Caution: Falling

By Kay

Author's Notes: Well, part seven is finally out! Whew. A little shorter than I originally planned, but I'm just going to lengthen the next part to make up for it. It feels good to be back on track, but looking back, I wish I could edit the earliest chapters for their grammar/spelling mistakes... oh well. (laughs) Enjoy, please!

There's nothing that sobers anyone quite as fast as getting dumped on a hard cement floor. Or that's what Jalil decided, muttering such a severe string of curses under his breath that it would have put Ganymede's attempts at phone sex to shame (one should note the "attempts" and try to imagine exactly how Jalil knows about what Ganymede says during phone sex, and why exactly Jalil has blocked the apartment number on his cell phone-- never let it be said that Jalil Sherman never learned from experience). All cursing aside, however, the plain fact of the matter was that Jalil was starting to get seriously pissed.

First, he was forced into leather pants. (A grave injustice, in Jalil's professional opinion.) Second, he was forced to enter a club that, as far as he could tell, had already violated at least eighteen health codes. Third-- and this was by far the most important-- he had been forced into some strange asshole's lap, and then quite promptly shoved back off again onto the floor.

Jalil was tired. Jalil wanted to go home. And mostly, right now, Jalil wanted to kick someone's ass really bad.

Unfortunately, he would have to wait for a while.

As far as he could tell, the person who had decided to shove him onto the floor without a single word of warning (and Jalil was going to ignore the fact he'd threatened to bean him if said person didn't drop him) was under a mob of angry, drenched and drinkless females and their uptight boyfriends. The group of chairs that had been directly behind them, as far as Jalil could tell, had been completely tipped over, as well as a set of tables. The floor was sticky with the slush of daiquiris and fruity cocktails that had no business being on the floor of a dancing club (chalk that up to nineteen health code violations, Jalil noted), and the blonde flash of hair he'd come to target as The Pervert With the Wandering Hands was under the entire mess of it.

Well. If the guy hadn't had his ass kicked too much by the pissy women and men, then Jalil would kick his ass.

(It wasn't like he could see Ganymede anywhere, anyway. Part of Jalil was also getting pissed off at his roommate for leaving him in a potentially hostile situation, but then he decided he'd expected that, anyway. Besides, Ganymede couldn't have done anything-- the last time he tried to learn martial arts, he'd sung Kung-Fu Fighting around the house and shrieked every time he had to kick a beanbag target.)

Considering all of this in his head, Jalil sighed and did what any other still-slightly-tipsy and already-very-pissed person would do: he up-righted a chair and sat down to wait. Either way, three different scenarios would happen.

One, Ganymede would come find him first and they would go home. Jalil wouldn't speak to Ganymede for two days straight, up until the point where the puppy-dog green eyes were so creepy centered on his back that he couldn't take it anymore, and Jalil forgave him. And Ganymede would do the ironing for the week, maybe even two, to make up for it.

Two, the crowd in front of him would disperse, leaving The Pervert with the Wandering Hands alone and vulnerable. Operation Kick Ass and Possibly Remove Testicles would ensue, leaving Jalil satisfied and more open to being left behind with a sticky floor and shrieking, drunken women.

Three, the crowd in front of him would disperse, leaving The Pervert with the Wandering Hands alone and vulnerable. Except the crowd would have totally pummeled him, leaving nothing behind but a twitching body. In this case, Jalil decided he would go the forgiving route for once-- he was tired, after all-- and just kick his gut a few times. And maybe his face. A shame, considering it actually looked to be a fairly nice face until the hands started roaming and Jalil realized exactly where the hell he was, but really...

Thus satisfied, Jalil sat back to wait.

Christopher was having the worst night of his life.

Well, okay, not the worst night. He could vaguely remember something about an expensive vase of his parents' that had been smashed by a cricket bat during high school-- to this day, he had no idea where the cricket bat had come from. And he could recall the time Claire McBourgin had turned him down to go to prom with that sleazy, nerdy twerp from their homeroom-- and then next year, she'd turned him down for David, which was worse. (And it was even worse when David turned her down in turn, and Christopher had nearly put his favorite Radiohead t-shirt through a meat slicer.)

But still, it was pretty bad. He definitely couldn't smell the pear stuff, anymore. No, he smelled like... well, like the back shelf of a bar, to be honest.

"I hate this," he announced to the neon lights on the walls. Then, just to make sure they understood, he repeated, "This fucking sucks."

"Tell me about it," someone said to his left.

Christopher thought very quickly and very quietly about the merits of turning around to answer that voice. It was bad enough that he'd been mobbed by psycho girls demanding refunds for their spilled drinks (backed up, again, by bastard boyfriends that were slightly larger and more intimidating than himself). And it was even worse that he was covered in said drinks that needed refunded, thus leaving him with a godawful smelling shirt that kept clinging to his chest uncomfortably-- alcohol was sticky, and stick in this case was not good.

He didn't think he could take another person out to beat him up or, even worse, take his money. But it wasn't like he had a choice. He had the strange feeling that his left arm was plastered to the floor by some strange red goop.

"This isn't yours, is it?" he asked flatly, raising said left arm.

The person paused for a bit, and Christopher got the sense they were a little amused. "No. I didn't have a drink. Wish I did now, though."

"You and me both," Christopher muttered.

"I don't suppose," the voice continued almost hopefully, "that you're not so completely beaten and pathetic that you can take a few more kicks while you're down?"

