A/N: Again, thanks for the reviews and for reading. Everything falls apart.
IV. Dissolution
Dean stretched both legs out, one over Seth's knee and one over Roman's, and yawned. "Anyway," he went on, pulling his legs back in, "so, yeah, we did the dumb feelings-and-monogamy thing. Which, you know, I'd just turned twenty-three, so, I mean, I was kinda gettin' - to me - past the age where I was a dumb kid. Mean, shit, I'd lived more in the last year than most people did in a fucking lifetime.
"I'd fucking killed people.
"It was crazy to think about it, considered I'd just been working at a bar a couple years before that.
"But, you know, I loved the hell outta the guy, and once I moved in, I pretty much quit lyin' to myself about it. Mean, I still had the apartment, and went back there sometimes when I needed to get some space, but, for the most part…
"He challenged me. You know? Like I said, he treated me like I had a brain in my head, and then he made me use it. We'd go somewhere and he'd show me stuff, and then he'd be all, 'So why do you think that thing happened?' Or 'what do you think caused that?' We'd actually, like, talk about it, which - you gotta remember, I dropped outta school when I was like thirteen, so there was a shit-ton I didn't know about the world. I read books because I wanted to learn, but getting out there and seein' it all - it made me understand.
"It's like a part of me I didn't even realize was asleep woke up and just - it wanted to know.
"Which was cool 'cuz he wanted me to know, so when we had time to get out and see stuff, we did.
"We fought sometimes, you know, like you do when you're around each other all the time, and sometimes when it got bad, I thought, 'Shit, this is it,' but we always managed to pull it back.
"Helped we were busy.
"And as 2000 became '01 became '02, I started to think, 'Shit, this is it.' Like, the sex was still good and we were havin' fun and, yeah, like, I'm thinkin' this could be the rest of my life and I'd be okay.
"Thing was, though, toward the back end of '01, we started running into a lot more dudes with guns than we had before. Like, we had maybe three incidents altogether between when I started and the one in Mexico. Once the one in Mexico happened, seemed like we had one every other month.
"By, like, April of '02, it was up to one every month. Got to the point I was getting nervous about going anywhere. Like, I got Regal a bulletproof vest to wear under his suits and I had one for myself 'cuz - shit, Bischoff kept sending us out, even though me and Regal both were like, 'You don't understand how fucking dangerous these meetings are getting.'
"So, finally, about September of '02, Bischoff finally owned up to why this was happening.
"I came fucking uncorked.
"And I didn't know it, but that was the beginning of the end for me and Regal - for a while.
xXx
"...yeah," Eric Bischoff said, wincing. One hand scratched at the back of his neck. His leather coat squeaked softly. "So about that trip to Montreal. Hey, I have to ground you, Willy, ol' buddy, ol' pal. There's – uh. Something. Well, look, you got a target on your back. It's – uh. It's the Russian Mafia."
William lifted his chin. Said, all ice and iron, "Eric, don't ever call me 'Willy' again. And what exactly do you mean I've got a target on my back?"
"It- look, it's my fault," Bischoff said with an uneasy, greasy little smile. Trying to smooth William's feathers, Dean guessed, from his usual place right behind William's chair. "A while back, I had our guys take out some people I thought were scamming me. I thought they were just some no-name low-level flunkies. Turned out there were pretty well-connected to the Russian Mafia. Very well-connected. And our guys fucked up and didn't cover their tracks well enough, so they traced it back to me. I'm the one they're trying to get at, but I'm too well-covered. So they've been gunning for you. That's why you've been under so much fire lately."
The fucking Russian Mafia.
"Define 'lately,'" William said. His hands were white on the chair's arms. Dean's own were balled up at his sides.
"I think that thing in Mexico might have been the start of it," Bischoff admitted, dark eyes cutting away.
Mexico had been a clusterfuck: William had nearly been kidnapped, but Dean managed to fight his way free of the guy trying to slit his throat and got to the truck before the would-be kidnappers managed to take William away.
Dean had had fucking nightmares for three weeks from that one.
Now, William took a deep breath and settled a hand on Dean's forearm.
Probably knew Dean was about ready to hop over the desk and start swinging.
"That was a year ago, Eric," William finally managed. How he wasn't screaming when the back of his neck had the anger-flush spreading over it like wildfire Dean had no idea. "How in the name of hell is this the first time we're hearing about it?"
Dean decided he didn't give a shit about the answer.
He made his way around the desk and clamped a hand around Bischoff's fat throat, shoving the chair back so it hit the wall. He dug in so hard his fingers went white, so hard he could feel the fucker's trachea squeezing. "That better not be what you're fuckin' tellin' us," he snarled. "Or so help me God I'll snap your fuckin' neck right now, you piece of shit."
In a flash, William was right beside him. He sounded alarmed when he said, "Stop, Dean. Stop. Let him go."
Bischoff's dark cow eyes were bugging out of their sockets and his face was a really satisfying brick red.
Fuck letting go.
"He almost got us fucking killed!" he said, spit flying from his lips. "Again and again! What the fuck did you think you were doing?"
He was aware, distantly, that someone - maybe Bischoff or maybe William - was clawing at his forearm to get him to let go, but with his adrenaline spiking and his fucking heart pounding a hole in his chest, he couldn't bring himself to give a fuck.
Eleven.
Eleven fucking times in the last year they'd almost been killed.
Eleven.
(Fucking kill him. Kill the useless piece of shit.)
"let go, dean. let go. let him go. don't kill him!"
"How can you tell me to let him go?" Dean growled, snapping a look William's way. Rage had him feeling like his fucking skin was on fire. "Huh? He almost got us killed."
(William's wide chrome-blue eyes and blood-spattered face as they just barely escaped one more fire-fight.
Dean's leg-arm-side burning from yet another bullet-graze.
More scars than skin at this point.)
Two hands on his shirt collar and a violent shake that brought his teeth together on his tongue suddenly turned the volume back up on the room.
"We survived," William said, pale blue wide and intent. His whole neck was flushed, the skin bright red in the open vee of his yellow dress shirt. "'Almost' is not the same as did. We are fine. And now that we know the cause, I assume Eric is going to apologize and go to great lengths to ensure our safety. Aren't you, Eric?"
Bischoff nodded so frantically it messed up his hair.
He'd had clawed deep scratch-marks into the back of Dean's hand.
William touched Dean's arm. "Let him go, dove. If you kill him, it'll just bring Security down on us. I don't think you can fight through thirty men with guns, and I don't want to have to try."
Reluctantly, furiously, Dean let go, but not before he gave Bischoff a hard shove to one side. He got right in the guy's round moon face and said in his coldest, most dead voice, "Anything else happens us because of you, Bischoff, and I swear to Christ and all my dead friends I take it out on your hide. You got it?"
Bischoff's watery dark eyes found William's. "Get him out of my sight before I have security shoot him."
William clapped Dean's tee shirt-covered shoulder and offered a brief smile. "No," he said, "no, I do believe I'll have him stay here. To keep the peace."
