Think of what the past did
It could've lasted
So put it in your basket
I hope you know a strong man
Who can lend you a hand
Lowering my casket
I thought this is just today
And soon you'd been returning
The coldest blue ocean water
Cannot stop my heart and mind
From burning
Everyone who's in the know says
That's exactly how it goes
And if there's anything good about me
I'm the only one who knows
-The White Stripes, Same Boy You've Always Known
Chapter 13: Cat Got Your TongueFrom what Race was hearing, he had only two options: one, let his father deal with Spot as the Family saw fit; or two, somehow convince his father that Spot could keep his mouth firmly closed.
It had been made fairly clear which one his father was leaning towards, so Race knew it was entirely up to him to convince his father to let Spot talk to him at all. Paulo did not like Spot, and that really threw a wrench into the gears.
All he could do was try, and beg, and not give up.
"Sir, I promise you," Race sat up straight. "I promise, he will do anything he can to convince you that he'll keep things to himself. He probably forgot it anyway, he strategically forgets things that get him in shit." Race caught himself. "I mean--trouble."
His father raised an eyebrow. "Most people find it hard to forget being kidnapped."
"Spot isn't most people," Race promised. "You can trust him, probably more than you can trust me."
"Oh?"
"Yeah; he's not the drug addict," Race said. "He's the one who--who wouldn't let me out of his sight until I got home, just in case. I owe him and I know he's trustworthy and if you'd just talk to him... You said you would."
"So he can tell me about his childhood," Paulo said. "I am not impressed."
"Please, Dad," Race begged. "Please, I--I'm not asking as someone in the Family, I'm asking you as your son. He's my best friend, Dad, please."
Paulo closed his eyes and rubbed his temples slightly. "Ten minutes," he said. "I'll give him ten minutes. If he can convince me, fine; if not... I will have no other option. Is that very clear?"
"Yes, sir," Race agreed quietly.
"Then go get him," his father ordered. "And wait in your room while we talk."
Race gulped, and opened his mouth to maybe take back everything entirely and convince his father not to see Spot, because really, he wanted Spot to live to his next birthday. And knowing Spot, tempers would fly if he was left alone with Race's father.
But Spot had to do this himself, because he was the only one that could convince Race's father he could be trusted. Spot proved things; it was something about him... Race didn't know what, but he couldn't imagine not trusting Spot. Race was sure the other guys would agree. Spot would piss you off, he'd insult you, he'd even make you cry without any remorse or guilt whatsoever, but he'd probably do anything for you, at the same time.
Which meant a lot more, really.
So Race just nodded and let himself out of his father's office, and down the two flights of stairs that lead to the rec room, and stared in shock for a second. Isabella was talking about oral sex.
"IZZY!" he shrieked, horrified.
"Oh, thank God," Spot mumbled.
"Tony, we're busy having a conversation," she answered, and turned back to Spot.
"I, uh, get the point, Isabella," Spot said.
"Yes, but there are still several areas we haven't covered yet. Now--"
"Izzy, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Dad wants to talk to Spot. Like, now-ish."
"Oh." She nodded. "Well, good luck, Sean. Watch your mouth; he gets angry easily."
"Thanks, I kind of got that."
"...And keep this conversation in mind, or else I will finish it at a later date."
"I will," Spot promised and dashed over to the stairs to join Race, standing at the foot of the staircase. "She's nuts, Tony," he hissed.
"...Yeah." Race sighed. "Look, be careful, okay? And please, please, please don't swear or yell or insult him. For the love of... This is really, really important, Spot."
Spot blinked, and then grinned slightly. "You worried about me?"
"Of course, idiot," Race snapped. "Come on, just...don't fuck around, okay?" Spot put his hands in his pockets, not saying anything, just looking intently at Race. "Stop staring at me, do you promise or not?"
Spot, even with Isabella in the room, leaned forward and brushed his lips against Race's. Softly, and tenderly, and for some reason it felt very much like a first kiss.
"Good luck," Izzy murmured again, as they walked off.
"I'm gonna be in my room, okay? If--if things go badly--I mean, for god's sake, scream. The office is almost right underneath my room, I'll be listening and--"
"And do what, exactly?" Spot interrupted quietly. "Tony, if this goes badly, I doubt he'll kill me in his office. The blood would ruin the upholstery." He rolled his eyes. "And if he does, I don't want you to see it, okay?"
"But--"
"Tony, please. I know you did the best you could, and now it's my turn. And hey, I can be charming, right? You fell for me."
"Yeah, but I'm not Dad." He sighed as the reached the second level of the house, where his father's office was.
"Good luck," Race said, and paused outside the doorway. He badly wanted to kiss Spot again, to tell Spot how much he loved him, but... But his father was right inside. So instead he grabbed Spot's arm, clutched it hard for a second, and stared him in the eye.
"Yeah," Spot said. "I know. Me, too." He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and knocked on the large wooden door. Race waited to hear his father yell for him to come in and for the door to shut before he started to head towards his room.
Ten minutes, and it would all be decided. In ten minutes, the best thing in his life could be over...
*
Mr. Higgins was a very big man, even when he was sitting down. Spot kind of gaped as he got his first close view of this very large, very scary, and very much angry Italian man.
"Sean," he rumbled, and pointed at the seat across from him. "Take a seat."
Spot wanted to say something funny, or clever, but his only material was a chair...and the fact he could be dead before morning.
Though oddly enough though, that seemed to make the air more open to jokes... Or maybe he was hysterical and didn't know it.
"Anthony tells me you can convince me of your silence," Mr. Higgins started, getting to the point. "Frankly, I don't believe you could do that."
"Well, I have ten minutes, right?" Spot replied, slouching slightly in his seat. "Ten minutes to let you know that I usually avoid talking about things that happen to me in general?"
Mr. Higgins raised an eyebrow. He was silent, and finally checked his watch. "You may start."
Taken off guard, and surprised at the complete lack of empathy, Spot's voice cracked for the first time in years on the first word. "Well, uh... Have you ever heard of Matthew Jeffrey Conlon? Because he was my dad."
