"Oi! Nosty! On your feet, son!"
The guard gives his keys a self-important jangle and makes a show of sliding open the cell door. In the far corner, Nosty crouches on his heels, his lower back pressed against the cold cinder block wall, his forehead resting on his outstretched arms.
His thoughts are muddled, his skull fucking aches, and he cannot—he cannot—do this again. He cannot bear to be trotted down the dingy hallway, nor to be led into the little room with the flickering fluorescents and the one-way mirror. He cannot bear to face front and then sideways beside four other no-count, peedy bastards while being silently scrutinized and then, ultimately, discarded.
He just fucking can't anymore, yeah?
But now the guard is nudging him with the tip of his shiny, black boot, and Nosty won't let that stand, not even while he's in this sorry state, so he makes to elbow the cunt in his tatties, but instead finds himself pulled roughly to his feet. He sways, lightheaded from hunger, but he'll be fucked before he asks these Sasunnach bastards for one of their stale bologna sandwiches.
"You fancy a doin'? Keep yer fucking hands to yourself, ya buftie!" Nosty yanks his arm lose and saunters to the open door of the cell, tears stinging the backs of his eyes. Fuck that hurt. Copper got hold of his bad wrist.
They begin the long walk down the dim, dreary corridor.
He's thrown when the guard pauses at the front desk, and then he's fucking stunned when a waiting constable folds his arms over his substantial belly, rocks back on his heels, and announces, "Looks as though today's your lucky day, Nosty. You made bail, you fortunate son of a bitch."
The constable hands over his beat-up leather jacket, and a quick sweep of the pockets confirms the coppers have nicked his blade. Fuck it. Blades are easy enough to come by. A free ticket out of prison isn't.
"Nosty."
Rising from a wobbly, plastic chair, out in the lobby beyond the scratched plexiglass enclosing the front desk, is his beautiful bird. Her curls are mussed, and her face is pale, and her tweed jacket is buttoned up the wrong way, but, fuck, she's a welcome sight. Belle's staring back at him like she's afraid he'll up and vanish if she so much as blinks.
The whites of her lovely, long-lashed eyes have gone a delicate shade of pink, and Nosty realizes abruptly that these unshed tears are for him. She's here for him.
An officer escorting a sorry-looking bloke in handcuffs pushes his way into the back room, and Belle follows fast on his heels.
"Nosty!"
She runs the last three steps, and then she's got her arms wrapped tight around his waist and her cheek pressed against his dirty t-shirt. Her narrow shoulders begin to shake, and he realizes she's crying tears of relief because she's fucking holding onto him.
"Hey. Hey, Belle. There's no need for that, yeah?" Nosty ducks his head so that he's speaking right into her soft, sweet-smelling hair. This conversation isn't for the entertainment of the fucking dobbers working in this shite joint. It's only for him and her. "It's fine. I've been to jail lots of fucking times."
She laughs a little at that, and it's the prettiest wee sound. Belle tips her head back to look at him, wiping at her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket, and the sweetest smile crinkles her blue eyes. That smile belongs to him, and it loosens something hard and tight and hurting inside his chest.
"Oi! Miss! You ain't supposed to be back here!" An indignant guard shoos them out into the police station lobby. Still smiling, Belle helps him on with his old, beat-up jacket, and afterwards Nosty tucks her under his arm and leads her out the glass door and down the slippery cement steps. The night air is bracingly baltic and is full of swirling snow.
"Was I expensive?" he asks when they reach the unshoveled sidewalk. He wants to hear that chiming, wee laugh again.
"Quite," Belle answers, obliging him with a chuckle and matching his quick, long strides. "You cost an impressive six hundred pounds. You're awfully valuable, Nosty."
"Aye," he agrees. And it does make him feel pretty fucking valuable, having a matchless lass like this burrowing beneath his arm on a cold, winter night. Belle just looks so fucking elated and, even though his dark, murky thoughts still threaten, and even though Nosty knows this downswing will win out in the end—it always fucking does—at this particular moment, he feels undamaged. Safe.
After a block, his empty stomach makes itself known with an emphatic growl, and Belle says lightly, "I slept through supper. Will you keep me company while I have a hamburger?"
