Let’s just say, in terms of cookware: he’s more of a teaspoon than a tablespoon.”

The answer is unexpected and Barry chokes on his food while Stevie rushes to pour him water. When Barry clears his throat he finds Stevie giggling at him.

“Sorry for the metaphor,” she says. “Figured you knew though, considering.”

“Considering?”

Stevie pushes her food around on her plate, corralling them by colour. “Dundee doesn’t move slow. He finds what he likes and dives headfirst. He trusts those he cares about and he’s quick to bring them close to him, either in a protective way or…” Stevie glances at him and Barry’s face heats under the scrutiny. “Otherwise,” she finishes, sipping her drink.

“Dee is, um… he’s…” Barry stumbles for words, mildly wishing he hadn’t followed Stevie into the house. It didn’t feel like a trap in that moment, but all the same he feels it now closing in around him. “It’s not anything like that.” His ears ring, straining to hear the click of a gun readying to remind him: he didn’t get to keep good things.

Stevie’s fork scrapes across her plate. “If you think I’m going to give you grief for it, you can relax. It’d be rather hypocritical of me to try to condemn two men living their best lives. Dee,” Stevie says and her lips quirk up at the nickname, “seems happier these last few days and, no offence to any assumptions here, but you seem happier when you’re talking about him.” They eat in silence for a while before Stevie speaks up again, “Want to watch a Disney movie after this?”

Barry pushes his rice into a pile and flattens the top with his fork. “Uh… sure?”

Chapter Text

Dundee stares at the fresh hole in the wall of his entryway, barely feeling the sting of pain across his knuckles. He’d hoped throwing his fist through the plaster would silence the yelling in his head, but it had made it all the worse. It’s the same yelling that had plagued him after he’d gone to Fridgit and held Barry’s mouth over him with barely a word exchanged between them. It hadn’t been that bad of an interaction, all things considered, but Dundee regretted the phone call afterwards and it had apparently stuck with Barry too –– if his comment last night was anything to go by. Dundee hadn’t meant it, even as the words came out his mouth, but hearing Barry bring it back up had rubbed salt into a wound Dundee didn’t know he’d made. He didn’t think of Barry as a vending machine, but not just for the straight forward ways that Barry wasn’t a machine.

Dundee has never been attracted to a vending machine in the ways he found Barry attractive.

Dundee picks plaster from the wound in his knuckles and tries not to picture Barry’s hands. He absently smears the blood, lost in the memory of Barry’s hand interlocked with his. He growls and punches the wall again, less aggressive this time, instead moreso knocking his fist into the puncture he’d already made. It doesn’t help to push the thoughts from Dundee’s mind, but he smiles and that’s close enough to being fine.

Anyways, what Barry did was an act too, it just happened that he knew how to play Dundee better than he let on. That’s the real reason Dundee was hurt by this; he knew it wasn’t real. Barry only liked him because he gave him money. If there was no money, Barry wouldn’t turn up and now that the thought is in his head, it’s the only thing he can think of, but he knows how to get it out. It would be easy to prove that Barry didn’t think about him in any way past a monetary value.

Dundee goes to the bathroom and holds his injured hand under the water while he digs in his pocket for his phone. There’s a brief panic where he almost drops it and he cradles it to his chest in relief. The screen is still intact and Dundee’s proud that it’s lasted this long. He swipes through his contacts and easily finds the one entry he’d saved under a proper name.

Barry doesn’t answer right away and Dundee tries to push away the brief nerves that grip him.

He doesn’t care.

Barry just likes Dundee for the money and Dundee just likes Barry for the sex. It’s fine.

Barry picks up on the second call, snuffling a greeting into the phone like he’d just woken up. “‘Lo?” Barry says, the word dissolving into a yawn.

Dundee bites his lip, holding down the smile trying to tug at him.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Dundee says and then kicks himself for the endearment.

“‘Lo, Dee.”

Dundee can hear the smile in Barry’s voice. Barry moans as he presumably stretches and Dundee backs himself against the wall. He holds the phone from his ear and knocks his head against the wall. He swears under his breath as the image of Barry naked wrapped in sheets, arching and writhing, floods his mind. Barry is quiet for a moment before he moans again and Dundee clears his throat.

“What are you doing?” Dundee asks. A perverse part of Dundee knows what he wants to hear.

“‘M just laying in bed. It’s the first time I’ve slept in since I moved to Los Santos.”

“Really?” It’s a dead air question, but Dundee just needs to say something to derail his brain. He goes back to the sink and splashes cold water across his face.

“It’s nice. The sheets are soft and it’s warm.” There’s rustling from over the line. “Though I’m a bit sore,” Barry says.

Dundee makes a vague noise of agreement. He balls his hands into tight fists and silently wishes for Barry to keep talking.

“Also, I don’t know whose shorts these were, but they’re comfy.”

That grabs Dundee’s attention.

“You stole someone’s shorts?” Dundee asks. “Was that, like…?” He hates that he has to know, but he has to know. If they were a client’s shorts, if a client spent enough time with Barry to forget clothes with him, how close has Barry been with other clients before? How many people has Barry fawned over in a clever ruse to get more money from them? How many people has Barry fooled into thinking he liked them?

“I didn’t steal them.” There’s an odd noise from over the line and Barry talks away from the phone. “No, I’m good, thanks. Do you want any help chopping things?”

The revelation that Barry is not alone isn’t as surprising as Dundee would expect, considering Barry’s job, but it still rattles some part of Dundee. Suddenly, the flutter in Dundee’s stomach turns into a hard rock that sits heavy and foul, reminding Dundee as to his purpose for the call.

“Barry,” Dundee cuts in when Barry continues to talk with the other person with him. Someone is still with Barry and Dundee wants nothing more than to tell Barry to throw them out, or leave, whatever the circumstances of Barry’s sleeping arrangements are; he wants Barry away from them. “Are you busy right now?”

“Uh, no?”

“Nothing’s taking your time?”

“No?”

“Then who were you talking to?”

“She was just asking me if I wanted breakfast. I don’t usually eat breakfast if I can help it ‘cause the cost––,”

“Who was?”

“Why’d you call, Dee?”

Dundee goes quiet. He considers lying to Barry –– it’d be easy enough, Barry can’t see his face. He could easily spin some lie: Barry’s in danger, Fridgit burnt down, Dundee wants to return Barry’s hoodie. Instead, he asks, “When will you be free?”

“I mean, let me get up and get dressed. Want me to meet you somewhere?”

“You don’t need to, um.” Dundee clears his throat, stalling around the awkward assumption. “ Finish things?”

Barry laughs. “I’m not working right now, Dee. I was staying at a friend’s house.” There’s a voice in the distance and Barry answers them. “That’s not too presumptuous, right? Okay, yeah.”

A friend who Barry doesn’t know if he could call a friend?

It would almost be better if he’d just told Dundee he was working, at least that Dundee could understand. As it is, Barry’s answer only confuses him and he regrets calling so early. The last time he’d called and Barry was alone was likely a fluke; someone as desirable as Barry would have nightly callers begging for his attention. Dundee was at the back of a line he wasn’t aware existed until five minutes ago, but he hates it.

Barry laughs again and Dundee hates that it’s not in response to something he said.

“Well, whenever you’re free. Could you meet me somewhere?” Dundee asks. He winces at his own tone: cloying and needy. “Unless you’ve got more important things to take care of.”

“Where were you thinking?”

At first, Dundee thought of pinging Barry to the middle of the woods or a less visited area such as the Kortz Center in Vinewood, but he settled for the rooftop patio atop Collin’s house. He would be lying if he didn’t choose it for the thin layer of comfort it would provide him for what he wanted to do; home field advantage and all that. Another part of him –– that Dundee works to keep down with an unending chain of joints –– wants to show Barry the beauty and appeal of being in Vespucci, of having the world rolled out in front of you and all the day to conquer it. It’s unfortunate timing that yet again all of Bondi except for Dundee and a sleeping Collin (that Dundee snuck past to use his rooftop door) are out in the city causing chaos. Dundee’s proud of the club he built from nothing and he wants to show Barry, if only the timing worked out.

Barry probably still didn’t believe him that Bondi were more than three people.

Dundee lights another joint off the dying remains of his last and continues to pace the rooftop patio, pushing furniture out of his way until it’s all crowded at one end of the rooftop. He kicks two lounge chairs upright and sits in one while he waits for the text from Barry telling him he’s ready. He manages to stay in the chair long enough to finish his smoke before he’s again accosted by mental images of Barry, this time snuggled up beside someone. He scowls at the mental image as this fictitious Barry makes himself more comfortable and leans over to kiss the person wrapped under his arm. When the blurry-faced figure Dundee is imagining suddenly shifts to his own face, smiling sickly sweet up at Barry, Dundee nearly chokes on his smoke.

He’s still trying to clear his lungs when his phone rings and he answers.

“Hi, I’m… woah, you good?” Barry asks.

Dundee wipes the tears from his eyes and squeaks out a reply before continuing to cough.

“Okay,” Barry says, sounding unsure. “I’m just finding my shoes and I’ll be good to go if you want to send me the ping.”

Dundee sends it, blinking wildly to see the phone screen.

“That’s nearby. See you soon!” Barry hangs up before Dundee can reply.

When Barry had said ‘nearby’ Dundee had expected it would be another fifteen minutes, as nearby to Bondi could be any distance between the Billy to the tow yard or sometimes the Billy to Paleto, so when he hears Barry shouting his name not five minutes later Dundee startles and throws himself from his seat. Barry continues to call out from the street, hesitantly peeking over fences and hedges in search of Dundee. Barry talks to himself as he looks for Dundee, quiet comments trying to assure anyone who might be watching that he wasn’t in fact a creepy stalker and was just looking for someone. Dundee watches Barry for a while as he walks back and forth along the sidewalk, comparing the location his phone was giving him with the street names on nearby posts.

“I’m up here, you muppet,” Dundee shouts at him, leaning over the side of the roof.

“Oh!” Barry jumps.

He paces back and forth underneath Dundee’s perch, clearly looking for a set of stairs which would lead him up, before he asks how Dundee got up there. Not wanting to have Barry walk through Collin’s house, Dundee guides him to another house’s deck and instructs him on how to jump up. Barry manages without much stumbling, carrying on with his rambling monologue to any who might be watching out their windows that he wasn’t a burglar and was in fact invited here. Were Chip not currently at work, Dundee would call on him to freak out Barry for climbing on his deck, as he’s certain Chip would play along and maybe even try to convince Barry that Bondi didn’t exist, just to fuck with him further. Nevertheless, it’s just Dundee in the Billabong and though Barry would meet more of Bondi eventually, for now Dundee’s happy to keep Barry to himself, unspoiled by the club’s opinions and influence.

Soon enough Barry’s standing beside Dundee, both of them staring awkwardly at the other, waiting for the other to speak. Dundee’s brain helpfully comments that Barry is wearing a blue jacket identical to the one Dundee left at Stevie’s house last week. Dundee fights the urge to comment on their similar taste in clothes as the silence settles between them before they both start speaking at the same time and laugh, then try to offer the other the chance to speak first. Barry insists for Dundee to speak first and Dundee regrets that his remark is another dead air question.

“I didn’t know you’d be so close,” he says. He means it in reference to Barry’s sleeping arrangements, but his fluttering heart also points out how Barry’s close enough to touch. Barry seems to pick up on this double meaning and takes a half step backwards.

“Mhm. I uh, I stayed at a friend's house last night.”

“Oh. A friend,” Dundee says. He wants to bite off his tongue in the hopes it would stop him talking. “Didn’t know you did overnight calls.”

Barry gives him a puzzled look, brief though it is, before he says, “I mean, not usually. I think my last was for a private event at the casino.” Barry’s eyes go wide as if registering his words as he speaks and he quickly adds, “Not that it matters. I mean, it was just, as like, a favour. Sort of.” Barry quickly turns away and goes to the nearest lounge chair, practically collapsing onto it as if his legs had suddenly become jelly. He folds his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them, and stares out into the Billabong.

“A favour? And how much did this favour pay?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Barry says. “Too much,” Dundee hears Barry whisper under his breath when Dundee sits on the lounge chair to his left. It doesn’t sound like a remark on the monetary value and Dundee pushes away the recollection of Barry’s rope burned wrists.

“Well, it kind of does matter to me,” Dundee says. “Cause I feel like I’ve been overpaying you.”

Barry sighs. “If you want your money back it’s gonna take me a bit to get it.”

“No, no, keep it,” Dundee cuts in. He wants to adjust his plan, wants to wrap Barry in a large blanket and hide him from the world, but he can’t. This is all an act; Barry knew how to act to get money from his clients and in the end that’s what Dundee is. A client. There’s no relationship between them, no butterflies, no giddy breathlessness when Barry touches him. Dundee gives Barry money and Barry carries out his tasks to complete the transaction. Simple as that.

It’s the same as the people in Uwu who laugh at his dumb jokes and thank him for the tip he’d leave in the glass on the counter. It’s the same as the weed runners who gave him a bit off the top of their profits to ensure Bondi would look the other way and chase the police from the area. It was the same as the random dickhead Bondi had somehow managed to bribe to push their drugs for them. Dundee gave people things, money or protection or civility, and in return these people laughed at his jokes, greeted him warmly, told him to have a good day.

He doubts any of them mean it and it’s probably the same with Barry.

Barry is only here to kill time until it gets dark and he could make his way to Fridgit to draw clients into that disused cold storage. Barry only entertained Dundee because Dundee overpaid him. If Dundee stopped tipping so generously, he’s sure Barry would pull away, just as all the others did in the same position. Dundee is abrasive and crude, too loud and too full of energy.

Someone had once compared Dundee to an old telefunken television: clunky and full of static, with barely enough attention span to focus on one thing before losing interest, and occasionally in need of a smack to get working again.

At the time Dundee had laughed it off, but in retrospect could only agree.

No one would like Dundee unless they were acting in some capacity. Even his club occasionally did it –– not to the level that others had done in the past, but dismissive nonetheless. Which all the more proves to Dundee that Barry is faking it: his interest, his seductive words, his warm gazes. None of it is real.

Nevertheless, curiosity gets to him and he clears his throat.

“Keep it, I don’t care,” Dundee says. “I just wanted to know what your daily rates would be?”

Barry is silent for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

“Like, if I wanted you for the whole day or night. What would that run?”

“That’s usually reserved for private events,” Barry says.

Dundee hates the way Barry says “private events”, like the word is a raw tomato someone just asked him to eat like an apple.

“Well, you’ve done it before,” Dundee points out.

“Oh… Yeah, I guess I have.” Barry looks over to the lifeguard tower on the beach, the tip of which is just visible above the rooftops of the Billabong. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he quietly says.

The money is still in the paneling. Dundee checked.

“So, how much to do it again?” Dundee asks.

Barry turns to him. “Why?”

Dundee doesn’t really have an answer for that. He’d just assumed Barry would accept it –– it’d be a large chunk of money to turn down, even Dundee would have trouble saying no to that kind of money. “I want your attention,” he says. It’s the first words that came to mind and he hates the flicker of warry consideration that crosses Barry’s face, likely knowing he had Dundee on the hook.

“You don’t have to pay me for that,” Barry says.

It’s not the response Dundee’s waiting for and he stares at Barry in shocked silence until Barry tilts his head to face him, a shy smile pulling at his lips. Dundee blinks and then he has one hand cradling the back of Barry’s head and the other pushing his legs down so he can better grip his waistband as he kisses him. Barry yields easily, unfolding and allowing Dundee to crowd him into his chair. He lays down and Dundee follows after him, throwing a leg over Barry and framing Barry’s hips with his knees. He scritches his fingers through Barry’s hair and Barry moans and arches into his touch, grabbing Dundee’s hand and moving it from his hip to his side. Dundee moves his other hand up to cradle Barry’s jaw, which is when Dundee finally notices.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Dundee asks, pulling away and looking at the smudge of beige across his fingertips.

“Uh…” Barry says, going ridgid under Dundee. The spot on Barry’s jaw where Dundee’s fingers had rubbed now reveals splotches of purple and blue. “Hazards of the job?” Barry says.

He doesn’t sound certain and Dundee’s curiosity again wins out and he rubs his palm across Barry’s jaw, pulling away more coverup. The bruise covers most of his left cheek and fans out towards his eye –– and now that Dundee’s looking he notices the cut in the side of Barry’s mouth. He runs his thumb over Barry’s bottom lip and tugs at it to see more of the cut, to find out just how extensive it is, how fresh. Barry winces and Dundee lets go.

“I knew Fridgit wasn’t OSH compliant,” Dundee says, earning a surprised giggle from Barry. “How much?” Dundee asks.

“Does it hurt? Eh, not a lot if I don’t think about it. You rubbing against it didn’t help ease that any, but I––,”

“No,” Dundee says and Barry bites his lip to stop himself talking, garbling the rest of his sentence. “How much to make you mine for the day?”

“Dee, you don’t have to––,”

“I want to. How much?”

Barry sighs and rubs at the bruise on his cheek.

“I’ll treat you better than whoever did that,” Dundee says, nodding at the bruise. His hand in Barry’s hair digs deeper, twisting the short strands between his fingers. Barry tilts his head up, following the pull of Dundee’s fingers. “You know I can do better than them. I’ve heard what you really think. Those gorgeous moans you try to keep down.” Dundee shifts one knee between Barry’s legs and presses up against his groin. Barry arches against him and wraps one hand around Dundee’s shoulders, letting his fingertips trace circles onto Dundee’s back in a manner that feels something like a massage. A cold part of Dundee reminds himself that what Barry does is an act and to prove it Dundee shifts his knee uncomfortably to the side, digging into Barry’s thigh instead.

What he expects is for Barry to moan and keen and tell him to keep going, to further the act and make Dundee feel like he’s not incompetent at bringing others pleasure.

What Barry does is silently lift his leg to guide Dundee’s knee back into place and shimmy a little higher on his chair while his fingers continue to spin circles against Dundee’s back, finding a cluster of angry muscles and working them flat before carrying on. Barry’s eyes are pinched shut and his lower lip is caught in his teeth, but Dundee can’t tell if it’s pleasure or pain that stole Barry’s voice. Dundee has to know, so he kisses Barry again and moves his hand from Barry’s side to his lifted leg, squeezing his thigh. A noise catches in Barry’s throat and he quickly grabs Dundee’s hand and guides it to his stomach.

“Just… keep me here,” Barry says, pressing Dundee’s hand flat.

“That’s what I’m trying to do, but you won’t give me a number,” Dundee says, kissing Barry when he tries to give an answer.

The old injury in Dundee’s knee starts to protest the longer Dundee remains perched above Barry and without saying anything Barry grabs Dundee’s belt and rolls them sideways, pressing up close and barely managing to keep them both on the single lounge chair. Barry pulls away briefly to tug at Dundee’s leg and adjust the arrangement of their limbs, before finding satisfaction and tucking himself against Dundee again. He wiggles lower on the chair and ducks into the crook of Dundee’s neck to lick at the exposed skin of his collarbone. Barry’s hands once wrapped around Dundee are now tucked against him, one hand fisted in the front of Dundee’s shirt and the other grabbing Dundee’s belt like a lifeline. Dundee traces his fingers along Barry’s hand holding his belt and Barry releases it, but Dundee can see the strain of the action and Barry’s hand balls into a tight fist after.

Dundee knows it’s not real, but when he pokes at Barry’s tightly fisted hand and it immediately takes hold of his and settles into an easy grip no longer straining the muscles of his arm, something catches in Dundee’s throat and he refuses to say it’s anything but admiration for Barry’s acting. Barry’s tongue traces along Dundee’s neck over his Adam's apple and he gently bites it then returns to kissing Dundee’s neck.

“You know,” Dundee says. “If you give me another hickey it won’t be a secret any more, everyone’s going to know I’m yours.”

Barry’s lips against him stop, flesh still caught between his teeth which slowly pull away with a gentle scrape that sends a chill down Dundee’s spine. “This is a bad idea,” Barry whispers, voice trembling.

“If it makes a difference we can just call this one ‘on the house’, considering what I’ve given you could likely make up any shortage of funds.”

“No, this is really a bad idea. What the fuck was I thinking,” Barry hisses to himself as he untangles from Dundee, momentarily pulling Dundee along before he manages to unclench his fist from Dundee’s shirt. “I can’t be here,” he whispers.

It feels like a reminder for himself, but Dundee hears it loud and clear for what it is: admission that this was a mistake.

“This was a mistake,” Barry says. “I have to go. Now.”

“Wait, I was joking,” Dundee says, suddenly missing the warmth of Barry next to him despite his earlier plan to tell Barry he never wanted to see him again. “I can pay you. Give me a number.” He sits up and reaches out for Barry, catching hold of his belt loops and pulling him onto his lap, straddled over his thighs.

“It’s not about that,” Barry says, wriggling backwards as Dundee tries to reel him closer.

“Is it ‘cause we’re not at Fridgit?” Dundee asks. “I thought you said you wouldn’t care where it was? I mean, it’s fine if you do care. I don’t care, personally, but it’s okay if you want to go somewhere more private.”

Barry’s gaze shoots from place to place, settling briefly on the overpass behind the Billabong, but he won’t look at Dundee. “I don’t care about that.”

“Clearly,” Dundee says, shoving Barry off him. Cold indifference settles too easily inside his bones, consuming the warmth left by Barry. “That’s why you went all—,” Dundee makes a gesture, “—after I said I wouldn’t pay you. It was a fucking joke, man.” Dundee turns in his seat and faces out at the Billabong, not wanting to give Barry the satisfaction of seeing the tears build.

What Barry did was an act, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt all the same to see it in action.

To think he’d believed it when Barry smiled at him. What a fucking idiot he is.

“I’ll call you when I’ve got a couple hundred to spend,” Dundee calls over his shoulder, listening to the sound of Barry’s retreating footsteps. Barry jumps to the lower rooftop, then the deck, then crashes to the ground with the raucous sound of patio furniture falling over. Dundee bites his tongue to avoid calling out to make sure Barry isn’t hurt.

He doesn’t know how long he stares out at the Billabong for, but the sound of ambulance sirens never comes, so presumably Barry made it out of Vespucci in one piece. He sighs and turns around again, intending to carry on with his day when he catches sight of someone in the corner of his vision.

“Holy fucking hell, cunt!” he yells at Collin.

Collin faces the streetside, quietly smoking a cigarette.