"The name sounds familiar, vaguely," Mr. Higgins agreed. "So?"
Spot hesitated. "I--I don't suppose you have some way to get access to, like, FBI files or police records or anything? 'Cause I can recite most of the shit he did, but I'd rather not, and I'd probably forget things..."
"Are you sure you want to use your ten minutes discussing your father?" he asked.
"Yes." Spot leaned forward in his chair a little. "Because basically, that is, if I didn't know how to keep my mouth shut when a crazy man with a gun told me to, I'd have been dead a long time ago."
There was another moment of silence between them, and finally Mr. Higgins linked his fingers together and set them on the desk. "What does this have to do with me, Sean?"
Sean bit his lip, biting back every retort that was flying through his head. "He did it to me when I was eight, sir. So when the police asked me, nothing was going on, Dad was fun, we went fucking fishing together." He glanced up. "Pardon the French. Sir."
The raised eyebrows indicated Spot should just talk.
"Well, I did keep my mouth shut. He was caught because mom pulled the plug on everything, not me."
"I see. A moment, please," Mr. Higgins requested, and picked up his phone. He hit one of his speed dial buttons and a moment later had a very brief conversation in Italian, then turned on the fax machine that sat in the corner of his office before returning to his chair. "His record should be here by the end of our... talk."
Spot wasn't sure if he should thank Mr. Higgins, or continue, or what, so he sat quietly for a few seconds. Mr. Higgins merely waited and Spot had the feeling he'd be perfectly happy to let the next eight minutes pass without a word, and have Spot executed as a result. So he started talking again.
"See, uh, what happened today? Not all that freaky. I mean, not... Not something I'd want to repeat, and God knows I didn't expect it, but I've actually--actually seen worse shit than that. When I was, like, eleven, I spent a night helping my Dad dig graves, drop corpses, and fill them in again." His voice cracked again and he fought to stay calm, to be as disaffected by the memories as he always pretended to be. That had been the worst, the absolute worst thing Spot could remember. He shuddered. He hadn't... He hadn't seen what his father had done but...
He'd heard the screaming.
Mr. Higgins nodded slowly, noting Spot's discomfort.
"And, uh, I didn't tell the police, or my shrink, or anyone about that night, 'cause... Tell the truth, I don't fucking want to talk about it, it ain't... It's not exactly fun to think about, I'm just as happy to... Not... Not even acknowledge that... Any of it. Anything. And today wasn't really different."
He continued, "I don't look back on shit. I block it out, and then as far as I'm concerned, it never happened. Because if I didn't want it, and if it was something as fucked up as...well, as things could get sometimes with my old man, then I just erase it."
Mr. Higgins spoke up, abruptly. "You erase history. How am I supposed to believe you won't let it slip during a breakdown? Which I'm quite positive you're prone to."
Spot swallowed. "I don't break down."
"Why should I believe that?"
Spot stared. "I don't break down," he repeated. Spot 'broke down' in private. People didn't see. The fight with Jack was as far as he went.
"Again; why should I believe that?"
Which was enough to tip Spot away from the intensity of his memories and the terror they invoked and back towards anger at Mr. Higgins. He flatly answered, "That, right there? That was the closest I get to breaking down. You're the first person I ever told about the... the graves... and that's just 'cause I don't want to end up in one. If I broke down my dad woulda been caught years before he was, and if I talked, same thing. I don't do either." Which got no response, so he pressed on, "Fucking... If I broke down, don't you think I'd be doing it about, say, now?"
"I frankly don't know what or when you'd be doing it," he responded, his eyes flicking down to some paperwork on his desk. There was a beat of silence before he commented, "However, your point is well made."
He said it in an angry voice, so it took Spot a moment to recognize the fact that he was, oddly enough, being respected. A little. He was, as far as Spot could tell, unimpressed by Spot and his past and his father and...everything.
He may not believe him. Which is where the police files came in.
"If it makes you feel more secure, Mr. Higgins," Spot started slouching again, and started playing with the bottom of his shirt once more. "I'd do anything to pretend that today never fucking happened."
"Are you willing to step out of Anthony's life to live up to those words, Sean?"
Spot blinked.
He hadn't expected a question like that.
Spot stared for a second. He actually stared, and he hated how painfully obvious it was that he'd been caught off guard. He forced himself to look away, to make his face go blank, swallowed and tried to remember how to breath.
Death or life without Racetrack.
That wasn't fucking fair.
He sat up straight and clenched and unclenched his fist, shifted his weight, began to play with his shirt again.
"Sean," Mr. Higgins prompted.
"I'm thinking," he answered. "I just--Tony's, like, the only person I trust in the whole damn world and--that would be giving up a fucking lot. I don't trust people so easily."
"That doesn't answer the question."
Spot paused again, and finally said in a quiet voice, "Uh, I'm not sure how practical that would be."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, 'cause--I mean, I'm just guessing, but you're probably gonna want to follow Tony around for awhile until this is all settled, right? And assuming I get out of this alive, probably me too, and--and Marco said something about you not having enough people while you were dealing with this, so it would make life easier if Tony and I were hanging out together, wouldn't it?"
Mr. Higgins's only answer was, "Marco talks too much."
"And--and anyway, you said he could stay in the band, you and he made a deal about that, is what he told us. And I'm at, like, every rehearsal, so us not running into each other would be awfully hard unless you take back your deal with Tony."
"If I must, I will," Mr. Higgins said plainly.
"Yeah, but..." Spot shrugged. "I know you wouldn't 'cause...you like, saved our asses today, so I think you'd kind of like it that Tony has a band and he's having fun."
The man glared at him. "You are not in any position to analyze me, Sean."
"I didn't--"
"And you still haven't answered the question," he continued. "Would you or would you not be willing to cut off your friendship with my son?"
Spot, holding back all of his temper and swearing and anger, stared some more, and then lowered his head.
"No."
"No?" Mr. Higgins repeated, incredulous.