He did, however, draw Dean away to the other side of the desk, sitting, while Dean resumed his place just behind the chair, a protective hand right on William's shoulder.
They watched Bischoff gather himself, the grinding cough finally subsiding to a wheeze. He was shaking like leaf as he flicked his hair back off his face and adjusted his jacket.
Once he'd had himself together, he shot Dean a murderous look before turning his attention back to William. "I want that fucking psychopath gone. Today."
"No," William said. He was so calm he could have been talking about what they'd had for lunch. Dean fucking loved him for that. Just fucking walking it right to Bischoff. "'That psychopath' was just doing his job. He's extraordinarily protective of me. He's why I'm still alive despite nearly a dozen ambushes and deals gone bad. And he's right to be upset. I'm upset. What in the hell do you mean this has been going on for a year?"
One of Bischoff's hands crept up to rub at the red marks on the front of his throat. "We didn't exactly know who was doing it," he rasped. "We were trying to figure it out. You were bait."
"Bait?" Dean growled, twitching all over again.
William patted the hand still up on his shoulder. "Easy, dove. No killing."
"Gotta ruin all my fun," Dean muttered, glaring daggers at Bischoff, who visibly flinched. "Bait?"
Bischoff cleared his throat. "I knew somebody was after you – us, me – but I didn't know who. We were trying to draw them out. That's why we kept putting you guys out there. We were watching. I didn't want you to know because we were trying to figure out who the hell was behind it. But your little psycho pet there was too damned good at his job – never left anybody alive for us to get information out of. Until the last job. We got one and now we know it's the Russians. We fucked up and killed somebody important to them, and they're trying to take me – or you – out."
Shaking his hair out of his eyes, William said,"And you didn't feel the need to tell us – why?"
He could have touched a pool of water and made a fucking skating rink, he was so cold.
Thing of fucking beauty.
"We didn't want them to know we were onto them," Bischoff finally admitted.
Dean was pretty sure blood was about to start shooting out of his fucking eyes. "Are you fucking serious?"
"That is the bloody stupidest thing I've ever heard," William said on his heels. "Had we known, Dean could have easily left one of them alive months ago and we'd have got to the bottom of all this!"
Bischoff shoved to his feet. "Don't talk to me like that, Regal-"
"Oh, sit down," William cut him off, a hand firmly clamped around Dean's wrist to keep him from jumping over the desk again. "Is it over, then? The Russians. Now we know. Has the threat been neutralized?"
"No," Bischoff said, still sounding like he'd swallowed a pound of gravel. He walked around to the wide-open floor of his office and began to pace. "That's partly why I'm grounding you. We're gonna start sending other people – people the Russians don't know. I need you on something else. Something bigger."
Warily, William moved to perch on the front edge of the desk, carefully smoothing down the front of his vest as he sat on it. He adjusted his shirt cuffs and straightened his cufflinks, making sure the tiny holes in the tiny brass knuckles were lined up just like he liked them. Dean perched right beside him, ready to jump right the fuck into the fray again.
Fucking piece of shit.
Meanwhile, back and forth Bischoff went, so fast it looked as if he was going to wear a hole in the floor. "Look," he said quietly, "you know I got this thing with McMahon going. Well, that's – between us and the ceiling here, it's not doing so hot. Every warehouse of his we take, he takes two of mine. We're losing a lot of guys. I'm having to devote most of my time and energy into placating all of our suppliers and strategizing the best way to keep us from losing more territory. Now that Russo's dead, there's really nobody minding the store on B& A side of the house." He glanced over, and away. "I need you to do that."
William's forehead furrowed. He looked about as confused as Dean felt. "To do...?"
"To run my company while I handle all this other bullshit," Bischoff said baldly. He stopped pacing. The light hit his face just right as he did, and it made him look ten years older, new stress lines and gray hairs showing. "I know you're mad at me and I know we don't always get along, but you're about the only guy here I got knows his elbow from a hole in the ground. To be honest, right now I don't even know what kind of financial shape the company's in. That's how snowed-under I am here."
Dean shot William a quick, startled look, and saw his own unease reflected right back at him: how the fuck did Bischoff not know what kind of shape his own company was in?
Shifting, William said, "Well, I appreciate that, Eric, but I'm not-"
"It's not a request," Bischoff cut him off, holding up a chubby hand. "I'm sorry about the last few months, all right? I am. You're right. It was stupid as hell to keep that Russian Mafia stuff from you. I should have said something. Okay? But, look, while you're here, you'll have a whole team of people dedicated to keep you safe here and at your penthouse. No more attacks. No more ambushes. No more knives in the dark. You're gonna be out of that world altogether. This is going to be straight-up corporate."
Passing a hand through his hair, William said, in that same kind of wary way he did when Dean said something weird, "So by running your company, you mean…?"
"Run the company," Eric answered, like it was really fucking obvious. "Get the books in shape. Find out what our financial picture looks like. Make sure the illegal money is hidden. Make sure we're still compliant with the feds in case we get audited. Start looking for new companies to invest in. Check with human resources to make sure our employees are doing okay. You're still going to answer to me on the big decisions – what we invest in where – but day-to-day is all you. So, I guess that'll make you the chief operating officer."
Dean didn't need to be a psychic to know what William was thinking as he folded his arms over his chest.
It was all over his face: I don't have a clue how to run a company.
Not that Bischoff did, either. Dean made a mental note to point that out.
Of course, the bigger question was what would Dean himself do here?
Sounded like they Biscoff was going to give William a security team.
And once William and Bischoff started really getting down to the nuts and bolts of it, it was like they forgot Dean was even in the room. William got that look in his eyes like he'd just had some new puzzle thrown down right in front of him: a kid on Christmas, excited to play with his new toy.
Bischoff and William both sat back down in their chairs, and Dean wandered over to lean back against the door.
No more traveling for work.
That was gonna suck.
Sounded like a huge fucking deal, though, especially with threats of audits and shit apparently hanging over their heads.
That was jail time for a shit-ton of people.
He perked up a bit at the talk of a security team, but neither Biscoff or William even looked his way as they talked about having people watch the apartment, and having building security screen anybody who came in.
So what do I do?
Half an hour later, he finally posed the question down in William's office, one booted foot up on the corner of William's desk and William himself now minus his suit coat.
William's sharp fucking eyes landed right on him, just flaying him open to the point he didn't even have to ask why Dean was suddenly wondering what to do now.
"I do believe you'll be heading that security team he promised me," he finally said, the edges of his accent softening. "I wouldn't worry about it a bit, dove."
Dean gave him a narrow look, worrying a hangnail between his thumb as he tipped back a little more in his chair. "I'm not. Just - you should've let me finish the fucking job. Pop his stupid head off."
"And then his security would have shot us both," William said. "It won't be much longer before he gets his, you know. He's refusing to let go of that idiotic war with Vince McMahon. But I suppose that's his problem."
"I guess. So – uh. Promotion."