“Fuck. I thought you were someone else at first.” Dundee says, hand over his chest to make sure his heart is still beating. He looks at Collin again, just to make sure that the cowboy hat wasn’t in fact a flat cap.

“Nah, he’s gone,” Collin says. He drops his cigarette to the patio and grinds it under his boot heel. “Was that Barry?”

Dundee doesn’t answer. Knowing Collin, he’d been listening for a while and the shame of what he must have heard burns at Dundee’s ears. It wasn’t that Dundee would pay for sex that made the situation awkward, it’s that Collin was the only one who had any idea of how Dundee actually felt about Barry and had faced Dundee’s wrath head on when Dundee thought Collin had bought Barry’s time. Any answer Dundee would give would only show Collin the truth.

“How’s he been?” Collin asks.

Dundee doesn’t answer.

Collin sighs and comes closer. He points to the lounge chair behind Dundee and asks, “Mind if I sit?”

“It’s your fucking patio. Do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, it is my patio,” Collin says as he sits.

His tone is the familiar brand of lecture he usually reserved for the prospects. Dundee turns to face the same direction to avoid the talk becoming the more stern lecturing, but still refuses to look at Collin.

“So heaven forbid I get a little concerned when I hear noise coming from it when I’m certain there’s no one else in the Billy,” Collin says.

“I said over the radio I was going to stay in Vespucci for a bit,” Dundee says. He can feel the weight of Collin’s gaze on him and he pointedly keeps watch of the windchimes on Jesse’s back porch. He’s pretty sure they’re made of the charred remains of an old boat.

“I was asleep,” Collin reminds him.

“That’s on you for not listening to comms.”

“I was asleep!”

“Yeah, well.” Dundee can’t help the giggle that works into his words and Collin laughs too.

“You’re such a fucking shitter. I don’t know how you ever got the reputation as this big scary Prime Minister.”

“It’s the voice.”

Collin hums. “Yeah, it rather carries.”

Dundee sighs. “What did you hear?”

“Oh, the whole thing.”

Dundee buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

“Why do you say those things to him?”

“What do you mean? He’s just a fucking prostitute. What does it matter what I say to him?”

Collin hums again and it sounds disapproving. “Yeah, that’s why you acted like a child when you thought I was with him.”

“You were with him.”

“Not like that, cunt. We were just hanging out playing pool.”

“Then why didn’t anyone tell me that?”

“Cause you were being shouty, Dee. Forgive me for trying to watch out for the guy.”

Dundee looks at Collin. “Why do you care?”

Collin shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I have a thing for helping abused animals.” As if waiting for her cue, a giant black rottweiler nudges open the patio door and pads silently to Collin’s side. She pushes up under Collin’s hand for a greeting pet before settling on the ground beside his chair, her small nub tail wagging.

“Barry’s not your fucking mutt,” Dundee says, scowling at Bluey.

“It’d be more convincing if he didn’t act like it.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He did.” Collin shifts around on his chair to make room for Bluey before inviting her up to take the lower half of the chair. She folds herself between his legs and pants happily, staring oblivious at Dundee who glares at her. “I picked him up from the hospital that time he was held overnight. He, uh…” Collin nervously starts scratching at Bluey’s head, uncaring of the drool pooling on his leg. “How much of his body have you seen?”

“Fucking ‘cuse me?”

“No! Not in that––! I just, um. H-how much of it? Not like, please God, no details, just like, yes or no: have you seen him shirtless or pantsless?”

Dundee bites at the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, but I don’t really remember what he looked like.” Dundee double takes the look Collin gives him. “What? We were fucking high on acid!”

“Okay, nevermind. Just listen.” Collin takes a breath, visibly arranging his words on his tongue before he speaks. “When he got in the car, I think he thought I was going to hurt him.”

“You semi-kidnapped him. It’s a pretty good assumption to make.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m being serious here. After I lit my cigarette––,”

“I thought you didn’t like people smoking in your car?”

“That’s cause you fuckers smoke weed and that shit sticks to the fabric.”

“And cigarette smoke doesn’t?”

“Can you just fucking listen?” Collin shouts before continuing at a normal volume. “After I lit my cigarette he rolled up his sleeve.”

“So? Maybe he was hot. I know being in the hospital messes with my internal temperatures. Shit’s always so fucking cold in there.”

“Okay, but just one sleeve? And he held his arm towards me like he was waiting on me for something, as if I was going to use him as an ashtray or something.” Collin finally takes note of the dog drool and moves his leg out of the way. “Also, I don’t know how aware you are of it, but he’s one of the most flinchy motherfuckers I’ve ever met. He apologized to me for tripping over his own feet. That’s not normal, Dee. He said he was sorry that he was in pain because he was worried it was ruining our pool game.”

“He’s polite,” Dundee says.

“He’s scared,” Collin counters. “Only, you’ve never seen any of that, have you?”

“Or maybe I just didn’t notice it. You did say I was unobservant.”

“No, I didn’t, I implied it. But, you’ve legitimately never seen him act this way?”

“Uh…” Dundee trails off. There was the one time at Fridgit when Barry was being watched by someone who’d stayed there all night to ensure Barry got on his knees for people. “Once, kind of. But that was under weird circumstances.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“There was this guy watching us as Barry––,”

“I don’t want to know!” Collin says, louder, in an attempt to make Dundee stop.

“Barry said he was there to make sure the transaction was completed, but like, Barry’s good at making sure it’s always completed.”

Collin covers his face with his hands for a moment. “I didn’t need to know.”

“I’m just saying: he’s not like you’re trying to paint him to be.”

“Or maybe I’m just seeing the wrong side of the canvas. I waited at the hospital for three hours to see what the big deal is about this guy, Dee, and I think I’ve cracked it.”

“You’ve not cracked anything, Collin. You’re a shit private investigator. It’s why you joined the crime side of life.”

“You… care about him,” Collin says, cheerfully patting Bluey’s head.

“I don’t. Shut up! He acts that way around all his clients. I bet,” Dundee adds in a whisper.

“Flinchiest cunt around, yet allows an almost convicted murderer to stick his hands down his pants without a fuss.”

“That verdict was overturned and besides, what Barry does is just a job. So what if he lets me feel him up. It’s just work.” Dundee pushes off from his chair and paces across the patio, his fingers itching to do something. Maybe he just needed to go for a drive, get the adrenaline out of his system.

“What that man does for you is outside of the parameters of his work.”

“No, I pay him, therefore it’s work.”

“You did acid with him?”

“Yeah?”

“You went on the Chiliad tram with him?”

“Yeah…?”

“You went to the movies with him?”

“You can’t hold that over me, I still got you all out of that chase.”

“You did, yeah. You also showed up in a button down shirt with a trimmed beard.”

Dundee runs a hand over his face. His beard has since fallen out of its cleaned state, but it’s still shorter from where he impulsively trimmed it. “Okay, what about it?”

“You know what that screams?” Collin says. He gets up and stands in front of Dundee, stopping his pacing by grabbing his shoulders. “That screams: date night. Official date nights, like the kind Nancy and I have.”

“Fuck off. It’s not.”

“It’s fine, Dee. You’re allowed to have someone, remember? Stevie told you this, I’ve told you this, fucking Junior’s told you this: you’re allowed to be happy, even if it comes from outside the club.”

“It’s not date nights. He’s just convenient.”

“Yeah, that’s why you wait around for him: convenience.”

Dundee pushes Collin’s hands off his shoulders. “It’s not like that. He comes because I pay him.”

“He comes because you––,” Collin dissolves into laughter, a raised hand halfway through a crude gesture.

“No, finish the thought.” Dundee crosses his arms and Collin pulls his laughter under control.

“Look, Dee, all I’m saying is that I’ve not seen you this happy since you first started dating Emma.”

“We’re not dating.”

“Yeah, I frequently trim my beard and iron my shirts before trolling for hookers.”

“I’m allowed to change my appearance, Collin. I’m not a 90’s cartoon character.”

“Fine. Though I don’t think stealing clothes from my house counts as changing your appearance.” Collin steps out of the way when Dundee continues pacing.

Dundee completes a few laps of the patio before quietly asking, “How did you know you liked Nancy?” when he passes Collin again.

Collin takes his time to light a cigarette before responding. “I didn’t at first. I thought she was intolerable. She’s quick witted and in a position of power at a major company that is quite frankly intimidating in its reach. She calls me on my bullshit and is open about how she feels about things. I think I resented her at first that she could do those things, be those things that I thought weren't allowed by someone who held such high regard, but she showed me different. She showed me that it’s okay to speak softly when everyone is screaming because authority doesn’t come from volume, that caring about things doesn’t make you weak because loving things gives you strength to keep going, that asking is easier than presuming because spiraling about things never helped no one… That it’s okay to be scared if I don’t understand because she’ll help me figure it out.”

Dundee nods to himself as he continues pacing while he listens to Collin, but holds back on his other questions. Dundee himself didn’t fully understand yet if he was bisexual, he didn’t want Collin’s input on it until he’d formed a greater opinion. Maybe it was just that Barry is an exception or maybe the blow jobs were just that good. It was difficult to tell and he was already flustered enough as it is.

“It’s weird,” Collin says, dousing his smoke on the metal railing beside him. “Having someone who you care about in those ways. It feels like chopping off a limb to give to someone else to hang on to. You feel so vulnerable because you don’t know what they do with it when you’re not around, but you also feel so protected because every time you see them you see just how good of a condition they’ve kept that part of you in, how they’ve cared for it in your absence.”

“And Nancy’s the one who works at the hospital, right?” Dundee asks with a smirk.

“You fucking shitter,” Collin says with a laugh. “No.” He pretends to examine his nails before adding, “There is one good thing already come of this though, Dee.”

Dundee doesn’t say anything. Collin will finish his thought regardless and saying something just proves that he cares, which he doesn’t. Dundee doesn’t care: not about Collin’s stupid inner thoughts, not about whatever insult Collin is going to throw his way for wearing the shirt he stole from Collin’s hallway floor this morning, not about whether or not Barry will still talk to him after Dundee insulted him… again.

He doesn’t care.

“What’s that?” Dundee asks, coming to a stop by Collin’s side.

He cares a little.

“You got yourself a cute new nickname,” Collin says, grinning ear to ear.

Dundee’s punch lands square to Collin’s left side of his jaw and sends him off balance. Bluey starts barking from her seat on the lounge chair, but doesn’t approach after Collin waves her off. Collin laughs and Dundee goes to swing again, missing entirely when Collin ducks under his arm. Warmth floods Dundee’s face and he tries to focus his swings as a ringing grows in his ears. Collin’s laugh cracks into a wheeze and he steps away, an arm lifted between himself and Dundee. The more Dundee tells Collin to stop laughing, the harder the laugh becomes and the wheeze breaks into a silent plea for air. Dundee shoves Collin into the railing and pushes past him, hopping over the edge of the building and dropping to the small deck below. Above him, Collin calls for Dundee to come back, but Dundee drops to the ground and marches towards the garage at the end of the Billabong. He grabs a random set of keys off the wall and rapidly presses the lock button until the flashing lights of the car draw him towards whichever random vehicle he’d chosen.

It’s pure luck that Collin’s Hellion flashes its headlights at him from where it’s parked beneath Collin’s house. The engine roars to life in Dundee’s hands and he wastes no time resetting all the chair settings and radio dials and anything else he can purposefully change. As he’s pulling out of the garage, he hears Collin yelling at him and when Dundee ignores him, he calls a moment later.

“Hey, thanks for lending me your car, Collin,” Dundee answers, clipping a trash can on his way out of the gate. “I think I might cruise around the island until night, maybe do a few races.”

“I just got it out of impound,” Collin moans.

“Then we know for sure there’s space for it when it goes back.”

“Is this because you think I’m making fun of your nickname? I’m not, I swear. I think it’s cute.”

“It’s because you think it’s cute! It’s not cute! We aren’t dating! Fuck you!” Dundee hangs up, knowing it’s a dangerous thing to absently drive while listening to Collin. He might end up making sense if Dundee did that and Dundee isn’t sure if he wants it to make sense right now. Maybe in a few races, maybe under the cover of darkness when he can admit to himself it’s easier to hate himself for being happy than admit that he was needlessly cruel to Barry.

Dundee slams the steering wheel a few times and pulls into the Little Seoul gas station. He’s mindlessly kicking the back tire while he refuels when the conversation at the next pump catches his attention. It’s several people from Chang Gang, checking guns and fueling up cars for what Dundee immediately recognizes is a hunting party.

“Hi, Irwin!” someone shouts.

Dundee spins around, looking for a cop in uniform, but instead finds Garrett Jobless waving enthusiastically at him. Dundee gives a small wave and Garrett returns to talking with his group. Bondi’s relationship with Chang Gang isn’t as strained as it’d been in previous months, so Dundee returns the casual nod Randy gives him when he comes out of the convenience store pocketing a box of gauze. Dundee isn’t the most knowledgeable about Chang Gang, but he’d bet Collin’s Hellion that Randy Bullet did not have an eyepatch last week when he saw him. A large scar extends past the patch and down his cheek, red and fresh. Randy catches Dundee staring and saunters over, casually tilting his patch towards Dundee for a better look.

“Like it?” Randy asks.

“Looks painful,” Dundee says.

Randy laughs. It sounds oddly hollow and his next words make Dundee’s hands cold. “Won’t be half as painful to what I have planned for who did this to me.”

“Oh,” is all Dundee can think to say. Is he meant to congratulate Randy on his future torture session? “Uh… Good luck?”

“Thanks, Dundiddles. We’ve been looking for the guy all night, got a lead a few hours ago that someone might have seen him in Paleto. We’re going up there now to check it out.”

“Paleto? Jeez, they’re running far.” The pump cuts off and Dundee startles as the handle jumps in his grip. “What the fuck did they do?”

“That’s our business.”

“Sorry, professional curiosity.”

“It’s fine!” Randy claps Dundee on the shoulder. “Been a while since Bondi tore something up, huh? Getting a little blood thirsty?”

Dundee grins at him. “Maybe a little.”

“Tell you what: Garrett might be dropping out after a couple hours, he’s got a thing, meeting some old friend or something, I don’t know, it sounded dull. Anyways, after that we might be looking for someone to fill a spot. Want to come along? You can drive.” Randy points to a sleek black car parked at the other side of the gas station. “One condition though when we find him: he’s ours.”

Mister K whistles for Randy’s attention.

“Maybe another time, Randy. I’m in a weird mood today, don’t know how that would mesh.” Dundee rips the receipt from the pump and circles to the driver’s side door and gets in. Randy taps on the passenger window and Dundee rolls it down.

“Suit yourself, but if you change your mind we’ll be at this all day,” Randy says.

“Hey! Can you quit your fucking gossiping?” Mister K yells to Randy as the rest of the gang loads into their cars. Randy waves to Dundee and jogs to his car, apologizing to Mister K for holding up the line. Mister K rolls his eyes. “Taking your sweet time when you were the one most excited to hunt down that useless bitch Benson.”

Static fills Dundee’s ears and the world narrows to his steering wheel as the name Benson is tossed around a few more times by the other members of Chang Gang before they all drive off. Dundee doesn’t know how long he stares at the complicated leather work texture of the steering wheel, but time slips past him without notice.

There were likely multiple Bensons in Los Santos, but something tells him that beyond a doubt Chang Gang were talking about Barry. Dundee ignores his gut instincts when it comes to dumb decisions or stupid plans, but he knows this is neither. It’s not an over-reaction or a wild speculation, his brain had connected a pattern he can’t recognize and it was telling him Barry is in danger. Dundee takes his phone from his pocket and pulls up Barry’s contact, ready to call, but hesitates.

It’s not his place to care.

They aren’t dating, Barry never asked him to look out for him. Barry isn’t his, Barry is whoever’s got the cash at the moment.

Dundee puts his phone on the dashboard and starts a slow methodical spiral out of the city, telling himself that he’s not checking every tall stranger he passes to make sure it’s not Barry.

He makes it as far as Great Ocean Highway before reflex finds him pulled to the shoulder of the highway, already connecting to Barry’s phone. It rings and rings and Dundee’s certain Barry won’t pick up –– either already busy with work or simply over the entertainment Dundee provided him –– but on the final dial tone and after a strange click, he picks up.

Barry doesn’t greet him, but Dundee knows it’s him by the long sigh he answers with.

“Chang Gang is looking for you,” Dundee blurts out, far too nervous to start with a casual hello. “They’re on their way to Paleto with guns. Randy’s fucking pissed and his eye is all sorts of messed up.”

“Why?” Barry says, devoid of intonation.

“I don’t know. He told me it didn’t hurt as bad as what he had planned for the person who did it––,”

“No, Dee,” Barry cuts in. “Why do you care?”

“I––,” Dundee stutters to a halt. “Where are you right now?”

“Not in Paleto, not that it’s your business.”

“Are you at Fridgit?”

“What do you want, Dee?” Barry asks.

Now that it’s been pointed out to him, Dundee can’t help the little smile at hearing the nickname from Barry and almost instantly his mood shifts.

“Just please stay hidden, B,” Dundee says, checking over his shoulder before swinging a U-turn and driving back to Vespucci. “At least until I get Bondi together to protect you.” Barry is silent for a moment and Dundee checks that the call is still connected.

“Okay, what is your fucking problem?” Barry asks.

Dundee takes his foot from the gas and drifts to the shoulder of the road again. “What do you m––?”

“You’re happy to overpay me to jerk you off, but you honor my mate’s rates pricing after a big dramatic entrance that I thought, maybe, you were going to do something else with. You tell me to go places and I thought they were jobs, but then you overpay again and sometimes all you want is a kiss, or just to hold my hand, or to jack me off in a tram while you whisper in my ear. Whenever it’s the overpaid outings, you dress nice and you get flustered easier and I thought maybe… I just, I don’t fucking understand you, okay? They feel like dates, but I know they’re not.”

Dundee’s breath catches in his throat. It’s kind of painful.

“They’re not, right?” Barry says.

The conversation goes quiet, neither speaking after the question is asked.

Though as silent as the phone is, Dundee’s own mind has never been louder as it feeds him more date ideas and pleasant fantasies of Barry smiling at him as the sun sets behind him, painting the sky orange and pink. He tries to imagine life in Bondi with Barry at his side and it’s surprisingly easy. With each new mental portrait of Barry seamlessly slotted into life with Bondi, Dundee's heartbeat gets louder and faster and his breath starts coming quick and ragged as he desperately searches for anything resembling a coherent answer to Barry’s question.

Had Barry asked that two hours ago, Dundee would’ve laughed in his face at the idea that what they did could be anything remotely considered a date.

Now, Dundee hesitates.

“Uh…” Dundee says and hangs up.

He smacks the steering wheel a few times before pulling his nerves back under control and calling Chip.

“Well if it isn’t Mister Dundee! Good morning!” Chip shouts into the phone to be heard over the revving of engines and welding equipment. “I was just saying to Antonio that I needed a little excitement today, a little bit of unpredictability, maybe the chance to lose some cars to impound. What’cha got planned? Bank robbery? Meth run? Stealing some cars to bust down to their itty bitty parts? Ramping onto the roof of MRPD to steal Air One? You know I just finished Finn’s flight lessons, we could technically take Air One and Air Two. We’ve got the pilots for it.”

Dundee loves Chip’s enthusiasm for mayhem and he hopes what he has planned won’t ruin Chip’s day. Even if it did though, as soon as Chip heard the reasoning for Dundee’s plan, he’d likely go along with it, no questions asked. Chip was good like that.

“Is Bluey’s hiring?”

“Uh…” The noise on Chip’s end fades as he presumably closes himself in the Tuner Shop office. “Sorry, some old guy came in on a bike losing parts faster than a mummy over a cheesegrater. Say again?”

“Is Bluey’s hiring?”

Chip asks a few more times before he laughs at the volume he’s worked Dundee up to. “I’m yanking your chain, I heard you. Bluey’s is always hiring, especially with a glowing recommendation from you. What’s their state ID, I’ll drop them in the employee list right now.”

“That’s what I’ll need your help with. Are you busy right now?”

“Dundee, we’ve been over this,” Chip says, trying to sound disapproving, but still managing to have a smile behind his words. “Randomly giving someone a paying job might still be seen as Human Trafficking under the wrong judge. You remember what Judge Bailey said, right? When he was going on and on about his nephew and his runaway father? Or, hold up, that sounds wrong, it was Bailey’s sister’s husband and their runaway kid? Wait, what’s it called when your dad kills your mother and it’s ruled as self defense, but the court still tries to take your kid, so the kid files emancipation before the dad flees the state? I feel like there’s a fancy ‘ --acide ’ word for that. Judge Bailey said there’s always a fancy word for everything. Patri… Matri… Emanc… Matri-Emance-Pat-acide. Patri-Flee. Flee-acide. No, that just sounds like fleece.”

“… Chip.”

“Yeah?”

“Meet me at Bluey’s.”

“Okie Dokie. Do you want me to bring anyone––?”

Dundee hangs up and calls Collin.

“If you’re calling to say you threw my car in the ocean, I get it,” Collin answers. “I remember how I was when I started dating Nancy. It’s nice to have things outside of the club and it’s difficult at the beginning of a relationship when you’re trying to figure out what your boundaries are with each other if you constantly have people poking their noses in. Just, please tell me you threw it into a part of the ocean that’s retrievable. I don’t want to ask Kevin Ramm to borrow his submarine. The guy’s insufferable.”

“What?”

“It’s fine. I’ll find it later. I’m sorry if I went too far with the prodding. Though sometimes you need to be prodded to choose a course of action. We all do, once in a while.”

“Oh, I don’t, this isn’t about that. Well, it sort of is, but isn’t. I went to refuel at Little Seoul and I overheard some things. I need your PI skills, Collin.”

“You said I was a shit PI.”

“You are, but you’re the only one I think he’ll trust right now.”

“What are you on about?”

“We need to find Barry. Now.”

Collin makes a cooing noise somewhere between scandalized and shrill. “Oh ho, sending forth the footman to bring your lovely gentleman caller to you?” Collin says in a horrible accent meant to be British. “How devilish.”

“It’s not about that,” Dundee says and Collin seems to pick up on the urgency because he drops the accent immediately.

“I’ll make some calls and see if anyone has his phone number––,”

“I have it, just come to Bluey’s. I need to tell you and Chip my plan.”

