Fates Intertwined Chapter 3: Mr Lonely, a collateral fanfic

Disclaimer: Really? We have to go through this every time?

Vincent: Yes. You wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression, would you?

Me: The wrong impression? Like, I'm the only girl here to still wants to play? Face it, honey, I do just about own you.

Vincent: No, no, Michael Mann and Tom Cruise own me.

Me: (snorts) The only human being Tom Cruise owns is Katie Holmes.

Vincent: Be nice. We share a face, you know.

Me: You don't look anything like Katie Holmes.

Vincent: (exasperated sigh) Why do I put up with you?

Me: Because I write damn good fanfic, that's why. And since when is it your scene to tell anyone to be nice? Usually that's what all us fangirls are telling you.

Vincent: Some fangirls you're all turning out to be. First you all abandon me for that Ripper guy--

Me: Rippner.

Vincent: Whatever. And now he gets a part in my fic? How is that fair?

Me: Get with it man, life's not fair. You'd be the first person to say that. You've mellowed since your movie debut, old man!

Vincent: Getting shot does that to a person.

Me: Well, don't worry, you'll live through this fic. Although you might wish you hadn't.

Vincent: (droll) Thanks a lot. Really.

Me: You're welcome. Now the rest of you, get out there, read and review, dammit! I know you're there, I can see you hitting the story on my Stats page! And BTW, there's many part of this next chapter that are flashing back to the first story, because it's been so freaking long I had to use some flashback stuff, and also I stole the first chunk directly from the old "To Live Or To Die" story. Stuff like that is going to happen a lot.

Vincent: Shame on you. That's cheating.

Me: Indeed. (winks)

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Chapter Three – Mr. Lonely

He wasn't going.

It was stupid. Why hadn't he killed Callie? He asked himself again and again. It rotated through his mind, a never-ending cycle that was starting to feel like an organ grinder on his skull.

But he wasn't going back. Not to fix his mistake, nor to "rescue" her. That idea was ridiculous. It was over and done, he didn't look back. And if Peter didn't want to send him any more jobs, well, that was his problem. He wasn't much anymore into killing for money anyway. And he had enough money to last himself for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

It didn't matter. He needed a distraction.

It was a stereotype, it was true, but the reason stereotypes existed was the simple fact that certain commonalities existed between persons of similar culture. In this case, flesh in Thailand was cheap.

Sure, they tried to dress it up, call them "escort services," but Vincent didn't bother with the pretty pictures. He made his call. He asked for his regular. She came quickly, and had a nearly eager look on her face.

Vincent began to wonder if this was the best idea. But the tension was getting a bit too unbearable, and a man had needs, after all.

There was a routine to it. Vincent didn't like the cheapness of a woman in a slinky black dress showing up in his room, banging her on the table and then leaving her cash as he discretely checked out. He'd tried it once, it hadn't been to his taste. The nightlife was something to be experienced, and while he usually did it alone, the rare opportunity to share it with Cathy, as he called her, was not unappealing. He rather liked the illusion of being on a date, so dinner always came first, followed by music of some kind.

Cathy was wearing black, as she always did, and her hair was flamed with some kind of bright red dye, something new for that evening. He rather wished she hadn't done it, he preferred her silky, jet-black locks, but as he had his eyes closed half the time he was with her, he didn't feel the point was worth arguing.

She smiled at him, chatted sometimes when there was something for her to talk about. He didn't really give her much room. There was a rather cheap jazz band that played sometimes in this one nightclub that had a tendency to change locations by the month, and Vincent used up most of the conversation either complaining at how bad they were, or complementing them on their occasional good performance. It wasn't their fault, their instruments were not the best quality, yadda yadda yadda, he knew he would carry on at times, but she was paid very well to sit, smile and agree.

On the days when he didn't feel as talkative, she would pick up the slack talking about the movements of the market, who was arrested for what, and faithfully reciting the occasional jazz facts that amused him to teach her.

On this evening, she was unusually quiet. As was he.

Her almond-shaped eyes, a pale golden color that reminded him at times of a cat, watched him, especially when she thought he wasn't looking. Her quiet, contemplative state made him uneasy. She wasn't paid to think, and whatever she was thinking about, he just didn't think it would be good.

The band was particularly bad that night, but Vincent had no heart to start badmouthing them. After all, beggars couldn't be choosers. He considered going to a club where they played prerecorded music, knew that would cost money and possibly make him and Cathy stand out, but might almost be worth it at this rate.

He just wished he could stop thinking.

Finally, she leaned forward, arching her back in a cat-like pose, exposing her chest to him, which was artificially enhanced. His gaze settled on her breasts and he began to think that perhaps the date portion of the evening could come to an early end.