That earned him a smile. "How about that? Me running the company and you heading up a whole security team. We, my dear boy, are moving up in the world. It won't be long now before we have the keys to the entire bloody kingdom." He got up and made his way around the desk. When he stood in front of Dean's chair, he bent down to settle his hands on Dean's shoulder. If Dean had leaned forward six inches, they could have kissed; and, in fact, William did just that, swiping a light kiss across Dean's forehead. "D'you know, they could give me a hundred teams to watch out for me, and I'd never feel a tenth as safe with them as I do with you. You're the only person on this planet I trust with my life, dove. That will never change."
"Kiss-ass," Dean muttered, warmed and more relieved than he wanted to admit.
"That was quite attractive what you did in there," William purred into his ear. "Going after Eric that way. I so love it when you're on the attack like that. Assertive."
Dean, who was just as big a sucker for that tone now as he had been two years ago, huffed a laugh against William's cheek. "Oh, y'want me to be assertive, huh? I'll show you assertive." He rose abruptly, shoving his chair back as he seized hold of William's shoulders.
All of a sudden, he was really fucking glad he'd locked the office door behind them.
xXx
"Yeah," Dean sighed to Seth and Roman, "it didn't work out that way."
Seth inclined his head, dark eyebrows lowering. "With the security thing?"
Dean nodded. "Took, like, six weeks to transition. I spent most of that time completely fucking useless outside of Regal's office. I just - I sat there reading books while he had meetings with all these people. We only went somewhere a few times, and even then all I did was carry his fucking briefcase.
"But I told myself it would only be a few weeks, you know? Once he had the run of B&A - that's Bischoff and Associates - I'd make my move into running whatever security team they had for us."
He wedged his thumbnail between his teeth and bit down. "I did think it was a little weird I wasn't, like, training or anything to do that job, though. And I actually mentioned that to Regal, but he was so fucking busy with meetings and paperwork and shit, he barely had time to have lunch with me, let alone really look into anything.
"I barely saw him, even when we were living under the same roof, and that was probably the worst part: he got kind of cranky with me anytime I just poked my head in while he was working, and he was tired all the time so we didn't fool much at all - fuck, we barely talked to each other.
"Like I said, I thought I'd just hang on until he made the move officially.
"They got him an assistant - this dude named Brad - and stuff, so I figured the load would lighten up or whatever once the initial crush was over. I was willin' to wait. I understood.
"Problem was, it didn't get better.
xXx
"Almost immediately, it became apparent I was rather in over my head," William admitted to Wade. "I hadn't the faintest idea how to actually run a company - what I was supposed to do, how to fix the problems people heaped on me, or even how to go about determining the state of the company's finances. Worse, I had no one to ask.
"Eric more-or-less lost himself in his war with Vince McMahon, and none of the remaining executives at Bischoff and Associates had the faintest bloody clue how to do anything.
"I had my poor assistant - Bradley - running around rather like a headless chicken, while I myself worked sometimes fifteen-hour days to try to figure out what we were doing.
"As the day came for me to officially take over as Chief Operating Officer, I was in a panic.
"Worse, I barely realized what a mess I was making for myself at home."
xXx
Half six a.m. on a dark mid-October morning in New York, and William stood not in front of his dresser mirror, but rather his tired-eyed young lover, who was in the process of buttoning and straightening William's vest with sure hands, pausing every now and again to tug and draw his hand down.
William, who was more than capable of doing this himself, couldn't resist a smile as Dean backed away and nodded in satisfaction. "There ya go. Perfect."
"Thank you, dove."
"Well, it's your big day," Dean said, holding up the suit coat. "I'm real happy for you, by the way, in case I haven't said that like a million times. And you look fucking great, if I do say so myself."
"Don't I always?" William said as he slipped the coat on. "You seemed rather restless last night."
A flicker of trouble in Dean's eyes as he looked up, and then away. His fingernails scraped red lines into the tender skin of his inner forearm. "Uh, yeah. Was just - I know you're busy, but I was wondering, like, if you'd heard anything about this security team thing? 'Cuz I haven't. Nobody's said shit to me, if I'm supposed to be working with them or whatever."
As he turned to check his reflection, William shook his head. His hair, which had been trimmed just a bit Saturday, moved just a bit before settling right back in place. It looked good, he decided, and so did the rest of him, in this all-black suit.
The very image of a man in power, even if said man still felt like he was trying to paddle upstream in whitewater rapids.
He'd found his footing a bit with Bradley's help, but still, there was a long way to go.
"So is that a no?"
William glanced around at the question, frowning. "Sorry?"
Dean cleared his throat and plucked his own jacket off the foot of the bed, slipping it on and completely concealing his guns. "I asked if you heard anything about the security thing. You did answer. So I was guessing you hadn't…?"
"No, I haven't," William said, reaching for his portfolio, mind already running through the half-million things he needed to do this morning. "Why would I?" he added. "I've nothing to do with security."
"I was just askin," Dean muttered. "Guess maybe I'll ask around and find out."
Already half out the door, William murmured, "Do that."
In the car on the way to the office, Dean said, somewhat tentatively, "We should celebrate your big day. You know? Wanna do lunch or dinner tonight or something?"
Without looking up from the report printout he'd been perusing, William said, "I've got lunch plans already, actually, and I'm sure it'll be a late night tonight. My whole week is rather booked, in fact. I might not have told you that. I wouldn't bother waiting on me for dinner. I should have some time Sunday, though, so perhaps then. We'll see."
He heard an annoyed sigh, but chose to ignore it.
Once he and Dean separated outside his office, in fact, he barely spared the boy a moment's thought.
He hit the ground running on a day that was full of meetings, a working lunch, and even more meetings. So many people came and went that by the time five o'clock rolled around, he'd started to forget his own bloody name.
Dean stepped in briefly at five, but William was in the middle of a phone call and wound up waving him away.
It was nearing seven in the evening Bradley, his assistant, walked in with a cardboard box.
Bradley Maddox was a model handsome young thing, well-built with thick curly dark hair, blue eyes, plump lips, and a wonderfully round bum. He had a habit of wearing tight slacks and dress shirts that showed off his compact, muscular body. More than once William caught himself staring when Bradley bent down to pick something up.
He was quite good at his job, Bradley. He was efficient, if a touch on the quiet side, but quite thorough.
William stretched out his shoulders and leaned back in his desk chair as Bradley set the cardboard box down onto the desk. "And just what is that, young man?"
Bradley smiled slowly. "Just something to celebrate your first day, sir," he said. "Since you're working so late and can't go out celebrating, I thought I'd bring it to you."
"Well, that's quite thoughtful of you, my boy," William said, smiling and touched. It was, too, and some restless part of him couldn't help observing that it was more than Dean had bothered to do for him. "What've you got for me, then?"
"Well, this for one." Brad pulled out a bottle of rather expensive champagne and two champagne flutes, all of which he set on the desk. "And this." He brought out a rather nice takeaway meal that William recognized as his favorite from the bistro down the street.