Chapter Text

Barry has pick-pocketing down to a science, focusing in on a mark and taking a watch or ring or wallet and leaving them in a crowd before they’ve even begun to acknowledge Barry’s apology for bumping into them. For rings, he looks for plain bands or settings that sit a little sideways on the mark’s fingers –– a simple tell for if the rings will easily slip off. He takes watches if the person isn’t wearing a suit or jacket, as the tight cuffs usually give away Barry’s intentions once he starts fidgeting with the clasps. Wallets are always easy to take, but Barry tries to avoid these unless absolutely necessary as they are usually noticed faster than missing jewelry and tend to draw crowds once accusations start. As it stands, Barry currently has two engagement rings, one Rolex, a plain gold band, and twenty bucks he found on the street and he’s only been wandering around the beach for two hours.

He’d thought about going to the Alta Street Apartments, as the ever shifting crowd generally allowed for a greater pull, but after Dundee’s frantic call telling him Chang Gang were looking for him Barry had lifted a large sun hat from a passed out tourist, rolled up his borrowed pants, tied the blue jacket Stevie had given him to wear for the day around his waist and wandered the beach between the lifeguard tower and the Del Perro pier. His hope in the wandering is to get enough valuables to pawn to afford some groceries to pay Stevie back for her offer to stay at her house for the week as Chang Gang’s ire burned off. They’d get bored after a while, Barry just had to stay hidden until then. The downside to his hiding though, was that his normal means of money making weren’t an option, as he’s certain someone would be circling Fridgit nearly hourly to see if Barry was there. He hasn’t had to resort to pawning since he first came to Los Santos, but he has absolutely no money to his name. He can’t even risk getting his bike from the Chiliad tram’s parking lot in case it’s being watched.

He didn’t mind having to use a bicycle or simply walk places, but his motorbike held a unique nostalgia for him, even if he’d never owned a bike before, for the fact that it reminded him of what he’d left behind when he’d come to Los Santos.

Intent to leave the thoughts behind too, he trudges over the sand to the boardwalk and heads in the direction of the pawn shop. With any luck he’d have enough for groceries and a pack of cigarettes. If he did, he’d treat himself, knowing it was a relatively cheap way to calm the stress shaking through him. What should only be an hour walk takes longer, as Barry takes caution to scan the streets for familiar sports cars and duck into alleys when he spots people on the phone heading his direction. When he does arrive at the pawnshop –– flinging open the door and rattling the slat blinds hanging on it –– he pulls the door closed behind him and peers out between the blinds to ensure he wasn’t followed.

A woman behind the counter cheerfully greets him, unaware or uncaring of Barry’s demeanor. She’s wearing the uniform shirt of the shop and carefully cleaning a set of brass spoons which she puts under the counter display when Barry approaches. Barry empties his pockets onto the glass top counter and she carefully sorts through the items, lifting the two engagement rings up to the light and tapping the watch. She gives him a number and it’s not as much as he knows the items are worth, but it’s more than he has. With a little bargaining the number goes up and Barry’s fingers twitch, wondering which brand of cigarettes he’ll indulge in.

Pawning had never been as big of a money draw as his time at Fridgit, but it’s definitely safer.

When he thinks about it though, if Chang Gang actually wanted him dead that night Barry would’ve been dead. Instead they played with their food and by their standards only roughed him up. Had Barry stayed after they’d had their fun taunting him, there likely would’ve been a talk about changing Barry’s percentages going forth. They probably also would’ve taken the lockbox to ensure Barry wouldn’t try something, which Barry knows now wouldn’t have held any advantage to ensure him staying. Barry had fled into the night, bleeding and broke, getting away from further injury by the skin of his teeth and without compulsion to look back.

Still, he’d be lucky if his avoidance of them actually calmed them instead of inciting further rage.

He’s in the 24/7 around the corner contemplating between two brands of cigarettes when his phone starts ringing with a number he doesn’t know. His heartbeat picks up with each consecutive ring and before it can ring out entirely, he answers.

If it was Chang Gang, it would be better to hear their threats than to further anger them.

“––I know what I fucking said, I stand by it. Whether or not he wants to punch me again for it, I don’t care.” The voice sounds familiar, but Barry’s mind won’t let him focus on where he’s heard it before.

“…Hello?” Barry says quietly, hoping the caller will think it didn’t connect and hang up.

Barry’s never been that lucky.

“Uh, Barry, hi!”

“Hello?” Barry says again. The line is silent for a while.

“Oh, fuck, that’s right. You wouldn’t have my number. It’s Collin. Collin McKinley with the BBMC.”

“My local enforcer,” Barry says, forcing a playful tone to stop his heart trying to regurgitate up his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more so what can I do for you ?”

Barry’s heart makes a valiant effort to escape. “What… what do you mean?”

“What are you doing right now?”

Barry can’t help glancing around, looking for familiar sports cars or any vehicles he might have seen at the beach, half expecting to see someone watching him. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

Collin laughs. “You don’t need to sound so guilty, Barry. It’s just a simple question.”

“I’m buying cigarettes.”

“Good for you. Now, come to Bluey’s.”

“Uh…” Barry opens the GPS on his phone, frantically clicking through to find the correct location. Collin had taken him there before, but Barry’s memory of the actual location was clouded by the lingering effects of morphine the hospital had kept him on during his stay. The GPS tells him it’s down the road, but looking at the distance and the current state of Barry’s health, it may as well be across the city. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.”

“Quickly!” Collin says and hangs up.

Barry takes a quick mental map of his directions and takes off in a sprint towards Vespucci. Just before the canals a stitch pulls at his side, but he keeps running, pushing aside the pain by focusing on what might happen to him if he were to take too long. There’d been one horrid month where members of the gang had taken a strange fancy to pinging Barry places and timing how long it took him to get there. These instances usually ended with Barry getting pelted by shoes when he inevitably took too long by whatever invisible standards had been set.

When the neon blue sign of Bluey’s comes into sight Barry forces his feet to move faster, half-tripping half-falling through its doorway. He catches himself on the door, the bell above cheerfully signaling his arrival, as he avoids face-planting at Collin’s feet by pure luck. He gasps for a breath, trying to speak and only managing a wheezing sound. Collin laughs at him and Barry staggers against the door. He closes his eyes and waits for whatever punishment might befall him.

“Holy shit, did you sprint here?” Collin says, holding back his laughter to get the words out.

“You said—,” Barry gasps in a breath. “Quickly.”

“Well, yeah. Cause everyone in this fucking club takes ages to get anywhere if you don’t give them a sense of urgency. Where did you run from?”

“Pawn… shop.” Barry swears under his breath and massages the cramp in his side.

“Oh nice! And how are the Angels today?” a man Barry’s never seen before asks. He’s wearing a dark grey jumpsuit with ‘6STR’ printed along the ribs and up the sleeves.

“Who is this?” Barry asks Collin, not aware he’s actually speaking until the other man answers.

“Chip. Chip Wheeler, man. I’ve probably fixed your car at the Tuner Shop,” Chip introduces himself, giving a strange little bow.

“I don’t have a car,” Barry says. His breathing has mostly evened out, but the cramp remains. He wants to ask for water, but he’ll take the small mercy of not being hit with anything yet and leave it at that. “What did you need?” he asks Collin, trying not to look over at Chip’s wide smile. Looking would only confirm if a shoe was incoming. It usually hurt less to not know.

“How would you like an exciting business opportunity?” Collin asks.

Barry knows his face must say something in his silence because Collin puts his hands up and quickly backpedals.

“Not like that! I swear, it’s not like that! We’re not interested in trying to wrangle you into another blood debt. It’s legal work, all above board.” Collin digs in his pockets for a worn piece of paper folded into a small square.

“Completely legal!” Chip agrees, nodding. His tone suggests it might not be entirely legal.

Collin flattens the paper across his chest and clears his throat, reading from the paper. “Congratulations newbie!”

“That’s you!” Chip whispers. He tucks himself to Barry’s side and throws an arm over his shoulders. He pats Barry on the chest, none too softly, and Barry coughs.

“Welcome to the Bondi –– wait, fuck, this is the wrong paper. I don’t have the new hire paper. Fuck. Chip, it’s on you.”

“Alright! This is Bluey’s Bar, located in beautiful Vespucci!” Chip pulls Barry forwards, leading him around the bar and pointing to various objects. “This is a booth! This is a cushion hard imprinted by many days of asses pressing farts into it!” He drags Barry along the row of booths, continuing to announce that each is indeed a booth with cushioned seats as he circles the room towards the bar. He stops beside a large plant tucked at the corner of the room and unexpectedly thriving in the dim interior. “This is a plant. I think it’s called a Colocasia, but that sounds made up. We’ve named it Ferdinad and it’s an expert at filtering alcohol. We have no idea how it’s still alive, but I suspect blood magic.”

“Sorry, but I’ve got to ask.” Barry stops when Chip looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “Actually, it’s fine. Keep going.”

“No, ask your question.”

“It’s fine.”

“Barry, ask it,” Collin says behind them, tone firm of no negotiations. Barry looks over his shoulder to Collin before Chip circles them to face Collin.

“What am I being hired as?” Barry’s voice cracks, but he holds Collin’s gaze.

Collin crosses his arms while Chip giggles. “There was a discussion of bringing you on as an exotic dancer, but it was a brief and badly timed joke,” Collin says.

“I mean, I did have a brief stint as an exotic dancer,” Barry says, quietly. “I could––,”

“Yeah, well, it was a joke. You ever tend a bar before?” Collin asks and Barry shakes his head. Chip pulls Barry towards the bar, circling it and beginning to point out bottles while Collin keeps talking. “It’s pretty simple. People ask for drinks, you give them the drinks. We’ve got a cheat sheet binder of drinks; if you don’t know what something is, look it up.”

“Unless someone asks you for a lap dance,” Chip says. “That one’s up to your discretion.”

“It’s a drink!” Collin says, taking a large binder out from under the counter and tapping the cover. “People will only order drinks here and if they try asking for anything else from you or anyone else working here, feel free to toss them out on their ass. We have a few we regularly bounce, but they seem to keep bouncing back in.”

“I’m just saying,” Chip says. “Sometimes the tips are low.”

“Why?” Barry asks, quickly glancing around the bar.

“Eh… Sometimes it’s a slow day.” Chip pulls himself onto the counter and kicks his legs. “Sometimes I’m just bored.”

It’s not the ‘why’ Barry wanted answered, but he doesn’t ask further questions.

“Well, you don’t have to do that, Barry.” Collin slides the binder over to Barry. It sticks to the counter halfway between them and flops open on a random page. There’s a handwritten note in the margin of the listed drink giving a modification to add lemon juice and cinnamon.

“Now Barry,” Chip says, putting a hand on Barry’s shoulder and turning Barry to face him. “I’m going to give you this job under one condition.”

“He’s not even accepted it yet, Chip,” Collin says.

Barry thinks about the three hours he spent pick-pocketing along the beach, about his sore muscles from working at Fridgit, about his scars and bruises from working under Mister K. His answer is immediate. “I’ll do it.”

“Okay, now just wait until you hear the condition,” Chip says, a grin barely held back.

“I don’t care,” Barry says. “You want me to work overtime, sure; you want me to wear booty shorts, fine; you want to chuck peanuts at me from across the room, yeah whatever. I don’t care, I’ll do it.”

“Okay, hold your enthusiasm there, Bud.” Chip scoots across the counter, closer to Barry. “Love where your head's at, but listen, there is one very important thing you have to know.” Chip jumps off the bar and places both hands on Barry’s shoulders. “Under no conditions may you fuck on the bar top.”

Barry blinks at him.

It’s not the wildest thing he’s heard at a job interview, but it’s definitely unexpected.

“I know, I know, it’s a huge bummer and there goes your Thursday night plans, but look, it’s a health and safety concern.” Chip loops Barry under his arm and leads him towards a door on the side of the bar. Based on its mirror placement to the doorway on the other side of the bar leading down to the pool table, Barry expects it to be another basement level. Chip pushes it open and waves a hand in front of him in a flourish. “You may, however, fuck in the storage room, but please be aware of the cameras. Enunciate and be mindful of your lighting,” Chip says.

Barry lets out a huff in something of a laugh, finding he doesn’t mind Chip’s style of humor.

Chip winks at Barry; it might not be a joke.

“When would I start?” Barry asks.

Chip spins Barry by his hips to face him and pulls him closer by his belt loops. Barry’s gaze darts over Chip’s shoulder to Collin, as Barry’s earlier words come back to him. He did say he’d do anything for the job opportunity. He tries to clear his mind, to slip into the quiet inbetween of his thoughts as he braces for what Chip wants to do to him, but instead of any lewd act to secure Barry’s job status, Chip ties a dish towel into Barry’s belt loops and pats him on the shoulder.

“Happy hour is in fifteen minutes. Someone will be here in a bit to help you, but I gotta go back to work –– I think I still have someone’s engine belt in my pocket that I needed to change out. Hopefully they’re still there. Collin, can I get a lift? I took a push bike here.”

“You took a push bike from Tuner?” Collin asks.

“It was mostly downhill.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“I said mostly.”

“There was something else we were meant to do, wasn’t there?” Collin asks. He grabs one of the water bottles from behind the counter and follows Chip.

Chip shrugs. “Introduce Barry to the wonderous world of bartending, check; add him to the employee list, also check.”

“Some light hazing?”

“Double check, though accidental.”

“Eh, it’ll come to me. See you around Barry!”

Chip and Collin start walking towards the door, continuing to banter and seemingly fine with leaving Barry on his own in the bar. Barry clenches his fists and looks around at the empty bar. Being behind the counter feels illegal without anyone to mind him and Barry slowly sidesteps his way out, looking around for a camera that might be tracking him. He can’t see any, but that doesn’t mean none are watching. He circles the bar, gingerly opening doors. He finds a clean single occupant bathroom that has a framed print hung between the mirror and the door depicting a quaint cottage that upon second glance hides the silhouette of two people fucking. There’s also a small but well kept kitchen, as well as the store room again where a blinking red light catches his attention. Like a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar, Barry slowly closes the door to the store room and returns to stand beside the bar, fidgeting with the towel tied to his belt loops.

The empty bar is exceedingly quiet and the lights set behind the bar hum. Barry tries to breathe as quiet as possible to fade into the background of it, but it has the opposite effect. He feels too large inside his own body, clunky and obscene. When he moves he hears the split second stick of his boots peeling from the hardwood made tacky by years of spilt drinks and each footstep is a loud thud in the empty bar. There’s a couple switches above the counter set along the back wall and Barry flicks one, curiosity eating at him. The ceiling fan above the bar starts a slow spin and Barry turns it off again. The second switch gets Barry’s attention and he glances around before flicking it on.

The garburator in the bar sink beside him whirs to life, cutting into ice previously left in the drain.

“Fuck!” Barry shouts and quickly turns it off again.

He’s peering into the bar sink, trying to tell if anything vital was eaten when the bell above the front door rings out as someone enters. Barry spins on his heel, surely looking like a deer in headlights. He’s preemptively preparing an apology, expecting either Collin or Chip, but who he sees is someone much younger wearing a plain black baseball cap and a black leather jacket. They’re tucking a set of keys into their pocket and upon seeing Barry behind the counter they reach for a switchblade tucked into the pocket of their jeans.

“Uh, who the fuck are you?” they ask, flicking out the knife. They take a quick scan of the room and approach the bar, keeping it between themselves and Barry.

“Hi, welcome to Bluey’s,” Barry says, his hands already in the air. “Want a drink?”

“That’s my line.”

“Huh?”

“I work here. It’s my shift. Who the fuck are you?”

“Barry. Barry Benson,” he says, slowly lowering his hands. “Chip hired me about, um, half an hour ago?”

They narrow their eyes and point their knife at Barry. “Don’t fucking move. I’m checking your story.” They pull out their phone, continuing to watch Barry as they walk to the far end of the bar.

Barry can just barely hear the conversion and he shifts closer in an attempt to hear, ever curious even if it might come back to bite him.

“Hey Chip, it’s Morgan. Did you hire some random Aussie today? He says his name’s Barry,” Morgan says, looking over at Barry.

Barry knots his hands together to avoid the compulsion to wave at them.

“Really?” Morgan says, lowering the knife and then tucking it away as they continued to listen. “Okay, well that’s news to me and I hope he’s happy, but for fuck’s sake, can someone warn me next time? I thought he was here to smash a register. I almost stuck a knife in him.” Morgan laughs at the response and walks to the front door, flicking on a neon light proclaiming the bar to be open. They laugh at something said over the phone and abruptly hang up. “Looks like you get to live today, Barry.” They go through the door leading downstairs to where the pool table is and presumably into another room after Barry hears a jingling set of keys. They come back upstairs wearing a shirt with the name ‘Bluey’s’ printed across the front. They also toss a shirt to Barry and tell him to change into it.

After Barry grabs the hem of his shirt, intending to change on the spot, Morgan points him towards the bathroom. The shirt is almost one size too small and it stretches across his chest, highlighting his arms. Barry had never thought of himself as a particularly buff guy, preferring to hide himself under bulky hoodies and loose shirts and he honestly doesn’t know when he dropped his weight. He tugs at the shirt, trying to loosen it around the sleeves and gives up after it has no effect.

Morgan’s already behind the bar, counting out the till, but they look up when Barry steps out. They mumble something under their breath, a half smirk on their face as they laugh. Barry clears his throat and tugs at the shirt one last time before stepping up to Morgan’s side and following their instructions on how to clean and prep the bar.

Bluey’s isn’t a particularly busy bar during midweek –– according to Morgan –– and especially not this early in the day, but there’s enough people that Barry is kept in a constant cycle of playing catch up while trying to keep out of Morgan’s way. When Barry shatters a couple glasses or mixes up an order Morgan doesn’t raise their voice, but the look they give Barry makes him drop to his knees to pick up the glass or rush to the kitchen to dump the incorrect order just as quickly. They direct Barry throughout the day, eventually choosing to switch him to simple tasks with the assurance that he would catch on and Barry believes their quiet confidence in him.

Morgan moves easily around Bluey’s, chatting with presumed regulars and tossing the more rowdy patrons out on their asses, unflinching at their harsh tones as they swear and say they’ll be back. They also escort a couple people down to where the pool table is and a moment later a few members of Bondi in denim jackets go down after them with both parties emerging under an hour later happily intermingled with a few of Bondi on the outskirts checking their pockets as they go.

Barry has no problem working in a place where illegal dealings are done, considering his previous employment, even if it’s a little unsettling about how cavalier Bondi are about it. After the deal is done, Bondi tuck into a booth and order a couple drinks instead of immediately putting whatever product they had acquired away. Stevie approaches Barry afterwards and pulls him into the kitchen to touch up the makeup covering his bruises. She tells him he’s doing a good job and Barry almost believes it, until she returns to her table and Barry catches the look thrown his way from the man with his arm thrown over Stevie’s shoulders. A few others of Bondi eye Barry with trepidation, perhaps remembering his arrival at the lifeguard tower two days ago. Barry tries not to let their stares interfere with his work, but it’s undeniable that he’s trying to garner their good sides and eventually it’s Stevie who tells Barry that –– for the fifth time –– they’re good on water. Barry agrees, awkwardly bows, cringes that he bowed and runs for the back storage room. Morgan finds him some minutes later and gives him a simple organizing task to keep him in the back until the flush fades from his cheeks.

Gradually, the night starts to thin out and eventually Bluey’s empties and the welcoming neon light is turned off. It’s earlier than any normal bar would close, but Morgan tells Barry it’s to keep his first shift light. Morgan puts Barry to work washing glasses even though there’s a serviceable dishwasher and Barry half suspects it’s a time waster while they dealt with the more delicate closing procedures of the bar. As such, Barry’s elbow deep in soapy water when his phone starts ringing. He wipes his hands on his shirt and carefully balances his phone between his shoulder and ear as he continues to clean.

“Hello, Dee,” Barry cheerfully greets.

“Oh, thank fuck you’re okay,” Dundee says with a sigh.

“What? Course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’ve been calling you for almost five hours.”

“Oh, sorry. I had my phone on silent.”

“I’ve been waiting at your bench ever since the streetlights went on. I tried to tell myself I wouldn’t panic because you weren’t here, but then it just kept getting later and later and I just had to call and check. Do you have weekends off working here?”

“Not usually, no. Wait, are you hanging around Fridgit?”

“I was waiting for you!”

Barry can hear Dundee getting into a car and starting the engine. The car engine whirs as Dundee cranks the heat for the cold that would’ve been creeping in around this time of night. It’s the first time in a long while that Barry can feel his toes after eight pm and he curls them inside his boots, realizing that he’s pleasantly warm.

“Oh, well that’s nice of you,” Barry says, placing the last glass on the drying rack and pulling the drain plug.

“Nice?” Dundee says, voice cracking. “You think I’m doing this to be nice? Did you forget what I told you this morning? Chang Gang are looking for you! They told me they’d be at it all day and presumably all night.”

Barry blinks, watching the soap bubbles cling to the sides of the sink. “Actually, I had forgotten.”

“Oh my god… You fucking goldfish,” Dundee says with no real heat to his words. “You know that Randy Bullet slow-rolled through here like, a billion times? They’re still looking for you. Where have you been?”

Barry smiles. “I got a new job. I’m no longer working for a gang, Dee. I’m a bartender at Bluey’s now. Collin called me this afternoon and then I met with him and a guy named Chip and they hired me on the spot. I don’t know why, considering I’ve never worked as a bartender before, but it’s been fun. I was going to call Collin later to thank him.”

“Those fucking morons,” Dundee mumbles. “I told them to call me once they’d done it.”

“Done… what?”

“Hate to break your fantasy, Barry, but Bluey’s is Bondi; owned and operated. You’re still working for a gang, just a much more sympathetic one who has no desire to push you to your kn––,”

Dundee cuts himself off and Barry suspects it’s in the memory of the fact that Dundee has pushed Barry to his knees before. Dundee clears his throat and Barry continues the conversation, unwilling to let the awkward silence hang.

“You’re fucking with me. You have to be. Sure, I saw quite a number of people in denim pass through, but it’s Vespucci! Of course the BBMC would roll through a few times in the night. The bar is in their turf, but that doesn’t mean everyone who works here is Bondi.”

“Barry,” Dundee says, slowly. “Everyone who works there is Bondi.”