"You remember my friend Tina?" she said in her rich, Thai accent, which had mellowed considerably since he'd first met her.

Vincent gave a half-shrug. Yes, she would also talk about the other girls, either just to trash them or to tell amusing stories about things that had happened to them.

"What about her?" Vincent asked, disinterested.

"She got married." Ah, so that was the cause of that look she'd been wearing all night.

"To who?" Vincent asked.

"A regular."

"Won't her other regulars get upset?"

Cathy let out a coy, coltish laugh. "No, Vincent, she has no others."

He looked at the woman, intensifying his gaze, saw her melt under it, and for a moment, lose track of what she was going to say. He leaned closer to her, to kiss her, and shut his eyes, visualizing another face, another pair of sweet lips—

"Tina planned it. As we all do. Find one who cannot resist you. Eventually, he makes you his wife."

Vincent froze. "That's a big gamble," he said, inches away from her face. "What if the one you pick is already married?"

"There are ways to prevent that," Cathy went on with a sigh, her breath, freshened by her drink, drifting over his cheek. "We are very cunning, you know."

"Oh, I know," Vincent said with a smile. He reached under the table and his hands found her soft, slender leg. Slowly, he made his way up to the edge of her skirt. "But most of the time, men don't like to be pinned down."

Cathy just went on smiling. "You know, I read that in America, women give their favors away for free, and then the man never marries her. Is that true?"

"Yes, it's true," Vincent said, feeling the warm inside of her thigh.

"You see, that is why it works for us," Cathy explained. "Because we are not free. Eventually, every man realizes that it is easier to make a whore his wife than to make his wife a whore."

Vincent cocked an eyebrow. There was a certain truth to that. "So what happens when the man doesn't propose? How long does it take for her to…figure it out?"

Cathy winked at him. "Has never happened yet, Vincent," she purred.

It was almost enough to wreck the mood. But some calls were more urgent than the annoyance of a female mind, intent on ensnaring a mate. Vincent paid the bill and took her back to a hotel room, where he made damn sure she didn't have any false ideas about what he really wanted from her.

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Afterwards, he returned home. Alone. There was a heavy brown envelope on the table in his makeshift dining room. His home was very basic, although everything was very expensive. He had nothing else to spend his money on. Other than jazz.

Vincent picked up the packet, turning it over in his hands. The picture of Callie from before was resting underneath it, and it flickered up at him, catching his eye. It was a black and white, taken from a distance through a zoom lense. It didn't capture her, not the way she was. But he remembered that last moment, standing in the airport. The dead look on her face as he tried to kiss her, and then the spark coming back.

"There you are," he'd said to her. And kissed her again.

It had been a mistake to get into her cab. He had known it from moment one. He remembered telling himself that he should get out, that he should only hang with her to the next stop, but what choice had he had? South Union wasn't exactly an easy place to hail down a cab. L.A. wasn't like Chicago or New York, where the cabs swarmed like bees in September. It was the second stop where things had gone to hell.

He should have killed her when she tried to escape. Left her with the two dead punks. Just left the whole mess behind. Before he got attached.

He seemed to remember telling himself the same thing as he stood in that gas station lot, staring at the pictures that reminded him of downtown Gary. Something had been wrong with him that night. It was still wrong – he couldn't place it, but it had somehow acquired her face.

Her face, which stared at him from new pictures, more recent ones. The same face he left behind. The same pale, shrunken face of someone defeated. He could see it in her eyes. She was still walking around with him in her head. He was still with her.

The thought made him smile.

Force had always been his means to every end. Violence was just a way of life, a way to control things, a way to keep outside things from controlling you. He did not hesitate to use it, he did not feel one way or the other about it. He had been charming with her, he told himself, during that first ride. Even the second one. But when those punks had tried to mug her, well…plan B. No problem.

He had initially pegged her as a spoiled girl who really had no idea how the world actually worked. It wasn't common to see too many pretty college girls driving cabs, and her novelty struck him. She seemed to have a cool, almost tough veneer, but once he got her talking he knew she was just like everyone else in the world, playing it safe.

And then she had tried to get away from him. The pure brass balls of that move had impressed him. Impressed him so much, that he hadn't killed her.

Like he should have.

Sure, he reprimanded her. Just because he liked spunk didn't mean he could tolerate it. And it seemed that made it better, made it more fun. Breaking her spirit, taming the beast, just made it that much more interesting.

Because the job had not been interesting. Not for a long time had it been interesting. That was why he was off that night, he told himself. He was bored. He was limited. He was asking himself if this was all he was, just a hired, if very expensive, gun. Just a machine that took lives. Wasn't there anything else of meaning?

And why hadn't he ever cared before?