"No. I don't fucking talk about things, I don't fucking break down, and but I do fucking stand up for myself. You're gonna kill me or you're not and it's got nothing to do with if I'd leave Tony alone or not, you just don't like me and you hate that he does."
He got no reaction; Mr. Higgins was very good at not reacting. But that left him with no real reason to stop talking, and before he knew what he was saying, the words were spilling out.
"Ya know, I overheard a lot of other shit today, too. You almost couldn't marry your wife, right? That's how you ended up in this thing to begin with, to try and earn money and respect 'cause you were too fucking poor to marry some rich girl. You're a goddamn hypocrite, 'cause that's the only thing you got against me, and David, and the rest of us. You're just a goddamned hypocrite."
"A hypocrite?" Paulo Higgins responded. "You're here right now, to convince me--"
"GOD couldn't fucking convince you!" Spot snapped. "Jesus, I actually have a POINT here! You were poor once, old man, and now you write me off and want me dead ANYWAY because I own like, four shirts, a pair of jeans and a fucking backpack." Spot backtracked. "Which broke. Shit."
Mr. Higgins leaned backwards in his chair, his finger tapping slowly on the top of the desk. He glanced down at his paperwork once more, and then stared at Spot. The silence that followed was completely unbearable. Spot could feel it--it was determined now.
I'm going to fucking goddamn die... Spot thought, his breath quickening. I'm going to die.
"I too, erase things," Mr. Higgins said finally. "Like you, I erase what I do not want to remember. Because what good does having nothing do?"
That was the last thing Spot had expected. Really, he was sure he would have been backhanded by now, but no. Instead, Mr. Higgins was indicating that they had something in common. Sort of. Though Spot doubted that the man was doing it on purpose.
"Yeah," Spot said finally. "Yeah, not a lot. But we don't all get the chance to marry rich, and some of us ain't willing to kill people to get there, either."
Mr. Higgins raised an eyebrow. "I didn't start out killing people, Sean; nor do I enjoy it. I do what is necessary to ensure that my children will never have to live like you do, like I did. I had to work for everything I had before I met my wife; I fought to get through school and to get into college--which I doubt you are doing. I fought so I would no longer have to be surrounded by... poverty." What he meant was, 'by people like you.'
"Nor," he continued, "do I want my children surrounded by it, or even exposed to it."
"I know I'm a shit, okay?" Spot rolled his eyes. "I personally would hate me if I was anyone else, but if you haven't noticed, David is just as dirt poor as me and he's the one with a scholarship to Tony's fucking school." Spot sat up straight. "Hey, a poor kid, like me, is helping your son pass Chem. Isn't that funny?"
"Talk in that tone with me, and I can shoot you right here."
Spot gulped, and slouched again, not making a noise. Mr. Higgins looked down at his watch, then picked up his phone, pressing at the red button on the top right hand corner. He snapped something in Italian, spoke for a total of five seconds, and hung up.
"Your files are confidential," he said. "It'll be longer than I thought; and more of my time wasted."
"I can't do much about it."
"And we've already passed more than the ten minutes I promised you; I imagine my son is having an anxiety attack upstairs."
Spot almost stared. Was that a joke? No. That couldn't be; it wasn't just out of Mr. Higgins' character, it seemed into the realm of impossibility. So he took it at face value. "Yeah, probably. Hey, so long as you're gonna kill me anyway, I might as well say that you treat him like shit and the reason he screws up is 'cause you expect him to."
Mr. Higgins had clearly had a very long day; Spot knew that. There had been the stress of his son's kidnapping, then rescue, and being shot; he was now faced with a decision that would leave no one happy, no matter what. He was actually under enough pressure that for just a moment there was a flicker of... something... on his face, but then it was gone. But Spot saw it, and smirked, just a tiny bit. At least something he'd said had hit home, even if he was going to die for it.
"My relationship with my son is none of your business," Mr. Higgins finally said, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.
"Of course not," Spot answered. "What were you saying? I just completely erased everything we talked about. Nice office."
Spot was irking him. Or maybe Spot was just being hopeful, because he wanted to irk the old bastard. "An admirable attempt, but I am not convinced."
"Nothing will convince you." Spot shrugged.
"Perhaps, but it seems you haven't been doing much persuading." He cracked his knuckles, and Spot winced. "Just talking of your father and my hypocrisy."
"Pot? This is Kettle. You're fucking black."
A smirk spread across Mr. Higgins face. "I'm sure there are many individuals out there who would jump at the opportunity to kill you, Sean."
"I'm sure they'll be lining up to thank you."
"Then you've made up my mind," Mr. Higgins answered.
"Good, 'cause I wouldn't want you to have to fucking take responsibility for it when you tell Tony." He crossed his arms and leant back in his chair and met Mr. Higgins's glare with his own. He'd been afraid walking in, when things were uncertain; now things were set and he didn't care anymore. He wondered if he'd get to say goodbye to Race. He was sorry he'd been an asshole to Jack. He hoped his father was having painful electric shock therapy. But he wasn't afraid.
"I should have let you die in the crossfire," Mr. Higgins finally replied. "That would have been easy; to pretend my aim was off. The problem would have been taken care of before it even formed."
"Yeah," Spot answered. "Well, sucks to be you, then."
There was a beeping noise, and both shot their heads over to look at the fax machine, which was now producing several sheets of paper.
Mr. Higgins pushed himself over on his revolving chair with wheels, which Spot found kind of funny because...well, everyone enjoyed revolving chairs, but Mr. Higgins was so dignified about it.
The man ran his eyes over the sheets, and Spot looked for a reaction that wasn't a raised eyebrow, which was all he was getting. But... nothing. Just blank.
Mr. Higgins finally made his way back to the desk, and pressed a button on the telephone.
"Racetrack," he said.
There was rustling on the other side. "Yeah? Spot, Dad, what, is...okay, Spot, you better have fucking not have done anything stupid."
"I so did," Spot replied, and Mr. Higgins interrupted before Race could respond.
"Come down to my office," he said.
"But--"
"Now."
Then he pressed another button and shuffled the papers.