Barry laughs. “Okay, now I know you’re fucking with me. Chip works at the Tuner Shop. That’s a good job. He wouldn’t risk that by getting involved with a gang.”

“Okay, one: it’s a club not a gang, and two: you’d be surprised just how little of a fuck they actually care about that sort of thing.”

“But, after I started working for…” Barry refuses to say their name out loud, as if it’ll ring out like a bell and draw them to him. “They told me no where else would hire me because I work for them. For him. They told me I was undesirable.”

“Hate to say it, but they lied to you. On several fronts.”

“But it’s not everyone at Bluey’s, right? I’m sure there’s civilians like me that also work here?” Barry asks and Dundee is silent, giving Barry his answer. “So, all of Bluey’s…?”

“All of them.”

“Even Morgan?”

“Especially Morgan. Have you seen them throw a punch? Of course Morgan! I made sure she was prospected as soon as I saw that left hook. I’m always looking for good fighters in my club.”

“Your––?”

“Anyways, where are you? Are you still at Bluey’s?”

“I’ve been washing glasses. I don’t think Morgan trusts me with anything else.”

“I do!” Morgan calls from the bar, startling Barry who didn’t know they’d been listening. “It’s the dishwasher I don’t trust. Jesse used it to make salmon and it still fucking reeks of fish.”

“Someone made fish in a dishwasher?” Barry calls back to them.

“Again?” Dundee says, talking over Morgan’s reply though Barry does his best to hear both.

“Yeah, he’s a menace. Anyways, there’s just the sweeping and putting all the chairs on the tables left to do. I’ve got to go take care of something, so would you be able to lock up? You can just throw the key onto the awning above the door,” Morgan says, coming to stand in the doorway. They’ve changed out of the Bluey’s shirt and back into a plain black shirt and leather jacket.

“I swear, if that dumb fuck breaks another appliance for his weird cooking, I’m going to make him clean it with a toothbrush. I assume you’ll be there for a bit more, but I’m headed that way now. If you’re still there when I get there, um… we need to talk.” Dundee says.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Barry tells Morgan.

“Okay then, if you want to keep working here I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time for your next shift and I promise not to point a knife at you this time,” Morgan says, walking for the front door. “Remember to lock the door behind me so you don’t get any weirdos wandering in. It’s not usual we close this early and some might not get the memo with just the open sign being off.”

“Great,” Dundee says, sounding happier than his previous tone. “I’m just picking up something and refueling whoever’s car this is then I’ll be right there, if you want to wait for me?” Dundee asks. “I could drive you home?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Barry tells Morgan.

“Good night Barry,” Morgan says and slips out the door.

“See you soon,” Dundee says and hangs up.

“Sorry, Dee, you were saying something about buying a toothbrush? Uh…” Barry listens and hears only a steady tone. “Hello?” Barry pulls the phone from his ear.

The call has disconnected.

Barry checks the reception, moving around the small kitchen to see if it changes, before shrugging and looking for a broom. He sweeps the kitchen and bar, and manages to sweep the first two steps of the stairs leading to the pool room before his nerves get the better of him and he retreats. He also sweeps under all the tables. There’s an ungodly amount of sunflower shells piled under one of the booths in a corner and Barry gets on his hands and knees to scoop them all into a dustpan. He’s on his elbows reaching into the back corner and halfway under the booth seat when the front door opens, ringing the bell set above the frame.

“Sorry, mate,” Barry yells, scooping sunflower shells out behind him. “We’re actually closed early tonight.” He shimmies his way out, knocking his head on the table as he goes. He stands and brushes the dust from his pants and turns to the front door, readying a professional front to turn away whatever poor cunt had decided tonight of all nights to come to Bluey’s for a drink.

“Hey Barry,” Dundee says, looking at the floorboards. “Do you got a minute?”

Chapter Text

Dundee’s leg will not stop jumping and he can’t tell if it’s from the cold of the night or the nerves of what he’s planning to tell Barry. He’s been sitting on the bench outside of Fridgit for just over two hours regularly calling Barry to no answer and with each passing minute his brain conjures darker images of what might have happened to Barry if Chang Gang got their hands on him. Every twenty minutes, he sprints across the road to try the storage room door, but each time it’s locked. He does a few rounds of the building, looking for Barry’s bike or footprints, anything to show that Barry had been through the area. Eventually, Dundee’s resolve snaps and he calls Barry. He almost expects it to go to voicemail again –– or even more gruesome the call connecting and all he would hear would be Barry’s cries of pain –– but the call connects and there’s no screaming or crying, Barry answers with a chipper tone with the dull sounds of music in the background.

The cunt’s at Bluey’s.

Barry is at Bluey’s and neither Collin nor Chip called Dundee after hiring him like they were meant to do, like they agreed to do after Dundee explained his plan to keep Barry safe from Chang Gang. It was one of the stipulations Dundee gave those two: call him after Barry was given the job.

After he calls Barry, he speeds to Vespucci, racing against an invisible timer like Barry would disappear from him if he took too long. It is possible though and perhaps that’s what terrifies Dundee. Chang Gang are still hunting for Barry and Randy’s been through Fridgit several times, each time stopping by the bench and asking Dundee what he’s doing. Dundee played dumb, but he suspects there was only so long he could hang around there before Randy started to suspect something. Each time he rolled through his tone got a little more aggressive, as if he knew that Dundee was responsible for hiding Barry.

When Dundee’s in the car and on the way to Bluey’s he calls Chip. The call connects with a click and Chip barely gets a word out before Dundee’s yelling at him.

“I told you to call me once you’d hired him! I gave you one specific instruction and it wasn’t even that difficult to follow! You could have texted me even, just a simple hey, it’s done is all I would’ve needed! I’ve been sitting in the cold for fucking hours, Chip. I can’t feel my balls!”

“–– anyways, leave a message after the tone!” Chip’s voicemail tells him.

“You… fucker,” Dundee says and hangs up.

He doesn’t bother to park properly at Bluey’s after seeing the open sign switched off in the window. He’s half on the curb, but he doesn’t care. It’s not his car to worry about. He hesitates in the doorway, hand raised and pressed against the glass. Most of the lights are turned off inside and it takes him a moment to find Barry. He’s underneath a corner booth on his hands and knees, sweeping shells out from under the bench seats. Dundee laughs to himself at the ridiculous lengths that man will go to for his work and steps through the door.

“Sorry, mate,” Barry yells, sweeping sunflower shells into the open with a small hand broom. “We’re actually closed early tonight.” He shimmies his way out, knocking his head on the table as he goes. He stands and brushes the dust from his knees and turns to the front door.

“Hey Barry,” Dundee says, looking at the floorboards. “Do you got a minute?”

He’s been planning this conversation for the last three hours, but being in front of Barry now, all his ideas, his mental outline, is gone. The only thought remaining is the overwhelming need to apologize for the way he’s been behaving. He just had to work past the walls he’d built up for years, however well that would go. Collin told Dundee it was fear of rejection and Dundee had punched him for it, but internally he knew Collin was right. The bastard.

If Barry were to admit to only acting like he cared about Dundee for the money or the attention, Dundee planned to return to Collin’s house to punch him again.

In the meanwhile, he faces Barry in an empty bar all too aware of the beat of his heart, loud in his good ear. He half wishes he still wore hats that he’d have something to twist between his hands as the anxiety tries to push him back out the door. He takes a half step forward to let the front door of Bluey’s close behind him.

“Dee. Hi.” Barry puts his brush on the bench seat and crosses his arms.

In Dundee’s mental rehearsals Barry never wanted to hear him out. He wouldn’t speak to him and Dundee would go on an impassioned speech to win him over. It would be very dramatic and cinematic. Maybe Barry would cry. Maybe Dundee would cry.

He’s not prepared for Barry to actually speak to him.

“Uh… Do…?” The fear grips Dundee again and the childish question ‘do you like me?’ dies on his tongue. “Do you want a drink?” Dundee goes behind the bar and pours two glasses of whiskey. He downs his entire drink in one go and pours a second before bringing Barry his drink. He tries to pace himself, but Barry’s extended silence makes him take little nervous sips with each breath. He shifts from foot to foot, debating which seat to take, but Barry makes the decision for him, taking his drink to the bar.

Barry runs his fingers through his hair and slumps low over the bar top. The cynical part of Dundee wants to call what Barry is doing posturing, making himself look subservient and appealing to Dundee so Dundee will forget the conversation he’s been mentally having with himself for the last hours. The other part of Dundee that he still refuses to call sentimental, notes the tight cramp of Barry’s jaw and the dark rings under his eyes. It reminds Dundee of Pez from a month ago, stressing over the club funds and Barry’s next words only back up this perception.

“I understand that you aren’t happy with me. I can get you your money back,” Barry says.

Dundee wants to kick himself that he ever thought anything terrible of Barry. It’s almost dizzying how fast his opinion of the man turned heel upon hearing his voice. “It’s fine,” Dundee says and takes the seat next to Barry. He pulls a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and tops up his own drink before placing the bottle between them.

“I swear, I can. I just…” Barry sighs. “I may have lost it.”

“I’ll help you find it. Was it the bag of cash? Maybe one of Bondi found it on the beach. They’d probably be thrilled at finding the money, but I guarantee you they’d give it back if they knew it was yours.”

“No, Dee, I––,” Barry huffs out a laugh, but the humor is gone from it. “I guess the proper wording would be to say it was taken.” Barry’s hand drops to his lap, rubbing over a spot on his thigh.

Dundee watches Barry’s hand, momentarily distracted by the thought that he owns similar pants to Barry, though he’d left his at Stevie’s house. It’s got the same grass stain at the hip and everything. Dundee forces himself to look away to avoid spiraling thinking about how Barry’s pants obtained that stain. “Oh fuck. Do you have an idea of who it was?”

Barry looks at Dundee, his silence conveying more than the two words it would take to explain and all at once Dundee understands Barry’s appearance.

“Oh,” Dundee says and drinks.

“I currently have,” Barry pauses to scan-count the change from his pockets, “About two grand to my name. I’ve had more money on me after a night at Fridgit.”

Panic grips Dundee. “I wouldn’t go there tonight.” Dundee pretends to examine the wobbliness of his chair before shifting closer to Barry, their elbows brushing. It’s a poor excuse at comforting, but he figures baby steps are better than nothing at all. Collin would probably be proud of him for showing this much progression.

“Well, if it comes to it, apparently I have a promising career as a cam model.”

Dundee swirls his drink as heat floods his cheeks. “Um… Wuh…? um.” A part of him wants to tell Barry that he’d have at least one paying customer though the timing isn’t the best place for comedy, regardless of how serious this statement may be.

Barry lifts his drink to the ceiling. “Cameras, apparently. Chip told me there were a bunch in Bluey’s and said that if I wanted to fuck in the bar to clearly enunciate my moans.”

Dundee can’t hold back his laugh and it erupts in a nervous bark. “That fucker,” he says, trying to speak coherently while his mind fantasizes in surround sound. “We deal out of the back room on a regular basis, you really think we have cameras in here? I mean, we do, but just one at the front door, one in storage pointing at the back door, and one looking out the back parking lot. They don’t have audio though.” Dundee places his hand flat on the table and inches it closer to Barry’s, brushing their pinkies together. Barry flinches at first, but then links his pinky into Dundee’s. After this Barry seems to relax into his seat, sitting back and taking a drink. His hair falls into his eyes and Dundee reaches out without thinking to brush it behind his ear. Barry leans into his touch and closes his eyes.

“I didn’t know where to go last night,” Barry says. “I didn’t think there’d be anything here for me.”

“I’m here for you,” Dundee says, then moves his hand from cradling Barry’s chin. He hates how cheesy it sounds. Collin had managed to talk of love with such conviction and Dundee feels like a floundering idiot. Not even a beached fish, he feels like the dropped tail of a lizard left to squirm under the scrutiny of a beast that had been promised something much better. “You have my limb.”

Barry stops mid-way of a sip and slowly looks at Dundee. “Your limb?”

“You’re holding me,” Dundee says. Barry pulls his linked hand from Dundee’s reach and Dundee tries not to react to the cold numbness in the absence of Barry’s touch. “I, ah. Fuck. I told Chip to hire you because I want you to be safe. I knew CG wouldn’t think to look down here because we’re relatively good with them. I might have told the others to hide you if they do see them, but they don’t know details as to why, just that it’s important you’re kept safe.”

Barry is silent for a long while, taking sips of his drink each time Dundee thinks he’s going to speak, until at last he does. “Why are you doing this? Why do you care about what I do?”

“I––,”

“You had some choice words this morning. Why should I care about any sort of limb you want to give me?”

Dundee bites his bottom lip. Now is not the time for a giggle.

“Okay that…” Barry smiles and covers his face. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

“You said it though.”

“I did.” Barry stifles a laugh. “I should’ve given those words a bit more thought, but you make me nervous.”

“ I make you nervous?” Dundee shifts himself away from brushing against Barry’s shoulder and closes his hands around his glass.

Collin’s previous words replay in his mind, his explanation about Barry’s demeanor and how he reacted differently with Dundee, but Dundee very much doubts them now. He’d done nothing to prove to Barry that he wouldn’t hurt him, in fact he’d done nothing but the opposite and until this confession Dundee hadn’t thought it possible. He searches the wood grain of the bartop and its rough etchings when inspiration strikes. He stands abruptly, toppling his stool backwards and making Barry jump. Dundee starts emptying out his pockets: loose change, sticks of gum, two lighters, a squished pack of smokes, a pocket knife, used tissues (that Dundee puts back in his pocket), a set of house keys, his phone, a handful of bullets, and his handgun.

Barry watches in fascination as the collection grows, until the gun is set on the bartop. Barry leans subtly over the bartop to examine it.

“Barry, you make me nervous.” Dundee gathers the items from his pocket into a pile and pushes it towards Barry.

“What are you doing?” Barry withdraws from reach before the pile can touch him.

“I want to know what it is about me that unsettles you. If it’s something I can stop, I want it to stop. If I can throw it out now and keep you instead, I will. I don’t want to be the reason you think you can’t be you.”

Barry picks up one of the sticks of gum and turns it between his fingers.

“I want to be better. I’m tired of pretending, Barry. I don’t want to have to act anymore, to keep building these walls anymore. I’m just so fucking over it Barry.” Dundee slams the bartop, causing the pile to spill out wider. “I don’t like hurting people I care about, but it just keeps happening around me. I don’t even mean to. I didn’t mean to with him and I don’t mean to with you, it just keeps happening! You’re just so…” Dundee searches for any better word and when none comes, simply finishes with, “Good.”

Barry huffs. “Dee, I’m not––,”

“No. You are a good person and I don’t deserve your attention and if you were just humoring me for the money I gave you, that’s fine. I’d understand. I’ve done dumb shit for money too. Me and my brother––,” Dundee’s throat closes up around the words and he finishes off his drink in an attempt to play it off. He heaves in a breath and continues, needing to get the words out. It wouldn’t be a beautiful analogy about iguanas, or whatever Collin was going on about, but it’s still something he wants to tell Barry. An explanation of sorts for why Dundee can’t put his feelings on display as easily as Barry deserves. “You remember when I said I didn’t know how I came to Los Santos?”

“I don’t think those were your exact words, but yeah.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember because I used to drink, Barry. A lot. Enough to make me stop existing for weeks at a time. It was easier to forget losing one of the only people I ever loved.”

The cell smells of vomit and he genuinely can’t tell if it’s from him or Dazza, but both of them sit against the cool stone wall, backs pressed to it in an attempt to ward off the heat of the precinct being pushed around by lazy fan blades. They’d been in the cell overnight, one cot and a thin pillow between them, but neither had slept much as the alcohol slowly left their systems in sweat and heaving turns over the cell’s wall hung toilet. Dundee doesn’t know how much he drank last night, but he knows between him and Dazza they at least cleared a full case of beer and the smell of his brother’s breath suggests they found something stronger after that was done.

He vaguely remembers a large hauler and a tipping trailer disconnecting from their truck, the sound of his brother’s laughter as he yelled at Dundee to ram it upright again, the flash of red and blue in their rearview as they gunned it down the highway chucking empty cans behind them like banana peels.

After that it’s a bit of a blur.

Dundee moans and falls sideways, dropping his head into his brother’s lap. Dazza gives Dundee a half-hearted shove and quickly gives up.

“Get off me, you sweaty cunt,” Dazza says. He pokes Dundee in the cheek and slaps him on the forehead when Dundee opens his mouth to bite his finger.

“I’d rather be a sweaty cunt than a vile bile soup maker,” Dundee counters, jabbing Dazza in the stomach.

“Don’t. I’m gonna fucking chuck on you.”

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” a deep voice says from outside the bars.

Both brothers scurry to their feet, swaying unsteady and using the other for support. Dazza burps and the smell makes Dundee gag, but he holds down the reflex to puke. Dazza stumbles closer to the bars, squinting at this new arrival and taking Dundee with him by the handful of Dundee’s shirt he’s holding. The new arrival crosses his arms at Dazza’s brash tone asking him who the fuck he is. Dundee has no idea who the fuck he is either, but something about the man makes the hair on Dundee’s arms stand up and forces him to hide behind Dazza while the two speak.

“My name is Norman Bones,” the new arrival says.

Despite the heat, the man wears a black flat cap and a long dark coat over dress pants and what looks like a turtleneck. His face betrays little emotion behind dark sunglasses and his voice sounds like a thousand cigarettes had a fight with a belt sander. His gaze is unwavering from Dazza and once locked on it’s like Dazza couldn’t look away either. Dundee could admit the stranger is intriguing, but something about him makes Dundee want to run in the opposite direction and he can’t place what it is.

“I’ll be representing you in court today,” Norman Bones says.

“Court?” Dazza says. “Aw, mate, I don’t want to go to court. It’s too fucking hot to go to court. They’re gonna make us wear suits,” Dazza moans. “And socks!” he adds, like that’s the more egregious factor.

Norman Bones hums at them and then turns on his heel. “Alright. Give me a moment,” he says and walks out of sight to the main room of the small precinct.

“Oh. Okay, we’ll just wait here!” Dazza shouts after him.

Dundee tugs on Dazza’s shirt, bringing him to the back of the cell. Dazza seems transfixed on the spot where Norman was standing a moment ago and he doesn’t look away until Dundee spins Dazza to face him. “Who the fuck is this guy?” Dundee hisses at Dazza.

Dazza shrugs. “Norman Bones? I think he’s a lawyer.”

“Have you ever heard of him before?”

“I think I would’ve remembered a fucking wild name like that.”

Dundee shakes his head. “I don’t trust it. He gives me the heebies.”

Dazza sighs and leans against the wall. “Have you been listening to Shazza’s stories again? I swear, she only visits to tell you dumb ghost stories and then disappears for five more months.”

“They’re not dumb.”

“The mothman isn’t real.”

“But he could be! You’ve never been to the states!”

“You haven’t either!”

“That’s not the point though, Daz. Who the fuck is this guy? Who the fuck called him?”

“Cops, maybe? I don’t know and I don’t really care. If he can get us out of this, then by my book he’s an okay guy.”

Dundee walks back up to the bars and presses himself against them in an attempt to see down the hallway. There’s a small group of cops with Norman Bones and they’re entranced with whatever the lawyer is saying. A cadet nods vigorously and turns to her superior, who also nods and takes out their phone to make a call away from the group. While the other cops continue to talk amongst themselves, occasionally gesturing towards the lawyer, Norman Bones turns around and makes direct eye contact with Dundee.

A chill goes down Dundee’s spine and he ducks around the corner, out of sight.

Norman returns to face the brothers, arms crossed and expression unchanged as he delivers his news. “For your… shenanigans,” Norman says, obviously hating the word. “They’ve settled on a minimum fine, the sum of which my firm will more than happily cover. I’ve made them overlook the underage portion of your drinking habits with the promise you’ll see counseling. However, I have no investment whether you follow through with this promise.”

“Fucking oath, mate!” Dazza says.

“Why?” Dundee asks and Dazza elbows him. The remaining alcohol in his stomach lurches violently and Dundee winces.

“Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, Winnie. We’re scotch free!”

Dundee moans. “Please don’t say scotch.”

“I understand your confusion, Mister Dundee,” Norman says.

“Whose?” Dazza says, waving a finger between himself and Dundee.

“Irwin’s,” Norman says, turning to face Dundee. “I had an enlightening conversation with your arresting officers. They’ve told me you and your brother Darren have had multiple incidents with the local law enforcement––,”

“Dazza, mate. Not Darren. And only cops call him Irwin,” Dazza says.

“And dad when he’s drunk,” Dundee adds.

“And your friend down the road. That boy, that dad caught you kis––,”

Dundee elbows his brother to stop him speaking.

Norman hums in acknowledgement and peeks over the top of his sunglasses, leveling a look at Dazza that seemed to suggest he not interrupt again. “You two strike me as those unaccustomed to a helping hand, but I assure you my intentions will be fulfilled and you will not receive an unexpected bill for this detainment months from now. You… intrigue me. There is a dwindling source of the kind of chaos you two seem to manage on a Sunday afternoon. Others would prefer to lock up such people, but I believe it’s the only way to keep society progressing. Learn from chaos, don’t smother it.” He takes a card from his jacket pocket and presents it to Dazza. It’s simple stock, pure black except for the name and phone number written in white. There’s a reflective embossed image of a feather on the backside. “Should you find yourselves in this situation again. Please, call me. I will delightfully assist.”

Norman Bones walks away, nodding to the approaching officers as he passes. The officers unlock the cell and begin sorting through possessions, handing back wallets and knicknacks. Dundee asks for his pocket knife back and the officer blinks at him and digs in the bag for several minutes before telling Dundee it’s not there. It’s not a huge loss, it was just a flimsy servo pick up, but it leaves a sour taste in Dundee’s mouth for the officer’s competence.

“Thanks for calling him for us,” Dazza says to the officer as they’re escorted from the cell.

“We didn’t… we assumed he was a family lawyer, given the way he spoke of you two.”

“I’ve never seen that man before in my life,” Dundee says, watching Norman Bones leave the station. Before the door closes after him, Norman looks over his shoulder and smirks at Dundee.

Over the next year, Dundee would swear that he sees a figure in a long coat and flat cap watching him and Dazza from a distance, but when he goes to check there’s nothing but cigarette stubs. Dazza and him land in the holding cells twice more over the year and both times their bail is paid within the hour with the cops commenting on “that polite lawyer with the deep voice”.

