This was meant to be included in a previous story. It was to explain a bond between John and Virgil. I felt it never really fit, so wrote it separately.
Warning - This work of fiction contains abuse and violence, so please don't read if you find that kind of thing upsetting.
Sorry, my stories are rarely nice and child friendly. All reviews, positive or negative, are much appreciated.
Whenever Virgil thought back to that night, the first and most illogical of thoughts taints it. Fate. Being a practical man who had no time for religion or spirituality and other such nonsense, the notion of even entertaining the idea of fate seemed laughable. It was almost beyond him.
He remembered a tidbit of ancient mythology he'd been taught, by a girl studying History of Art that was awkwardly trying to flirt with him. It was once believed that every man was a spindle, around which the three Fate goddesses would spin the thread of human destiny.
He countered with 'you shouldn't confuse fate with coincidence.'
Or was it the other way round?
He knew for a fact that John could have died then and there, at only eighteen years old. The thought still left him feeling cold, seven years on, when the memories of that night would crash in on him. He hated how it always happened when he tried to go to sleep, ready to darken his dreams. If he had only been a few minutes slower, it would have been far too late.
Everybody thought that the Fireflash was Virgil's first rescue. They would never know how wrong they were.
He was woken up by his cell phone vibrating. It fell on the floor as he tried to pick it up. He picked it up and stared at the screen, a frown forming at the number he didn't recognise. He hit the green button reluctantly, hoping this wasn't a 1am crank call.
There was a gasp at the other end of the line, "Virgil..."
The voice that spoke out of the phone was unlike how he had ever heard it before. Nasal and slurring, full of fear, but he knew who it was. He sat up in his bed, instantly wide awake.
"John?"
"Virgil, I don't have time. I'm in a motel, near Angelus, you need to get here now"-
"John, what-"
"Just get here, please. I need you to pick me up."
"What's going on?"
"No, I can't..." John's voice dropped into a terrified whisper, "Fuck... I'm sorry."
The line went dead.
"John? John?!"
He had never moved faster in his life. He donned his jeans, boots and a jacket, before leaving the student accommodation block and sprinting to the car park.
"Angelus... A couple of hours away," Virgil muttered cooly as he started the engine, "Motel... He said he's in a motel."
He put his foot down on the accelerator, the wipers not doing much for the rain. He learned forward, squinting, driving as fast as he dared.
The terror in John's voice, every word he spoke in that call, echoed in his brain like a chant.
He wasn't sure exactly where he was going, but you couldn't miss the red neons of the motel if you tried. Virgil pulled into a parking space and stepped out into the drenching rain. He had no idea if was in the right place, or where to start looking for John. He headed off to what looked like a reception area.
As he walked past room five, he could hear a couple of raised voices. He knew one of them, even over the din of the pouring rain. His little brother's voice was higher than usual and terrified.
He didn't need any more motivation than that, turning sharply towards the door. It took three good kicks and a ram from his shoulder to smash the red painted wood. The door was almost knocked off it's hinges. When he got in the room, his nostrils were assaulted by the smell of sweat, booze and smoke. Then he looked towards the bed, beholding a horrifying sight that would burn into his memory until his last day living.
The bed a few feet away from him was occupied by two men, half-clothed and lying over the covers. One was over six feet tall and muscular, with an angular face and short brown hair. He was lying on top of the other man, whom he recognised as his brother. Tall and slender with platinum blonde hair that was falling into his eyes. John's eyes were wide and pleading. He had his two hands open and trembling on either side of his head, displaying his vulnerability. At first it looked like the big man was strangling him, but Virgil caught the glint of a red handled pocket knife, the shining silver blade pressed against his brother's pale throat.
"Don't. Shawn, don't do it," John whispered, barely able to breathe as his throat was constricted by the man's other hand.
Virgil didn't need to think. He was on John's attacker in an instant, a charging bull of fury. He barrelled into him, knocking him off the bed and off John onto the brown carpeted floor. He aimed a ferocious punch to Shawn's jaw. He risked a quick glance towards John, who was red faced and coughing as he tried to crawl off the bed. It was a mistake as it gave Shawn time to shove him into the wall and get to his feet.
Virgil leapt up and threw a punch that should have sent the attacker flying, but he outweighed Virgil and stood his ground. He felt his heart go still as the knife in Shawn's fist came down.
The blade was aimed straight at his throat, but he quickly leaned to dodge it. At the same time, John leapt on to Shawn's back with a cry, wrapping his arms around his throat. Virgil didn't have time to move clear and barely even flinched as the blade sliced the leather of his jacket, gliding through a few layers of skin. He grabbed the arm that tried to stab him and, in an impressive feat, broke it. Like snapping a twig. The noise of cracking bone resonated in the room like thunder.
The attacker went down to his knees in a roaring scream. John delivered a knockout punch to the back of his head before he could catch his breath. As the now unconscious Shawn sank onto his back, John kneeled onto his chest and rained punches down onto his face.
