Please read this warning before you go any further. This story contains bad language, violence, and non-graphic m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If any of these things disturb you, get out now. If not, enjoy!
For readers who've recognized Miguel Bain from "Assassins", please be advised that this is a somewhat AU version of the character. Explaining the major thing that makes this Bain AU would be a major spoiler for the movie…
SecretsPart 2
Mort shifted in the bed, raising himself just enough to allow him to flip his pillow to the cooler side and give it a solid thump, then settling back down. He closed his eyes again and tried to make his mind go blank. Sleep. I need to go to sleep. I need to get some sleep. His brain refused to cooperate. It insisted on galloping along in an ever-increasing upward spiral, defying all his efforts to bring his thoughts under control and shut it down.
I wonder what time it is. No. Don't look. It doesn't matter. Don't look. It'll be just one more thing to keep me awake. But I really want to know...
With a sigh, he stretched out an arm to retrieve his watch and press the button that would illuminate the dial. He moved it closer, then farther away, squinting. Fuck it, I am not going to sit up and put my glasses on just so I can see what time it is. Forget it.
There! He'd managed to find the perfect distance. 1:07 a.m. Peachy. Late, but still plenty of time to get a good night's sleep, if I can just manage to quit thinking and drift off. He dropped the watch back in place and tucked his arm inside the covers. What the hell's wrong with me tonight? I haven't had problems with insomnia in a long time. Maybe it's that little nap I took this afternoon. Or maybe it's just having somebody else in the house with me. Knowing I'm not here alone. This is the first time I haven't been alone since...
Amy, smiling at him. Kissing the end of his nose. Laughing. Loving. Curling beside him in the bed. Touching him…
Since it ended between Amy and me, and we are not going there tonight, pilgrim. That has nothing to do with this. Okay, so I'm not alone for a change. So I'm having a sleep-over. So what? He's downstairs and there's a locked door between us, so I should feel safe. And why do I need to feel safe?
He'd felt more than a little foolish when he'd turned the lock on the bedroom door, but it had seemed a reasonable precaution. After all, Bain really was a stranger, even if he was a stranger whose references had probably been checked out back two generations before Herb had sent him out to look at the place and talk with Mort about renting.
He's a stranger to me. I'm not a stranger to him. Mort rolled onto his back and stared at the dark beams of the ceiling, letting the conversation replay in his too-active mind...
- - - -
"Is there anything else you want?"
Bain's smile, shy, unsure of himself. "As a matter of fact...there is." Reaching for the backpack he had placed beside the sofa earlier. "I love this house, Mort Rainey, and I do want to rent it and stay here for a time. But there is a reason I chose this place." Hand sliding into the pack, carefully pulling out a book—two books. "These are among my most treasured possessions."
Hardback first editions of Mort's earliest novels. The ones that you just didn't have anymore, unless you were willing to spend an obscene amount of money or had been a fan since Day One. Bain holding them reverently.
"If you would autograph these for me...not now, but sometime..." Another tentative smile. "I wanted to let you know tonight, tell you this so later you would not think I am here only to..." A gesture, as if words were inadequate to explain.
A fan. Shocked, not sure how to respond.
"If this changes the way you feel, I will leave." But there was something in Bain's voice, his eyes, his expression, that stopped Mort from agreeing, from saying yes, that would be the best thing.
And then... Bain opening the second book, to the back, to the brief phrase in the last chapter, six pages from the end. Finger pointing. Voice soft. "I have wondered. She killed the child, did she not?"
Mort damn near falling down right there, jaw dropping, eyes bugging. Nobody in the entire time that book had been in print had ever seen that. No reviewers, no fans, nobody. He'd had to point it out to Amy, and she'd said it was "sick". Staring at Bain, amazed, awed, astonished.
"I am right, yes?"
"Yes. But how..."
The dismissive shake of Bain's head and the twist of his mouth. "It is so obvious. How could it not be seen?" Replacing the books, smiling again, more confident now. "I would like to discuss this with you later, when there is time. May I?"
And how could he say no.
- - - -
Mort twisted again, trying to shake off the uneasiness. Get over it, Rainey. It's just the whole "fan" thing. It takes him out of the category of "tenant" and puts him into the "maybe one of the crazies" one.
But... We had such a good evening. At least I did. It felt more like...like two friends having a good time than like An Author and His Fan. At least I imagine that's what it would feel like if I had a friend to have a good time with.
But I have to ask the questions now. Like, "Is he really interested in renting the place or did he just want to meet me and get my autograph?" No, for the umpteenth time, Herb would've checked that out and made sure he's serious. Besides, I believe him when he said he was serious. How 'bout this one then. "Does he want to rent the place just because it belongs to me?" That's a good one. He even said as much. He pays the rent and I go away and he starts poking and prying and digging and trying to learn all my secrets.