Dundee refuses to take Norman’s actions as anything but creepy, even if it’s paranoia stemming from a ghost tale his sister told him once.

Shazza visits again near the end of the year and when Dundee asks her to repeat the story she’d told him about a ghost-like serial killer, she goes white in the face and asks if he’s been watching the news. She leaves town that night after hearing Dundee’s description of the lawyer who visited him and Dazza in the cells. She leaves no note explaining her sudden departure and her ghost story fades into the back of Dundee’s mind for the next year.

A heatwave has washed over their property yet again and Dundee’s laying on the porch in as few clothes as possible with a bag of ice draped over his face. He’d thought briefly about going to visit his friend down the road, but after last time he doesn’t want to deal with his dad finding out and unleashing his explosive anger that always seemed so close to the top in response to Dundee’s mistakes.

One time was enough to learn: Bob didn’t like Dundee’s friends, but he didn’t mind Dazza’s.

Dundee’s been alone for a few hours, but Dazza would be home from work soon enough and then Dundee would see if he wanted to go swimming or loiter around the servo drinks section until they’re kicked into the heat again. However, hours go by and the sun dips towards the horizon and Dazza isn’t home yet.

Looking back on that day, Dundee would regret that the emotion that he felt the strongest wasn’t concern, but resentment in thinking that Dazza had gone swimming with friends from school.

The last bits of sun start to fade, bringing a cold snap of wind across the property. The bag of ice had long turned into a bag of water that Dundee tipped over a failing potted plant left to fend for itself on the porch steps. When the phone starts ringing inside the house Dundee doesn’t move from his spot on the porch. He shouts Dazza’s name, telling him the phone’s ringing and when no reply comes, he shouts for his mum. Also no reply. Dundee sighs and rolls to his feet, taking the time to prop open the screen door to allow the trapped heat of the house to start funneling out into the night air. The call would likely be from his dad yelling that he needs a ride home from the drunk tank.

“Hello?” Dundee answers, drawing out the single word.

There’s no reply at first, just the distant sound of a truck horn and breathing.

“Hello?” Dundee says again, pressing his ear closer to the receiver.

A sniffle and a suppressed sob. “Winnie?”

Dundee would never question how he knew something was wrong, but Dazza’s tone pulls the feeling out from under Dundee. It’s not that he hasn’t heard his brother cry before, they’ve both heard each other cry in pain and in sorrow –– granted it’s been less since Bob has been in jail serving his one month DUI charge –– but there’s a tone to the single word that the primeval part of Dundee latches onto and tells him: Dazza is not okay.

“Dazza?”

“Winnie, I’m sorry,” Dazza says, the words choking out around a cry. “I believe you, okay? I believe you and I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I lov––,”

The line goes dead.

“Dazza?” Dundee fiddles with the wires connecting to the phone, but stops when the dial tone starts droning. He doesn’t waste another second and sprints from the house without shoes, racing in the direction of the highway and the usual source of truck horns.

There’s not many houses along it and fewer still who were on friendly terms with his family. It’s a wild notion to think that Dundee would be able to find his brother in the coming dark, but he knows he has to try.

A part of him knew it would be his last chance to see him.

The idea to knock on doors is quickly abandoned when Dundee comes across the payphone booth with the phone line ripped from its housing. Dundee spins on his heel, glancing around without really seeing anything, until he spots the two silhouettes on a mountain ridge above him. The transitory stage of day to night doesn’t allow Dundee’s eyes to adjust properly and all he can tell is that the two figures appeared to be arguing. One has Dazza’s wild hairstyle and the other is wearing a flat cap. The one in the flat cap slowly approaches the other, forcing him to the edge of the cliff, something grasped in his right hand that catches the last hints of the sun.

Dundee runs towards them without thinking of what he would do when he got there. Part of him hoped it would be a badly thought out plan of Dazza’s creation, some way to scare Dundee like Shazza’s stories always did. Dundee wasn’t prepared to face off against Norman Bones wielding the knife Dundee lost at an arrest over two years ago. There was already blood on the knife when Dundee skidded into view, slipping down the slope to the little jut where Norman and Dazza were faced off with each other. Dazza had his hand over his side, but more cuts lined his body in random patterns. Norman appeared unhurt and relatively unfazed at Dundee’s appearance, barely taking his gaze from Dazza. Dazza on the other hand…

Dundee will always wonder if he hadn’t yelled his brother’s name, if he hadn’t distracted him from the danger in front of him, would he have seen the knife coming?

Norman pulls the knife out with a rough yank, the effort tripping Dazza to his knees. Dazza’s hands go to the wound on his neck, mouth working over words that never rise above a garbling noise. Dundee screams and runs at Norman, but the daylight is fading and the ledge is littered with tangled brush and loose rocks and Dundee falls into Norman, pushing Norman with the momentum of his fall. Norman stumbles a few steps backwards, in all appearance about to recover his footing, before he takes an extra step backwards and his calves meet the haunched form of Dazza. Norman drops the knife as his arms pinwheel madly and the first real expression crosses his face: fear.

It’s not a high fall, but the angle snapped his neck on impact; a quick and unsatisfying end for the man who tormented a person Dundee loved.

In that moment, Dundee had wanted the man on the ground below to be his dad, that maybe the chain of self-doubt and worthlessness would’ve ended before it had a chance to grow to the vile thing it would become later in his life. However, it wasn’t and that night’s events went into the same dark corner of Dundee’s mind where he still occasionally heard his dad screaming cruel names at him while he beat him with his belt. The same dark corner of Dundee’s mind where he’d also stored the memory of soft lips pressing against his and his friend’s timid smile asking him if he’d hold his hand. Now, Norman Bones stands in the shadow of these memories with a blade in hand, ready to tear into whatever pieces the Bob of Dundee’s memory doesn’t destroy.

Dundee’s knife was collected as evidence by cops later, but Dundee wouldn’t have taken it back if it was worth its weight in gold. At one time, it had been. Dazza had bought it for him after Dundee had been admiring it in the showcase for weeks –– he’d saved up the money in secret and bought it with such careless abandon for the money it cost that Dundee had marveled at his brother and his freedom of wealth even after the illusion had been shattered with the reveal that Dazza had worked overtime shifts to pocket some extra money. After that night, the knife was too tainted to even look at, to even confirm to the cops that it had once been his.

An amateur astrologer called in the altercation before Dundee had even arrived and cops had flooded the scene while Dundee tried to shake his brother awake. The same cops who had been at the first appearance of Norman Bones are the same ones to arrest Dundee for his murder. Dundee screams as Dazza is declared dead by the on-scene emergency medic and then ‘assault and battery’ is added to Dundee’s criminal record alongside the pending murder trial. It takes a long time for the horrendous deeds of the serial killer known as Norman Bones to come to light, but by then Dundee has been driven mad by the plain brick inside of a prison. When he’s released he takes all the money he has –– and some he’s stolen – and goes to the nearest store for alcohol.

He loses a few years of his life to the haze it provides, but it keeps away the apparitions of a man in a flat cap. He spends a majority of his time near the sea because it’s the exact opposite of the climate where Dazza died. One night, Dundee takes refuge amongst some crates as the world rolls and shifts under him and he wakes up later, though he has no idea of this iteration's definition of ‘later’, to the bright sun and his popping ear drums and a rude American in a high-vis vest telling him to leave. Dundee didn’t quite have the coordination to not promptly fall into the ocean, but he managed to make it to shore far away from the shouting men and the loud plane engines, pulling himself along the sand with the last shreds of energy he had before falling asleep in the shadow of a lifeguard tower.

It’s where Collin found him. Where he learnt that he was no longer in Australia, but actually Los Santos on the West coast of America. Where he finally faced the fact that it had been decades since Dazza’s murder.

“I drank because blacking out was easier than waiting for sleep,” Dundee says, idly spinning his empty glass in his hands. “Because it was easier to exist when I didn’t have to think about how long it had been since… It was my fault, Barry. I got him killed and then I killed the man who did it. I’m not a good person and you deserve someone good. It’s why I’ve been, you know, like that and I’m sorry. I know it’s not half the level of an apology I owe you and maybe if we knew each other in Australia this wouldn’t be as complicated as it is.”

“I don’t know about that,” Barry says. “In Australia, I was married.”

Dundee’s glass misses his hand and goes sliding off the edge of the bar. It shatters and the pieces go skittering across the floor. Dundee doesn’t even look at it, he’s too preoccupied by this new piece of information and its qualifying word: was.

“You were? Was, um, how did––? Why aren’t you with him now?”

Barry looks at Dundee from the corner of his eye. “Bit presumptuous.”

“Are you still married?”

“No. No, it’s definitely ended.”

“Then what’s presumptuous got to do with me asking why you aren’t still with him?”

Barry laughs, but there’s no joy to it. It’s a sound to make while he refills his glass. “We met in college. I was studying accounting as a means to kill time while figuring out what I actually wanted to do. After my time started to be split between our dates and school, accounting kind of stuck. I think I would’ve dropped out if I’d had the time to actually think about it, but it all moved so fast. She got pregnant––,”

“What!” Dundee almost wishes he had another glass that he could drop for a more dramatic impact to his words. He doesn’t know what’s more shocking to him: that Barry was married, that he has or had a kid, or that he married a woman.

Barry hums in agreement, not looking up from the bartop as he scratches a nail across its liquor softened wood. “She got pregnant pretty early in our relationship and I was so convinced that I loved her that we got married before the baby was born.” Barry runs his hands through his hair, pulling it up into wild spikes that Dundee wants to pet flat again.

Dundee twists his hands together to avoid reaching out to do just that and asks, “A kid? What was… is their name?”

“Is,” Barry clarifies. “As far as I know he’s still alive. Don’t know if he cares that I know though. We named him after her step-brother and my, uh, dad and uncle. It’s a shit collection of names that I feel sorry for the kid, but she was so insistent on it.”

“Can’t be any worse than Irwin,” Dundee says. “ Irwin . Fuck, I sound like a fucking government worker. Hello my name is Irwin, can I help you file your passport application? ” Dundee retches and Barry lets out a small laugh.

“It’s definitely worse.”

“Is it worse than Barry ?”

“Shut the fuck up, cunt.” Barry smiles and playfully shoves at Dundee, who uses the opportunity to shift closer again to Barry. “It’s a mouthful, at the very least. She wanted his name to be long, like a… uh, a fucking royal title or something.” Barry sighs as if bracing himself before saying, “Jonathan James Terrance Walker-Benson. She was very insistent that he have her last name too. Fucking fake progressive cunt,” Barry adds in a hushed tone as he looks around for more alcohol. Dundee nudges the whiskey bottle towards him and after seeing how little is left in it, Barry drinks directly from the bottle, taking a generous gulp.

“I assume she got the kid in the divorce?”

Barry sighs again and spins in his seat to prop his elbow on the bar and face Dundee. He’s a little wobbly and his eyeline drifts before redirecting onto Dundee. “You want to know what she got in the divorce, Dee?”

It feels like a trap. Barry never even hinted about his life before Los Santos and now seemed all too eager to tell Dundee, like a one-ups-manship, and his words before, confessing that he wasn’t a good person, makes Dundee hesitate.

There would only be one way to one-up Dundee getting his brother killed.

“She got a fucking straight razor through her neck,” Barry says matter of factly. “She died. I killed her, Dundee.”

Barry slips off his chair, but Dundee catches his wrist before he can fully walk away. Collin told Dundee that asking was better than spiraling. Collin’s been wrong about things before, but he’s been with Nancy for years, so there has to be some merit to that advice at least.

“What’s the full story?” Dundee asks.

“I killed her,” Barry says, feebly trying to pull from Dundee’s grip. “That was a good enough story for the cops.”

“What happened before that?” Dundee asks. The fight goes out of Barry in a way that makes Dundee’s stomach sick and he drops Barry’s wrist, but Barry doesn’t move.

“We fought a lot.” Barry speaks softly and Dundee has to lean forward and tilt his one good ear towards him to hear. “We fought about everything. What colour to paint the living room, what kind of milk to buy, whose turn it was to put petrol in the car, what kind of––,” Barry’s words choke up for a moment, but he presses onwards. “What kind of dog to adopt.” Barry’s hands run through his hair again, pulling it in new directions. “The kid never saw any of it, I was very careful with that. I had ways to stop the arguments if I heard him waking up or if he was coming home from school. Fuck, I wonder if he went to law school like he wanted,” Barry says, momentarily lost in his own thoughts. “He wanted a motorcycle instead of a car for his sixteenth birthday. Fucking contrarian since birth, I swear.”

“What was the dog’s name?” Dundee asks, not really curious, but more as a way to draw Barry back to him.

Barry glances over his shoulder to Dundee, as if remembering he was there. “Huh? Oh, she named it. It wasn’t something I would’ve chosen. I think it was her not so subtle way of saying she wanted another kid. Why else name a dog Katie.”

“It is a pretty shit name,” Dundee jokes, trying to lighten the mood, but it has the exact opposite effect.

Barry’s hands fly up to his mouth and he turns from Dundee again. When he speaks his voice never wavers, but his shoulders shake with tempered emotion. “Her name wasn’t Katie. I never called her that. To me she was Rusty, but that was the least of the things we disagreed on. When I tried to tell her that things weren’t working out and I moved into my own place a block from my work, her first target was the dog. She used it as a bargaining chip to gauge how I’d react to her wanting to take the kid. I told her––,” Barry huffs out a laugh. “I told her we could split custody.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Not to her. She had her own definition of ‘split custody’.” Barry does air quotes around the words and waits for understanding to pass across Dundee’s face.

“Oh. Oh my god.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what she did with her half of the dog, but I buried mine in the park we used to walk around. I pushed past it because she never touched the kid. She loved him. At least, I think she did. I hope she did. She never hurt him, at least. Not while she still had me as a target. While living in my own space, I finally found the time to actually step back and examine my own life, figure some shit out, you know? When I told her what I’d realized she laughed in my face, said there was no such thing as what I –– how I feel? Or am? Or rather, not am. How I saw all the parts of our life that weren’t compatible. She always demanded so much from me, I always just assumed it was mental exhaustion that sometimes I couldn’t… I didn’t always want… Everyone said she was beautiful and I agreed, but that didn’t really mean much to how I… We’d done it a few times and it was fine. It was just never…” He shrugs. “It comes and goes, but after a while it stopped with her, but it didn’t go entirely away for some of the guys I knew who I’d seen around the Tennis club changing rooms. You know what I mean?”

Dundee slowly nods and mentally adds more things to research later in a locked house with the curtains drawn. He’s pretty sure he knows what Barry’s hinting at, but at this moment it feels more important to nod along rather than ask questions.

Barry heaves in a breath and shakes his head. “The kid had keys to my apartment so he could stay whatever days he wanted. He was always such an adult, I swear he popped out fully developed and waited patiently for the ability to speak and then got taller. We had an agreement that he could stay at whoever’s place he wanted, he just had to text the other and tell them where he’d be. We both lived close enough to his school that arguing travel distance was futile.”

Barry’s hands bunch into clenched fists and Dundee’s own hands mimic the action as he pushes down the want to reach out and take Barry’s hand in his. When Barry’s nails start to bite deeper into his palms Dundee pushes aside the fear of the action and brushes his fingers against Barry’s closest hand. Barry’s hand unclenches and hesitantly latches onto Dundee’s. The angle is awkward with Dundee’s arm bent at a strange angle, but he stays perfectly still, not wanting to shatter the moment.

“I was about to have a shower. Actually, I was in the shower and I got out because an old alarm I’d forgotten I’d set started going off. It was pure fucking luck that I saw the text he’d sent me because I knew it wasn’t him when the bathroom door opened. She had some choice words for me that day, none of them kind and none that I would ever repeat. She told me I’d wasted her time, called me useless, said it was a waste to have parts if I wasn’t going to use them to keep her happy or give her more children –– that she’d only use to make herself look better. That always bothered me, her taking credit for how fucking smart that kid was. He didn’t get it from me and he definitely didn’t get it from her. She was a fucking mannequin between the ears, except in the matters of manipulation.”

Barry’s hand not holding Dundee’s scratches his thigh and Dundee tracks it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her, not at first, and I don’t think she meant to do what she did either. No, that’s… Fuck.” Barry pulls his hand from Dundee’s to cover his face and mumble to himself. “I’m not going to apologize for her. I’m not.” He scrubs over his face and reaches behind himself without looking, searching out Dundee’s hand. Dundee more comfortably twines his hand with Barry’s as Barry continues talking. “I don’t remember how I got the straight razor out of her hands, but I remember the feeling of wanting her to suffer. That’s something I never told the court. In the moment when the blade went in: I wanted her to suffer. Compared to what she did to me, I was surgical in my vengeance. Had she survived, hers would‘ve healed over while mine became a fucking ragged mess of scar tissue and broken nerves.”

The perverse part of Dundee really wants to see it, but he keeps this thought to himself.

“The case was a mess, the media attention was a nightmare. After it was over, the press latched onto me. The kid did what was logical to avoid falling into the same trap. He was basically an adult anyways, emancipation was just an advancement. I uh, I didn’t see him after those papers were signed. I made my way to Los Santos and as far as I know he’s somewhere in the world living his best life.”

Dundee uses their entwined hands to turn Barry towards him.

“As much as you think you’re a bad person because you think you got your brother killed –– which, you didn’t –– I am actually a bad person, Dundee. It was ruled as self-defense, but I killed her and I was happy about it.”

“To be fair, she didn’t sound like a very nice person.”

“Neither did Norman, so you can’t put that on you. You’re not going to win this argument, Dee.”

“ Is this an argument?”

“Yes, because you’re being a dumb cunt!”

“ I’m being a dumb cunt?”

“Are you just repeating my words as a question?”

Dundee clears his throat. “Maybe, but to be fair it’s because I’m distracted.” Dundee’s gaze wanders up to Barry’s wild hair. “It’s just, it’s everywhere, Barry. Do something about it.” Barry half-heartedly takes a few swipes at his hair before Dundee pushes his hands away and sets about fixing it for him. Barry watches him the entire time, his expression open and soft. Dundee’s fingers pull Barry’s hair into order and Barry’s eyes fall shut. When Dundee’s hands comb down the sides of Barry’s hair to cradle his cheeks, Barry leans into his touch.

“You’re not a bad guy, Dee,” Barry whispers.

“Then neither are you.” Dundee presses his forehead against Barry’s and sighs. “I don’t want to lose you too, but it’s inevitable. I lose everything around me that’s good.”

“You lose these things because you treat them like shit before they’ve even left you.”

“It’s easier to push it away before someone can use it against me.”

“I’m not interested in holding anything against you. I don’t work like that.”

“I don’t know if I believe that,” Dundee says and Barry pulls back. “You’ve already held something against me, but I don’t know if I minded.”

Barry scowls at him, until the meaning sinks in and he starts laughing. “Oh my fucking God, Dundee.” Barry turns away to laugh and Dundee pulls him in again, holding their hands between them.

“I’m sorry for calling you a vending machine,” Dundee says quietly.

“It’s fine––,”

“It’s not fine! It sounds like people have always treated you like something they can just take what they want from without thinking about what you want. I know I’ve done it and I don’t expect you to forgive me for it, but I’m new to this whole dating thing so let me make it up to you. What do you like?”

Barry is silent for a long moment, looking at their hands. “We’re dating?” he eventually asks.

“Well, I mean, it’s what you said–– If you want to, then yeah?” Dundee’s hands are warm and he hopes Barry can’t feel it. “What do you want?”

Barry chews his bottom lip while he thinks and Dundee’s never been more unnerved by silence. Barry scans Dundee’s face, looking for something in his eyes that Dundee’s not sure is there or not. He takes a breath as if to speak, but instead looks out at the empty bar and mumbles something. Dundee tries to pick apart the words for coherency, but it’s useless, the silence of the bar has become a low hum in his good ear and his own thoughts drown out everything else. Barry sighs and looks at Dundee with his head dropped in defeat.

“So that’s a no?” Barry says. “And now we wait for the water to take us?”

“Wuh–– I didn’t even hear–– What did you say?” Dundee leans closer, eyes trained on Barry’s lips to not miss his next words.

“I said, kiss––,”

Barry doesn’t even need to finish his sentence before Dundee is kissing him. Dundee’s hands itch for a tactile comfort, a way to calm the nervous repetition in his mind telling him Barry is going to walk away, and he squeezes Barry’s hands before slipping loose of his grip and wrapping his arms around Barry’s waist. He pulls Barry flush against him, rocking gently against him in a self-soothing gesture he can’t get himself to stop. Barry’s hands skim up Dundee’s sides and there’s a brief moment where Dundee’s sure Barry’s going to push him away before Barry loops his arms over Dundee’s shoulders. Despite the actions of his body, there’s a stiffness to Barry’s limbs that feels oddly rehearsed and Dundee wonders how many times a simple kiss for Barry has ended with him pushed or prodded into whatever position the other person liked better, intent to take their pleasure from Barry without any care for what Barry wants.

“What do you want?” Dundee asks, pressing the question against Barry’s lips and Barry pulls away, clearly confused.

“I already said.” He ducks back in to kiss Dundee, but Dundee leans out of reach.

“Not just with this. What do you like?”

Barry hums as he thinks for a moment. “I like the sun and being warm. Snow was a weird thing to get used to, but I think it’s quite nice too. It’s not as fun to hike in though.” Barry hums again, momentarily lost in thought. “I mean, eggs are good. I’m quite fond of chicken on sandwiches because it’s cheap and easy. Whenever a waiter asks me what I want to drink I always say I’ll stick with the water. I just like water, but it feels like they’re judging me ‘cause it’s free. I like the colour orange. That hoodie of mine you still have was one of the first things I bought for myself when I moved here.”

Dundee smiles, listening to Barry list off random things. It’s not at all what he was referencing and a part of Dundee knows that Barry knows this by the glance he keeps giving Dundee’s lips. Dundee lets Barry continue as he lists off his bike and various other food and music, until he reaches the end with a list of activities and hums to himself while he thinks of more. It’s endearing and a little heartbreaking that everything Barry lists off are mainly solo ventures and Dundee wonders just how long Barry’s been alone. He runs his fingers through Barry’s hair, combing it back from his face.

“That’s a long list,” Dundee says, twirling Barry’s hair around his fingers.

“Yeah, well when you live alone you get to find out what really makes you happy.”

