Author notes: This is the story that ate my soul. Starting out as a simple bingo fill for the hooker!fic square (previously published as Tipping Point), the story quickly took on a life of its own until, 75,000 words and many months later, I realized I'd written an AU slash novel for Jericho. I can't thank Tanaqui enough, who has done duty as my beta-editor, enabler, co-plotter and enthusiastic cheerleader. Without her, this story would never have been finished—or at the very least, would've been so much less.
Below you can find the new and improved first scene of the first chapter, changed from how it was previously published on fanfiction net. The rest of the story turned out to be potentially too mature for fanfiction net and I don't want to risk violating the ToS. You can find the rest of the story on AO3 or on my personal archive (link in my profile).
Unforeseen Consequences - Chapter 1
Soon, Jake reckoned, slogging through an October drizzle that gradually seeped through his jacket, he'd have to take the Feds up on their offer, and consequence be damned. He was getting tired of running: tired of sleeping under bridges and in doorways after he sold the Roadrunner; tired of begging for under-the-table work that never paid enough; tired of shoplifting his next meal on those days he failed to find even that kind of job.
The months after Jake had fled San Diego following Freddy's murder had been among the toughest of his life: no money, no place to go, and both Ravenwood and the Feds were chasing him across the country.
At first, in spite of the sting of his father's brush-off and subsequent refusal to release Grandpa's money, Jake reckoned he'd pull through okay. By the time the last of the San Diego cash ran out, he was working as a ranch hand in west Texas, where his skills on horseback were appreciated. But the ranch work had dwindled during the winter and he'd been kindly told he should move on.
And then Jake had discovered how much worse his life could get.
Agent Hicks had used the time to work the system and Jake's status had gone from person of interest to persona non grata: his pilot's license revoked on some trump charge; bank accounts and credit cards frozen; social security number marked as invalid.
Jake was aware the Feds could've wiped out his existence entirely if they'd wanted. The fact they hadn't, sent him a clear message: help us, and maybe we'll help you in turn.
He hated the idea, hated letting Hicks win. But it was starting to look attractive. Because, as if to add insult to injury, at times he couldn't even blame Hicks for his troubles, only sheer dumb bad luck. He'd come to Rochester, New York, hoping to get work at the marinas―maybe with one of the charter companies operating on Lake Ontario. He was soon told he was too late: the season was coming to an end and there was no work to be had. All he'd had to show for his trouble so far was another wasted morning wearing out the soles on his shoes and asking for jobs that didn't exist.
Tired, chilled from the wind that howled across the water, bringing cold air and rain from Canada, he aimlessly wandered the streets of the riverfront district, hunched deep in his old army jacket. A Help Wanted sign in one of the dirty windows as he passed a bar drew his eye. Wearily, he made a beeline for the door to ask for the job.
An hour past noon, the place was deserted. The round-bellied bartender, stocking up shelves, looked up expectantly at Jake's entrance. Jake indicated the sign, and the man blinked, as if surprised. "Sorry, pal." Setting down the bottle he was inspecting, he brushed past Jake to yank the sign from the window. "Position's been filled. Ain't got 'round to takin' this down yet."
Jake turned on his heel without another word, too beat to be upset, and headed back out into the cold. It had started to rain harder, and he pulled up the collar of his jacket. The sign in the window had given him an idea, though: there were other bars in the streets near the river. Perhaps he'd have more luck elsewhere.
He wandered from one gloomy saloon to another for the rest of the cold afternoon, reassuring the managers he'd turn his hand to anything if only they'd give him a job. Despite his perseverance, the gods didn't smile on him: while nobody chased him right back out, nobody had any work to offer him, either.
It was growing late, dusk falling early under the gray sky, and Jake still had no idea where he'd be spending the night, by the time he pushed through the door of the eighth―or was it the ninth?―bar. He rattled off the same litany he'd now uttered so many times he could've recited it in his sleep.
The bartender, a large black man as bald as an egg, held up his hands before Jake had gotten halfway through his spiel. "Can't help you, buddy." He shrugged in sympathy. "Times're hard for everyone."
Jake gave a tired nod of acceptance, his shoulders sagging. What had he expected?
