Author's Note:

Again, narration reflects the characters' thoughts, not my own.

As I wrote the bit with the telephone near the end of the chapter, I felt really old when I started thinking about cordless vs. corded phones, and realized that playing with the phone cord while talking must be a habit that seems totally foreign to people who might be only a few years younger than me. On the other hand, that train of thought led me to a pretty important plot point, so…

Disclaimer: I still don't own anything.

Contains: Profanity. Drug references. Descriptions of injuries. Emotional abuse.

Caught Off Guard: Chapter Seven

Pickles splashed water on his face and raised his head to look in the mirror. He had to steady himself by leaning heavily on the sink, though it was so shoddily attached to the wall that doubt as to whether it would hold his weight flashed through his mind as the pipes creaked dangerously. When his eyes focused, the sight that met them was not a pleasant one. He barely recognized himself. His right—no, left eye—was swollen shut, the skin around it a nasty shade of purple fading to red at the cut across his cheek. His whole face seemed puffy and swollen from the many times he'd been hit. Tiny bits of duct tape clung to his beard, some areas of which now had an uneven patchy look. Wonderful, he thought.

The faucet was still running, and he scooped a few handfuls of water into his mouth to wash away the taste of vomit, then cautiously attempted to rinse the dried blood from under his nose and at the corners of his mouth, but contact with the water stung, and he abandoned this idea.

Pickles's gaze travelled lower. He must have bled more than he thought, enough that it had dripped onto his shirt. He touched the wet spot at his shoulder and stifled a cry of both surprise and pain. The blood was still wet and sticky, and his touch had set off a deep, throbbing sting there.

Shakily, he reached up and pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal a short yet deep laceration just below his collarbone, still seeping thick, dark blood. All the times he'd been jerked around by Tony and Rockso, plus the constant motion tumbling him in the back of the van must have kept re-opening it, he guessed.

Now he remembered to look at his hands, and was relieved to find that the color of his skin had, for the most part, returned to normal, and he had only a few small scrapes across his knuckles, though the cut on his arm where Tony's knife had bit into his skin a few moments ago still bled. Pickles lifted his shirt and took note of the bruises and swelling. He didn't think he had any broken ribs, but everything hurt so much he couldn't be sure. He briefly considered dropping his pants to inspect the damage that had been done to him there, but the mirror was mounted too high on the wall for him to get a good look, and besides, Tony could come in any second.

All right. Pickles tried to get his thoughts together, difficult though it was. He hadn't eaten for hours, and felt light-headed, but he tried to fight his way through it. As far as he could tell, he hadn't suffered any injuries that were permanent or immediately life-threatening, though the wound in his shoulder did worry him.

Perhaps he could talk to Tony, reason with him—no. He'd already tried, and this was where it had gotten him. Maybe there was a window, he thought with a sudden flash of hope. No. The only window in the bathroom was high above the toilet, and while he could probably reach it by standing on the lid of the tank, it was much too small for a person to climb through. If he could lock the door, though, then maybe he could hold off Tony for a while. He moved closer to the door, hand moving tentatively toward the doorknob—no luck there, either. The lock was broken. Fuck.

Pickles sank back to the tile floor, head in his hands.

#

Outside the very same window Pickles had just rejected as a means of escape, Dr. Rockso crouched in the cobwebby bushes. He bit his painted lower lip in indecision, then stood and tiptoed away, splinters of old mulch clinging to his jumpsuit.

Keeping to the shadows until he'd reached the other side of the long, low building, Rockso surveyed the parking lot and found it satisfactorily deserted before he approached the dilapidated pay phone behind the office. It might not work anymore, he told himself hopefully. Producing a few coins from beneath his peaked cap, he dropped them in and dialed a number. He tried again to calm his nerves: And he might not even pick up. The clown cheered at the thought as the phone continued to ring, but then, to his dismay, he heard the click of an answer through the static.

"Hellos?"

"T-T-T-Toki?"

"Dr. Rockso! How ams you doing?" Then the pitch of the Norwegian's voice dropped in disappointment. "Wait, you amn'ts in jails again, ams you?"

"No! Ooh, Toki, I gotta tell you, I'm only callin' 'cause you're my friend, and I know k-k-k-Pickles is your friend, and he's in some real bad trouble." Rockso giggled involuntarily. "I think Mister—I mean, I think he might get himself hurt real bad."

"Ja, we—wait, whats? You know where Pickle am ats?"

Rockso giggled again, stalling for time. "I do cocaine?" he said, hoping this would be a satisfactory answer.

"Dr. Rockso! You gots to tell me!" Toki's voice was stern, harsher than the clown had ever heard it before.

"Oh, but T-T-T-Toki, I can't do that. He'll k-k-k-kill me."

"Who ams will kill you? Hangs on, I gives you to de butlers."

"Oh, no! Don't do that," said Rockso, trying to twirl the phone cord in his fingers, and failing, as it was steel wire instead of the thin twisted cable that had been automatically supplied by his mind. "They sure don't make phones like they used to," he heard himself saying, and then, in horror, slammed down the receiver. They sure didn't make phones like they used to. Now they had caller ID, and if Toki had the number of the pay phone, Offdensen would be able to track the location and be here in no time. He gave a shudder, unsure whether he feared the wrath of Offdensen more than that of Tony, or vice versa.

Rockso sneaked to the van, bundled his belongings into a blanket, and sprinted a good distance down the road before he began trying to hitch a ride.

#

Tony kicked open the bathroom door, sending it crashing hard against Pickles's back. "You done in there?" he sneered. "What's taking so long, are you fixing your make-up?" He laughed heartily at his own joke as Pickles merely stared down at his feet in silence.

"What's the matter, babe? Feelin' guilty for cheating on your little boyfriend?"

Pickles felt yet another wave of cold wash over him. "I didn't," he whispered. But hadn't he? Would Skwisgaar see it that way? "You forced me," he said, louder, meeting Tony's eyes now. "I—I didn't want—"

"Ooh, Tony, baby, give it to me, I want that big, hard cock of yours," Tony imitated in falsetto. "Yeah, really sounds like you didn't want it there."

"I didn't say that," said Pickles desperately. No, he hadn't said that exactly, but he'd still said he'd wanted it, hadn't he? How could anyone not hold him responsible after that? How could Skwisgaar ever want him after that, after Pickles displaying just how willing he was to be used by anyone?

"Yeah, sure you didn't, baby. You and I both know what you said. How are you ever gonna go back and look that sweet blonde thing in the eye and make him believe you still want him?"

Tears came to the drummer's eyes. He did still want Skwisgaar. Or did he? Maybe he didn't want anyone any more. Maybe it would be better for him to just be alone for a really, really long time, like forever.

"Or, more important, do you think he's going to want you—if you ever see him again? When it's written all over your face what you've been doing?"

Pickles raised a hand to trace over his bruises. Tony laughed.

"I don't mean that, dumbass. I mean how you can never hide your feelings. He'll take one look at you and know. Everyone will know that I've had you again and you liked it."

"That's not true," said Pickles, trying to convince himself, and he could no longer keep the tears from spilling over. "It's not true."

Still standing over him in the bathroom doorway, Tony laughed and laughed.