Within a second they could actually hear frantic footsteps pounding in the upstairs hallway, and barely moments later, a knock at the door. Spot was kind of touched by how quickly Race had gotten there. And he was glad he'd have a chance to say goodbye.
Race didn't wait for his father to acknowledge the knock before opening the door and stepping in. He stared at his father for a second, then at Spot, and was clearly trying to catch his breath after his frantic dash.
"Oh good, you're still alive," he finally said, trying to sound nonchalant. His father gestured at another chair and he sat. "So, uh, do I wanna ask...?"
"Yeah, well," Spot breathed. Suddenly he felt sick. He wanted to be the one to tell Race he was going to die. Because he sure as hell couldn't see Mr. Higgins giving a shit. But Spot knew Race cared... It was nice. Loving was nice because then someone HAD to give a shit about him, which didn't happen to Spot too often.
Their eyes met, and Race's face dropped.
"I have made my decision," Mr. Higgins said, and Race didn't look away from Spot.
"Dad, you... you can't..."
Spot bit the corner of his mouth. "Listen--"
"Sean will not be killed."
Spot turned to face Mr. Higgins with an open mouthed expression. "What the fuck did you say?"
"I do not appreciate your language, Sean."
"Yeah, sorry, but--what?"
Race's father set the papers on his desk, slid them across towards Race. Spot's heart sank a little; Race already knew he was messed up, sure, but he'd never planned to tell Race just how badly. There was no reason for him to know. But before he could object, Mr. Higgins started speaking again. "To my surprise, it seems you weren't exaggerating when you described your father as a crazy man with a gun." He paused. "Or was that your description of me?"
"If the shoe fits," Spot answered without thinking, then realized he probably should be back to his best behavior because... Because he wasn't going to die unless he did something drastically stupid.
"Spot!" Race half-yelled.
"Quite all right, Tony, as his description is fairly accurate." Mr. Higgins reached into his suit pocket, needing to fiddle with the sling on his arm to do so, produced a gun, and leveled it at Spot. "You already know me; I am now holding a gun to your head so you know how very, very serious I am."
"Dad--"
"Anthony," his father said, not looking away from Sean, his arm not even wavering slightly. Race fell silent. "I trust you understand the gravity of the situation, then, Sean."
Spot stared at the gun, and nodded.
"Good. You will be under surveillance; any sign that you are less than trustworthy, and you can expect to look up the barrel of this gun again. Do I make myself fully clear?"
"Yes. Sir."
Mr. Higgins nodded, and put his gun away.
"This will take supreme effort on my part to go through," Mr. Higgins said to Spot, who noticed Race was reading the fax of his father's record with a despaired, pained sort of look on his face. "I don't want to do it."
Spot stared.
"You've said your peace, Sean. But there are no more chances. Keep your head." He waved his arm. "Now get out of my office."
Race was still reading the paper, not paying any attention, and Spot shoved his shoulder. "Hey, don't--" He looked up at his father. "Wait, surveillance? Does that--"
"You know what it means, Racetrack. Now get out."
Race and Spot looked at each other.
"I-DO-NOT-LIKE-REPEATING-MYSELF."
Both jumped, and with that, clumsily hurried out of his office.
Race grabbed Spot's wrist and dragged him up the nearest set of stairs and to his room, papers still clenched in his other hand. He shut the door and stared at Spot, then broke into a grin. "You did it! You--you're not dead! Oh my god, you're not dead!"
Spot said nothing, but felt pretty much the same. Except he was still fairly caught up in the papers Race was handing. He smiled half heartedly, and kissed Race quickly.
"Don't tell me you're not excited," Race said. "Don't act like you don't care, you could have died!"
"I care!" Spot answered. "I care, but, you know, I'm fucking confused. I lost it in there, seriously, I yelled and swore and insulted him and he's not having me killed because...?"
"Because he's got no reason to," Race answered. "He doesn't and he knows it, 'cause he can hate you but you're not a threat because these--" he rustled the papers, "show you can keep your mouth shut!"
"Yeah," Spot agreed, then almost nervously, "Yeah, so, could you not read that?"
Race stopped smiling, looking guilty immediately. "I uh...well, I already read some of it, but I won't read anymore, sorry. I didn't know you wouldn't...shit, fuck, sorry."
"What did you read?"
"Uh..."
"What did you read?"
Race looked down at the papers, and then quickly handed them over to Spot, who crumpled them up and shoved them in his pocket. "Just...well, it was all kind of technical. But I picked up the stuff about...about him throwing your head against the bookshelf when the cops came in."
"....and?"
"And it had some dialogue your mom said, from the court thing...not much else."
Spot sighed, and sat down on the bed, his shoulder slumping. "That it?"
"Yeah. Oh, shit, I shouldn't have... I didn't even realize what it was at first, I shouldn't have read it at all. I'm sorry."
"Your dad's a real dick," Spot muttered. "He did want you to read it, I'll bet you anything."
"Why?"
"How the fuck should I know? Probably to, like, freak you out so you wouldn't want to hang out with me anymore. He does fucking hate me."
"Yeah," Race agreed. "But my mom likes you, and my sisters and Marco like you, and I..." He trailed off. "You know."
"Yeah, I know." Spot grinned. He reached forward and grabbed Race's shoulder, stepped in close and kissed his neck, but Race shoved him away. "What?" he demanded.
"Under surveillance, Dad said. That means people watching all the time, Spot!"
Spot snorted. "Oh come on."
"It's true!"
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Spot stared. "Four minutes ago, tops, I found out I wasn't going to be killed. I almost died." He gave Race's shoulder a bit of a shove. "I think I kind of have a right to some ass."
"SSSHHH." Race clamped a hand over Spot's mouth. "LISTENING."
Spot bit him.
"I'm fucking serious. You want to know how fast my dad will change his mind and kill you? Then kiss me."
"Okay." Spot smirked and started forward; Race shoved him away again. "Fuck you!" Spot snapped.
"I wish you could, but this is serious. It's not just me being paranoid, it's my room being bugged and a guy in a suit and sunglasses following you everywhere, recording every word you say. I'm fucking serious!"