"Thank you, lad," William said. "You're too good to me."
As he picked up the champagne bottle, Bradley said, "You deserve the best, sir. I know how hard you work. It's nice for someone to take care of you once in a while."
Something almost coy in the little look Bradley sent him. William found himself smiling all over again. Differently this though, more like a cat smiling at a field mouse in front of it. The old habit, gone dormant but entirely excised, had him brushing a finger over the back of Brad's hand as he accepted the champagne flute.
He didn't miss the way Brad's gaze lingered on his as he did, those smoky blue eyes framed by ungodly long lashes.
But.
No, he told himself firmly, and now he thought about Dean, who was doubtless at home waiting for him.
In his defense, he did try, but the champagne flowed freely, and Bradley, it turned out was rather a student of art and fine dining, and chattered away amiably about a trip he'd taken to Paris earlier this year. It was light, nothing talk, but after the day William had had, it was quite nice to sit back with his champagne and just listen.
Especially with such nice scenery to admire.
And he was just admiring it - only looking.
Or he planned to, anyway, but when Bradley, clearly feeling a bit bolder after his second glass of champagne, murmured, "You look so nice in those suits, Mr. Regal," one of William's naughty hands stole out to touch Bradley's flushed cheek.
"You're rather attractive in your clothes, Mr. Maddox," he said with a languid smile. Today, especially, a pale gray dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up, tight gray slacks, and a matching vest. He was the very picture of a young professional, Bradley was, and a stark contrast to Dean, who wore nothing but jeans, tee shirts, and leather jackets. "Very attractive."
Bradley swallowed and leaned into the touch. "Am - uh, am I out of line, sir, in saying as, uh, as nice as you look in your suits, I bet you'd look better out of them?"
"Mm, no more than I would be for saying the same," William replied, those damnable words sneaking out against all good judgment.
And, oh, it was so wrong, reaching up to bring Brad in for a kiss, but it was sweet.
Brad's lips were soft and pliant in a way Dean's never were, and there wasn't even a scrap of back-talk or challenge when the lad sank to his knees in front of William's chair and reached for William's belt.
He refused to let himself feel guilty: it had been a long day, and he was entitled to a reward.
(Dean would have happily done this for you, his conscience pointed out.)
It was his last conscious thought as hazy pleasure began to drown everything else out.
On his way home, that was when the guilt finally caught him in its sharp little teeth and brought the reality of what he'd just done into rather sharp focus.
That was new - guilt - and unpleasant.
In the past, he'd never felt a thing when he'd stepped out on a lover, but on his way up to the penthouse, all he could think was he really hoped Dean didn't notice anything amiss, and that it wasn't going to happen again.
Dean was sat in his usual corner of the couch in shorts and a tee shirt, knees drawn up to his chest and his attention focused on the TV, where Raw was playing at a low volume. He passed a hand through his hair as he looked over. "Hey," he said simply. "You're late."
William set his portfolio down on the end table and slipped out of his coats. "I - ah, yes," he said. "It - we had rather a lot to do tonight."
"Good day?"
"A bit chaotic, but that's hardly anything new."
"Mm." Dean gestured at the TV. "Wanna watch? It just started."
"Ah, no," William said. He couldn't bear the thought of being in Dean's company right now, even with the distraction wrestling between them. The guilt: it made him feel as if he was going to crawl out of his skin. "No, I - sorry, I have a bit of a headache after today. I thought I'd take a bath and try to get some rest."
What little expression there had been on Dean's face vanished as he nodded. He said nothing.
On his way past the couch, though, William paused. "Ah, did - you were going to find out something about the security team today, weren't you? Any luck?"
"Yeah," Dean said, staring straight ahead. "Bischoff doesn't want me anywhere near 'em. I's gonna see if you'd talk to him, but I wouldn't wanna impose. I know how busy you are."
If he was a cartoon character, he'd have had a little scribble over his head to show he was disgruntled.
William began to reach for him, but aborted the movement halfway and instead slipped his hands into his pockets. "I'll talk to him in the morning," he offered. "And I was thinking - I'll try not to work so late tomorrow night. If you, ah, if - we could go have dinner. After work. At Le Mer or - oh, I don't know, somewhere you like."
Dean's shoulders hitched in a shrug that was full of resounding indifference. "'f you want."
"All right," William said. There were a dozen other things he really should have said - wanted to say - but the back of the couch seemed like a Great Wall of China between them suddenly. And he was too tired and too thick-headed to put the words together in any meaningful way. "Think about it."
"Uh-huh," Dean muttered after him.
In the bath, with the heat of the water soaking away the day's cares, William couldn't help marveling what a difference three hours made: from feeling like he was on top of the bloody world to feeling rather miserable.
And just a touch resentful: Dean didn't bring champagne.
No congratulations.
No anything.
Even tonight, he'd barely mustered up the interest to ask how William's day was.
Seemed all he cared about was the bloody security team nonsense.
At least Bradley had acted properly pleased for him today.
So perhaps there was no need for guilt: if Dean could be selfish today, why couldn't William?
Why can't I?
With that, and a reasonably clear conscience, William had no trouble falling asleep.
The next day was a tense ride to the office, and work with the accounting department to try to get their books back into some semblance of order. They weren't horrible, but there had been such a rapid turnover of people in the department that no one really knew who was supposed to do what, so half the battle was just to get everyone on the same page and communicating what they were doing.
He asked if they'd mind staying a bit late with him tonight and the rest of the week to try to sort out some of the mess, and virtually all of them agreed.
And, in fact, he'd just sat down to start going through the receivables report when he heard a throat clear in his doorway. He'd sent Bradley off to buy dinner for the troops in Accounting, so that left only one person it could be. "Yes, Dean?" he said without looking up.
"So what'd Bischoff say?" Dean asked.
"About what?" William asked absently, eyes roving a column of numbers that just didn't look right to him.
"The security team?" Dean said. "You said you were going to talk to him. You didn't, did you?"
...damn.
William set down his pen and looked up. Dean stood leaning against the door frame, one booted foot crossed over the other, flat-eyed and expressionless. The butts of both guns peeked out from their usual spots just beneath his armpits. Saying I forgot was probably a terrible idea - even if it was the truth - so he settled for, "I didn't have a chance to, no." It sounded a lot better. "I did try to call upstairs, but he wasn't in. I'll try again first thing tomorrow." As he said that, he jotted himself a note and stuck it on his phone. "There we are."
Dean's tongue pushed out one of his cheeks. He didn't look terribly impressed. "'Kay. Take it you're working late again?"
"That was rather the plan, yes," William said. "W...oh." He was really on a roll where Dean was concerned today, wasn't he? Forgot all about dinner, too. "I'm sorry. I've got the whole accounting department working late the rest of the week, and I'd - I really need to be here to oversee the work. I did say yesterday it would probably be like that."
"Okay." Dean pulled in a deep breath like he was about to say something, but let it go noisily as he turned away.