"John! Enough! He's down." Virgil shouted.
John gave one last punch with an angry shout, before crawling off his attacker. He leaned back against the wall, gasping and massaging his bruised knuckles. Virgil stood, huffing from the exertion. His face was becoming tight with pain as the adrenaline wore off. He looked down at gash in his upper arm.
He saw John on the floor in his peripherals, shaking like a leaf. He was dressed only in a pair of jeans, his bare feet poking out the ends. His hair was in a tangled mess, sticking to the sweat on his brow. His dark blue eyes met Virgil's. They were wrought with guilt.
"Oh, god... He hurt you..." he croaked. Virgil noted with another wave of fury that the pale skin on John's face and neck was mottled with black bruises. He could clearly see finger marks where he had been strangled.
"I'm so sorry, Virgil... I didn't want to drag you into this. I couldn't take him down on my own," John continued, leaning back against the wall, looking drained. He turned his head to stare at the floor beside him where the huge man lay sprawled and unconscious. "He said he'd kill me."
"I think he nearly did," said Virgil darkly, inspecting his a quickly. He noted there wasn't too much bleeding. It was hopefully nothing a few stitches couldn't fix.
"Bastard ruined my jacket," he said, trying to smile reassuringly as he looked into John's face.
His brother gave a shaky smile back, before looking back down at Shawn, deathly still on the carpet.
"We need to go," said Virgil, "Before he wakes up."
He knelt in front of John to check his injuries. It was only then he spotted a strange, glassy look in his little brothers eyes. His breath stank of alcohol.
John frowned as he said, "I think so. Let's get out of here, Virgil. I want to go."
Virgil wondered for an instant if John could be drugged and tentatively asked.
"Did Shawn give you anything?"
John took a while to comprehend the question, before squeezing his eyes shut despairingly.
"Shit, Virg, no. I've probably had my weight in whiskey, though. We both did."
"Ok, buddy," said Virgil gently as he warmed his hands and pressed them to his brothers neck, "I'd best look at you, before we do anything else."
Virgil had basic first aid training, a requirement in his course, but felt completely out of his depth. John gave a soundless yelp as he delicately touched his throat. His hands flew up to Virgil's, gripping them.
"Sorry. Can you turn your head?"
John tried and hissed.
"Ow. No."
Virgil felt nauseous as he inspected John's face. There was a livid bruise forming on one cheekbone. The eye above it was bright red with blood, where a blood vessel had been popped. The blue iris stood out in the centre.
"Jesus. Why did he do this to you, John?" Virgil breathed, "What happened?"
"It doesn't matter..." John said, defensive, "I'm alright. I just want to go."
His mismatched eyes flicked down again to his attacker.
"You're safe, now. I won't let him touch you. You don't need to hide anything from me."
"I know, but... Not here. Not here."
John's neck was very tender, despite how drunk he was. That was alarming enough, in addition to the effort he was putting into breathing.
"We need to get you to a hospital," said Virgil.
"No! You know we can't!"
"John, have you seen yourself? The guy tried to kill you."
"Father will finish the job for him if he finds out."
Virgil sighed. There was no use arguing when he was the one that would be driving anyway.
"Does anyone else know you two came here?" he asked.
"No, it was Shawn's idea. We took his car. The room in his name, he paid for everything," John said quickly, "He... We were being careful."
Shawn started snoring noisily from the floor, his broken arm at an odd angle. Virgil was too disgusted to feel guilt over him. He looked like he'd live. As far as he was concerned, the guy was lucky to be in one piece. He may still wake up and report them to the police, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.
John was still staring down at the brute, shivering. Virgil carefully helped him stand, before searching around for his shoes. He eventually found them on the left side of the bed, next to a condom wrapper lying on the floor. The conclusions he drew when he saw John lying under a strange man were starting to become concrete.
He turned to his brother, leaning against the wall. In that moment, he looked far younger than his eighteen years. Virgil felt any rebukes or harsh words on his tongue melt away as his protective instincts kicked in. John needed his help right now, not his disapproval. That could wait.
"Come on," he sighed, leaning down to slip on his shoes, "Here, take my jacket. It's awful out there."
"Better than in here," croaked John as Virgil wrapped his own jacket around his brother's naked torso, "I thought I'd never get out."
As Virgil helped John to the car, his brother raised his head against the drenching rain, like he was being blessed. Virgil eased him into the passenger seat and buckled him in. He noted that the noise of the downpour was probably why nobody had come to investigate the kerfuffle, or noticed the kicked in door. He had a quick glance for security cameras but could barely see anything in this weather.
As soon as the car was moving, Virgil turned up the heater and once again had to focus to see where he was going. John tucked his legs up to hug them, groaning.
"I might puke..." he warned.
Virgil took a deep breath. It was going to be a long journey home.
John managed to refrain from vomiting, promptly falling asleep ten minutes into the drive. Virgil kept an ear open, listening to his breathing. He noticed the rain had stopped and the black clouds above cleared to deep blue, speckled with stars. He rolled his shoulders to ease the aches, realising they had been driving for an hour and a half. At that moment, John woke up beside him with a humongous sigh.