“During this alone time ,” Dundee says, swaying and shifting them so Barry’s back is against the counter. “You said you were able to figure things out. Did, um, did any of that thinking go towards your alone time?”

Barry huffs out a laugh and looks away. “Some, yeah.”

“Yeah? And did you figure out what you want?” Dundee asks, but Barry draws his lower lip between his teeth and is silent.

The reflex to silence himself was so quick that Dundee knows it’s not natural, especially with the look Barry gives Dundee after. Barry’s eyes trail over Dundee’s body, tracing the curve of his neck, his exposed chest under his loose shirt, down to where their hips are pressed together, but he says nothing and bites his lip harder.

Dundee knows where it comes from. The silence, the need to please and not ask. He’s seen similar mannerisms in the lowest of the low ranks of Chang Gang, those unlucky few who would gladly throw themselves in front of a bus if Mister K asked them to. He’s seen it in a few of the Bondi hangarounds and until Barry he’d never really thought of it as a bad thing, but he makes a mental note about it, intent to stop the behaviour before it becomes what’s in front of him: someone who can list off things that are good, but doesn’t know how to vocalize how to make it good for them.

If Dundee truly wanted Barry to join Bondi, Barry would have to know if he liked it or not. Not just accept it because it was happening to him. Dundee’s not even sure if he’d get a truthful response about Barry working at Bluey’s if he were to ask. He’s taken so many things from Barry at this point though that not asking feels more like a violation.

“Do you like me touching you?” Dundee asks, rocking back on one heel to give Barry space.

Barry tugs Dundee closer with his arms looped around Dundee’s neck. His eyes are locked onto Dundee, sea glass green irises almost obscured by dilated pupils. Dundee subtly tilts his chin up to Barry’s, teasingly brushing his lips against Barry’s and pulling away before they make contact, just to watch in fascination as the darkness tries to swallow Barry’s sight.

“Do you like this?” Dundee asks, tugging lightly on Barry’s hair before continuing to spin it between his fingers.

Barry’s teeth dig harder into his lip, but he tilts his head to the side, allowing Dundee space to comb through the hair behind his ear.

“Do you like it soft?” Dundee leans in to whisper in Barry’s ear.

Barry’s eyes flutter shut and he releases his bottom lip when Dundee licks a stripe up his neck towards his ear.

He tugs on Barry’s earlobe with his teeth before he growls, “Or hard?”. He latches onto Barry’s neck, nipping a dark bruise onto it. Barry shutters out a breath and Dundee gives one more nip with his teeth before moving on. He trails his fingers up over Barry’s neck, loosely fitting his hand around it before sliding up to cup Barry’s jaw. He doesn’t even have to say anything for Barry to open his mouth. “Do you like things in your mouth?” Dundee asks, tracing a thumb over Barry’s red-bitten bottom lip. Barry’s tongue hesitantly pokes at Dundee’s thumb and Dundee smooths his thumb over it before following it into Barry’s mouth. “Or do you like mouths on your thing?”

Barry giggles at the wording, but Dundee doesn’t miss the half-shrug Barry gave. The movement was so small, Barry’s probably not even aware he did it. Barry sucks on Dundee’s thumb, lapping his tongue over the tip in tiny flicks while Dundee’s other hand moves down to Barry’s chest.

“Do you have sensitive nipples?” Dundee asks, finding the outline of a hard nub under the Bluey’s shirt and circling it with his fingers.

Barry chokes back a noise as his hands move from around Dundee’s neck. One goes to the counter behind him and the other grabs Dundee’s wrist of the hand on his chest. Barry doesn’t move it though and Dundee’s unsure if that means Barry wants more or less. Dundee traces his fingers in a circle again over the nipple and Barry’s grip goes loose and drops, joining his other hand in grabbing the edge of the bartop.

“Are your sides ticklish?” Dundee asks and slips his hand under Barry’s shirt to skitter his nails along Barry’s sides.

Barry sucks Dundee’s thumb deeper into his mouth before he pulls off and makes a small noise, a giggle that he bites back. He doesn’t move away though, so Dundee takes the cue and pulls Barry’s shirt up, exposing his stomach. He spreads one hand over Barry’s stomach and runs it up and down a few times, privately amused at his fingers bumping over the hard muscles. He skims his hand down to the waistline of Barry’s jeans, playing his fingertips lightly above the belt, drawing figure eights against Barry’s skin.

“Do you only use your hands?” Dundee asks.

Barry shakes his head and adjusts his hold of the countertop.

“Do you use a pillow? Do you use toys? Do you ever fit a toy sleeve over your dick and imagine the tight heat is someone else?” Dundee moves his hand slowly to cover Barry's crotch, expecting and ready to be pushed away.

“Fuck,” Barry sighs, his eyes still closed as he arches into Dundee’s hand.

“Do you ever…” Dundee stops himself. It’s a question he’s not sure if he wants answered considering he’s never tried, but he wants to know. “Do you ever imagine it’s my mouth on you?”

Barry stops breathing and goes perfectly still. Dundee wavers between moving away or moving closer, unsure of which would reassure Barry that it isn’t a trick question, that no pain would follow whatever answer he decides to give. Dundee shuffles on his feet in indecisive motion and then drops to his knees in front of Barry, his fingertips tucked into the waist of Barry’s jeans. Barry opens his eyes and looks down at Dundee on his knees, but still doesn’t say anything.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Dundee asks.

Barry licks his lips and hauls in a shuddering breath, but he doesn’t move. Dundee drops his hands from Barry and sits back on his heels.

“Do you want to touch me?” Dundee asks.

“I…”

“Do you want me to touch you?”

“I’m worried,” Barry says, biting the words out quick and sharp.

Dundee contains the urge to snort in disbelief. Barry’s worried? Dundee’s never blown a guy before, yet here he is offering his first to Barry, but Barry’s worried?

He stamps down on the feeling and instead asks why.

Barry shrugs. “I have ugly scars.”

As if physically stepping through a fog of lust, Dundee’s mind finally connects Barry’s story of his ex-wife and a straight razor and something he’d told Dundee a while ago about having scars in places ‘nowhere he’d show in public’. His gaze drops to Barry’s crotch as if he’d be able to see them if he stares hard enough. He draws his eyes away, but it doesn’t stop his imagination from running away without him, a thousand ideas of what Barry’s ex-wife must have carved into him to make him want to hide it.

“I have ugly emotional scars, but you don’t seem to mind them,” Dundee says, keeping his gaze on Barry’s face.

“That’s different.”

“Not really.”

“You can’t see yours.”

“You can. Bondi has seen them.”

“Well, I’m not showing Bondi mine.”

“You don’t have to, but I swear there’s no cameras pointed at us. And if there were I’d take the tape because I’m not sharing you with anyone. Except for maybe with you by a mirror because you don’t seem to understand how amazing you are and maybe if you see it you’ll finally understand why I’m so fucked up over you.”

“Is that why I’m working here now? Your jealousy?”

“Also, Chang Gang were looking for you. Also, you deserve to be working somewhere safe and warm. Also, yes, maybe a little bit. So what?” Dundee crosses his arms and scowls up at Barry. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Barry scratches his nails along the bartop while he considers the question before he hastily unbuckles his belt and shoves at his jeans. Dundee can’t help the spike of adrenaline and he shuffles on his knees as he watches Barry’s hands. Barry shoves his jeans down past his thighs and Dundee expects the underwear to follow, but instead Barry pulls up the leg on one side of his boxers and stands straight again.

“There,” Barry says. “Ta da.” He doesn’t sound enthusiastic about it, but Dundee’s not really paying attention, he’s too distracted by the wrap of gauze poking out on Barry’s other thigh.

He reaches out and moves Barry’s boxers out of the way. He wants to move the gauze too, wants to see what someone put Barry through, but it’s too tightly wrapped. He wriggles his fingers underneath it, trying to feel for a bullet wound or stitches, trying to gauge how badly the wound is to justify the fury he can feel building at the sight of it when Barry’s hand comes into his periphery but doesn’t stop him. Barry’s hand is clenched and when Dundee looks up at him Barry’s gaze is tracked to the gauze, not Dundee.

“What happened?” Dundee asks.

Barry laughs. It sounds too cheerful. “Oh, I, you know how it is: knives, am I right?”

Dundee traces the edge of the wrappings, intent to pull it down. “Did they––?”

“Don’t!” Barry says, his hand hovering over Dundee’s but still not touching. “It’s healing. That’s all you need to know. That’s all you should know, honestly. It’s bad enough you’re so intent on tangling yourself in my life, if they thought you knew something you shouldn’t… I like you alive, Dee.”

“I like you alive too, so can you stop fucking around with sharp objects?”

“I’ll try, but no –– fuck!” Barry gasps.

“Holy shit!” Dundee says, running his fingers over the mangled scar on Barry’s other thigh. He pets his thumb over the scar, fascinated by the bumps and ridges. It’s a jagged mess and is nearly the full length of Barry’s inner thigh and disappears under the cover of his underwear. “This thing is fucking badass, Barry. It looks like you fought a fucking piranha and won. Barry?”

Barry curls in on himself, gripping the bar top in a white knuckled vice, each breath coming out a quiet pant. He shakes in time to Dundee’s soft touches, the muscles under Dundee’s hand clenching. Dundee takes his hand away and Barry whines, his leg jumping towards Dundee before it gets caught up by his jeans.

“Barry?” Dundee asks, nervously reaching for Barry, but not touching him. “Did I hurt you?”

Barry shakes his head. “No, it’s fucking, my fucked up nerves. It’s really sensitive.”

“In a good way, or––?”

“In a good way. In a fucking inconveniently good way.” Barry sighs, the tail-end dissolving into a laugh. “She couldn’t have given me a clean castration, no, she had to destroy my dignity.”

“What’s undignified about it? It looks fucking sick.” Dundee grabs Barry’s knee to avoid touching the scar again, as much as he wants to. For a scar caused by trauma, Dundee counts himself lucky that he’s getting to see it at all.

He really does want to lick it though. He wants to run his tongue over it and see how aroused Barry gets with just that, but it’s understandable if Barry didn’t want that.

Dundee licks his lips.

“Before she sliced me open, she knew everything about me, Dee. She knew where to touch to get me to moan and bend to her will. She knew this would fuck me up in more ways than one. She knew it would make me weak to anyone who would use it, not just her. One last ‘fuck you’ before she died.”

“Does it hurt?” Dundee massages his fingers into the side of Barry’s knee over the bulk of his jeans to control the compulsion to touch the scar. At the lack of direction, his other hand plucks at the edge of the gauze on Barry’s other thigh.

“Only if I hit it, but even then it’s not really a pain, it’s like,” Barry trails off, unable to find the words. He watches Dundee pull threads from the fraying edge of his bandages before finally speaking up. “It’s like when you get the overwhelming urge to pee while you’re peeing. It’s like your body can’t quite keep up with itself so in the meanwhile it sets itself on fire.”

“In a bad way?”

“In an annoying way.”

Dundee drops his hand from Barry’s knee and his other hand follows, folding neatly onto his lap. “Do you want me touching you?” he asks.

Barry’s breathing picks up as he reaches down and pulls his cock out through the fly of his boxers, half-hard and flushed a dark red. Barry simply holds it for a moment while he looks at Dundee, but when Dundee’s eyes drop to watch Barry’s hand, he glides it along his length. There’s nothing fancy in the movement and Dundee suspects Barry is holding himself back. Barry keeps his pace slow, eyes fixed on Dundee and the hand Dundee slowly brings up to move alongside Barry’s. Dundee traces a finger along Barry’s length and gently over the tip and through the slit. Barry’s hand stills, clenched tight around the base, as his breath stutters out and he closes his eyes. With the lack of observation, Dundee feels less strange about leaning forwards and swiping his tongue over the tip of Barry’s cock. Barry barks out a noise and releases his cock in favour of grabbing the edge of the counter. His cock falls from Dundee’s gentle touch and Dundee hesitantly takes it in his hand and brings it towards his mouth again.

The taste hadn’t been half as bad as Dundee imagined, but he pokes out his tongue to test it again. The tip is smooth against his tongue as he flattens it and takes a longer lick, catching his bottom lip against Barry’s cock head in the process. He licks his lips and sets them against the tip, trying to mentally prepare himself for what he’s about to do. By all accounts, it seemed against natural self-preservation to want to shove something down his throat in the pursuit of an orgasm, but Barry’s done it enough times so how hard could it actually be?

The head is larger than Dundee expects and he pulls off to better situate himself in front of Barry before going again, one hand on Barry’s hip and the other holding his cock. This time Dundee’s tongue gets stuck between Barry’s cock and his throat and Dundee has to draw back again and wriggle it underneath before going further. The stretch hurts his jaw and the strain of keeping his mouth open creates a low rumble in his ear, but he keeps going. He opens his mouth wider after Barry flinches from him when his teeth graze Barry’s cock. He wraps his lips around and tries to suck, imagining that it might feel beneficial in some way to have that added pressure, but instead manages to swallow spit and pre-come. He tries a small cough to clear the unexpected intrusion and then Barry’s cock meets the back of his throat and he gags.

“Dee,” Barry says, the word coming out more as a sigh. “Dee, you don’t––,” Barry’s words collapse in on themself as Dundee continues.

Dundee doesn’t know why he decides to keep going, but the gagging increases. There’s a brief moment of panic where he’s certain he’s going to throw up over Barry’s dick, but then there’s hands in his hair guiding him backwards and he lets Barry’s cock fall from his mouth as he coughs and blinks the tears from his eyes. Barry tugs him to his feet and wipes his eyes with a napkin from the bar. Dundee rubs at his mouth with his sleeve and attempts to speak, but more coughing interrupts him. He can feel the heat on his cheeks from his failure and he turns from Barry, hearing more than seeing Barry tuck himself away and zip up his jeans.

“I don’t think I can––,” Dundee says, waving a hand behind him to finish his sentence. He pulls his clothes into order and brushes off his knees. He pats down his pockets to ensure he has everything on him as he walks briskly to the front door. Everything is still sitting on the bartop counter, but he’s not turning back for it now. “I’ll see you tomorrow or something, if you’ll be here.”

“Please don’t feel weird about it,” Barry says. Dundee looks over his shoulder and tracks Barry as he bends to pick up the larger shards of Dundee’s broken glass. “It’s more than some have done for me.” He dumps the broken glass in the garbage can behind the counter and looks around for a broom. “I mean, I appreciate the effort though. It’s nice that you tried.” Barry gets distracted clearing away the empty whiskey bottle and the one unbroken glass that he doesn’t hear Dundee’s scoff.

“Tried?” Dundee says to himself, looking outside.

This time of night there’s little traffic and Dundee watches a black Mercedes G-wagon take a u-turn at the corner and head out of Vespucci.

“I think the last blowjob I had was from her,” Barry says. “Occasionally, someone will want to get me off, but that’s usually also for their benefit because they like the noises I make. Mostly those clients tend to use their hands though, or my hands, or just a surface. Anyways, that’s too much information that you probably don’t need to know.”

Dundee listens, as he crosses from window to window at the front of the bar dropping the blinds. When he reaches the front door he twists the lock and spins to face Barry again. Barry’s behind the bar, meticulously washing out his glass in the small sink under the liquor shelf with his back to Dundee. In the mirror backing of the shelf, Dundee watches Barry look the glass over, inspecting for any missed water spots in an obvious attempt to avoid turning around and seeing if Dundee’s already left or not. Dundee takes a deep breath and stalks forwards, each step deliberate and mapped out to avoid the spots in the bar floor where he knows the wood creaks.

“It’s not that I care,” Barry continues. “If I want to get off I’m quite capable of shoving my own hands down my pants, but it was nice. Also, to not have to worry about how long it might take and if I had clients waiting for me? Or if that person would try to hurt me. It’s an incredibly vulnerable thing to open yourself up like that to someone and not only that, but someone as disfigured as––,” Barry cuts himself off mid-sentence and shakes his head and starts again. “I wanted to say thank you, Dee. I know it wasn’t much, but the effort was nice.”

Dundee reaches out and grabs Barry’s shoulder, intent to turn Barry to face him, but Barry beats him to it. He spins on his heel, arms raised in front of him as if bracing for an attack and upon finding Dundee he lowers his fists with a small laugh.

“Jesus, Dee. I thought you’d already leh––,”

Dundee doesn’t let him finish. He buries one hand in Barry’s hair and the other wraps around Barry’s waist to pull them flush together. He kisses Barry hard, cutting off any words Barry tries to say, knowing it’ll just be more self-deprecating bullshit. He briefly pulls back to glance over his shoulder at the bar to make sure it’s cleared.

“It’s fine, Dee. I like that you tried,” Barry says, proving Dundee right.

Dundee growls and spins them, pushing Barry against the bartop, one hand either side of Barry’s hips pining him in place. He fits a thigh between Barry’s legs and presses, rubbing circles against Barry’s crotch. He dips to kiss Barry’s neck and bites down when Barry tilts his head.

“I hate that word,” Dundee says against Barry’s skin. He moves lower, pulling Barry’s shirt aside and running his teeth against Barry’s collarbone. “ Tried .” He licks a line up to Barry’s jaw and nips at it. “Such a fucking miserable word.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I’m not a person who tries , Barry. I’m a person who does .” Dundee kisses Barry again. He runs a hand over Barry’s chest and down to the front of his jeans, unbuckling his belt and yanking it from the loops. He throws the belt aside and tugs Barry’s shirt up, tucking it under his armpits. Without the constraint of the shirt, Dundee freely runs his hand over Barry’s stomach and up his side, tracing along each individual rib. “The only things I try are getaway routes. This is a thing I’m going to do . I am going to suck your dick, Barry Benson.”

“Sounds so formal when you put it like that. It’s weird.”

“I just want you to know how serious I am.”

“No, I get it. I’ve apparently struck a nerve.”

Dundee leans back, noting that Barry tries to follow him for a moment before resting back against the counter. “Do you not want me to?”

“I’m just not sure if you’ll be able to.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“I’m being honest, Dee. Do you even want to?”

Dundee bites his lip as he considers. As much as he may hate the word, he really did want to try. He wants Barry to feel good and he wants to be the one making it happen. He runs the tips of his fingers along the waistline of Barry’s jeans as he thinks, occasionally dipping his fingertips under the band of his underwear.

“I want to,” Dundee says quietly, tucking his face against Barry’s neck.

“But…?”

Dundee grabs the front waistband of Barry’s jeans. “But I don’t want to chuck on you.”

Barry laughs. “If you’re that determined, I won’t let you.”

“What are you going to do? Tell me not to do that? Like I told you earlier, I’ve not got a great track record with authority.”

Barry grabs Dundee’s hand not tucked into his jeans and brings it to his mouth. He sucks Dundee’s pointer finger into his mouth and pulls off and does the same to the next before taking both in his mouth and poking out his tongue under them to lick his upper palm. “I’ve got my tricks,” he says with a smirk when he takes Dundee’s fingers from his mouth.

Dundee untangles his hand from Barry’s grip and gets to work removing Barry’s pants again. After the first, almost clinical removal, Dundee wants to go slower. He undoes them, but doesn’t yank them to Barry’s knees again. He teases a finger along the waistline of Barry’s pants then trails his finger up Barry’s stomach, pushing aside his shirt and eventually tucking it up under his armpits. Barry takes a stuttering breath, eyes fixed on Dundee’s hand as it moves across his chest. The scrutiny starts to build the doubt in Dundee’s mind that he’s doing a good job so he mouths across Barry’s jaw and down his neck, forcing Barry to tilt his head back and finally stop watching. Barry’s eyes slip closed and he lets out a small noise as Dundee’s tongue works across the pulse in his neck.

It’s as exhilarating as the first time in the Chiliad tram to draw these noises from Barry, but now knowing that there’s no facade in it being a job, nor the obligations of payment or someone watching to ensure Barry took those payments, Dundee knows the sounds are real and he takes his time to mentally map out where he gets responses. He skims his fingertips along Barry’s side, fascinated at the shiver it brings. He kisses his way down Barry’s front, sucking a hickey under the ridge of a collarbone, just out of sight of where the Bluey’s shirt will cover.

Barry’s hand comes up to comb through Dundee’s hair, tangling at the base of his neck. Dundee moves lower and licks a path across Barry’s chest to his left nipple. Barry bucks against Dundee’s leg and Dundee pushes him back against the counter with his thigh, holding Barry in place while his tongue spins circles over Barry’s skin. Barry makes another noise and Dundee can’t believe that no one’s ever called Barry beautiful before.

“You know why I moved you here, Barry?” Dundee says, switching his attention to the other side.

“I assume cause you were jealous of the people I saw at Fridgit?”

“What?”

“Well, I guess, also Chang Gang wants to kill me.”

“No, I mean at the bar.”

Barry hums while he thinks. “To piss off Chip?”

Dundee laughs, lips pressed to Barry’s skin and Barry bucks against Dundee again. “Okay, fair. Do you know the main reason I moved you here?” Dundee asks, straightening up to meet Barry’s gaze.

“I guess,” Barry says and stops to watch as Dundee licks his palm. “Because it’s hidden?”

Dundee grins. “Nah, I don’t give a fuck. The front blinds were open on the first attempt.”

“Wait, they were?”

“Mm, this is why.” He leans to the side to allow Barry to see behind him. Barry makes a noise in acknowledgement and breaks into a small smile upon seeing his reflection in the liquor shelf backing. In the brief moment of acknowledgement, Dundee slips his hand into Barry’s underwear and wraps his fingers around Barry’s length, giving it a gentle squeeze. Dundee presses forwards, nosing up under Barry’s ear to speak. “I meant what I said. You’re incredible, Barry Benson, and it seemed a shame that I would be the only one seeing how good you also look falling apart, but there’s no chance I’m sharing you with anyone else. Not anymore. You’re mine now.”

Barry's mouth drops open though no sound escapes and Dundee slides his fist over Barry’s cock in a slow and tight rhythm. Soon enough Barry’s thrusting into it and Dundee lowers himself to his knees while kissing his way down Barry’s chest and over his stomach. Dundee has to fight himself to stop so he can move Barry’s jeans out of the way. Unlike last time, he only moves Barry’s jeans down his hips and the revealed bulge in Barry’s underwear presents an intimidating thought as Dundee realizes that eventually the length of what it covers will be down his throat.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Dundee says, looking up at Barry and hoping he can’t hear his voice shake. “Don’t you agree?”