So he worked on her. As if she was the personification of that thing inside of him, curling and squirming and trying to get out. The more she fought, the more he enjoyed it. The harder he had to press, the more attractive she became.

She was still fighting.

These pictures had been taken at a shooting range. She was with a man he thought he recognized as her brother, and another one, also looked like a cop, blond haired and skinny. She was turning around, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with a gun holstered at her hip, a pair of safety goggles over her eyes and a pair of ear mufflers strapped over her baseball cap.

Vincent smiled. She was trying to shake him off. Still trying to fight him after he was long gone. He felt flattered. More than that, he felt intrigued.

Maybe he'd made his previous decision too hastily. The prospect of this…it was like life was starting to gain back a bit of its taste again.

Underneath the pictures was a fat package of papers that had been faxed through. There was a typed note on the front, no salutation or closing, just simple words.

"Jackson sent me these not fourteen hours ago. They came from the office of Dr. Laurence Gregg, whom she's been working with. I thought they would be of interest to you."

Vincent flipped the note back. Fax paper was so thin, slick against his fingers. But the first words, the first lines of what was written there, made him forget everything else.

"That's the why. There is no reason. There's no good reason, no bad reason to live or to die." Such were the words spoken to me by the man I only knew as Vincent as he rode around in the back of my cab, using me as his personal driver to take out the hits he had been paid to make that night.

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"I'll get the trash," Callie said, coming up behind her father as he finished washing the last dish. She grabbed up the bag where it was tied and sitting beside the back door, and flashed him a smile.

"You almost done?" he asked her as she unlocked the deadbolt and let in the cool evening air.

"Almost," she said. "I'm going to stop tonight and finish tomorrow. I should have it into him by late tomorrow afternoon." She pushed open the screen door and gave him a classic, "whoopee," look, the one to show him what she really thought of what she was doing. Somehow, the thrill of getting her degree just didn't seem to exist anymore. But she had set her mind to a purpose, and Callie did not quit.

She dragged the bag behind her as she lumbered down to the dumpster her father shared with a handful of neighbors. A long time ago about five of them had gotten together and rented it, splitting the cost between them. It was locked, and she had just remembered to grab up the key before taking out the bag.

The dumpster was down the driveway and far off to the left, but she made it without incident. They lived in one of the older neighborhoods of L.A., where it was still relatively nice and everybody knew each other.

"Ten million people in L.A. and nobody knows each other."

She was coming back up the walk when his voice went through her head. She stopped, and realized she was at the exact point in the driveway where they had stood that night. Her car, an old Delta 88 Oldsmobile, occupied the spot where the taxi had sat. Vincent had stopped her, rested his backside against the trunk and started to ask her personal questions. He'd asked her personal questions before, but that had been before he'd shot and killed two street thugs in front of her, and murdered a jazz musician he claimed to have liked while she was in the bathroom. It was also before he pushed her up against a wall and kissed her.

He'd kissed her again, sitting here. The memory was suddenly striking, fresh and clear as if it were happing right now, and she was watching it, a spectator in her own flashback.

He reached out with the other hand and firmly drew her to him, so that she stood between his legs, which were parted slightly to get her closer. Their faces were inches apart. "You know, I'd almost hoped you'd be an unappreciative brat," he murmured. "Complain about your parents even though they're saints. But you don't. I'll bet every night when you pray, you pray to your mother to watch over your father. I'll bet you're keenly aware of how much he misses her, and yet love him all the more for staying with you."

"You talk about me like I'm special," she said. "I'm just someone who's mature enough to appreciate her parents."

"Which makes you probably the most well-adjusted person I've ever known," Vincent said. And then, after a beat, he kissed her. Again.

The motion of Vincent's lips on hers was so quick that it took her by surprise for a moment. It wasn't really a full kiss, she realized, when she pushed him away. His mouth had been open, and had gently rested on the corner of hers, fully expecting her to kiss him back. The surprise and – was it? – hurt on his face threw her, and she wasn't quite sure what to do for another second.

Surely he couldn't be serious.

Vincent put down the manuscript – that was what it was, a manuscript. A first person account, her account, of that night. The things he had done, through her eyes. It was stark and sharp and painfully accurate.

Even the kissing.

He didn't let himself think too much about kissing her, but it was as if he were suddenly doing it again. As if she were here, in his arms, and sense memory could feel and taste her.

Full on scarlet stained her cheeks now. Her eyes had gone hazy, distant, a desperate attempt to escape the stress of the situation. Using the opportunity, he lifted one hand to the snaps on her jacket. His knuckles pressed ever so gently against her breast through the leather.

"You were attracted to me?" he whispered, ruffling the thin hairs around her ear. She shivered as one snap came undone.