He gave the pillow another unproductive thump. And where did that come from—"poking and prying and digging"? I don't have any secrets. If he's any sort of fan of mine, which he is if he owns copies of those books, he knows all my so-called secrets. He knows why I've been hiding out here at the cabin. He knows about the house burning down. He knows about Amy. He knows exactly what happened that night at the motel to give me those bad memories…
Glare of the car headlights. Naked bodies scrambling to cover themselves, to get away. Screaming. Screaming…screaming…screaming. Hands to his head, wanting to cover his eyes so he couldn't see, wouldn't have to know that what he'd suspected was true. A gun in his hand, waving toward his wife—his fucking wife!—and the bastard who was fucking his fucking wife, stealing her love, taking her away from him…
He jerked upright and dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair, grasping the overlong bangs and pulling, as if he could tear the images out of his skull. Nope, no secrets there. Everybody knows, and they feel sorry for me, or they sneer at me because I wasn't man enough to keep my wife, or they think I pulled the trigger after all and killed her.
He abruptly pushed back the covers and stood, fumbling for his robe—the elegant, dark blue robe he'd bought back when he'd started on his self-improvement campaign. For a heartbeat, he wished he still had the ratty old bathrobe with the torn shoulder that Amy had worn, that he could wrap himself in it and feel her presence again. Stupid! He jerked the belt too tight and briefly bared his teeth in self-disgust.
What the fuck is wrong with me tonight? Locking the door, lying awake, thinking those maudlin thoughts about Amy and the Good Old Days. She was the one who put an end to the Good Old Days. She's the one who cheated on me. She's the one who ran away and left me alone. She's the one who ended it. Why am I still even thinking about her, much less missing her?
Because having somebody here was...nice. Not being alone. It was...
He found himself seated at his desk, his hand on the switch to the opened laptop, the screen glowing. Okay, if I can't sleep, I won't waste the night. I should be able to knock out a few pages on the new book, as long as I don't disturb Bain.
He leaned forward to peer over the railing, down to where his guest…tenant…fan was curled on the sofa. He was startled to see Bain's dark eyes staring back at him, faintly illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows. He opened his mouth to apologize for waking the other man, but Bain shook his head ever so slightly.
"No problemo," he murmured, in a voice just loud enough for Mort to hear. He lifted a hand to his forehead in a brief salute, then turned over to press his face against the back of the couch and settle into immobility.
It was comforting. It was disquieting. It was… What?
Mort turned his attention back to the monitor and began to type.
----------
Mort stumbled downstairs into the kitchen, staring blearily at the clock—11:30? That late? Damn!—and then at the man standing in front of the stove. I don't understand this. I don't understand this one bit.
To his surprise, seeing Bain curled on the couch in the middle of the night had set all his anxieties to rest. He'd written for over an hour, until the aching burn in his eyes had forced him to stop, then saved, backed up the file, and fallen onto the bed and into a sound, dreamless sleep. And I didn't even relock the door. I barely got the covers over me.
Just stand here staring at him like you've never seen anybody cooking before. Geez.
"'Morning."
"Good morning." Bain lifted the skillet, tilting it slightly to reveal a fried concoction which appeared to consist of eggs and corn and cheese. "I hope you don't mind."
Mort shook his head. "Mi casa...and all that."
Bain smiled. "I made enough for both of us."
"Great. Thanks." He passed the coffeepot in favor of a can of Mountain Dew, popping the top and drinking deeply before muttering apologetically, "I didn't mean to wake you up last night..."
"No, no. Do not apologize." Bain was dividing the mixture and sliding it onto two plates. "I do not write, but I can understand how it is when you have the need to create." He placed a fork on one of the plates and handed it to Mort.
Mort nodded his thanks and carried the plate and his soda to the couch. Bain followed close behind with his own plate and cup of coffee.
Mort took a tentative bite, then another, bigger one. "This is good," he mumbled, his mouth full. More than good. I haven't had anything that tasted like this since...in years. But then I'm not much of a cook, am I? Opening a can of soup or nuking a frozen dinner doesn't exactly count. "Really good."
Bain grinned with pleasure. "It is nothing special. A thing my mother used to make. I am glad you like it."
They finished in silence. Mort scraped up the last bite and briefly contemplated licking the plate clean, then mentally shook himself and set the dish aside. Let's not add fuel to the weird author fire this morning. Let's just get on with the day.
"If you're sure you want to rent the cabin for the next year..."
"I am."