"How... How do you know? For sure?"
"'Cause whatever it was that made him change our name made him put me and Izzy and Sophie under surveillance too, and there was always someone there."
"Well, it's not like he had time to call someone in this second," Spot grumbled.
"He could too!"
Spot sulked. "I'm going to bed." He turned on his heel, and threw open the door in a very huffy, and melodramatic fashion. "Jerk yourself off."
"Spo--" The door slammed in his face. "Ugh, bitch."
Spot grumpily trotted down the stairs, and when he passed by a curious looking Maria, he couldn't help flicking her in the forehead.
"Oww!"
"I'm in a bad mood, Thumbelina."
She glared after him, and then seemed to reconsider her anger. "Wait, are you gonna die?!"
Spot didn't answer, and continued down the stairs until he reached the den, where he saw Sophia, Isabella and Marco all sitting, and--in synch--all jerked their heads up to look at him when he entered the room.
"Sean?" Isabella asked after a second.
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said.
"For now?" Marco asked. "Or like... in a more permanent way?"
He shrugged. "Looks pretty permanent for now."
"Oh, thank God," Isabella said and Sophia actually got to her feet, started to approach him, then stopped.
"Right, people don't hug you," she said. "Well, I gotta call Gabe and then go to bed."
"Wait!" Marco called. "No phone calls until your dad gives the all clear."
"But--"
"No buts. That includes you, Sean; they need to put together a cover story and make sure you can remember it in your sleep before you get to talk to anyone. Sorry 'bout that; I know you wanted to call your brother."
"Yeah, whatever."
"Where's Tony?" Isabella asked abruptly.
"In his room." He paused. "Masturbating."
"Funny." She rolled her eyes. "While we wait for the all clear, why don't we finish our earlier conversation, Sean?"
He paled a little. "Sorry, Izzy," he apologized quickly.
"I thought so." She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and for a second looked almost exactly like Sophia.
"Man, you should do intimidation for the Family," Marco muttered, and she smacked his shoulder.
"So you really won't die?" Sophia asked Spot as Marco and Isabella started punching each other. "Really?"
Spot raised an eyebrow. "Why should you care?"
Sophia made a face, and kicked Spot slightly in the leg. He winced, and pulled back. "Listen, I'm actually starting to like you. And you're like, Tony's best friend. I don't want him going all psycho and cocaine addict again. Besides," she shrugged. "You're not so bad, you just think you are."
Spot grinned a little; Sophia had that effect. He understood why Itey liked her... Though he really didn't get the whole 'liking girls' thing.
"If Itey wouldn't shoot me, I'd kiss you." He smirked, giving her a wink. Sophia smiled, and Marco stared.
"I'D shoot you," he snapped.
"So would Tony," Isabella mentioned, and she and Spot made eye contact. Then Spot let out a laugh.
"That was funny, kind of."
"It was," Isabella agreed. Sophia and Marco looked a little confused. "I like how they're stupid."
"Me too."
"I'm not stupid!"
"Shut up, Marco."
"YOU shut up, Izzy."
"You say Izzy like it's an insult, Junior."
"Shut up!"
Spot rolled his eyes. "Are they always like this?" he asked Sophia.
"Yes," she answered emphatically. "Always have been, too. Man, you should see what our Thanksgiving dinners are like, those two can not stop bickering."
"Can so."
"We really can't."
"Now you're doing it on purpose!"
"I always do it on purpose, Marco, because I always win!"
"You're a terrible person," Marco sulked, then stood. "But I gotta go find out if I'm supposed to be working or anything, and I told Maria I'd tell her a bedtime story."
"Isn't she too old for that?" Spot asked.
"Marco's bedtimes stories are great," Izzy explained. "Because he loses track of what's going on, and he'll start off with a Princess and a unicorn and end up, like, on Venus with a reindeer."
Marco rolled his eyes. "You live to mock me, don't you?"
"It's easy enough," Izzy answered. "C'mon, Rosetta, let's let Sean have his room back. You want me to send down Tony?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Sure," he said. She gave him a strange look, and he shrugged again, not able to explain that they were sort of fighting, but not really even, and the trio left him to his own devices.
He collapsed on his makeshift bed and spent a minute reveling in how he wasn't about to die, until Race appeared in the rec room. "So, you done being a bitch?" he asked.
"You done being paranoid?"
"I'm not paranoid, I don't want to get caught." He lowered his voice. "I don't want Dad to kill you, Spot. And he would, you know he would. Seriously, don't give him an excuse, we have to be careful."
Spot sighed. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."
Race clicked his tongue. "Well, I guess there's the washrooms..."
"I actually don't feel like making out," Spot said, as he picked up a drumming magazine that was on the bedside table and started flipping through it. "I just want to fucking lay around with you. But nooo, I--"
"You don't want to make out?"
"No, I--"
"Is that POSSIBLE?
"Shut up."
"You always want to have sex, you're like, an addict."
"SHUT UP." Spot chucked the magazine, and it hit his boyfriend with a satisfying hitting sound. "Ass, go away."
Race picked the magazine up as Spot continued to sulk, glanced over his shoulder, and then sighed as he flopped down next to Spot and replaced the magazine. "Stop pouting, you look like a four year old."
"Do not, fucker."
"You so do. It's kinda cute, but mostly just disturbing, and kinda annoying."
"Yeah, so?"
Race shrugged, and gestured towards the front of the room, where there was an almost impossibly huge television and an elaborate and VERY expensive system surrounding it. "So we can't make out or whatever, but we could, like, watch a movie. This is the rec room."
Spot shrugged. "What've you got?"
Race stood, helped Spot to his feet, and showed him over to a cabinet. He opened the door, and Spot nearly gaped.
"That's, like, every movie ever made."
"Not quite."
"Seriously, that's insane."
"Well duh, this is my family we're talking about. Mental stability is not our strong point."
Spot gaped for another second, then began to run his eyes through the list of action titles. He couldn't believe they were actually organized alphabetically, after being classified by genre. It really was kind nuts, and not even in the way Race's family usually was. "Wow, that's..." he started again.