"Sorry, I think I've had all I can take tonight."

"Oh. Can I dump a drink on you?"

"Won't make much difference."

This was, Christopher decided, the oddest conversation he'd ever had. As if hearing those thoughts, the voice echoed, "This has got to be the oddest conversation I've ever had. I guess you get off for now, though-- but I'm still pissed off at you."

"Why?" And finally, Christopher turned his head to see-- "Fuck, it's you!" Forgetting the slush pile that was gluing him to the floor, the blonde struggled to his feet, grimacing at the sickening way his shirt and jeans clung to him. He didn't even want to think about the stuff in his hair-- it was disgusting. But he had bigger fish to try.

"You," he snarled, pointing at the thing that got him into all this trouble in the first place. "You are the cause of this shit."

The boy scowled indignantly at him, hazy black eyes narrowing. Now that Christopher could see him straightened out-- christ, he was nearly his height, how couldn't he have known?-- it was easy to see that this was no female. The lines were too angular, the features too stubborn, and the way he hung his arms was even distinctively male; they were bold, as confident as the rest of his movements.

"I don't think," the bastard said, "there was any fault on my part. If I remember correctly, and I do, you were the one who made inappropriate advances on a less than sober stranger... and then rudely shoved him onto one of the grossest floors this side of a slaughterhouse."

Christopher had to agree with the last statement. But that didn't change anything. "You were the one who fell into my lap, dumbass. And it was the last thing I wanted, too. Inappropriate advances, my ass."

A flush spread across the boy's features. "What? Your hands were entirely too familiar. What gives you the right--"

"My hands are only familiar with women."

"I feel sorry for the women," the boy said sarcastically.

Christopher felt the very hair on the back of his neck rise up in anger. That was it. No one, and no one (except maybe David, damn it, okay) was allowed to threaten his... whatever. Masculinity. Sexual prowess. Mad skills. Whatever. Something.

It was an insult to him, that was all that mattered.

"You wanna take this out back?" he demanded, not caring that he sounded like an idiot. From the incredulous look on the stranger's face, he was definitely thinking that. "Seriously, I'll take you. It looks like it won't be much of a fight, though." He allowed himself a smirk, knowingly moving his eyes up and down the boy's scrawny body, allowing a self-congratulatory internal gloat when the stranger tensed and scowled deeply in return. "I bet you were the kid that got his lunch money stolen every day, huh?"

The stranger's eyes narrowed.

Christopher kept the self-confident grin on his face a while longer, and then let it drop as he turned to go. "Well, so long-- thanks for the bad memories, asshole. Try not to land in anymore--"

"Fine."

"What?" He wasn't going to look back, he wasn't, and fuck this sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I'll do it. Let's go out back." When Christopher turned to him, gaping, the boy tilted his head in cold consideration. Then, with a slow, reptilian smile that bared too many teeth and made something in Christopher shrink further inward, he added, "That is... unless you don't think you can handle the kid that got his lunch money stolen. You've probably stolen from quite a few yourself to know the look, hm?"

That did it. Jesus, could the night get any worse? Christopher let out a dangling string of curses internally that would have put David's mouth to shame when changing a car tire in shop class (he'd never known you could do so many things with a jack and three silver bolts the size of walnuts). It wasn't like he could say no, though, now that he'd been the one to put the offer out there. It didn't matter. He'd put in a hard hit, get the punk down, and go home from there-- David would survive on his own.

(At this moment, it'd be ironic to note that David was currently driving home in his car, bright red and missing more than his fair share of mesh, cursing up a storm that would put his tirades in shop class to shame, as well. It should also be noticed that he'd never be able to use the passenger seat belt again after the damage he'd done trying to strangle a certain curly blonde head with it.)

"Fine," Christopher said through gritted teeth. He refused to feel guilty about it (the boy looked like a straw could slice him in half). "Let's get this shit over with."

"After you," the boy said mockingly, gesturing.

Oh yeah. He was going to kick this guy's ass.

With this thought in mind, Christopher headed towards the back, all the while envisioning a nice warm couch and a buzzing television. All he had to do was lightly clip the bastard enough to get him to back off-- nothing too bad, not even enough to leave bruises-- and this entire night down the drain could just go to hell. He'd burn the shirt. Fuck it all. It wasn't like he didn't have an entire closet full of babe-magnet fashionware.

Or something.

And so, when they finally faced each other in the alley and Christopher rolled up his sleeve and prepared to punch right on that pompous, smirking and entirely too pretty to be male mouth, he was in for a shock.

Two sharp pains in his nose. Wet bursting. A muffled curse dropped from his mouth, "Fuck," and then there was only the wet grit of the alley under his pants. More gross gloop to wash off when he got home. "Fuck," he repeated, covering his nose and squeezing his eyes shut tightly, "Foo bashard."

The boy scoffed and put his fist down. "You big baby. Who's the one who got his lunch money stolen? I had a prepaid account, always. Who even uses that kind of outdated system anymore?"

"Bashard," Christopher keened.

This was the worst night of his life.

"Oh, let me look at it." And with an exasperated sigh, the stranger crouched down right in the middle of the damp cement-- though not without a grimace-- and brought out a white tissue to dab at the blood leaking from between his fingers. "Christ, you kind of people are such morons. I don't suppose you have a ride home, do you? Because you're not getting anywhere with hamburger pulp for a nose."

Shit. David.

Christopher groaned and closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. God, the night was just getting worse and worse.

End