A/N: Thanks for all the comments, reviews, & favorites, and Happy New Year!
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# # # December 1978
"You're not really wearing that,"Jamie said. "Please tell me you're not wearing that. Please, please, please?"
Confused, Joe looked down at himself. White dress-shirt striped with brown, beige corduroy slacks and beige dress jacket: perfectly acceptable for an evening out. It was comfortable, allowed for freedom of movement, didn't wrinkle too badly with his crutch, and — most important — kept him low-key and un-noticed. "Not wearing what?"
His girlfriend, Jamie, had wanted to go out, claiming her new art project was "exposing the underbelly of the local club scene", which Joe had translated as Jamie-speak for "bar crawl". How she'd talked him into it, he wasn't sure. Clubs weren't for staying low-key.
"Us Evil Overlords can't have our apprentices looking like a Sears catalog reject." Jamie eyed him. "From the Sixties."
Joe scowled.
"The Fifties," Jamie amended. "Or maybe the Forties. But I don't think they had corduroy then."
"I just got this stuff last year!"
"You bought that stuff?"
Telling lies was never a good idea around the Center, especially with a 'path like Jamie. Joe hesitated, then chickened out. "Frank was there, too."
"You let your brother do your clothes-shopping?"
"Well, no…I mean, Aunt Gertrude —"
"A-ha! Oh, no, my lovely Fluffy Minion. You don't deserve the fashion sense of your dowager aunt. We're detouring."
That wasn't fair. Aunt Gertrude had let him choose the clothes, after all. Mostly, anyway. "Babe, c'mon, we're just going to a bar. No one's going to care."
Arms crossed, Jamie gave him her I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that scowl, her golden hair falling down over one eye. Dressed in black satin tights and a shimmery gold-lamé wrap, she looked like an escapee from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band who'd wandered into Saturday Night Fever. Maybe she had a point.
"They'll be looking at you, anyway." Joe turned up his wide-eyed pathetic-puppy act. That usually ended the argument. "Not me."
"Why?" Hands spread in supplication, Jamie looked at the ceiling. "Of all the devastatingly-cute Fluffy Minions, I had to fall in love with the one with absolutely no fashion sense. Why, I ask you, why?"
"You're supposed to say you'd love me even if I wasn't wearing anything at all."
"Ooohhh, don't tempt me."
Mission accomplished. With a lopsided smile, Joe leaned in to kiss her.
"Ah-ah-ah." Waggling a finger, Jamie sidestepped him. "My Conquering of The Castro can wait. It's time I introduced you to exciting new possibilities, my lovely Minion."
Ignoring his protests, she herded him out the door and to the junker lot, the cars that the Center owned that anyone living there could use, as long as they filled up the gas tank when done. As they crossed the gravel, the wind picked up, rustling the grass and branches. Joe looked around uneasily, surveying the road, trees, and landscape, focusing on every unusual shadow and odd shape. No one watching — that he could see, anyway: important point. He headed for the driver's side door.
"Oh no, you don't." Jamie grabbed the door handle, making shoo-ing motions. "You're not going to undermine my evil plot. I drive."
Joe hesitated. She didn't know how to avoid possible tails, or even how to spot them.
"What, you don't trust me?"
That wasn't the problem. Mouth clamped shut, Joe limped to the passenger side and eased into the pleather seat with a sigh. Already his calves and back ached: not a good sign. As Jamie backed the car out of the lot and headed towards the Bay Bridge, Joe kept his attention on the side mirror. Nothing behind them, as far as he could tell. Yet.
"What's so interesting?" Jamie said.
"I thought…" Joe hesitated. "Nothing."
After they crossed the bridge with no sign of tails and Jamie maneuvered through Friday-night traffic, Joe relaxed a little, settling back to watch the passing streets. They were safe, for the moment.
San Francisco never ceased to amaze him. Buildings were painted every possible hue; the city wasn't filled with towering skyscrapers, but felt open and wide under the sky and cradled by the ocean and Bay, and Christmas lights were everywhere — and Joe had thought Boston went overboard with its displays. Here, with all the vibrant and out-spoken nationalities, cultures, and religions, the light displays could probably be seen from Mars.