"Mom is really pretty anal about organization," Race explained. "So pick something already."
Spot glanced over most of the movies as either stupid, or boring, or bad, and finally reached out and selected the first Terminator movie.
"Are you joking?" Race demanded.
"Fuck no, I love this movie."
"...Why?"
"'Cause it's good," Spot snapped.
Race shrugged. It wasn't exactly romantic, but he hadn't expected Spot to pick Gone With The Wind anyway. Though really, there was some romance in it. Or at least, a sex scene. Maybe that was worth something.
"Popcorn?" Race asked as he started to get the video system set up. It looked needlessly complicated to Spot, who was used to 'turn VCR on, insert movie,' but this seemed a bit more high tech.
"Sure," Spot agreed. Race grinned, started the movie and paused it, and dashed upstairs. Spot spent the next five minutes marveling over the movie collection, until Race returned with a bag of popcorn ('Oh, so you DO microwave things like a normal human being SOMETIMES.' 'Shut up!' 'It's not even Italian!') and they sat on the couch-turned-bed.
They couldn't exactly sit together, but they sat close enough to balance the popcorn between them, which also meant close enough that almost any arm or leg movement would bring about physical contact.
It wasn't ideal, but it was good enough.
Spot felt like that was suddenly the motto of his life. So long as Race was right next to him, it was good enough.
He reached for a handful of popcorn as the opening text faded in, and his hand brushed Race's. They looked over at each other, and Race grinned a little.
"God, you're hot," Spot murmured.
"Watch the movie," Race answered, but he did brush Spot's hand with his thumb before taking some popcorn.
Spot, for the life of him, couldn't think of one time in his life where he hadn't wanted to pay attention to Terminator; but his boyfriend, his sexy, adorably hot drummer Italian boyfriend, was right next to him and he couldn't do a goddamn thing about it.
Really, at the moment, Spot just wanted to hold him. One of the only times ever where he didn't want to make out and he couldn't even be romantic about it.
"I love you, Terminator," Race said suddenly, as he ate some more popcorn. "Goddamnit I do."
Spot didn't get it for a moment, but then grinned. "And Terminator loves you, dumbass."
"He does?"
"I'm not talking about a person, I'm talking about the Terminator."
Race didn't get it. Spot loved how he didn't get it.
"The terminator isn't a person?"
"Not MY terminator."
Race blinked and then punched Spot's shoulder. "PERV."
"'I love you, Terminator,'" Spot simpered and Race punched him again. "Pussy."
"You're the one who said it first!"
"Yeah, but I said it cool."
"No you didn't."
"Pfft."
"We have to keep it down!"
"You're the one squealing like a girl."
"I. Am. Not."
"You SO were," Spot laughed, and shoved Race, who shoved back, and they started to get a bit more physical, and almost on cue (as Kyle Reese shot the Terminator, who had Sarah Connor in his sight) they stopped and tried to compose themselves.
"Damn it," Race mumbled and yawned. "Fucking LONG day..."
"Yeah, seriously." It was only around ten at night, but given that they'd been up since five--or unconscious, which was NOT the same as asleep--and had been through a lot of high stress situations, Race felt okay about his sudden exhaustion now that the lights were off and no one was in danger for real was justified. He yawned again and shifted slightly; he was leaning against Spot, his head on the couch, not on Spot's shoulder, but not too far away from it...
Spot wanted to put his arm around Race but didn't dare, so he just began eating popcorn again. He was almost as tired as Race seemed to be, but really did want to call Jack as soon as he could, so he remained awake long after Race fell asleep, rolled off the couch back, and ended up dozing against Spot's arm.
The movie was just winding up when Marco let himself down the stairs. "Oooh, good flick," he commented, then handed Spot a few papers stapled together. "Read this. Memorize it. Quiz in half an hour, then you can call your brother."
"What?" Spot asked.
"It's your cover story. I've got a copy for Tony, too." He hesitated, then shook Race's shoulder. "C'mon, cuz; bedtime. You've got school in the morning."
"Mmmph," Race mumbled, annoyed to be awoken. "You, uh, need anything, Spot?" he asked.
"Nope, I'm good."
"'Kay..." He yawned. "I'll see you in the morning, then."
"'Night, Tony."
"'Night, Sean." Race gave him a sleepy smile, and Marco helped him up the stairs. Spot turned off the movie, having figured that hitting power on the TV would probably shut off the important parts, and began to study the story that had been concocted.
At first, Spot had to make a disgusted face, because it seemed he was purposely being made into a wuss, via Mr. Higgins. Of course, what did he expect?
According to the story, they were mugged at night, because they'd gone joyriding and decided to catch a movie at the theatre close to downtown, where there was a bad crowd. In the process, Race's car had been stolen, and both boys had been recuperating all day, not to mention lost downtown most of the night.
Race's family had freaked out, of course; Race and Spot had spent some time in the hospital, then reporting in the police station. (There was a note that yes, there were corroborating hospital and police records--or would be within a few hours). So Spot had ended up with barely a chance to get to a phone, and would be staying there overnight, and back for school the next day. All hospital bills would be covered by Race's family, who felt awful about it, and his foster mother had nothing to worry about.
He read through it a few times, memorized it as best as he could, and Marco literally did quiz him on it before handing him a phone.
He dialed, almost nervously, and waited.
"Hello...?" It was Denise, his foster mother, and she sounded upset. He felt a little guilty, though it hadn't really been his fault...
"Denise? It's me."
"...."
"Den--"
"Sean?"
"Yeah, I--"
"Where have you been? Jack and I are worried SICK."
"I was just... wait, no, don't be worried, I'm fine!"
"You bet your life you're fine! This isn't the first time you've done this Sean, and frankly--"
In the background, Spot could hear Jack yell "That's SEAN? Mom, move over, let me talk to him. MOM, gimme the phone!"
Spot waited patiently while Denise and Jack argued over the phone, and finally, the voice that spoke into his ear--loudly he had to add, so he swore slightly--was Jack's.