He's always amenable to hamburgers, so they make their way through the quickly accumulating snow to nearby Victoria Station and its underground assortment of sandwich shops and greasy chip joints.
Nosty reserves them a grimy little table while Belle purchases a large sackful of hamburgers. He wipes off the filthy laminate tabletop with his sleeve, watching the way the weary cashier cannot help but return Belle's luminous smile. His bird is an actual fucking angel.
Nosty wolfs down the first three sandwiches in silence, barely chewing, tossing his wrappers on the ground, and he only pauses when Belle offers him a paper napkin and a slice of warm apple pie from a little cardboard container she hid away in the bottom of the burger bag.
"Someday soon, I'll make you the real thing," she promises, her blue eyes dancing. Nosty doesn't trust himself to reply, so instead takes the plastic fork she's holding out to him and burns his tongue on the first sugary bite of crust and fruit. Fuck it tastes good.
It's real fucking nice, down here in the Underground. It's warm and dry, people pay you no mind, and there are far stranger sights than a posh lass sharing food with a hackit waster such as himself. Scraping up the remaining pie filling with his finger, Nosty imagines bringing Belle back here someday when he has a little money in his pocket. He'll buy her the sandwich next time, and maybe they can talk a little about her classes and her students, just like they did while he was in hospital.
"Aw, fuck yeah! Pure magic! It's fucking Nosty! Oi! Nosty!"
Three chancy looking men in filthy, oversized coats are walking quickly toward their table.
"Lookit the state a' ya, Nosty! What the feck are ye doin' down here, ya radge bastard? Who's this, then?"
Nosty's on his feet straightaway, hissing at a wide-eyed Belle, "Don't be feert, love. It's just some fucking jakeys out on the prowl for a party. I'll send them on their way quick enough." He heads the wasters off only a few feet from their table, tossing back his hair and shoulders, putting on the old swagger, and directing them to his boys beneath Waterloo.
Once the trio's a good ways off, Nosty exhales and turns back to Belle. She has also risen to stand.
"You sell drugs." It isn't a question, just a bald statement of fact.
The dancing light in her eyes, present just minutes before while Belle was watching him gobble his meal like a fucking savage, has been extinguished. That dreaded, anxious loop returns, crowding out all other possible thought: Fucking hopeless. Fucking friendless. Fucking worthless. Fuckinghopelessfuckingfriendlessfuckingworthless.
Not this. Not this shite while she's staring at him like he's some fucking stranger.
Nosty yells just so he can hear himself over the inner clamor: "Aye! Aye, that's fucking right I sell! Just what the actual fuck were you thinking? That I squat out on Piccadilly day after day, holding a wee cardboard sign? 'Please help the homeless?'"
He's panting, frantic, pacing.
"Fuck, Belle, what did you think I was? A decent bloke down on his luck? I've been selling since I was fucking twelve."
Now he's pounding the heels of his hands against his temples, trying to silence the inner racket. Nosty can feel the wetness seeping through the bandage wrapped round his wrist, but he's powerless to stop now lest the despondent loop pull him under. Fucking hopeless. Fucking friendless. Fucking worthless.
"I'm a fucking waste, Belle! I'll always be a fucking waste. Did you really think you'd give this stray dog a bath, a little scratch behind the ears, toss me a few treats, and then I'd be licking your palm and trotting along to work and taking the fucking high road? Fuck no. Fuck that."
Darkness is crowding the corners of his vision, so Nosty doesn't catch the exact moment when Belle closes the distance between them and wraps her arms around his spare, shaking ribcage. At first, he barely registers the gentle hand that reaches up to stroke the coarse whiskers on his clammy cheek, nor the other hand that slips underneath his jacket to soothe and steady him. It's not until Belle's warm lips brush over his again and again, murmuring "Shhh…shhh…shhh…" that Nosty is able calm himself enough to stop speaking.
"I will tell you what I see when I look at you," Belle promises, once he's at last silent and still, transfixed by the tender, rhythmic brush of her lips over his, "And it's certainly not a stray dog. But not here, Nosty. Not with an audience."
Dazed, he glances up and realizes that his tirade has drawn a small, concerned crowd of commuters.