The Haight-Ashbury district was no exception. Glitter, glam, garland, lights, and tinsel were out in overwhelming force, out-flanking good taste and restraint at every possible turn. Joe tried to figure out what a brontosaurus wrapped in blue lights had to do with Christmas…and the set of plastic legs in green fishnets and red high-heels…and the trio of day-glo mushrooms puffing out red fog…and the mannikins wearing lamé jumpsuits and glittery spandex draped in hot-pink tinsel…and the window display stacked head to sill with carnival-glass hookahs…and…Joe stopped.
Jamie was steering him towards the lamé-jumpsuit mannikins.
"Oh no," Joe said. "No."
"Ye of little faith. That's just to lure the tourists in. Move."
The way she held his arm meant resisting would result in one of them tumbling to the sidewalk. With his crutch, Joe was certain it wouldn't be Jamie. With a sigh, Joe gave up and let her steer him into the store.
Racks of satin, lamé, rhinestone, leather, sequins, and spandex glittered and gleamed in every impossible color, and too many of those colors were in the same garment. The walls were crammed with painted mirrors and velvet black-light posters, while satin scarves, ties, bead curtains, and tie-dyed banners cascaded from the ceiling. Blinking, Joe tried to make sense of the overwhelming influx — then jumped when part of the rabid chaos moved.
The chubby patch of red and purple spandex jabbed its finger at Joe. "Pink. Definitely pink."
"Um," Joe said.
"We can start there," Jamie said brightly. "But I'd like to stick with things that won't get him indecently assaulted."
"Jamie!" The red-and-purple spandex came out from behind the counter and hugged her — too enthusiastically for Joe's liking. "This your latest conquest? What have you been doing with yourself? It's been ages!"
"Conquest," Joe said carefully. His hands were clenched around his crutch, ready to whip it around and strike — Joe forced himself to relax his grip. No self-respecting government agent would dress like that. On top of everything else, the man wore golden granny glasses with purple lenses, complete with a red-satin ball cap.
"You're giving away my plot." Jamie wrapped her arm around Joe's waist. "He may look like a Naive Farm Boy, but he seduced my Evil Overlordship to the Light Side of the Force. Joe, Richard. Richard, Joe."
"Pleasure's all mine," Richard said.
"No pink," Joe said firmly.
Jamie gave him one of her hormone-percolating smiles. "Don't knock it until you try it, my lovely minion. Go on, Richard. He's all yours."
Joe didn't want to be all anybody's, but he didn't want a fight, either. Not here, not where it could draw unwanted attention. He held his peace, and a couple hours of wardrobe experimentation later, he limped back out onto the sidewalk, feeling more exposed than if he had stripped to the skin.
The red silk shirt was fine — loose-fitting, threaded with silver, and open to mid-chest despite his scars and the chill — but the thin black-leather pants felt spray-painted on, showing every curve of leg and muscle. He had drawn the line on his crutch, though. No matter what Jamie thought, Joe had to get around campus. Glitter and goldfish did not fit with that program.
"You look hot." Jamie snuggled against him as they walked back to the car. "Totally, massively hot."
The phoenix tattoo covered most of the scars on Joe's torso, but it did nothing for the rope-scars around his neck, nor his twisted left hand, nor his limp. All the rest was covered by his clothes, but Joe knew they were there: the white razor lines, the wrinkled skin of burns, the thick scars at his ankles. There was nothing hot about any of it. Nothing.
"Joe?"
They were at the car, parked on one of the turned to face Jamie directly. "Maybe I don't want to be hot."
"Why do you — no. No. I'm not letting you get away with that, either. It's time you got over this nonsense."
"Nonsense?!"
"Yes, nonsense! You're not a pathetic cripple. You don't need to act —"
"I do 'need to'. That little fiasco in New York, remember? I need to blend in. Not prance around like a…a…disco troll!"
"You are blending in. You're dressed like everyone else. No one'll pay any attention to you. Not the way you mean, anyway." Jamie popped the trunk, tossed the shopping bags in, then slammed the trunk closed. "Come on."
Joe didn't move.
"I've got the keys." Jamie dangled them in front of Joe's face. "You can stay here and freeze and be really obvious to all the guys cruising for a pickup, or you can come have fun blending in, in a nice warm club."
"I thought we were going to the Castro."
"I changed my mind. The I-Beam's just up the street."
For the first time, Joe wavered. "The I-Beam?"