"I'll see you at home, dove," William called after him.
No answer.
He meant to get home at a reasonable hour to spend some time with Dean - and have sex with him - but not long after the accounting people left for the evening, Bradley sashayed into the office with a heated look in his eyes and a bottle of lubricant in hand.
William decided there was no rush, after all.
For the second night running, a feeling of guilt followed him home like a genuinely unwanted dog.
He was weak.
When he made his way into the penthouse, he Dean sat in the middle of the living room floor with all the bits and pieces of his gun spread out on a sheet in front of him. Cleaning them. He did that when he was angry. Some history programme filled the room with a flickering glow. "Hey," he said curtly as he drew a brush through one gun's barrel. Intent eyes gave William a quick flick of a once-over. "You look tired."
William nodded uneasily as he shed his coat. "Another long day."
"Did you get your work done?"
"Ah, we got a start, yes," William replied on his way to the coat closet. "Which isn't saying much. We have a mountain to move, but only a small bucket to do it with, I'm afraid."
Dean gestured at the couch. "Take a load off, then. Tell me about it."
It was merely a request, mild and not at all demanding, but once again William found himself shrinking away from the thought of being in Dean's company. Not because of Dean himself, but rather the possibility that something unwanted - I had sex with Bradley again tonight - would slip out.
So he shook his head and said, gently, "Sorry, I've got a bit of a headache tonight, I'm afraid. I think I'll have another bath and go to bed early again."
Dean's face shuttered like someone boarding up windows against a storm. "Surprise, surprise."
"Sorry?"
There was a clatter as Dean tossed the barrel and brush down onto the floor. He swiped both hands off onto his jeans and stood up, and as he did, William was a bit startled to see that his hair had been cut down quite short - far shorter than usual. Like William himself these days, Dean ordinarily wore his hair down in his eyes and over his ears. Now it was up over his ears, tight to the back of his head, and came down perhaps an inch of his forehead.
Before William could ask when he'd gotten it cut, Dean said, "I get you're busy - I do - but you realize me and you haven't sat down for dinner or anything in, like, five weeks? And it's been about three weeks since we had sex. Almost two weeks before that. I'm kinda gettin' carpal tunnel from jerking off."
William leaned back against the closed closet door, folding his arms over his chest. Irritation bubbled up from his stomach, displacing the guilt. "I told you I was going to be busy," he said waspishly. He had. The last hour of the day aside, it wasn't as if he'd been in sitting on his hands. "It's not going to be forever, you know. As soon as we've got things back in shape, it'll be back to normal. I won't need to work these horrible hours. But until then, I need you to just be patient and bear with me. All right? I'm sorry. I'm just - it feels like I've got an entire elephant strapped to my back at the moment, and I really don't need this right now. Now, if you'll excuse me," he added, pushing away from the closet, "I'm going to have a bath and I'm going to bed."
"Yeah, sure, just fucking walk away," Dean sneered. "Go do whatever the fuck you want. It's all that fucking matters around here, anyway, right?"
Pausing again, William looked around. "Is it really so bloody much to ask for you to be patient? I'm trying to salvage a company and keep a hundred people from going to prison. I'm sorry you're bored or frustrated or whatever your issue is at the moment, but the reality is you are fine. So just sit tight for a month or two, and things will get back to normal for us. Please, Dean. That's all I'm asking."
Dean gave him a look that could charitably be called mutinous, all heated glare and his mouth set in a thin white line, but only muttered, "Fine," as he sat back down and got back to cleaning his guns. "Call Bischoff in the morning."
"I will," William assured him.
At half five in the morning, William awoke thinking it might be nice to have some lazy morning sex, to try to bridge the gap a bit, but when he lifted his head to see how deeply Dean was asleep, he found the other side of the bed empty.
Faint snores drifted in from the living room.
William pulled Dean's pillow to his chest and held it until the alarm finally buzzed to tell him to get up.
xXx
For two solid weeks, Dean poked his head into William's office around five in the afternoon only to be greeted with a headshake and, "He's not back yet, sorry."
Bischoff.
The fucking roadblock standing between Dean and having something more meaningful to do beside sit on his ass reading books outside of William's office all day.
After two full months of doing that, he was about to go fucking crazy.
But nobody in Security would talk to him.
They'd been fucking ordered not to by Bischoff himself.
So his day consisted of getting up at six to ride to work with William, sitting in a chair outside William's office all day reading a book, and then going home at five to an empty penthouse.
And it was fucking horrible.
People here looked at him like he was some dumb dog who'd wandered in off the street, and just didn't know he wasn't supposed to be there. The security guys at the end of the hallway humored him by asking him if it was okay to let somebody into William's office, but aside from that, they mostly just treated him like another piece of office furniture: something to be walked past and stepped around without giving it any thought.
He'd spent eighteen fucking months saving William's fucking life just to end up a fucking doorstop.
Working at the bar, he thought, on more than one occasion, would have been a million times better than this.
Just something to do.
William never came home before eight, and he always mumbled some lame-ass excuse about needing to work or just wanting to go straight to bed.
Forget watching TV together or talking or having dinner together.
Dean couldn't even fucking remember the last time he'd had sex with anything other than his right hand, either.
"Be patient," William had said, but it almost would've been easier if they weren't staying in the same penthouse.
That way Dean wouldn't have had to feel like a fucking ghost in his own life.
But one night, some two-and-a-half weeks after William took over, Dean's patience gave out.
Ten o'clock on a Thursday night, and two hours ago William had gone straight into his office as soon as he'd taken his coat and gloves off. No "hello," no "how was your day," no word about whether or not he'd finally managed to talk Bischoff into changing his mind about the security thing.
Dean had been reading, and the asshole had just walked on by like he'd been doing every night this week.
At ten, Dean tossed his book aside and made his way into William's office.
Last time he did that - two days ago - he'd gotten his head bitten off for interrupting, but tonight, he didn't care. Tonight, he padded quietly over the carpet, bare feet not making much noise, until he stood behind William's chair.
William was reading something on his laptop screen, one elbow propped up on the desk and his chin in his hand. He'd tossed his black suit coat and vest onto the leather couch in the coner, and now just sat in his rumpled green dress shirt and pants, shoes kicked off beside the desk. His hair looked messy, like he'd been running his hands through it. He did that when he was thinking or nervous about something.
Definitely didn't look like the same put-together guy who, just today, sent a pencil-necked little executive scurrying out of the office like his ass was on fire.
Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Dean settled both hands on William's shoulders and began to rub them, thumbs trailing down to work the knotted muscles below either shoulder blade.
Maybe this - doing something nice - would work better than talking to him.
It seemed to: William leaned back into the massage, head drooping. He made appreciative noise and murmured, "You have about a thousand years to stop doing that."
Dean hmmed agreeably. "You're all tight."
"I'm meeting with the various department heads tomorrow," was the quiet reply, "about reducing our staff by about fifteen percent. It's going to be a difficult day. I'm trying to work out the best way to do it."