"SPOT!"
"Yeah, we've established that."
"Don't be a smart ass, where the FUCK have you been?"
"With Tony."
"....you're fucking KIDDING me."
"Jack, let's not, okay? I've had a long fucking day." He sighed tiredly.
"Too much sex?" Jack muttered. "Or is Tony still being frigid?"
"Fuck you. No. We got mugged last night; spent the day in the hospital and the police station and trying to get his family to stop screaming in Italian. Didn't work."
"You were mugged?" Jack demanded.
"He was what?" Denise screamed in the background. "Jack. Phone. Now."
"Mom--"
"I have paperwork to do if he's been in an altercation, Jack, you know that. People at the state are going to--ught." There was a pause and the phone changed hands. "Sean, first, are you all right?"
He almost smiled at that; at least she did care. "Yeah, fine. Well. A little bruised and real tired, but--seriously, fine. Didn't get hurt, the hospital was just 'cause Tony's mom flipped out. And they said they'll cover the cost and stuff, so no one at the state needs to worry about it."
"Where are you hurt?"
Spot paused. "Where am I hurt?" he repeated, glancing up at Marco. Marco indicated his shoulder and his jaw. "Not much...they took my shoulder out a bit...and my jaw was like a freaking spawn from hell like, last night, but it's fine now. Serious, the worst was Tony's car, it got stolen."
"How is a car more important?"
"It was a nice car, Denise."
"Alright..." Denise sighed. "When are you coming home, Sean?"
"I'm staying with Tony tonight." Spot fingered the patterns on the sofa, scratching at the material. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sean, you should come home."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
Spot sent a desperate look to Marco.
Marco shrugged, and Spot improvised, "Tony's family feels really, really bad about everything. They blame--well, Tony, mostly." He laughed a little; he knew Jack was certainly going to blame Race. "And insisted I stay here tonight. Like, his mom was gonna start crying again... I'll get home in time for school tomorrow, though."
She sighed. "I'd rather you were home tonight. Sean, Jack has been telling me about this Tony person, and--"
"He's been WHAT?" Spot demanded. "Let me talk to him."
"Sean--"
"Denise, it's--" he stopped and saw that Marco was looking a little too interested. "It's not a big deal or anything, okay? I'll be home early as I can, really. Sorry I made you worry."
She sighed. "Don't do this to me again, Sean," she said after a pause. "Every time you do, the state gets this much closer to taking you away, putting you in another home or in a reform school or--Sean, I know you don't love living with me, but I know it's better than where you were before. I just don't want them to put you somewhere like that again."
He swallowed hard; he hadn't expected that. He kind of hated it when people were nice to him, he had no idea how to respond.
So, with an odd sound in the back of this throat, Spot said, "I don't want it to happen either."
Denise, despite his trying to keep her out at first, knew him pretty well, and she knew what that meant, so she sighed again. "Make sure you're here tomorrow...you can cut early classes and we'll talk, but then you're off to school. Because--"
"I know. They could take me away."
"And we don't want that."
"I know." There was a pause. "Tony's awesome, Denise, Jack is just full of shit. Let me talk to him."
"...alright, but not long, I want to speak with you some more, alright?" with about the millionth sigh in the past five minutes, there was a rustling on the phone that Spot assumed was Jack taking her place.
"Spot--"
"What did you say, ass?"
"That he's a cocaine addict, which is true, and an asshole, which is also true."
"It's not," Spot argued, and abruptly realized the conversation was probably being listened to by someone else. If he actually talked about how he and Tony were involved... Tony had warned him to be careful, not to get caught. "He's not an asshole, unlike some people, JACK. 'Cause, you know, I can fucking go to HIM when SOMEONE is being a complete and total shithead."
"Spot, don't fucking DO this to me," Jack snapped. "Look, I'm sorry we were fighting, okay? Fucking sorry. But I still don't like him, and I don't want you two--"
"I don't care what you want, he's my fucking best friend." Spot was really careful not to say boyfriend and to interrupt Jack before he had a chance to mention it. "And I'm not gonna stop hanging out with him. And I don't give a damn how much you hate him."
"Christ, why are you so stupid, Spot?" Jack demanded.
"Why are you stupid?" Shot answered. "I can't believe you're STILL pissed at him."
"For almost getting Dutchy killed? Fuck yeah, I'm pissed." He paused and Denise muttered something to him. "Denise wants to talk some more; we're finishing this damn conversation tomorrow."
"Whatever."
"SPOT."
"Yeah, yeah. We'll talk, and then scream, and swear at each other tomorrow. 'Cause I'm fucking not dropping him."
"We'll SEE about that," Jack muttered, and the phone changed hands again.
"Sean, we'll talk tomorrow, your head isn't screwed on too tight right now," was what Denise said, and really, made Spot want to explode. What did it take? What the fuck kind of right did Jack have to go and mouth off things about Race to Denise and everybody else?
If it wasn't for Race, Dutchy would be in fucking Juvenile Hall with a record a mile long.
But he couldn't say that.
"Yeah, right," Spot muttered.
"Sean," she said seriously. "Sean, I was very worried. I care about you very much."
Spot, again, didn't know what to say, and again, didn't know if he should even bother saying a word anymore. He was back at square one, for some reason, because he couldn't say anything, just pretend another bad thing had happened when Tony was close to him.
Well, that was true, considering, but so different at the same time.
"Tell Jack I hate him," Spot snapped.
"I will not--"
"And I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sean--"
"I'm gonna go to bed. 'Night, Denise." He hung up.
Okay, well that was kind of an asshole thing to do, he realized. But--but it wasn't Tony's fault. The "mugging" wasn't either; okay, they shouldn't have been out late, which they were according to the story (though Spot noted that it had been set up like he pestered Race into it, like Race had been an unwilling accomplice--fuckers). It wasn't Race's fault that a fictional mugger had jumped them any more than it was Race's fault the mafia went crazy and they'd been kidnapped.
But no one would understand that. No one would believe it. Especially if Jack wouldn't shut his fucking mouth.