The I-Beam had a rep. It had several reps, any of which would've landed Aunt Gertrude in the hospital from major conniption-induced heart attacks. But one of those reps was the High Church of R&B Disco of San Francisco — which meant guaranteed awesome music.
"Tower of Power's playing," Jamie said. "Or maybe Sylvester. I forget, exactly. Someone is, anyway."
At that point, the breeze picked up, and finally Joe gave in. December in San Francisco meant no snow, but it was still chilly, with the wind either off the Bay or off the ocean. Thin leather and silk weren't good for keeping warm out on the street, especially since Jamie had locked Joe's jacket in the trunk, too.
The club entrance didn't look like much: no marquee, no neon, only a windowless black door with a painted wooden sign announcing "I-BEAM ENTRANCE" nailed above it and sandwiched between a shabby antique shop and a ticket booth next door.
But the music…
Even out on the street, it thumped and pounded, rock-heavy, sultry, and funky. Inside, the temperature went from Thank-God-It's-Warm to Oh-My-God-Where's-The-AC just a few steps inside the door. But Joe didn't notice that at first. His ears were telling him that the club had gone all out with the absolute best sound-system possible. And the music: Boogie Up Rock Down into Crazy Train into something that sounded like Kool & the Gang that cross-mixed, reversed, and scratched into fragments of What a Fool Believes, then beat-mixed into Y.M.C.A., fading into tinkly xylophones before the beat suddenly kicked up into raucous punk.
The DJ was either certifiably insane or a freakin' genius.
Jamie leaned close. "Are you going to dance or just stand there looking unbearably sexy?"
Joe looked at her. In New Orleans, Thatcher had not only ruined Joe's tendons and muscles, but had also hit Joe's spine with magic. Joe had gotten some flexibility back, but dancing in that jiggling, jumping, gyrating crowd was asking for trouble.
Rolling her eyes, Jamie had the crutch in hand before Joe could protest, and she disappeared into the crowd, leaving him on the edge of the dance floor. Joe grabbed the nearby railing for balance — at least there was plenty to watch. Even without mage-Sight, energy glowed over the crowd and pounded from the speakers, throbbing at the edge of visible range in hot reds and brilliant oranges touched with gold, making the haze of pot-and-cigarette smoke glow like the alien ship from Close Encounters. Many of the dancers bounced in unison, and quite a few of the men had their shirts off. Still, the women were wonderful to watch, especially when a brunette in a glittery green satin wrap looked him up and down with a slow, easy smile. She wasn't the only one, either.
Joe felt his tension loosen under those appreciative gazes. The brunette was rather pretty, though a bit old for this crowd, and her breasts jiggled wonderfully. No bra. Definitely no bra. Joe smiled back…
…as the woman reached down the front of her dress, pulled out one of her breasts, bounced it twice on the floor, caught it handily and tucked it back into her — his — breast cups, all in time with the music.
Right. Those reps.
Someone nudged Joe from behind. When Joe turned, Jamie handed him a paper cup of orange juice, leaning in close to be heard over the music. "The bartender'll look after the crutch."
Sweating — the club definitely had the heat set too high — Joe gulped half of the juice before a strong alcohol bite hit the back of his throat. He spluttered, yet somehow recovered enough to gasp out, "What is that?"
"White wine and juice. You okay?"
Nodding, Joe downed the rest. It was good; it was more than good.
Jamie leaned in close again. "Dance with me."
Joe glanced at the dance floor. He hadn't thought the Hustle involved that much hip movement, and it was the least acrobatic dance he was seeing. He wasn't certain he could manage that.
Before he could say anything, though, Jamie had pulled him out onto the floor. "Rising Sun form," she breathed in his ear, "my lovely Phoenix."
Between the alcohol and the thick smoke, Joe's head was buzzing. The music slowed to sultry and funky — the DJ announced it as "Prince" — and with a heavy-lidded smile, Jamie started the first moves.
The pace she set slowed the Tai-Chi kata by half, yet matched the beat, turning it into an exotic, flowing version of the "Robot" as they mirrored each other's moves. All through it, Jamie moved in closer, and closer, until she and Joe weren't so much dancing as swaying, hips teasing and barely touching. His eyes half-closed, Joe breathed in her heat and scent, just…being…feeling…enjoying this, here, now…
"Y'know," Jamie murmured in his ear, as her hands roamed his chest, "the original name of Rising Sun Form was Phoenix Shining Over The Horizon."