"Hey, why don't you sit down for a sec?" The barman's invitation stopped Jake from trudging away. "Warm yourself up some?" Jake peered up at him, and the bartender offered another one-shouldered shrug. "You look about ready to fall flat on your face."
Jake huffed a quick, humorless laugh. It was true; he hadn't eaten in a while and, after the cold outside, the heat of the bar was making him dizzy. He pulled himself up on the nearest bar stool; it was a relief to be off his feet.
"Here, drink up." The bartender set a glass down in front of Jake, pouring a measure of a colorless liquid from an unlabeled bottle into it. "Warm your guts." He pushed the glass in Jake's direction. "Don't worry, it's on the house."
Jake considered refusing, both his pride and mistrust about what the catch was cautioning him. But heck, he better learn to accept charity where he found it. He hadn't many choices left: no job, no place to stay, a few crumpled bills in his pocket all that remained from selling the Roadrunner.
He drew the glass closer, accepting the drink with a quick nod. The barman wandered off to the other end of the bar to make a hushed phone call, leaving Jake alone with his thoughts.
He knew his options were growing more limited by the day. If he didn't come up with the means to get more money soon, he was gonna have to pick one of the alternatives he'd been trying to avoid for the past weeks, all of them hard and unpleasant. He ran them down in his mind.
One: give in to Hicks and try to bring Ravenwood down―something that'd likely get him killed the same way they'd murdered Freddie.
Option two: take a page out of Jonah Prowse's book and resort to a life of crime. Not the kind of petty hauling of less-than-savory goods he'd done back in the day, but the real stuff: truck hijacking and robbery―which was what had gotten Chris killed and sent Jake running in the first place.
Or, behind door number three: go home. Back to Jericho. And pray Dad wouldn't turn him away again.
For the tenth time in as many weeks, Jake considered going to Kansas, and, as he had every time he thought about it, he dismissed the idea right out of hand. He'd tried that, and gotten the door slammed shut in his face for his trouble. His mom would be happy to see him, sure, and she'd be willing to take him in and spoil him with pie. But Dad….
Jake shook his head and took a sip of his drink, grimacing at the way the raw alcohol burned his throat. No, his dad would demand he grovel and own up to the fact he'd screwed up yet again. He could picture Dad's expression: the mixture of disappointment and contempt that seemed to have been reserved solely for his eldest son ever since Jake turned sixteen and Jonah gave him the Roadrunner. He wasn't about to submit himself to that again.
Deep down, so deep Jake didn't want to acknowledge it to himself, he knew it wasn't pride that kept him from going home. It was shame. If he went back, the full truth would come out. And if his father discovered what Jake'd really been up to all those years…. If he knew about those jobs flying 'cargo' to and from Venezuela and Colombia…. Found out about Saffa….
Jake uttered a brief snort, audible only to himself. It'd be the ultimate screw-up, result in the final rejection.
As long as he didn't return to Jericho, going home remained an option. A choice he could make. Even if he never made it.
The small bell over the bar's doorway jingled, startling Jake from his introspection. A gust of wind rustled in, accompanying a new customer. Jake glanced over his shoulder. Dark hair, broad shoulders, on the short side. And, although he wore jeans and a leather jacket rather than a uniform, he carried himself with the kind of confidence Jake instantly recognized as military.
The soldier's gaze swept around the room, landing on Jake for an instant―a ghost of a smile twitched his lips―before it took in the rest of the clientele. Taking a seat two stools down from Jake's, the man ordered a whiskey. "The good stuff." He looked pointedly at the barman and gave a curt nod at the glass in front of Jake. "Not that rotgut."
Jake let out a laugh. Rotgut was about as accurate a description as could be; Bailey's would've been ashamed to serve it to its customers, even as a freebie.
Thinking of Bailey's made Jake's throat constrict in an unwelcome way, and he tossed the rest of the liquor back. It burned a trail in his gullet. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he coughed, swallowing hard; he noticed the soldier had half-turned on his stool and was watching him with an amused little smirk.
"That bad, huh?"
Jake croaked a "Yeah," and the guy motioned for the bartender to get Jake another glass and fill it from the same bottle as his own.
More charity.