Barry’s eyes flit to the mirror and then fix onto the label of a bottle just above his eyeline.

“I asked if you agreed, Barry. Don’t you agree?”

Barry’s eyes dart from Dundee to his own gaze in the mirror before he closes them.

“Open your eyes, Barry,” Dundee says, licking Barry’s stomach. Barry’s eyes flutter open. “And tell me if you agree. You don’t have to speak, just acknowledge that I have good taste in gorgeous men.”

Barry breathing skips and he jerks his head in a quick nod.

“Mhm,” Dundee hums, kissing Barry’s stomach. “You’re perfect.”

He fits his mouth against the front of Barry’s underwear, feeling Barry’s cock jump under his touch and drawing a broken whine from Barry. Dundee presses his tongue against the fabric, knowing the hard pressure underneath is the head.

“These tricks you have,” Dundee says and hooks his thumbs into Barry’s underwear and starts sliding them down. “Would you share them?”

Barry’s eyes dart from Dundee to the mirror and back down to Dundee. His breathing picks up as his boxers move across his erection. “There’s something you should know first,” he pants. “Something I left out of my story. Or, kinda glossed over.”

Dundee hums in question and bites Barry’s hip as he drags the boxers down. Barry’s cock comes free of the underwear and Dundee looks over at it, intending to lick until all Barry can do is whine, but what he sees freezes him in his tracks. He’d seen the scar on Barry’s thigh and where it disappeared from sight under his boxers, but to see the full sight of it was something else. It continues up Barry’s thigh and against his crotch, splitting like lightning with one fork hooking over his cock and the other twisting down and across his scrotum. Hair has refused to grow again along the scar and makes the presence of the scar all the more obvious. Dundee reaches out to touch the scar at the split and Barry gasps, his hands quickly clamping over his mouth.

Dundee runs a finger and thumb along the scar and allows them to part where it did. He circles his fingers around the base of Barry’s cock and back along the path of the scar down to his thigh. The muscles under Dundee’s fingers tremble and he swears it’s the most beautiful sight.

“It’s fucking hideous,” Barry says, his hands covering his eyes for a brief moment before fluttering around his crotch like he’s trying to scare Dundee from the area.

Dundee catches Barry’s hands and holds them against Barry’s stomach. “Barry,” he says, his voice almost growling with the want running through him. He tilts his head back, trying to catch Barry’s gaze, but it’s futile. Barry refuses to look at him or the mirror, instead his eyes are locked to the doorway leading down to the pool table. Dundee clears his throat and drops his gaze to Barry’s stomach, watching the roll of Barry’s breath into his stomach before he leans forwards to press his nose to it. Barry’s semi-hard cock bumps against Dundee’s chest and Dundee leans towards it, hoping to provide Barry some relief. “If I––,”

“You don’t have to. I get it.”

“Shut the fuck up, I have a serious question,” Dundee says fondly, squeezing Barry’s hands. “If I lick it, will you come without warning?”

Barry laughs and makes a half-hearted attempt to bring their hands down to cover himself, stopping when Dundee kisses his stomach and presses Barry’s palms flat over the spot he kissed.

“I’m serious,” Dundee says. “Has that been tested? ‘Cause I don’t want to get a face-full of come on my first blowie, but I want to do that. Can I do that?”

Barry’s gaze continues to flit over the wall of bottles. “I, uh, if you want? I’ve never–– Holy fuck!”

Dundee doesn’t hesitate. He ducks his head to run the flat of his tongue over the scar along the inside of Barry’s thigh and up near his cock. He holds Barry’s cock aside with one hand and darts his tongue out in quick licks over the scar on Barry’s scrotum, tracing the line of it before running his whole tongue against it. Barry whines and grabs onto the edge of the counter. Barry’s knee comes up to press against Dundee’s shoulder and Dundee pins it against the counter and keeps licking. Barry’s cock in Dundee’s grip twitches and it’s almost natural to switch to licking it instead of the scar. Dundee finds the vein on the underside of Barry’s cock and he lines his tongue against it like he did the scar, following the same flicking pattern of his tongue before licking its full length.

He draws the foreskin back from the head of Barry’s cock and continues to idly lick, but it’s mostly a distraction to slide his hand on Barry’s knee up to the scar on his thigh. He wants to map every inch of it, know every twist in its form. He runs his thumb over it as lightly as he can, mainly in hopes that Barry won’t notice.

“Fuck, Dundee!” Barry pants.

Dundee presses a little harder against the scar and takes the head of Barry’s cock in his mouth, running his tongue though the slit as he brushes his thumb over the scar. Barry whines and shakes, but presses himself against the counter. Dundee lets Barry’s cock fall from his lips, but still mindlessly continues to pet Barry’s scar, fascinated by the texture.

“Am I doing something wrong?” Dundee asks.

Barry skitters back on his heels –– not managing to move, but forcing his hips against the counter and away from Dundee. “No, please keep going,” Barry says in one breath. “Please.”

Dundee shuffles on his knees, trying to find a comfortable position. “I don’t know if I can do anything else. I choked last time.”

“Whatever you’re doing is fine. Just, please, god.”

“I’d like to do more.” Dundee looks up and sees his want mirrored in Barry. “You said you had tricks?”

“I’m not expecting you to deep throat me from day one.” Barry reaches down to wrap his hand around the base of his cock. He moans as his hand slides over his length.

Dundee watches in fascination before grabbing Barry’s hand and holding it still at the head. He darts forward to lick the edge of Barry’s fingers where they connect with his cock. Barry’s fingers move to Dundee’s lips, pressing against them and slipping past his teeth when Dundee opens his mouth. Barry drops his cock to focus on his fingers in Dundee’s mouth, feeling out the edges of Dundee’s teeth.

“Biggest thing is to not bite,” Barry says, slowly regaining his breath.

Dundee shuts his eyes and closes his mouth over Barry’s fingers, eventually bobbing his head over them while he listens.

“Only go as far as you can,” Barry says, breath catching as Dundee takes Barry’s fingers fully into his mouth. “Or want,” he adds, as Dundee’s tongue wiggles between his fingers and pushes out past his mouth, trying to copy Barry’s move from earlier. “If your jaw hurts, pull off and just use your tongue.”

Dundee smirks at Barry’s tone, breathless and quiet. He risks a glance up and finds Barry with his mouth dropped open and his eyes closed. The hand not in Dundee’s mouth has a white knuckle grip of the countertop. Dundee wants it buried in his hair, petting and pulling.

“The wetter the better,” Barry says between pants. “You may think, ‘oh, it’s my mouth, it’ll be fine’. That’s not how it works.” Barry tries for a joking tone, but it cuts into a low moan when Dundee’s hands grab both his thighs and circle his thumbs into either side –– the one side brushing consistently over the edge of his scar. “Fuck–– it’s––!” Barry stops trying for words and lets his hand be guided from Dundee’s mouth when Dundee pulls his head back. Barry’s damp fingers wrap around his cock without prompting, stroking in perfect synchronicity to Dundee’s circling thumbs.

There was something Dundee remembered from the articles he’d searched through weeks ago that said blow jobs weren’t just about using mouths. That line had stuck with him because as reasonably simple as it seemed, it had never occurred to him. Granted, he’d usually been too lost in pleasure to really take stock of how any previous girlfriends had blown him, but now memories come to him of nails scratching over his sides and a tight fist squeezing around him before the wet heat of a mouth swallowed him down.

He shifts on his knees, feeling something pop in his joints, as he licks his lips and plans. He watches Barry’s fist move over himself, a slow subconscious rhythm that has Dundee transfixed for a moment as the tug and push of skin over the head of Barry’s cock turns it darker. Dundee licks his palm and fits his hand in front of Barry’s, letting the thrust of Barry’s fist dictate his pace. He lets his hand slide fully off Barry to not interrupt the rhythm of Barry’s hand before he follows it back down, allowing the push of Barry’s hips to be the force thrusting his cock into Dundee’s fist. He squeezes a little tighter and licks his lips again before opening his mouth and letting the head of Barry’s cock slide against his lips on the next downward thrust.

Barry’s hips try to push forward suddenly, knocking Dundee’s fist into his mouth. Dundee pins Barry against the counter with the hand at Barry’s thigh, his thumb still idly moving over Barry’s scar. A low drawn out sound escapes Barry when Dundee fits his mouth further around the head of Barry’s cock. Barry swears and visibly fights against himself to not thrust into Dundee’s mouth again.

Almost immediately, Dundee’s jaw starts to pulse with the strain of keeping it open and he works quickly to draw Barry to the edge. His tongue circles over the head before he tries to bob his way lower. His mouth meets his hand sooner than he’d thought would happen and he shifts his hand in time with his mouth, attempting to push Barry’s hand off himself. If he wanted to get more into his mouth, Barry would need to move his hand away.

Without thinking, Dundee tries to tell Barry this while his mouth is full, but manages only a garbled hum. Barry gasps and his hand moves off his cock and into Dundee’s hair. He tugs once before apologizing and untangling his hand. Dundee wants him to pull again, but keeps this thought to himself as Barry’s hand hovers at his side for a second before settling on Dundee’s shoulder.

With Barry’s hand out of the way, Dundee can move lower, but he doesn’t try as deep as he had before, not wanting to ruin it. Dundee’s fist moves over the length he can’t reach with his mouth, sliding to the base before meeting his mouth and following it up. After a few bobs of his head, he attempts to move lower and gags. He quickly pulls off and switches to simply licking.

“Sorry,” Dundee says, continuing to stroke while he sucks a hickey onto Barry’s unscarred inner thigh, just below the line of gauze.

“Did you want to?” Barry asks.

Dundee hums in affirmation, his mouth against Barry’s thigh.

“Give me your hand,” Barry says, reaching down.

Dundee lifts one hand to Barry while his other moves off Barry’s cock and up to skim over his stomach. Barry turns Dundee’s hand over, studying it for a moment before pinching the muscle between Dundee’s thumb and forefinger. Dundee keeps his held hand in place, but his other hand slides across Barry’s skin and down to his thigh to press against Barry’s scar. Barry swears and lifts Dundee’s chin up to look at him, his fingers still pinching Dundee’s palm.

“This isn’t petty revenge,” Barry says.

“What the fuck are you doing then?” Dundee says, moving his hand back to Barry’s stomach.

Barry doesn’t say anything though. Instead, he releases Dundee’s palm –– keeping hold of his hand –– and brings a finger to Dundee’s chin, resting right under his lips. He presses and Dundee’s jaw drops open, his eyes fixed on Barry’s. Neither says a word and when Barry’s finger lifts from Dundee’s chin his mouth stays open. Barry folds Dundee’s held hand into a fist, tucking his thumb against his palm and squeezing it tight.

“Try now,” Barry says, chin dipping in motion to his cock. “Breathe out.”

Dundee doesn’t take his eyes from Barry’s while he reaches down to grab hold of Barry’s cock. He moves it to his lips and fits his mouth around it. He slides down with ease and he doesn’t notice how far he’s taken until he feels his mouth meet one side of his fist and the scratch of Barry’s pubes meets the other. He moves his fist away and dips lower, his nose almost touching Barry’s stomach. His mouth is full and his tongue is pressed flat against Barry’s cock which has made its way past Dundee’s gag reflex without attention. Dundee swallows against the drool building in his mouth, his throat working around Barry’s cock and pulling the sweetest moan from Barry.

Dundee reaches up and grabs Barry’s hand to move it into his hair again. He wants Barry to tug, but only feels nails teasing his scalp. He hums in an attempt to tell Barry he can be rougher, inadvertently getting his wish when Barry shudders and tugs Dundee sideways to avoid pulling him closer.

Barry’s gaze flits to the mirror across from him and he whimpers and closes his eyes. Without the distraction of Barry’s gaze, Dundee’s painfully aware of the burn in his lungs and he pulls away to take a breath. The sensation of Barry’s cock sliding against his throat is oddly slimy and Dundee knows it’s from his own spit, but it settles against the barrier of his gag reflex and when he tries to take Barry in his throat again he only gets halfway before he swallows around the tingling in his stomach and pulls away again. Barry’s hand holding Dundee’s fist tight around his thumb has loosened and Dundee takes the opportunity to link their hands together.

Dundee’s determined now, wanting to get one more try down his throat, but stays to short thrusts until the eagerness to hear Barry’s barely suppressed moans takes over. He leans forward again, but Barry’s hand in his hair tugs him off.

“I wouldn’t,” Barry gasps.

Hot embarrassment creeps through Dundee, assuming he’d done a shit job, until Barry continues, then all he feels is pride. He closes his fist around Barry’s cock and moves tight and fast.

“I’m close and if you’ve not done this before I don’t want to spring that on you. Just, yeah, just keep doing that.” Barry’s hand combs through Dundee’s hair, continuously pulling him away whenever Dundee tries to move closer to lick. Barry flails a hand out, blindly feeling along the bartop for the napkin dispenser.

As soon as Barry’s hand leaves Dundee’s hair, he leans forward and licks a stripe up Barry’s cock. The noise that escapes Barry sounds almost painful. The muscles in his stomach clench and he shakes under Dundee’s touch. Barry knocks Dundee’s hand away from his cock and wraps a napkin around the head just as he comes. Dundee watches with a wide smile as Barry cleans himself up and crumples the napkin into a ball. Dundee struggles to his feet, feeling that same spot in his knee pop again.

“Fuck, didn’t think I’d be able to do that,” Dundee says, brushing off his jeans. “Your trick worked though.”

“To tell you the truth, it’s fake. It’s mostly a mental thing, but I figured you wouldn’t have the same capacity to shut your mind out and just do it, like I—” Barry clears his throat and turns around while he continues to adjust himself.

Dundee doesn’t comment on the matter and takes the napkin from Barry, who goes about tucking himself away and pulling his clothes into order. Dundee moves like he’s going to throw the napkin in the trash bin and when Barry isn’t looking, Dundee unfolds the napkin and dips his pinky into the mess. It’s warm, which is expected, and Dundee doesn’t let himself reconsider before he sucks his pinky into his mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Barry asks, voice high.

Dundee turns to face him, pinky still in his mouth and the napkin held open. He grins and sucks his pinky before going back for more. Barry snatches the napkin away from him and throws it into the trash bin beside them.

“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be,” Dundee says, licking his lips.

Barry grabs another napkin and wipes Dundee’s mouth and chin, throwing it in the trash after. “Yeah? And what did you think it would be like?”

Dundee shrugs. “Burning?”

“It’s not acid, Dee.”

“I don’t know. Salty? It wasn’t that salty though. I need a second opinion.” Dundee reaches towards the trash bin and Barry grabs him around the waist and drags him away. Dundee protests and fights against Barry, wriggling and twisting in Barry’s grip, until Barry lifts him entirely from the floor, his hands under Dundee’s thighs forcing Dundee’s legs to wrap around Barry’s waist.

Dundee goes silent.

Dundee would never have considered Barry particularly intimidating. The hoodie and loose fit clothes never showed Dundee what muscles Barry was hiding away. However, the Bluey’s shirt is short sleeved and tight, pulled taut across his chest and arms in a way that Dundee didn’t appreciate until just now. His eyes skim across Barry’s face and down to stare at the arms holding Dundee aloft above the floorboards.

Barry clears his throat and shifts to drop Dundee to the floor, but Dundee’s legs tighten around Barry's waist. He brushes his nose against Barry’s before kissing him and it’s returned immediately. Barry walks them towards the nearest wall and presses Dundee against it. Dundee arches against Barry, rubbing his hardening cock against Barry’s stomach.

“Barry,” Dundee mumbles, trying to keep kissing while he talks. “Barry, these are my last clean pants. I don’t want to come in them.” Dundee yelps as he’s promptly dropped. He staggers and sags against the wall while Barry darts around Bluey’s, grabbing his belt, checking rooms, and shutting off lights. Dundee carefully returns his own items from the bar top to his pockets as he watches Barry.

Oddly, Barry avoids going downstairs despite the lights being on above the pool table, its dim glow just managing to spill into the main floor of Bluey’s. Dundee tucks away the urge to question it and grabs Barry’s hand to follow him out the door.

It takes Barry three tries to throw the keys onto the awning without it bouncing back and Dundee watches in fond amusement, declining Barry’s offers for Dundee to try throwing it since he’s so smug about it. Dundee leads Barry to the car he’d left parked incorrectly on the sidewalk and opens the passenger door for him. Barry comments on the car, either the look or the parking, but Dundee closes the door on his words and misses what is said. He almost asks Barry “your place or mine?” but is reminded of Barry’s situation when Antonio speeds past them in his car and Barry ducks low in his seat, wide eyes tracking the sportscar before confirming to himself that it didn’t belong to Chang Gang.

Dundee drives them to the Billabong, but doesn’t go inside. He pulls around back to the row of parking along the canal where the streetlamp was broken and keeps the lot in a private dark. He shuts off the car, plunging them into a darkness that hides his fidgeting hands. Beside him he hears Barry shift in his seat, possibly turning to face him, but Dundee keeps his gaze forward on the graffitied wall separating the parking lot and the Billabong.

“So, did you want to come in?” he asks, still looking at the wall.

There’s a click of a seatbelt and he holds his breath when Barry undoes Dundee’s seatbelt too. Then Barry’s hand is on Dundee’s chin, turning him to face Barry. The kiss starts soft, outside noises all too loud among every breath they take, but other sounds start to fade out when Barry reaches down to undo Dundee’s pants. The space is cramped but Barry manages to maneuver Dundee’s jeans out of the way and guide his cock into the open.

It doesn’t take long for Barry’s hand to bring Dundee to the edge and Dundee grabs the steering wheel to anchor himself in the waves of bliss. Just before he climaxes, Barry breaks their kiss and in the next moment he feels Barry’s mouth wrap around his cock, Barry’s tongue lapping over the head.

He’s so relaxed, basking in the accomplishment of successfully blowing Barry and the quick hand of a moment ago, that he doesn’t realise Barry’s left the car until he’s tapping on the driver side window. Dundee rolls it down and leans out, accepting the chaste kiss Barry gives him.

“Coming inside?” Dundee asks.

Barry shakes his head. “I should go, but don’t worry, I’m staying nearby.”

Dundee tries not to pout, but it’s not very effective.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Barry says and kisses Dundee once more before walking away.

Dundee watches Barry cross the road onto the sidewalk before he jumps out of the car and sprints after Barry, spinning him on his heels and kissing him again. Barry laughs and pushes himself from Dundee’s arms, repeating that he’ll see Dundee tomorrow. Dundee watches him until he turns the corner, then he gets the brilliant idea to watch from a rooftop to ensure Barry makes it safely from the Billabong. He circles to the beachside, runs through the Billabong and pulls himself up the side of Chip’s house and makes a quick path to Collin’s rooftop.

He easily spots Barry under a streetlamp one street over and he’s about to shout and wave at him when curiosity stops him. Barry pulls out a ring of keys and meticulously sorts through them before checking the nearest road sign and walking down a back alley.

Towards Stevie’s house.

Barry must sense Dundee’s confused gaze on him because he turns to look over his shoulder, scanning the empty street. Dundee ducks behind the cover of the large brick chimney before Barry has the thought to look up. Barry pulls himself from the streetlamp, backwards down the alley, and into the shadow of Stevie’s overhang patio cover. Dundee watches for a solid five minutes –– almost without blinking –– before he comes to the solid conclusion that Barry went into Stevie’s house. That he has keys to her house; that when Dundee called that morning the person Barry was talking to was Stevie.

“What the fuck?” Dundee says, slowly backing from the edge of the roof.

“Guessing you didn’t know,” someone says behind him.

“What the fuck Collin!” Dundee yells at Collin.

He’s leaning against the glass railing of the rooftop patio, a collection of fresh cigarette butts at his feet giving a small hint as to how long he’s been standing there.

“Sorry.” Collin lights the cigarette between his teeth and offers it to Dundee, who declines.

“Were you watching us?”

“No,” Collin says with a scowl. “Fuck no. Not that I'd be able to see that far in the dark.”

“You have to admit though, you do have an odd sense of timing that is suspiciously fortuitous.”

“Or everyone around here just sucks at hiding things.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to hide him.”

Collin hums. “Yeah, you flaunted him around enough in front of me and Chip this morning. Made him sound like the be all, end all.”

“So?”

“Morgan called after their shift to ask me about any car parts we might be looking for. Apparently Jordan’s truck started making that clunking noise again and Morgan was going chopping for some spare cash after work, anyways that’s not the point. I asked about Barry. Call it a professional curiosity. We’ve never had anyone outside of Bondi working at Bluey’s, it’s only common sense that I’d make sure Barry wasn’t a complete fuck up incapable of doing his job––,”

“How long have you known?”

“About?”

“Where he’s been staying.”

“What day was he kicked from his house again? Whatever day it was that Jesse and the others found Barry at the lifeguard tower.”

“Others…?”

“Jesse found him. Jordan, Ed, and him were playing rogue paintball and were first to respond, along with Stevie. I think the others came quickly after. Junior, Finn, Fey, I think Peter?” Collin names when Dundee prompts him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dundee says. He knows by the look Collin gives him that he’s using the tone usually reserved for the Prospects who fuck up. “I didn’t want to tell anyone yet,” he says, looking back at the empty alleyway.

“You had him hired at Bluey’s, Dundee. That’s not keeping it subtle.”

“Yeah, so? He was still just…” Dundee’s hard tone dissolves to a mumble, not fully wanting the words out, but feeling lighter all the same for Collin hearing it. “He was just mine.”

Collin sighs and moves away from the railing, gesturing for Dundee to follow him. “Come sit. I think it’s time we properly talked about some things.”

Chapter Text

There’s an odd nervousness in Barry’s stomach the next morning and he tries his best to push it aside and assure Stevie over breakfast that he’s fine. He’s unsure if she believes him, but she paints a smile on his pancakes in fruit and syrup in a manner likely meant to be comforting. Later, he stands shirtless in the hallway as he watches his clothes spin in the dryer, glad that Stevie had left the house early and couldn’t see the line of hickeys across Barry’s chest and hips. That morning, after Barry had asked to use the washer, Stevie had offered him more clothes abandoned by Bondi. She laid out a worn shirt printed with the logo of the tuner shop, a long sleeve with tiny running pugs along the bottom hem, and a plain tank top the colour of moss. Barry had politely declined and told her he still had his Bluey’s uniform shirt, as well as his other shirt he’d left at the bar the night before.