"How much longer?" he muttered sleepily.
"An hour. Are you ok?"
John let out another long breath, "Yeah. Sobering up."
"You sure? You look like you're gonna puke."
"I'll give you ample warning if I do."
There was an awkward pause as John wriggled in the seat, knowing he owed his brother an explanation that he definitely didn't want to give.
"Shawn... We... We went out there to..."
"Sleep together?" asked Virgil gently.
"Yeah..."
"And did you?"
The look John gave him was both terrified and indignant.
"You're just itching to call Dad, aren't you? Tell him his perfect little NASA boy isn't so..." John burped, "...fucking perfect after all."
Virgil gripped the wheel tighter, remembering that John was hardly himself right now.
"If that's what you think, then you don't know me at all."
John seemed taken aback by the anger in his tone.
"Sorry," he said sullenly, "You didn't deserve that, Virgil. You were my saviour back there."
"Yeah, you just keep remembering that."
He looked at John, dropping his voice so it was less of an interrogation, but he couldn't hide the hurt in his voice, "Why did you never tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"That you're like me. That you like guys."
"I, uh... I'm sorry..." said John, as if the thought that telling Virgil had only just occurred to him, "For one, I'm not as brave as you."
"It doesn't take bravery," said Virgil, "Just someone walking in on you at the wrong moment."
John's mouth quirked up into a slight grin, "You still haven't told the others?"
Virgil shrugged, his fingers drumming the steering wheel, "I will. One day. You still haven't answered my question. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't even know, not for sure. For a long time, I just thought I didn't like girls. That I didn't have any drive, you know? You'd all introduce me to your girlfriends and I'd talk to them and think... What's the appeal? Then when I hit sixteen, I thought there must be something wrong..." said John, "I think part of me denied it. It felt like it didn't fit the image Father had for me, you know? Not that that's the be all and end all of my life..."
John let out a long, shaky breath, allowing himself to lean back and relax.
"You're right," Virgil said softly, "Your sexuality doesn't define you."
"Then what does?"
"Who you love. Family. How they see you."
"You would say that, wouldn't you? Virgil Tracy, a true romantic."
Virgil snorted, shaking his head. There was a companionable silence, no noise except the rumble of the car. Virgil thought John had fallen asleep again, until he spoke softly.
"He was nice."
Virgil glanced at him, "Who?"
"Shawn. He was nice, in the beginning."
"Really?" said Virgil, confused.
"Oh, yeah," sighed John, "There was always a hard edge there, though. Something mysterious about him. I thought for a long time I was barking up the wrong tree. Then last week he suggested the motel..."
John took a shuddering gasp. Virgil twitched in empathy, but refused to interrupt, focusing resolutely on the road ahead.
"Have you ever heard of the gay panic defense, Virg?"
Virgil frowned. "No."
"Once upon a time," said John softly, "A man like Shawn could kill a man like me and claim I made unwanted sexual advances. Of course, they sent him into an uncharacteristic rage. He was powerless not to kill me. Gay panic."
"That's bullshit," said Virgil acidly.
"I wish it were... When that knife came out, fucking winking at me... I honestly felt that was it, then. I knew I was going to die. I wondered how slow or fast he'd do it, if he'd make a mess of me. I could picture the look on Father's face when he was told, the newspaper headlines. 'Billionaire's Son Murdered', as a result of his sordid secret lifestyle, all that crap. Grandma... She'd be so ashamed. Shawn would say I made unwanted advances at him. He'd get away with it. All because I was stupid enough to think that he cared about me. Just because he looked at me twice."
John covered his face with his hands. Virgil drove on, relieved that his brother had at least been able to share what happened, but deep in his core was a cold fear he would never lose. The world, his world, had almost lost John Tracy. Nobody else would know or care, he would have just been another statistic.
If he didn't have the steering wheel to grip and the road to keep him focused, he would have been shaking.
They made it back to Virgil's apartment just as the dawn was breaking. Virgil carefully supported his brother to his bedroom. He grabbed one of his spare T-shirts from a pile of clean laundry that had been discarded on his desk and tossed over his little brother's head.
"Thanks," said John, a smile in his voice, muffled under the T-shirt. He picked up, needing a big of help to slip it on.
Then he lay back on the bed with a deep sigh. He was already falling asleep as Virgil tucked a blanket over him.
"Let Dad send me up to that space station he keeps talking about," he said brokenly, shedding a lone tear that tracked down his cheek.
He fixed his dark blue eyes onto his big brother's brown ones, the sadness wounding, "The further from here, the better. I swear, Virgil, I'm never touching a man again..."
"Don't talk like that."
John's face crumpled, more tears spilling down his cheeks, "Please, don't tell anyone."
Virgil reached down to place a gentle hand, big and calloused, on his brother's bruised cheek.
"Never." A promise he kept.