"You okay?" Marco asked mildly.
"Sure."
"You sound pissed."
"I hate my brother."
"Yeah, and you call your mom Denise, which is weird. What was all that about the state?"
Spot sighed. "Shouldn't you know my whole fucking background by now?"
"Uncle Paulo does. But he won't tell me anything."
"Then why should I?" Spot snapped. "Can I sleep now?"
"Sure." Marco shrugged a little. "Sleep well; wake Tony if you need anything. Apparently I'm driving you home in the morning." He paused when he got no response. "Goodnight, then. Whatever."
Spot didn't really acknowledge him as he left the room, just turned out the light and made himself comfortable in the makeshift bed. He wished he had a change of clothes, but at least they'd given him a toothbrush to use so he didn't feel totally gross. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come so easily.
Everything was so fucked up he could hardly stand it. He was on death watch; one wrong move and he was shot, no questions asked, no further deals, he was gone. His brother was a total fucker, and the worst part was that Spot knew it was because Jack was worried about him, which made it a lot harder to hate him than Spot cared for. Denise, as usual, was in her 'my foster child is a fuck up' mode, and now the only thing that seemed right was Race.
And now that was taken away from him, because they weren't even allowed to touch each other, because who knew where they were being watched?
Spot wanted to throw up. He felt sick, and pathetic, and like he was a four year old brat with a fucked up father and a mom popping pills every ten minutes. He would know.
So Spot didn't sleep much, but he did go to the washroom and throw up.
He walked back out, and there was Isabella sitting in the dark, waiting for him. "Please tell me this isn't about safe sex," he mumbled and sat down on the blanketed couch.
"Not this time, caro mio. My room is right above the washroom and I can hear through the vent; the sound of puking is pretty hard to mistake."
He shrugged.
"...Are you okay?" she asked. "Do you need a doctor?"
"I'm fine."
"You're really not."
"I'm as fine as I get."
She raised an eyebrow, barely visible in the dim light.
"I'm as fine as someone who spent the day in a basement fearing for his life, and then the afternoon pretending to be normal and fearing for his life, who's having a secret gay love affair and could be killed for it, or just for breathing wrong, or for no reason at all can really expect to be."
"So not fine at all."
He pulled his knees up to his chest and leant against the back of the couch and the arm rest. "Not really." He sighed. "But I'll be fine."
She gave him a concerned look. "If you want to talk..."
"I don't talk, Isabella. And I could get shot for it if I did."
"Not for talking to me."
"Wanna bet?"
She hesitated. "No, not really. I'm sorry this all happened to you--you didn't deserve it."
"Yeah, that seems to be a real trend in my life."
Isabella stared hard at him, but not in the cold way she'd done earlier on with the sex talk. No, now she had a pained, sympathetic sort of expression that Spot was familiar with; it was the one people who cared about him used whenever they started to really care too much. Jack used it every day. So did Race.
And that was it, really. He didn't have very many people who cared about him.
"I'm sorry," she said, sounding sort of breathless. "This had nothing to do with you, and you got caught up in it because you...because you..."
"Love Tony?" Spot mumbled, his legs drawn up to his chest, his mouth leaning on top of his knee, which he was biting into for lack of anything better to inflict pain on. Because Isabella didn't deserve it.
"Do you really?"
"I shouldn't say."
"Do you?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"You guess?"
"I'm sure." His knee was starting to bleed a little. He straightened up enough to pick at it, widen the cut a tiny bit. "I really do."
She smiled a tiny bit. "You should tell him."
"I did."
Which caught her off guard, and finally she asked, "How did he react?"
"He..." Spot put his thumb over the cut, trying to stop the bleeding. "He loves me, too." Somehow, as he said it, it didn't feel real. He wished it did. He needed it to feel real.
She smiled at him. "Good. I like you two together. And I like you, Sean. Regardless of Tony."
He wondered what that even meant. Because all of his friends but Race were friends with him because of Jack, and the thought that anyone would want to be friends of him without a link like Jack or Race just didn't occur to him. So he didn't react until she put a hand over his.
"I know no one hugs you," she said. "But I just want you to know that I would. If it would help."
Spot didn't know what happened at that point. He didn't even think he was all there when he did it. But somehow, somewhere, he had to collapse and a little and Isabella opened her arms a little too, and soon they were hugging. A little.
Which wasn't bad, because he felt a little better.
So someone actually liked him. Until now, he hadn't been bothered with it. So people thought he was a shit, big deal. So he was an asshole, so what? Race was an asshole, too.
But people liked Race anyway. They cared about him.
"You want to talk to Tony?" Isabella asked quietly.
"Let him sleep," Spot replied. "If I can't than he better."
"See, you're nicer than you think," she answered. "Will you be able to sleep all right down here? You can take my bed if you want, it's more comfortable."
"Izzy--"
"I don't mind."
"I think your Dad might, though. If he woke up and discovered me in his daughter's bed. And then we're back to me being shot."
His voice sounded a little more stable. She nodded. "And we want to avoid that," she agreed. "But if you need anything down here. Or if you want a snack, or--"
"Your whole family is obsessed with food, you know that? You're all trying to feed me all the time."
"Well, you're just skin and bones," she chided. "It's good you and Tony are together; he'll make you eat properly."
"I do--"
"Clearly you don't. But that's a discussion for another night--for now, try and get some sleep, okay?"
"Okay."
She stood up, put a hand on his shoulder and let it linger for a second. "I'm right upstairs if you need me, Spot," she promised. "Sleep well."
He nodded and she let herself back up the stairs. He lay down again and shut his eyes, and this time he felt better. It was odd, but... But he really liked Race's sisters (or at least two of the three of them) and was actually glad that Isabella cared about him.
And knowing that she did made it seem a little more possible that somehow, Race loved him.
He didn't fall asleep with a smile on his face, but he did sleep.
*
B: Too tired to write ANs. Give me pajamas or give me death!!
Funkie: Give me a sandwich... *snoooooooore*
This chapter celebrated with Japanese junk food, courtesy of B's older sister. Mmm. Pocky.