At the mention of Bluey’s he’d felt his face heat and he’d pushed through the embarrassment as Stevie gave him a coy look and wished him a good time at his next shift. Barry knows she knows, it was unlikely she didn’t know when he’d slipped into the house well after the time he’d told her he’d be home, but she hadn’t said anything of it.

Barry walks to Bluey’s with a pep in his step, watching the clouds and idly wondering if the sky is bluer today. He pushes open the door to the bar, expecting to only find Morgan and seeing Chip and Pez bickering over a stack of papers while Morgan works around them. Chip lifts the stack of papers as Morgan wipes down the counter, not missing a beat in his argument against Pez, but both stop to look at Barry when he enters.

“Barry!” Chip shouts, waving Barry over.

Barry can’t help the spike of fear at his name being called, even if Chip’s smiling at him and Pez’s scowl seems directed towards Chip. It wouldn’t be the first time someone smiled at Barry while they tore him apart. Barry smoothes back his hair and adjusts his shirt, suddenly worried that there’d be food spilt down the front or a giant rip at the hem, regardless if Barry had washed it that morning. Barry reigns in the compulsion to bow and instead clasps his hands in front of him. If they were going to hit him, he was going to show that he could take it.

“Morning,” Barry says.

“Barry!” Chip yells again and points at Pez. “Tell this fucker what you told me yesterday during your shift.”

“Excuse you, cunt?” Pez says, glaring at Chip.

Barry flinches at Pez’s tone, harsh and not at all like the jovial man who’d disturbed most of Barry’s first shift the previous night by throwing sunflower seeds across the bar.

“Okay, just cause you’re worried about being wrong,” Chip says, still just as loud.

Pez’s eyes narrow and the pen in his hand twirls in his grip, wielding it like a knife at the ready.

“Sorry, what’s this about?” Barry asks.

Pez jabs a finger into the stack of papers on the bar, the top of which Barry realises has his name and a single row of numbers under it. “Pez was doing the paystubs last night, completely sloshed out his gord and he called dickhead over there to get his opinion on something but surprise surprise! Both dickhead and Pez were wrong and Pez went through with it anyways.”

“Went through with what?” Barry asks, deciding to sidestep Pez’s decision to refer to himself in the third person.

“Direct deposit,” Chip says. “He direct-deposited your paycheck.”

“What?” Barry stares at the sheet of paper, the unease of being watched creeping up his spine. He grits his teeth and does his best to not look over his shoulder, choosing instead to check his surroundings in the reflections of the mirror behind the bar. The street beyond the front windows is clear of any suspicious vehicles and the rest of the bar is empty, but it does nothing to quell the nausea.

“See!” Pez says, pointing at Barry. “It’s not okay.”

“Wait, Barry, was it that you didn’t want bank transfers? Or only wanted bank transfers?” Chip asks.

Barry’s heart skips into his throat. He pulls out his phone and opens his banking app, seeing the new deposit notification and the name: Bluey’s Bar. Los Santos is small, there would only be one Bluey’s. “I didn’t…” He can’t stop staring at it. One row of digital information and once again Barry is running for his life. “Fuck.” He pockets his phone and spins on his heel.

“See!” Pez says again. There’s a sound like an open hand smacking denim and Chip yelps.

“Fuck, man! My thigh! My delicate thigh!” Chip says, putting on an affected accent of unplaceable origin.

“Well, he fucked up,” Pez says. “Barry, come with me.” He walks past Barry and outside.

Barry looks over his shoulder at Chip, silently asking permission. Chip has already moved onto talking with Morgan, getting into a heated discussion about the proper way to slice lemons. Morgan has a knife in their hand, gesturing with their words, but Chip is unconcerned. Barry waits at the door for an uneasy moment before following Pez.

Pez idles in a red porsche at the corner, loud music carrying through his closed doors. He revs the engine when Barry hesitates and the car takes off before Barry’s fully settled in the seat.

“Fuck, does everyone in Bondi drive like maniacs?” Barry asks, scrambling for his seatbelt.

Pez’s glare whips in his direction and Barry sinks into his seat.

“Sorry,” Barry says, folding his hands in his lap.

“Why?” Pez asks, briefly looking at the road.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to speak.” Barry checks the speedometer and considers throwing himself from the car to appease the rude comment.

“No, cunt, why are you fucking apologizing?”

“It was rude. I’m sorry,” Barry says, quieter. They’re only going fifty, he could probably roll out of the car and be fine. He would just need to keep his limbs in and not be afraid to get a little road rash. Few scrapes, few scars, maybe a broken finger.

“Do you have a diaphragm?” Pez asks.

Barry watches out the window as they drive past the bank on Bay City, taking a turn onto the highway. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Fucking speak up!” Pez shouts.

“Yes,” Barry says. “I have a diaphragm.”

“Then why does it sound like your breathing is assisted by a deflating balloon?”

“Sorry, I’ll speak up.”

“Stop apologizing! I don’t want your fucking apologies!” Pez takes them further down Great Ocean Highway and then veers off road, heading up a mountain.

“I don’t mind the bank deposits,” Barry says, cold gripping his lungs. He knew what an inconvenience cost him to Chang Gang, but he has no idea how Bondi would view it. He’s been taken up the side of mountains before, somewhere where no one would hear his pained cries or the various fists or objects meeting Barry’s body. These out of the way beatings were usually taken up by someone not in an Enforcer role, as Randy usually took his time with Barry and preferred comfort while doing so.

Pez parks the car at the crest of the mountain and turns off the engine. He sighs and motions for Barry to get out. Barry’s limbs refuse to unlock.

“It’s not a big deal,” Barry says. “It’s just a bank––,”

“Get the fuck out of the car, Barry Benson,” Pez says, glaring at him.

A numbness spreads over Barry and he watches himself open the door and close it behind him, with Pez following suit. His feet take him to the edge of the cliff where Pez points for him to stand. He closes his eyes and braces for the first hit, his breathing picking up the longer he goes uninjured. Finally, the anxiety makes him turn his head and he finds Pez eating a granola bar and giving him a confused look.

“What the fuck are you flinching for?” Pez asks, mouth full.

Barry bites his tongue and looks forwards again.

“No no, turn around,” Pez says and Barry turns to face him, meeting Pez’s gaze in fleeting intervals. “Why don’t you want bank deposits?” Pez opens a second granola bar and takes a generous bite.

“It’s fine, I––,” Barry cuts himself off when Pez rolls his eyes. “If I use my bank, Chang Gang will know.”

“An answer! Fucking finally.” Pez rips off a piece of granola bar for a crow nearby that’s taken an interest in their conversation. It hits the crow in the head and it flies off. Pez flips his middle finger at the bird and keeps eating. “Alright, so your bank is being tracked. How does that make you feel?”

“It’s fine.”

“Didn’t look fine in Bluey’s.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stop lying!” Pez shouts.

“I’m sorry!”

“Stop apologizing! Why do you keep apologizing!” Pez emphasizes each word with a smack of his remaining granola bar into his palm.

“Because I’m supposed to!” Barry’s voice raises to be heard over the wind cutting up the side of the mountain.

“Says fucking who?”

“Says…” Barry trails off.

He can’t answer who told him to apologize for every action, to tread on eggshells for every word he speaks, to take immediate blame for anything going wrong. He doesn’t work for them anymore, why would it matter what they told Barry to do?

The compulsion is still there though. Barry can feel it sitting on his tongue, tasting of cold metal and salt water.

Barry shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s just––,”

“Who told you?” Pez yells at him.

“No one, it’s nothing!”

“Who!” Pez shouts, over and over, getting closer. “Who tried to tell you that it’s always your fault?”

Barry backs up until he runs out of mountain side to back against, rocks chipping out from under his boot heels. “I don’t–– It’s–– Chang Gang told me!” he yells and Pez goes quiet, taking a half step back. “Chang Gang! Randy shoved a gun in my mouth and told me he’d have no problem pulling the trigger if my next words weren’t an apology for being five minutes late. I was robbed one night while I was carrying the money I was meant to be giving to them. They found other ways for me to pay and made it painfully clear whose fault it was. It’s my fault, Pez. Always.”

“Not with this,” Pez says, pointing to himself. “Pez fucked up, not you.”

Barry bites his tongue, knowing Pez wouldn’t accept Barry taking blame and would yell at him for trying to apologize again. He nods, not looking at Pez.

“Got that?” Pez says. He crosses his arms and waits for Barry to answer, but Barry simply nods his head again. “Nah, I fucking hate your silence. You’re not a fucking paper doll. Speak up!”

“Yes,” Barry says.

“Louder,” Pez says.

“Yes,” Barry says, louder.

“Was it your fault?”

“Ye–– No, it wasn’t.”

“Louder.”

“No!” Barry’s hands clench at his sides.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t fucking do anything wrong!” Barry screams. A pressure in his chest knocks loose and he keeps going, gaining volume. “I asked for one simple thing because it’s the only way I’ll be able to not be fucking shot by those fuck heads! And you’ve ruined that!”

Pez smiles at him.

Barry wants to hit him. His nails dig into his palms to contain the urge. “I have no money unless I go pickpocketing along the beach and if I try to use my bank they’ll know. Immediately. They have people everywhere. If I go to a bank the fucking teller will call up Mister K –– probably while I’m standing there –– and tell him ‘hey, I’ve got that fucking cunt you were wanting to shoot, if you hurry you can grab him’. And then I’m fucking dead, Pez.”

Pez looks him over. “Anything else?”

A noise comes out of Barry and it’s satisfying. He screams again, louder. It rips from him, tearing across his vocal cords and breaking into a cracked shout. Barry takes a deep breath and clears his throat after.

“Now I believe you’re actually Australian. That was some proper volume,” Pez says. “How long you been holding that in?”

Barry looks away.

“Long time then.” Pez takes another granola bar from his pocket and offers it to Barry. “You had breakfast yet?” When Barry doesn’t take the granola bar, Pez tucks it into his jeans pocket. “Alright, come on. I’ll take you back to Bluey’s, but first: to an ATM!”

Barry sits in silence while Pez hums along to the radio. As they’re coming off the mountain and back onto the highway Pez turns down the radio.

"We're going to protect you. You know that right?" he says.

Barry doesn't believe him, but nods anyways.

"Not just us," Pez continues, "But Dundee, too. I think he's actually determined to keep you. At least, that's what he's told Collin. He told him the last months with you has felt like a dream and he seems happy about that, so I'd like it to continue, if you want it too."

Barry looks out at the sea on the horizon.

"I can fix this. Just because something goes wrong doesn't mean it's a nightmare," Pez says.

Barry clenches his jaw. "No, I'd know if it was."

"Good. Remember that."

They drive for a couple more minutes in silence as Pez goes quiet and eventually brings the car to the side of the road. Barry watches from the corner of his eye as Pez zones out on the emblem on the steering wheel for a moment before snapping back to attention. He checks his phone, scrolling through the notes and glancing around the car.

“Uh…” Pez turns to Barry. “Where were we going?” he asks sheepishly.

“An ATM,” Barry says.

“Oh. Oh , I fucked up the payouts. Right.” Pez clears his throat. “I was hoping that wouldn’t be noticed, but it’s fine. It was, what? Around two hundred dollars? Yeah, fuck it, we can pay that out twice.”

“Wait, what? No, you don’t have to pay me twice.”

“If you’re not going to use your accounts, it’s basically a glorified savings account at this point. Unless they have withdrawal access to your bank.”

“No, they don’t. They just get notified when I’m there.”

“Perfect! To the ATM!” Pez brings the car back onto the road and cruises ten miles below the speed limit. He looks at every road sign, twisting in his seat to read the ones behind them. “Um. Where are we exactly?”

Eventually, they get back to Vespucci and Pez takes money from an ATM near Bluey’s. When he hands it to Barry, reflexes give Barry a quick count of the amount and there’s an extra hundred. He tries to give it back to Pez, but the effort goes ignored and Pez kicks him from the car and wishes him a good day at work. Then Pez lays on the horn until Chip comes running out.

“Ready to base jump off Maze Tower?” Pez asks him.

Chip pats Barry on the shoulder as he passes him and slides into the car. “I was going to wait for Pez, but if you want to go, then sure!”

“It’s me, you dickhead.”

“Oh, yeah let’s go! Bye, Barry!” Chip yells, his torso half propped out of the passenger window. “Remember: don’t fuck on the bartops!”

Chip and Pez laugh like they know about the previous night and Barry’s wave of the departing car stops and he turns to hide the blush on his cheeks.

Barry hadn’t meant for it to happen, he hadn’t even been looking for it to happen, but then Dundee’s mouth was on him and Dundee’s fingers were playing along his frayed nerve endings and Barry couldn’t see the reason in stopping it. The night replays in Barry’s mind throughout his shift and he continuously checks the bar to see if Dundee slipped in without his notice. Every time he looks, there’s a Bondi member, but no Dundee.

“I was eavesdropping on the radio earlier and I think he’s doing a few races up North with some old friends,” Morgan says later in the evening when Barry’s head again snaps up at the sound of the front door welcoming bell.

“Huh?”

“Dundee. He’s racing right now,” they clarify.

“How about one of you race to get me a drink?” a British man in a black turtleneck calls to Barry as he takes a seat by the door.

Morgan sighs and finishes wiping off the bartop with more force than necessary. They grab the book of drinks and flip it open before sliding it across to Barry.

“Make this and serve it to the dickhead over there,” they say and disappear into the kitchen.

There’s a note in sharpie written on the drink recipe which states ‘no spitting in it’.

It’s quick enough to make and Barry manages without incident to bring it over to the table. As the man’s sliding the exact change for the drink across the table to Barry, he sweeps a look over Barry that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

“I’ve seen you before,” the man says.

“Uh,” Barry says and quickly bites his tongue back on a scathing remark. Even if he’s no longer at Fridgit, it didn’t mean he had to completely dismiss his duty to service customers. “Doubtful,” he says instead and turns to go, but the man grabs Barry’s wrist.

“No, I’ve definitely seen you before,” the man says. He has a toothy smile that curdles Barry’s sense of goodwill and Barry yanks his hand away. The man laughs. “Got some bite to you now. Last time I saw you, you were a boneless thing full of cake, coke, and cock.”

All other noise becomes a roar in Barry’s ears. The ghost pain of ropes biting into Barry twists around his wrists and the foul taste of hotel service food hits the back of Barry’s tongue. He scowls at the man, but finds himself unable to move, unable to deny the man’s assumptions about where he’s seen Barry before.

“This where they move you to instead or you picking up a second job? If you’re that hard-up for money I got some spare change I could throw your way for a quick one in the bathroom,” the man says, grinning at Barry.

“Hey!” Morgan says, coming up to Barry’s side. They position themselves between Barry and the man, puffing out their chest and trying to make their short stature more intimidating. “Are you harassing him?”

“Not with anything he ain’t heard before,” the man says, leaning to speak over Morgan’s head to address Barry. “Hey, what did you think about that shit he gave you that night? Good or what?”

“You gotta back off, man,” Morgan says.

“That was the purest shit yet, I gotta say. Usually would’ve saved it for Sinclaire and his customers, but you know how it is when someone like that asks if you’ve got anything to make a party a party,” the man says, ignoring Morgan. “You seeing him still? I imagine it’d be a pretty nice set up being his missus.”

“No, I’m…” Barry goes quieter. “I’m seeing someone else.”

“I’m only going to tell you once,” Morgan says. “Back off.”

“Ey, settle kid,” the man says, pushing Morgan’s shoulder. “I can bring you fucks some too, if you keep the drinks coming.” He downs half his glass in one go.

Morgan crosses their arms. “That won’t be necessary, you’re leaving now.”

The man laughs. “Fuck no,” he says and settles in to his seat. “You know the deal: you keep the drinks coming and I leave here blackout drunk so as to forget whatever shady business I see happening in Vespucci.”

“Deal’s off. Get out,” Morgan says.

The man slides out from the booth to tower over Morgan. “You really want to do that?” he says, but Morgan doesn’t flinch. “I saw a few blue muscle cars illegally parked ‘round back. I still remember seeing one of your boys trading baggies with the locals in the alley over there. I know what his night time activities include,” the man says, nodding towards Barry. “Couple more drinks and that all goes away.”

“Normally, I’d ignore you spewing shit in the corner booth, but the minute you start insulting my friends is the minute we have an issue,” Morgan says and starts shoving the man towards the door.

“Come on. Really? It’s just a joke,” the man says.

“Get out,” Morgan says, louder.

The man allows himself to be moved backwards a few steps before he laughs and pushes Morgan to the side. Their hip hits a table edge, knocking it over and tripping them to the floor in the process. They start to pull themselves upright, cradling one hand against their chest, but the man laughs and prods his boot against their hip, pushing them off balance again.

“Don’t fight it, Barry. It’s not fun if you don’t let us practice,” Randy jeers, kicking Barry in the thigh again.

“Let him at least get up,” Garrett says, shoving Randy aside to circle to Barry’s side. “Can’t practice if he’s laid on the floor.”

Randy hums and wiggles his shoulders. “Could do other things,” he says with a leer.

Garrett grabs Barry’s arm and yanks him to his feet. It’s not often they bring Barry to the Dojo to actually use as a sparring partner, but Garrett had insisted, citing his own injuries that were stopping him from helping Randy practice a takedown move. There’s thick bandages wrapped around Garrett’s wrists and Barry isn’t too sure what Garrett did to hurt himself, but helping them spar was one of the more fun activities they invited Barry to join, so he’d agreed. Not that he had a choice, but the illusion of choice to be a punching bag was enough to cover his enthusiasm to learn by proxy.

“How about this,” Garrett says, slapping Barry on the shoulder. “How about Barry tries to take you down instead and we’ll see if you learnt anything,” he tells Randy.

“Okay, but if he pins me I’m beating him and I don’t care if it’ll affect his work later,” Randy says.

The black eye had been worth it.

Barry grabs the man by his arm and twists it up behind him. In the same move he spins him towards the nearest upright table. He kicks out one of the man’s feet, unsettling his balance and causing the man to smack his forehead against the table as Barry pins him chest down to it.

“Barry!” Morgan shouts.

It happens in a blur of movement so ingrained in Barry that by the time he realizes he has the man pinned to the table it feels more like he’s laid atop a grenade.

“Get the fuck off me!” the man snarls, thrashing under Barry.

“Oh, I thought…” Morgan trails off. Barry checks on them over his shoulder as they move to their feet and upright the table. “You got him?”

“He’s only going where you want him,” Barry says.

The man writhes again, unable to shake Barry’s hold and letting out a wordless squeal.

“Can you get him upright?” Morgan asks.

They’ve barely finished the request before Barry has the man upright and facing Morgan.

“I’ll do you the courtesy of not decking you one while you don’t have your footing,” Morgan says to the man then looks up at Barry. “Bounce him,” they say and when Barry hesitates they point to the door.

The man hurls insults while Barry manhandles him out the door, but once tossed onto the pavement picks himself up and starts walking down the street away from Vespucci. “Thinks he’s got teeth now!” the man says to himself. “What a fucking joke.”

Barry yanks the door closed behind himself, tugging against the pressurized hydraulics to get some volume to the action. Soon as they’re faced with the bar and Morgan again, ice pours over him and he shivers. Now would come the beating for making Morgan look incompetent.

“Fuck yes!” Morgan says, bouncing forward on their toes and playfully punching Barry’s shoulder. “We’re a sick team.”

“Uh…”

“That was so fast! I thought for a second it was him on you and I was going to stab him in the shoulder.”

“Uh.”

“Usually I don’t care when he comes in here cause he just sits in the corner being a skeevy cunt, but at least he’s usually a quiet skeevy cunt––,”

“I’m sorry.”

“And normally I wouldn’t bounce him this early ‘cause he usually finds the first sympathetic ear to cry about us and given our proximity to Little Seoul––,”

“Sorry.”

“Wait, why are you sorry? The guy’s an annoying snitch. We only let him drink here because he gets black out and leaves good tips. Doesn’t pay for his drinks, but that’s why we give him the cheapest liquor.”

Barry stays silent, unsure of how to properly voice that he muscled in on Morgan’s fight. He makes a vague motion towards the booth, hoping it entails all he can’t say.

Morgan laughs. “Look, if you hadn’t pinned him by force, I was going to stab him. No one talks shit about people I like and walks away unscathed.”

“It wasn’t shit though,” Barry says.

Morgan shrugs. “Anything coming from him is shit, regardless if it’s true. Next time he comes in here, feel free to deck him after he pays for his drink, but he won’t be back for a while. Depending on who he goes to cry to, he usually licks his wounds for a day or two before returning. Enough time for you to teach me that move.”

Barry smiles and nods. “Yeah, I can do that.”

The rest of his shift goes without incident and Morgan stays until closing to lock the doors. They pocket the key and tilt an ear towards the screech of approaching tires. Barry is about to step onto the sidewalk when Morgan yanks him backwards into the doorframe just as a vibrant pink and blue car skids around the corner, knocking against an already dented lamp post. The light above them flickers, but holds. Morgan releases Barry and bids him good night, like they weren’t almost just run over, while Barry turns to the car with a rant already preparing itself. He doesn’t get very far into it before the driver door opens and Dundee pops his head above the roof.

“Hello beautiful!” Dundee greets.

Barry’s rant dies in his throat and a smile easily replaces his frown. “Hello, Dee.” Barry gets into the passenger seat without prompt and Dundee drives them around the city for a couple hours, talking about the races he competed in and which ones he won, until the talk turns into more casual conversation and then finally a comfortable silence.

Barry lays his hand on Dundee’s thigh, expecting it to be ignored or moved elsewhere, but instead Dundee laces his fingers with Barry’s. Dundee’s thumb circles against the back of Barry’s hand as Dundee picks up the conversation again, carrying on a one sided dialogue about the virtues of side skirts on cars versus their usefulness on getaways. Barry closes his eyes, perfectly content in the company.

He wakes up when the car rumbles to life around him and vibrant light pierces through the front windshield. It’s morning and they’re parked at the edge of a forest looking over a grassy valley. He swears and covers his eyes, trying to block out the sun, but it cuts through the shade of his hands with ease. The car slowly spins in a tight circle and the light fades, dipping around behind him. He peaks between his fingers and finds Dundee, now shed of his denim jacket and gloves, sitting casually behind the wheel, steering with his knees. When the car is fully turned around, he shuts off the car again.