He opened his eyes to stare down into hers, glittering in the lights, bright green to his hazel. God, she was beautiful…and he felt so, so…
She pulled his head down to brush his lips with hers, then started unbuttoning Joe's shirt. "Display your pretty feathers. Show off my lovely, handsome Phoenix to all these people."
Joe grabbed her wrists. "No."
She chuckled deep in her throat. "Look around you. Most the guys here have theirs off already."
"Then take yours off. Most of those guys won't care." The women probably would, though Joe wasn't about to say that.
"But the cops do." Grinning, Jamie slid her hands back under Joe's shirt to caress his chest. "Unfortunately, it's illegal for my Evil Overlordship to display my assets like that. You, however…"
Well, all the men Joe could see did have their shirts off, waving them over their heads in time with the beat. And it was over-warm in here, Joe was sweating, and Jamie was giggling as she undid his shirt, swaying against his hips without — quite — grinding against him. Finally Jamie slipped the last button loose and slid Joe's shirt from his shoulders.
Even over the thumping music, Joe heard appreciative hoots and whistles. Her hands around his waist, Jamie nuzzled his neck, then bent his head down for a lengthy, involved kiss that had Joe wanting to pull her to the floor right then and there. Instead — with all the confusion of disco lights and bodies, no one would notice — Joe closed his eyes, lost himself in her feel and warmth as he pulled in just a bit of the wild energy, just a touch.
"Ohhhh, nice," Jamie breathed, caressing the phoenix tattoo, a blaze of color spread over Joe's chest, stomach, and back — and now glowing just enough to be noticeable.
"Mind if I cut in?" Deep voice, behind Joe, right in his ear.
Startled, Joe turned: the breast-bouncer.
Jamie doubled over laughing as the man started an enthusiastic version of the Bump with Joe, to the cheers and war-whoops of nearby dancers. Joe grabbed the man's shoulder for balance — he did not want to fall flat on his butt — though, grinning, the man didn't take things any further than the hip-bumps, complete with timed bounces of whatever rubber-thing filled his breast cups.
"You're straight, honey, I can tell," the man said to Joe, in between bumps. "I'll be gentle. I just want to know — who did that for you?"
"Talk to her." Joe nodded towards Jamie. "She designed it."
Still giggling, Jamie stumbled towards the edge of the dance floor and snagged one of the club staff, then came back with a marker in hand. "May I?"
The man held out his arm and Jamie scrawled out her name and phone number on his skin. He cocked his head to read it. "Jamie Hollis? Like, MoMA?"
Jamie only grinned.
"Gorgeous, you are one lucky guy," the man said to Joe. "And you, girl," that to Jamie, "park yourself here. Because when I flash this around, you're going to get mobbed. Especially with stuff like that." He nodded at Joe's tattoo, then sashayed away into the crowd.
Aware of the press of people around him, and the continued stares, studying gazes, and smiles, Joe stood there, unsure how to react. That had been totally unexpected, but — he had to admit it — definitely gratifying.
The music kicked up, an insane high-energy Le Freak beat-mixed into You're The One That I Want with blips of Signed Sealed Delivered. Giggling, Jamie pulled Joe against her in a full-contact grind, and he had to grip her shoulders hard to stay on his feet — not that he minded. Not caring about crowd, laughter, or encouraging hoots, Joe pulled her into an intense, damn-near-making-out kiss —
Something caught his eye: a sense of stillness in all the gyrating, grinding, acrobatic funk.
Joe looked up.
Eye-contact — the other man hurriedly looked away. That was odd. Joe turned his apparent attention back to Jamie, but kept a covert eye on the man. White, maybe mid-thirties — hard to tell in the club's lighting — moussed-to-an-inch-of-its-life wavy hair mimicking Barry Gibb, right down to a thick mustache with a life of its own, and here, in this over-heated mess of satin, sequins, lamé, and leather, the man wore a polyester disco-troll suit. It was muted yellow and black, not white, but it might as well have been a spotlight.
Joe kept his eye on the man, who now apparently watched the dancers. He kept glancing at Joe, then away before the glance settled.
"Joe?"
He looked at Jamie, then back in time to catch the man watching him again. In the strobing, flashing, sparkling swirl of disco-lights, Joe couldn't tell if the man was Gifted or not, but he kept catching glimpses of something that might have been a mage-aura.