"Sucks." Dean moved to massage the back of William's neck. "How many people will that be?"
"Thirty to thirty-five." William tipped his head back, eyes sliding shut. "I'm trying to decide if it would be easiest to take evenly from some departments or cut more from the ones more staff. I'm leaning toward the latter, but I'll have a fight on my hands if I do. It's just that the smaller departments can't afford to lose as many people."
"You're the boss, aren't you?" Dean pointed out. "They gotta do what you tell 'em." He bent down to swipe a kiss across William's forehead.
Easiest thing in the world.
Like he hadn't spent most of the past three weeks sleeping alone on the couch.
William hooked a hand around the back of Dean's head and tugged him down for a kiss that was angled too badly to be anything but sloppy.
But it was a million times better than nothing.
Afterward, Dean straightened and resumed the massage. "Should come to bed. Lemme do this right. Look like you could use it."
"That sounds heavenly," William said. But he cleared his throat and straightened from his slouch. "But I can't just yet. Sorry. I've got-" he gestured at his laptop "-to finish making my decision for tomorrow. Plus I've got to go through a couple contracts to be sure the additions were inserted into the appropriate places."
"Oh, c'mon," Dean said, chuckling. He tightened his grip on William's shoulders. "I got an appropriate place for you to insert your addition. It's been a while. I'm starting to forget what it looks like. You can't spare like an hour? Just one. And then I won't bug you again."
"If I take a break now, I'll be up until three in the morning," William replied, the warmth that had seeped into his voice evaporating. He swiveled in his chair and rolled off to one side to break Dean's hold. "I've got to get this done. If you're wound up, your videos and a wank will have to suffice."
"'S all I've been doin' for five fucking weeks," Dean said gruffly. Felt like he'd been kicked in the guts. Again. "Is the world really gonna end if you take like an hour to-"
"Dean." William's steely cold eyes were sharp as a couple knives. "Not. Tonight. Did you not hear me this morning when I said I'd probably have time for you this weekend?"
That fucking expression again.
He'd been hearing it for weeks.
"You'll probably have time for me," Dean said softly, suddenly seething. He backed off a step, hands balled at his sides. The frustration he'd been sitting on made his stomach churn: an open lava pit about ready to bubble over. "'Cuz, hey, I just fucking love sittin' around on my ass until you have time for me. That's fucking great, William. Awesome."
William slapped a hand down on the desk. "I told you-"
"Yeah, yeah, just be patient," Dean cut him off. "Be patient. I know."
"Well, if you know," William said, his neck reddening, "then what is the problem? Why are you so angry? I told you I was going to be very busy, and right now I can ill-afford distractions."
Distractions.
Another fucking kick to the nuts.
Dean backed up another step. "Well, hey, fucking excuse me for bein' a distraction and, y'know, not wantin' to see you burn yourself out here."
William shook his hair out of his eyes. "Stop being childish," he said curtly. "I'm not burning myself out."
"I'm not being childish," Dean snapped. "I just, you know, love your stupid ass and maybe want you to stop fuckin' acting like I'm invisible sometimes. I go to the office with you and I sit there doing jack fucking shit all day besides read. I come home, and I sit here doing jack fucking shit. You won't fucking make anything happen for me with Bischoff. So I just sit here with my dick in my hand like an asshole.
"Meanwhile, I'm watching you wear yourself out every fuckin' day, and you act like it's a big fucking inconvenience to you that maybe I wanna, y'know, help you unwind a little. You won't fuck me. You won't fucking talk to me. You don't give a fuck about anything I want. Do you even fucking want me to be here?"
He might as well have been talking to an igloo. "I don't have time for this right now, Dean," he said, ice snapping between the words. "When I have time, we'll-"
"Talk about it, yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, disgusted. "When it's convenient for you. Fuck off. I'm outta here."
"Where are you going?" William called after him.
Dean ignored him.
He snagged his leather jacket from the coat closet and slammed the front door behind him hard enough to knock something over behind him.
Didn't give a fuck.
Fucking distraction.
What a joke.
Asshole.
For the first of what would be many nights over the coming weeks, he wound up at CZW. Place was still the same dingy fucking barbed wire and brick wall hole it was when he'd worked there.
Different owner, though, Dean found out. Zandig had apparently gotten into some hot water when a woman got punched in the mouth hard enough to knock out four teeth during a brawl, and he'd wound up selling to DJ - the other bartender.
It was weird sitting on the customers' side of the bar, Dean found, but when some hot young brunette with gorgeous tits and a great smile slid onto the stool next to him, he decided it wasn't so bad.
When she coyly suggested going somewhere a couple hours later, Dean took her out back behind the bar and nailed her, the two of them rutting right next to the fucking dumpster.
Sinking his dick into her tight heat felt fucking amazing after weeks of jerking off in the shower, and he came so hard his knees about folded.
He staggered back into the penthouse half an hour later, and crept into the spare bathroom to shower.
He'd cheated, but so fucking what?
If William wasn't going to give him what he wanted, then he was just going to have to go get it somewhere else.
xXx
"And I did," Dean admitted, glancing at Seth and Roman in turn. "Got to be a thing. I'd leave 'work' at five and head to the bar until one or two in the morning most nights. Screw whoever I wanted. Stagger home shitfaced.
"The only time me and Regal ever talked was when he'd jump my shit about how much I was drinking."
xXx
William shook his head. "It was - alarming, to say the least," he said, "just how quickly he went from having a beer or two in the evening to drinking himself into a stupor nearly every night.
"We fought about that rather bitterly.
"I almost threw him out on his ear on several occasions."
xXx
"I almost left," Dean said, passing a hand over the comforter. "Prolly should've.
"But I didn't.
"I stayed.
"Part of me was like getting mad at myself for not being able to just be patient like he wanted me to. That part of me kept saying, 'Just hang in there and wait. It'll get better.' But the impatient part of me was like, 'I'm bored, I'm lonely, and I'm fucking horny, and if William isn't going to do anything about it, then I'm going to find someone who will.'
"So I did both. I didn't leave, but I wasn't being patient like he wanted me to."
xXx
"I knew it was just a rough patch," William told Wade, "so I decided not to make him go.
"It's so frustrating to me now to look back at it because in hindsight, the answer was simple: a bit of time set aside for him every day, and I should have put my foot down with Eric.
"But he told he didn't want Dean - my 'pet psycho' - anywhere near my security team, and I didn't really know what else I could do for him. I wanted him nearby because I felt safer having him there, but at the same time, I knew exactly how miserable he was.
"Here was a lad who'd never been able to sit still and keep quiet a day in his life being told to sit still and keep quiet." Sighing, he shook his head. "It wouldn't have taken much to fix things. But, at the same time, I felt put-upon as it was. I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, as I said, and I didn't feel as if I should have to fix things for or with him. I wanted him to simply wait.
"I didn't even want him to get another job.
"I liked that he was just outside my office door every day, for all that I never paid attention to him. It was a bit like having a good luck charm. I didn't have to worry that he was off doing something dangerous during the day. I knew exactly where he was and what he'd be doing.