"Never trust your first impression," she muttered. Humor was the last defense. He slipped two fingers into her jacket as he undid the next snap. She wasn't pulling away.

"Oh, always trust your first impression," Vincent smiled. "Maybe I thought the same thing."

Confusion fluttered all across her face. He had her on the ropes and he just kept yanking her around. In a few more minutes she was going to be helpless. He made himself stay focused and slow as he undid the snaps, one by one, and watched as she struggled to think. When his hands finally slipped inside, caressing her curves, reaching up and finding her breasts, her eyes shut and she was almost scowling with the effort that took. He shifted his weight, his fingers enjoying the softness of her body and the slinky sensation of the shirt, as he pulled her farther and farther into his grip. Soon, her face was resting against his, the bridge of his nose pressed against her forehead, so he had a front row view to her face and how she was fighting back against her attraction.

Callie shut her eyes, sucking in a hard breath. It wasn't fair. It wasn't normal. Why had she been chosen to carry such a burden?

Laurie had told her that it was natural for her to feel this way. Vincent had manipulated her, relentlessly, throughout the night. It was only normal for there to be scars. She just had to work through them. Deep breaths, push the memories back. It was past, all in the past.

Vincent paused, thoughtful. "What if it was true?" he said.

"What if what was true?"

"That we were dating, and that you brought me home tonight to meet your father. Did he like me? Would he think I was suitable?" At the look she gave him, he amended, "I mean, taking out the…obvious."

Swallowing, knowing this was impossible, she carefully picked her answer. "He seemed to like you well enough, Vincent. You were very polite."

"Yeah, but would we get along?" Vincent pressed. "Like family?"

Vincent shoved the manuscript away. He didn't want to think about it. All his life he'd lived with the fact that his father blamed him for the death of his mother. He'd been completely rejected. That pain never went away, but he told himself it didn't matter anymore. He was a man, he had his own life.

He looked around. This was his life.

He sucked in another breath. Callie…always her face. Always the memory of her. Nothing had been right since that night. He couldn't understand one bit of it.

And even less could he bear the thought of the world without her in it.

Peter…Peter understood. Vincent did not know how, because he did not understand it himself. But Peter had come to him and given him clear choices, and his blessing for whatever he decided.

Vincent decided. He was going back to L.A.

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Callie came back into the house. She was shivering.

"Is it getting cold out there?" her dad asked as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel.

"No," she said, hearing the tremor in her voice. "Just a breeze."

Her father studied her carefully. "Bad memories?" he asked softly.

She looked at him, stricken. He thought he could see her trauma…she would die of shame if he even had a clue. She needed to talk to Laurie. First thing in the morning, she was going to call him.

"I'm going to go to bed," she said, keeping her tone soft. "You going to lock up?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it," he said. "Get some rest, finish your paper. Before you know it, sweetie, your future will be here."

That's what I'm afraid of, she thought.

So I've had a few people wondering how the titles are connected to the chapters, and it's just the song I feel is the most appropriate to the content of the chapter. So here is this chapter's song:

Mr. Lonely--Akon

Lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely
I have nobody
For my own, I'm so lonely
I'm Mr. Lonely
I have nobody
For my own, I'm so lonely

Yo, this one here goes out to all my playas out there man, ya know? That got that one good girl dog, that's always been there man, like... And then one day she can't take it no more and decides to leave.

I woke up in the middle of the night
Wondering why she had to go and take that flight
Could have sworn I was dreamin
For her I was feenin
So I had to take a little ride

Backtracking on these few years
Tyring to figure out what I did to make it go bad
Cause ever since my girl left me
My whole life came crashing and I'm so...

Lonely (So lonely)
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)
I have nobody (I have nobody)
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)
I'm so lonely (So lonely)
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)
I have nobody (I have nobody)
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)

Can't believe I had a girl like you,
And I just let you walk right out of my life.
After all I put you through,
You still stuck around and stayed by my side.
What really hurt me was I broke your heart,
Baby you're a good girl and I had no right.
I really wanna make things right,
Cause without you in my life girl I'm so...

Been all over the world and I ain't never met a girl that could take the things that you've been through
Never thought the day would come when you would get up and run and I would be out chasing you
Cause there ain't no where on the globe I'd rather be
Ain't no one on the globe I'd rather see
Than the girl of my dreams that made me be
So happy but now so loenly

Lonely (So lonely)
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)
I have nobody (I have nobody)
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)
Lonely (So lonely)
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)
I have nobody (I have nobody)
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)

Never thought that I'd be alone
I didn't think you'd be gone this long
I just want you to call my phone
Stop playing girl and come on home
Baby gil I didn't mean to shout
I want me and you to work it out
I never wished to hurt my baby
And it's driving me crazy cause I'm so...