Or not…
"Joe…"
Shaking his head, Joe pulled Jamie under his arm and further into the crowd, leaning on her for support as he pushed through the dancers and limped towards the far wall. The chaos of lights and gyrating dancers should keep them covered. "We're leaving," he said in her ear. "Now."
Frowning, Jamie glanced back, and Joe pulled her against him to help the contact, trying to project his alarm over the watcher. Jamie could read him; it'd been getting stronger ever since NYC. Joe didn't mind. He wanted that connection, and he suspected it was becoming two-way, but the last thing he wanted was Jamie in the line of fire. If the CIA wanted revenge over NYC, if they decided to strike now…
No. He would not let it happen.
With another glance back, Jamie helped him back into his shirt and slipped her arm around his waist. "This way. I've got an idea."
Joe let her take the lead — she knew the club scene, he didn't. Right at the exit, Jamie stopped to talk to a burly, bald man in a black t-shirt emblazoned with I-BEAM. "We're leaving. Someone's trying to start trouble with us." Jamie smiled, this time not to dazzle, just being friendly. "I don't suppose you could delay him a bit…? If he tries to…y'know…"
The bouncer glanced back into the club. "Who?"
"Don't know his name." Joe slipped the man a twenty; he deserved more, but it was the largest bill Joe had on him. "Older guy. Thirties. Looks like a Barry Gibb rip-off."
"Whole herds of esters died for his suit," Jamie added. "Yellow ones."
Cracking a smile, the bouncer nodded. "Got it. Scoot."
Out on the street, Jamie slowed to a casual stroll. Joe wanted to go faster. He wanted out of here. He wanted to be at the car and away from here before the man or any potential back-up realized the prey had slipped the trap. But without his crutch, Joe was limited to Jamie's pace. His balance had gotten a lot better over the past few months, but upping his walking pace to anything past staggering-lurch was a guaranteed header into the concrete.
"Easy," Jamie said. "We're on a public street. He can't do much out here."
"I'm worried he won't realize that." Joe glanced around, studying anyone who looked as if they had more than a passing interest in him — which was just about everyone. Too many people — men and women — gave him thorough once-overs…and twice-overs…and not-so-quiet wolf whistles…and lengthy stares at his butt and crotch, despite his limp. It was supposed to be flattering, but Joe shifted uncomfortably, wishing the leather pants weren't quite so tight.
Jamie was giggling again.
"I'm glad I'm so amusing," Joe said dryly. Why had they parked all the way over on Oak Street? It hadn't seemed that far walking in.
About halfway down Cole Street, headed for the Panhandle, Joe glanced back. Just at the corner of Haight was a throng of drunk and rowdy club-goers, and at the edge of the group stood someone in a yellow suit, who stepped back down Haight and out of sight before Joe got more than a glimpse.
"Settle down," Jamie said. "If I go any faster, you'll end up face down on the sidewalk."
Finally they crossed Oak Street and got to the junker. Bracing against the car to lever himself down, Joe checked it over: tailpipe, tire wells, just under the frame along the doors and the bumpers. Nothing had been attached, that he could tell.
"I know the Blades encourage paranoia, but it is chilly out here," Jamie said.
Joe glared up. "Healthy paranoia. As in, I'd like to stay healthy."
"Why would anyone bother coming all this way to do something they could've easily done long before this?" Ignoring his glare, Jamie unlocked the driver door. "Especially since the junkers sit in that nice tree-shaded lot right outside the Center."
"If they attached a trace —"
"I'm pretty sure the feds know where the Center is, by now." Jamie put her elbows on the car roof, smiling across at him. "They don't need to put a trace on you if they know exactly where you're going to be."
There was an answer to that. There had to be. But Joe was too keyed-up to think of it at the moment. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed his irritation and got in. He didn't want a fight, not with Jamie, not when they were supposed to be having a fun night out.
"So," Jamie slid into the driver's seat, "since whoever they are knows where we're likely going, there's no real reason for us to move right away, right?"
Joe only looked at her. He wasn't going to say it.
But Jamie leaned over the gear shift, her warm hands sliding up his chest and under his shirt against his chilled skin. Joe's breath caught as Jamie's lips touched his, breathing soft, warm words against his face.
"So, my lovely Phoenix, I say we give them something to watch…"