"Trouble was, when he started drinking heavily, he tended to not want to get up the next morning.
"He'd often fuss at me about not seeing the point in going.
"I'd practically have to drag him along kicking and screaming.
"I was what I wanted, you see.
"That went on for nearly a month."
xXx
Dean settled back against the headboard again, rolling his neck. "I had enough of sitting around on my ass.
"So one day, like, two or three months after Regal took over, I went to Bischoff myself.
"And that's when everything blew the fuck apart."
xXx
The big, meathead security dude - Goldberg, Dean thought his name was - eyed Dean the way a tiger would eye an intruder trying to sneak onto its territory. "Ams out, Ambrose."
Dean held his hands straight out and stared straight ahead while Meathead patted him down.
"Where's your guns?" Goldberg grunted as he felt around Dean's ankles.
"Down in Mr. Regal's office," Dean replied calmly. "Don't need 'em up here."
Goldberg, a bald slab of a dude with a graying goatee, gave Dean a narrow look. "You try anything funny, kid, I got permission to squash you like a cockroach."
"Not gonna," was all Dean said. The verbal equivalent of a shrug. He wasn't stupid enough: without a weapon, he didn't stand a chance against this guy.
He examined the gold nameplate on the old oak door while Goldberg waited for Bischoff to give them the clear to come in, idly wondering what William would have to say about this.
Dean hadn't bothered to tell him.
This morning, they'd had another fucking argument: Dean had passed out on the floor beside the couch. He hadn't meant to; it was just he'd gotten tired and dizzy after his shower, and had decided the floor next to the couch was as good a place to curl up and sleep as any.
Wasn't like he'd puked on the floor this time.
HIs fucking head was still pounding, and not for the first time in the past few weeks, he caught himself wondering if maybe he was going after it a little too hard.
He couldn't even remember if he'd fucked a dude or a chick last night.
Finally, the door opened, and Meathead followed Dean inside, staying right on his heels as Dean crossed Bischoff's dark cavern of an office and made his way over to the desk.
"Should I go?" Meathead grunted at Bischoff.
Beady dark eyes settled on Dean's. "No," Bischoff replied with a nasty little smile. "If he moves, snap his neck. What do you want?"
"A job," Dean said. "Somethin' besides sittin' on my ass outside William's office. Thought I was supposed to be runnin' his security team."
Bischoff actually laughed him. "Is…? Oh, you're being serious. I thought you were joking." His chair squealed when he sat back. Somehow the sound was less obnoxious than the sound of his voice. "Why the hell would I ever let you run a security team? You're a fucking menace, Ambrose. A menace."
Dean counted to ten.
Twice.
Thought, Shoulda let me kill him.
"I'm not a menace," he finally said. He was really fucking proud of himself for managing to say that calmly. "I'm fucking good and you know it. I kept him alive when you were using us as bait, didn't I? He never got hurt once on my watch. And - by the way, you guys ever get the assholes behind all that?"
Bischoff nodded, lacing his stubby fingers together over his blotter. "Yeah, my guys handled it. You're not running a security team. Why did you think you were?"
"Because William wanted me to," Dean said stubbornly. He folded his arms over his chest. Felt a little naked without his holster strapped in place. "I'm the only guy he trusts to keep him safe."
That nasty fucking smirk again. "He hasn't complained about the team I've got watching you guys. Does he know you're up here?"
Dean shook his head. Told himself not to rise to the fucking bait. "Figured I'd come up here and talk to you, see what you had to say, before I brought it up. Is there any job in Security I could do? Seriously. At this point, I'd check IDs or something downstairs, or clean guns in the cage, or - whatever."
It kind of tasted like shit to say that, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
"Huh." Weasel eyes narrowed at him. "You willing to do some outside work?"
"What kind of outside work?"
"I need people for my street teams," Bischoff replied. "We're up to our fucking asses with Vince McMahon right now. You heard me tell old Willy-boy we're losing ground. Street teams down there stop that. You take back our warehouses and our neighborhood territories. It's not inside security work, but no way in hell do I put you on any of of my inside teams. It's a street team or nothing. Your call."
Dean gripped the back of the chair in front of him as he mulled it over. From what he'd heard, those street teams were dangerous as hell. He'd overheard some of the guys up on William's floor talking about how glad they were to not be out risking their necks.
Danger.
Fuck he missed the fights.
The adrenaline spikes that came in the middle of a bullet storm.
The feeling that every fucking neuron in his body was firing at once - alive and joyous like fucking sparks and fireworks snapping from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet.
He fucking missed that shit.
So he nodded. "Sounds doable. Better 'n sittin' around on my ass all day."
Bischoff held up a hand. "When's the last time you were on the range?"
"Couple days ago. I go shooting couple times a week."
Mostly because he didn't have much else to do, but Bischoff didn't need to know that.
"All right, Ambrose," Bischoff said. "If you're sure, then I'll make the call. Tomorrow morning, go talk to Bob Holly. He's the guy in charge. He'll get you set up with a team and run you through what you need to do."
"'Kay," Dean said, tucking his hands into his jeans' pockets. "I can do that. Thanks."
Once again, that greasy little smile pushed up one side of Bischoff's mouth. "I'll say this for you, you got a sack. I like that. Coming up here on your own, even though you know I'd just as soon let Bill there have you for lunch - you got a spine. Now get the fuck outta here. You're wasting my time."
In the elevator on the way back down to William's floor, Dean played with a loose gray thread on the hem of his tee shirt and marveled at how easy that was.
He wished he'd done it a fuck of a lot sooner.
Maybe things at home wouldn't have gotten so shitty.
Only question was, how the fuck was he going to bring this up to William.
Of course, William was tunneled down in his I'm the only one who matters right now bullshit at the office all day, and cut Dean off both times he tried to bring it up. So around five, Dean gave up and decided he'd just wait until the asshole got home tonight to do this.
Probably better anyway - in case there was any blow-back.
To keep his nerves calm and his hands busy, he spread out his cleaning kit on the floor next to the coffee table in the living room, and set about making sure there was not a speck of dirt visible on either of his guns.
Felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, actually.
Just the thought of having something to do tomorrow, something more to look forward to than the plot of another paperback, made him feel happy.
A chance to get out and move instead of fucking sitting still.
At a quarter to eight, William walked into the penthouse, bundled up - it was a bitter fucking winter night - with his laptop case slung over one shoulder. Just the same way he used to carry that messenger back to the bar approximately a lifetime and a half ago.
He seemed surprised to see Dean sitting in the living room, and, in fact, as soon as he his coat and gloves and everything off, he paused behind the couch. "Night in for a change?"
Wonder of wonders, it was a pretty mild question.
No real ice - or heat - behind it.
He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and his suit looking kind of wrinkled and saggy. His hair was kind of a mess, too, all wind-blown and sticking up weird on one side.