Once the barman was done, Jake raised the glass in salute. "Thanks." He took a sip of the amber liquid, relishing the velvety feel on his tongue, so different from the sharp tang of the moonshine still churning in his belly. Drinking on an empty stomach wasn't the smartest thing to do, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Jake," he added by way of introduction after he'd swallowed the whiskey.
"Edward." The other man contemplated his own drink a moment before turning toward Jake fully, his gaze raking him up and down. "You don't really strike me as a man willing to risk his liver with Bo's poison."
Jake huffed ruefully, though he didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what the guy was aiming at.
"So, let me guess." Undeterred by Jake's silence, Edward cocked his head, and there was that slight smile again. "Down on your luck?"
"That's one way to put it."
Or the understatement of the decade. Jake had been 'down on his luck' for six years, and the future didn't appear any brighter. He didn't enjoy the prospect or the thought of discussing it with a stranger, so he stared into his drink, not offering up any further explanation.
Edward finished his scotch and gestured at the barman for another, as well as directing him to refill Jake's glass. Jake shifted on his stool, uncomfortable with the offer. One drink was a friendly gesture; anything more was…. Well, he wasn't quite sure what it was. In any case, he'd had enough; he could already feel the alcohol working on him. He shook his head at the bartender.
Seeing Jake's refusal, Edward let out a soft sigh and switched over to the stool beside Jake's. He twisted around until he could face Jake. "Look, Jake…." He paused, making sure he had Jake's attention. "I believe we can help each other."
Jake raised an inquiring eyebrow, wariness settling on his shoulders. What was Edward talking about?
"I have something you need." Edward planted an elbow on the bar, his gaze intent. "And you have something I want."
Still none the wiser, Jake shook his head. "I've no idea what―."
Edward pushed up off his stool, tossing his drink back and setting the glass down on the bar's surface. "I'll be blunt: I want you to come with me."
Jake gaped in confusion, and Edward continued, "I'll make it worth your while. And tomorrow, you go your way, and I go mine. Nobody any the wiser." He tilted his head, scanning Jake's face. The earlier amusement was gone; he looked deadly serious. "What do you say? Beats sitting here rotting your gut out with worry and bad whiskey, penniless and miserable, doesn't it?"
Did he really…? Jake's jaw dropped as the full meaning of Edward's offer sank in. He should be offended, he reckoned, but he couldn't muster the energy, and the humiliation of being solicited conflicted with the lure of easy cash. He couldn't decide whether to laugh in Edward's face, or say yes.
At last, noting his voice was rough, he said, "No. Thanks, but no thanks."
Edward held Jake's gaze, disappointment in his expression. "Okay. Fair enough." He gave a sharp nod and turned away to pay for their drinks.
It wasn't until the door had closed on Edward's heels, shutting out the momentary howl of the wind again, that Jake noticed the key lying on the stool Edward had been sitting on. He stared at it, his mind still whirling.
Despite growing up in rural Kansas, Jake didn't have strong objections to men having sex with other men. The concept wasn't new, either; it had been going on at Embry-Riddle, where male students outnumbered female ones five to one, and again in Afghanistan and Iraq. Don't ask, don't tell, wasn't that what the army called it?
At least it explained why the guy had come to Rochester, miles from the nearest military base: less chance of bumping into someone who'd recognize him. If his superiors found out, it'd ruin his career.
The key, the name of a by-the-hour motel Jake remembered seeing a few blocks down the road written on the plastic tab, glinted dully in the bar's low light, beckoning him. He could do worse, he thought: Edward appeared to be fit and healthy, and as a serviceman―an officer, Jake guessed―he'd have every interest in keeping their… encounter… quiet. Nobody need find out, ever.
Jake snuck a glance around. Nobody was paying him any attention; the bartender was now busy polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. Not letting himself talk himself back out of the idea, Jake snatched up the key and stuffed it in his pocket. It sat hot and heavy against his thigh.
So this was what rock bottom looked like.
After another minute passed, he slipped from his stool. Outside, it had started to rain in earnest, and the wind had picked up strength, hitting him with its full force. He leaned into it, trying to empty his mind and not think about what it was he was about to do. He focused instead on what he'd gain: a night in a halfway decent bed, money for a proper meal….
Hell, he might even get to buy himself a bus ticket back home.