Belle takes him firmly by his good hand, and leads him away from prying eyes, up the Tube escalator, into the hushed night air. Looping an arm tightly through his, she speaks quietly as she leads him the scant few blocks to her elegant flat on Eaton Square.
"When I look at you, Nosty, I see courage. More courage than most people could ever aspire to. You've survived where nearly all would simply…disintegrate."
Her words help, they really fucking do, but what he needs right now is to find some way to scrape this muck out of his head and chest. He wants to be clear for her, not mute and muddled and aching. He wants to be whole and brave, just like she says.
They've come to Belle's red, glossy front door with its festive little wreath, and she seems reluctant to release him long enough to unlock it.
Previously, (when Nosty allowed himself to imagine this moment at all, doing his damnedest to fall asleep beneath his jacket and his torn, waterproof tarp) he'd imagined it very differently. But there isn't any time to stop and reflect on it now. Belle's already walking inside, shrugging off her coat and switching on the lamps.
She turns back, realizing straightaway he hasn't followed close behind, and returns to the doorway. Belle reaches out, takes his arm, and pulls him in. She locks the door behind them and takes off his jacket like a good little hostess, glancing down at his scraggy, narrow chest.
Nosty sees himself as he imagines she sees him in that moment: skinny and paltry, wearing naught but a ripped, manky t-shirt and a blanket wrapped round his waist that he persists in calling a kilt. There's an angry buzzing in his ears, and suddenly he's snarling: "Is this what you fucking want, sweetheart?" He grabs for her dainty waist, fingernails digging into Belle's soft, generous hips, pressing himself against her. "You wanna get fucked fast and rough against the wall by a radge waster? That it, love?"
He slides his dirty hands down below her plump, perfect little arse and picks her up—it's so fucking easy; Belle's so fucking wee—hauling her over to her tidy, polished little dining room table and dumping her down upon it. She grips his shoulders, not letting go.
"Is this what you fucking want, Belle?" he asks again, hating himself for sounding less fierce, less certain. She's twined her arms behind his neck, and her breath comes hot and quick against his throat, but Belle's blue eyes are cautiously searching his face. Just what is it she's fucking looking for? It makes him want to crawl out of his skin, being scrutinized like this. Fuck.
At last she says, "Is this what you want, Nosty?" gently tugging him nearer, resting her forehead against his, and…and he doesn't mean to say it, but he does say it, he fucking does, it just comes tumbling out:
"I want to fucking disappear, Belle."
She makes a soft, tender, pitying sound, deep in her throat, and leans in to kiss him. It's a gentle kiss. A fucking thorough kiss. Her hand slips up to tangle in his locks, clutching him close, and then Belle kisses him over and over and over, first his mouth, savoring it, but then his eyelids, his pale cheeks, his pointed chin, his sharp nose, everywhere, everywhere her pliable, warm lips can reach.
"Sweetheart," she murmurs, her voice so fucking sweet it feels as thought his heart is going to break in fucking two, and then Belle is slipping down off the gleaming table, twisting him around so that it's him who's pressed against it. She's carefully, tenderly undoing the rusted safety pin that holds his threadbare, red kilt in place, and she's spreading it open behind him on the tabletop, leaving him vulnerable and bare, and then…and then, oh fuck, she's sinking to her knees in front of him.
Belle kisses his pale thighs first: just a feather-light greeting while her hands sweep up to grasp the backs of his lean legs. He's glad of the table then, groaning when her lips move ever closer to his hardening cock, going weak in the fucking knees, supporting his slight weight with his trembling arms.
"Oh, oh fuck Belle!" He's gripping the edge of the table, his dry, cracked knuckles going white, gritting his teeth, and then she's taking him in her moist, hot, welcoming mouth before he's fully erect, able to take fucking all of him, and able to bathe the underside of his eager, twitching cock with her warm, lapping tongue.
Nosty's had his knob-end polished hundreds of times before, mostly in lieu of payment, but it's always been a fucking rush to the finish, yeah? No one's ever lightly kneaded the backs of his legs, right up to the crease under his arse, nor suckled on the tip of him till he's ready to scream and weep from it, nor scraped her teeth so gently along the full length of him. Oh…oh, oh fuck, yes!