From his place on the sheet, Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said, sliding his now-clean gun back into its holster. "Startin' a new job tomorrow, so I figured I'd better not show up hungover."
At the words new job, William went pretty still. His eyebrows went up in silent question.
"I'm kinda over sittin' around with nothing to do," Dean said, shrugging. "So I went to talk to Bischoff today. He said I'm not allowed to be in-house security, but he's got room on his street teams. Figure it's better than nothing doing anything at all, so, uh. Yeah. I start tomorrow."
Clouds rolled across William's face as he frowned. "You sitting outside my office is you doing something," he said. "It keeps us both safe and lets me know you're not in any danger. Believe me, that's doing a lot for me."
"Well, it's not doing shit for me," Dean said, fighting not to yell. "I've been sittin' there every fuckin' day for months, and it's a complete fuckin' waste of my time. You don't need me. You got a whole fuckin' floor full of security to keep you safe. Plus, Bischoff told me they got whoever was comin' after us, so there prolly isn't even really a need for that much security anymore."
"Oh, he told you that, did he?" Acidly. He looked - and sounded - like he'd just eaten a big old chunk of lemon. "You don't know Eric, so I suppose you can be forgiven, but he's a bloody liar. They haven't gotten them. He told me that himself just a week ago. The leads they thought they had dried up. We just haven't been attacked recently. My thinking is because we've lost almost half of our street territory thanks to Eric's ridiculous war. We're not big enough. But no," he added, shaking his hair back off his forehead, "no, we never 'got them.' He was lying to you."
Dean tossed his holster aside and stood up. "Whatever," he said. "That's not the point. Point is, he said I could be on one of the street teams. So I'm gonna do it."
William pulled himself up to his full height - King of fucking Spades - and said, "No, you're not."
"The fuck I'm not," Dean said, scratching his shoulder. "I'm not spending one more fucking day sitting outside your office. I'm done. One more day, I'm gonna fuckin' go postal. Okay? I feel like I got fucking bugs crawling under my skin. I gotta move. I can't fucking sit."
"Yes, you can," William said. Ice between the words again. "You can, and you will. You mightn't like it, but you're safe there. I know where you are and I know you're not in trouble. That, my dear boy, is what's important: I don't have to spend my days worrying. With everything else I've got on my plate-"
"I don't give a shit about what you got on your plate!" Dean snapped. "I am so fucking sick of hearing about how busy you are and how you don't have time and how much of a load you're carrying. This ain't about you and what you want. It's about me and what I fucking need. My whole last like three months have been about nothing but you and what you want-"
"Oh, really?" William cut him off. "So you staggering in blind drunk at two in the morning - that's about what I want, is it? Funny, that. I seem to recall telling you not to go out drinking."
Dean flung a hand in the air. "I wouldn't need to go out to the fucking bar if you'd give me the time of fucking day once in a while. 'Just be patient. Just be patient.' I fucking have been. And I'm sorry, but I'm fucking sick to death of you walking right by me when you get home like I'm not even in the fucking room. I get you're busy, but I'm still here. You can't just fucking shove me in the corner and expect me to be fucking happy about it.
"And don't fucking give me that 'I'm carrying the fucking weight of the world on my shoulders' shit." He wasn't quite yelling, but he could hear his words echoing off the walls, boiling back at him with every ounce of pent-up frustration he'd accumulated over the past three months. "'Cuz you're not. You could fucking find an hour a day to sit and talk to me or have sex with me, to unwind for your own fucking mental health, but no. You fucking won't. No, you're on this goddamn power trip where you gotta have control of every fucking little period on every fucking piece of paper that crosses your desk."
He stopped there, breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest.
William's hands were tight fists on the back of the couch, white knuckles a stark contrast to the black leather. "You know nothing," he said. "And I don't need th-"
"You don't need this," Dean cut him off. "Fuck that. You do need it. What the fuck happened to you, man?"
"What's happened to me is you're acting like a child," William said. He had the same look on his face he'd have had if he'd stepped in a pile of dog shit. "I'm trying to run a company, and you've regressed to a surly, unpleasant drunkard of a teenage boy. All I've asked - begged - from you is a bit of patience while I sort out this mess. I'm trying to keep people out of prison, and I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I don't need you to fucking protect me!" Dean shouted. "Jesus Christ! I'm the one who protects you."
"Clearly you do need me to protect you," William snitted, "if you think going on one of Eric's street teams is actually a good idea. D'you know why there are always so many openings on those teams? Because the men on them are constantly being killed thanks to Eric's monumental stupidity. You played right into it."
Dean began to pace the floor between the coffee table and the big TV. "The fuck I did," he said. "I know what I'm getting into."
William lifted his chin. "Do you? So you have a death wish, then? Is that it?"
"Of course I fucking don't," Dean said.
Back and forth.
Couldn't think.
Everything was just turning and churning.
"Then you don't take the job on the team," William said. "It's that simple."
Dean shot him a hard glare. "You don't fucking tell me what to do. You don't fucking own me." He jerked to a stop. "And - huh. Sure is funny, now you care. I'm a fucking ghost around here for three months, and hey, now that I'm deciding I don't wanna be stuck in the fucking corner, uh-oh. Gotta get me back under your fuckin' thumb. That it?"
"Dove-"
"Don't fucking call me that!" Dean barked.
"Stop that!" William thundered at him. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but I've had quite enough of this. I do not need you acting like a child, Dean. I don't. So. Tomorrow morning, you will accompany me to work just as usual. You will not involve yourself with Eric's street team nonsense. You will come home every night at five, and you will wait just exactly as you have been. When I have time, I will come sit with you. When I have time, we will have sex. But when I have time. I am busy - busier than you seem to understand - and I will not tolerate such disrespectful and childish displays from you. You are twenty-four years old. I expect you to act like it."
Dean froze beside the coffee table, stuck in such a state of dumbstruck disbelief that he actually couldn't think of a single word to say.
Had Wil - Regal - had he really said all that?
Had he?
You will...
(I won't.)
You will...
(I won't.)
You will...
I won't.
Would not.
Finally, he lowered his hand away from his shoulder - he'd find bloody scratch-marks there later - and turned to pick his guns up off the floor.
(I won't.)
It was like someone had just snapped on a light in a dark room.
Now he could see, and what he saw-
(I won't.)
He looked right into Regal's cold pale eyes and said, quietly, "Go fuck yourself."
With that, with his guns in one hand and his leather jacket in the other, he walked out of the penthouse.
xXx
"I kept expecting him to come back that night," William confessed. "I kept an eye out for him, naturally, and I was ready to resume the fight. I was bound and determined to have my way.
"He didn't come back, nor did he come to my office.
"When I returned home that evening, I discovered that his things were gone. He'd left his key. No note. No forwarding address. No goodbye.
"He was just gone.
"I didn't see him again for six months.
"But when I did, he wasn't the same man.
"It was horrible."
xXx
A/N: Couple more of these Ambregal pieces to go. Next up, a bit more darkness before the dawn. Thanks for reading.