Belle's fucking worshiping him, and Nosty can't smother the shameful, frantic grunting and the loud, greedy groans when she dips her head lower to trace the crease between his balls with the tip of her wet, searing tongue. Oh, oh fuck…his balls are getting the same treatment as his cock, and no one's done this for him before. No one's taken his sack into the warm cavern of her mouth, licking and suckling until he's fucking babbling and begging her to help him come.
"Please, Belle, fucking now Belle…"
So his beautiful bird kisses the tip of him and reaches up to fondle his slick, wet balls with her delicate, manicured hand, and then she wraps the warm fingers of her other hand around the base of his curved, full, throbbing cock, moving her hot mouth and tongue over the head of him until he's shouting "Fuck—fuck—fuck—Belle…fuck…!" and scrambling at her shoulders to push her away while he jerks and pulses.
Belle holds fast to his quaking hips and spasming arse, licking and suckling until the last tremor has gone through him, and then Nosty allows himself to collapse to the parquet floor, hiding his flushed, slack face behind the curtain of his hair.
She's telling him something, gentle and low, but he can't make it out over the rush of blood in his ears and the violent pounding of his heart. Belle's kissing his shoulder, over and over, and shrugging off her crumpled, wool suit coat, offering: "Come here. Come here to me, sweetheart."
She takes his shaking hands in hers and pulls him gently to stand, leading him to her large, deep sofa. He feels like a fucking newborn fawn, almost tripping over his own unsteady legs.
Belle lays down on her back first, then opens her arms to him—his manky t-shirt, sunken chest, bare arse, and all—and he gratefully sinks into her embrace, hiding his face against her silk blouse and sighing when she covers him with a fleecy throw blanket. Her heart is beating fast too, and Nosty savors the feel of her hand moving in long, slow strokes over his hair and back.
"I came looking for you," she tells him after some time has passed, tracing his knobby spine through his shirt. "I walked through Trafalgar Square and Picadilly and St. James on my lunch breaks. I thought maybe I'd be able to find you that way, but this city's so big. I realized I was being foolish, but I couldn't stop." He feels Belle's soft lips and warm breath against the top of his head. "I was so frightened I wouldn't see you again."
He shuts his eyes, because, after all, who is he to have a quality person like Belle searching after him and cradling him close once she finds him? He's just a fucking dealer. A no-count waster. A right bastard.
He growls weakly and mouths her chest through her low-cut silk blouse, trusting this animal show of fidelity more than any spoken declaration he could offer her.
Nosty nips and nuzzles and sucks her little breast through the thin, expensive fabric, and she strokes his head, clutching and encouraging him. His rough hands grip her back, and Nosty chances a love bite on the fleshy underside of her chest. Belle sighs heavily, gathering him closer to mouth and lick, and when her blouse is damp through, she hastily tugs it down, offering him her rosy little nipple to lap and suck.
It's many long minutes before these tender creature comforts and his free license to taste Belle has Nosty hardening between her thighs. She holds him even closer when she feels him stiffening, and then, when the tugging at her nipple becomes more urgent, and his love bites become harder and more feral, and when Nosty begins to move restlessly against her, she whispers, "Come inside me, sweetheart," spreading her legs wide for him and tugging her wet, lacy knickers to one side.
He hardly needs to move to push into her, and Nosty meets no resistance at her slick, silky entrance—she's been damp and ready for him for quite some time.
Belle's mouth falls open, and she gives a soft little cry when he easily slides home, all the way up to the root of his cock.
She arches and struggles and quakes, and, after four quick, hard thrusts, she whimpers, digging her fingernails into his back, not even needing his fingertips to push her over the edge.
Belle wraps her trembling limbs around him afterwards, whispering endearments while he ruts against her: "love," and "yes sweetheart," and "oh, Nosty" and then, nearly there, hardly thinking, he grinds out, "That's not…that's not my fucking name, oh fuck, Belle…!" and collapses against her, burying his face in her sweet, satin neck and biting her there, as well.
Drifting off, snug beneath the blanket and utterly empty, he hears Belle ask from faraway, "What is your name?"
"Nevermind it," Nosty murmurs, burrowing closer, sinking into what he hopes will be a dreamless sleep.