"Okay." He upended the can and drained it. "I won't be able to get in touch with Herb or my lawyer until Monday to get the lease drawn up, but I'll go ahead and start packing up my stuff."
"There is no rush, you know," Bain said softly. "I am...honored...to be your guest. I would be more honored, when the legalities are done, if you would be mine for a time. For as long as it takes for you to ready yourself to go."
Mort stared into the wide, dark eyes and saw nothing there but sincerity. Warmth. An offer of... Friendship? Is it really that or is it just the whole fanboy thing?
As if reading his mind, Bain added quickly, "From reading your books, I feel I know something of you, Mort Rainey. All of us—those who love you—your…fans—must say this to you, but I feel..." His fingertips moved from his chest to touch Mort's. "A connection with you. I hope this does not disturb you."
It would have, before last night. Before Bain asked about the murder of the child in the book, the murder that nobody—nobody—but him ever saw. Maybe there is a connection.
"No. It doesn't." And he meant it.
Bain's face lit up. "Thank you. And to show you that I am sincere..." He went for the backpack again. "I brought this."
Mort's eyes went wide as Bain began to pull stacks of cash from the backpack, one after the other. Bain placed them in a neat pile on the couch between them, moved his fingertips over them, counting, then reached for yet another stack. "I hope this will be enough for a start. I am giving the extra..." He gestured. "To help pay for groceries for while we are here."
Mort sat gaping at the mound of green. "This is…um..." A fucking lot of money.
"I hope you do not mind the cash." A furrow appeared between Bain's eyes. "I have no account in any bank nearby, and I thought this would be easier."
"It's fine. It's just..." Mort cleared his throat. "Unexpected. It's okay."
"Is there someplace that I can put this for you, out of the way?"
Gee, I don't know. Where do you hide that much money? "I guess...I'll put it in the desk upstairs." He began to gather up the bundles. A fucking lot of money.
"I will take care of the dishes then, while you do of that." Bain rose.
"Yeah. Thanks. Oh..." Mort paused, trying to balance the stacks. "Do you have much stuff you need to pick up? To bring here when you move in?"
Bain shook his head. "I am bringing only my clothes and a few books. Anything else that I need, I will buy."
"Okay, then. I guess I'll start..." He shook his head and turned to climb the stairs.
----------
He shoved the money into an oversize envelope he found in his desk and then tucked it away in the bottom drawer. I wonder if I should let him have the bed now. Is it his place, now that I have the money, or is it still mine until the contract's signed? I didn't even stop to count the money—great businessman, Mort. Herb would shit a brick if he knew I'd taken a wad of cash from a potential renter and didn't even count it.
Somehow it seemed too much of an effort to pull it back out to count. I'll do it later, and not tell Herb. I have enough other stuff to do right now.
When he began looking around the bedroom and thinking about the things he wanted to take with him, he was saddened at how little there was. All the years I've lived here, and this is all I've got to show for it. Okay, a lot of stuff went in the fire but still... That was three years ago. You'd think in all that time I'd have gotten something worth taking.
He came out of the bedroom to find Bain hovering politely at the top of the stairs. "The dishes are put away. Would you mind if I showered?"
"No, help yourself. Clean towels are in the wardrobe there."
"Gracias." Bain touched Mort's shoulder lightly as he walked by, a quick pat. "I will not take long."
"No rush."
Mort sat down at the desk and opened the laptop again, powering up, calling up his file, and rereading what he'd written in the middle of the night. Not bad. He made a correction or two, then stopped, cocking his head to listen.
The sounds of running water and pleasant singing—in Spanish—floated out from the bathroom. Mort was surprised to find himself smiling. There's a total stranger in my shower. And it feels good. It's good to have somebody here. I almost wish...
The water shut off. Mort busied himself pretending to write, eyes on the screen, ears following the sounds of the shower doors sliding, a voice humming, then footsteps padding through the bedroom. He gave a quick glance sideways as Bain emerged, clothes in one hand, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair curling damply around his ears.
"Done already?"
"Sí. Thank you." Bain flashed his teeth in a grin. "I will dress and…" He stopped, his dark eyes flickering across the desk. "Would you mind if I ask you about your computer? I will be needing a new one while I am here. My older one..." He lifted his free hand, wriggling it in a definite "crash and burn" motion, and shrugged.
"Sure. What do you want to know?"
"This type—you are pleased with it?"
Mort nodded and scooted his chair back in invitation. "Very. Have a look."
Bain dragged the stuffed chair—Chico's chair—closer and leaned forward to examine the configuration. He immediately looked away.
"You should not show me your work, Mort Rainey," he said softly. "I do not wish you to think I am trying to spy on you."
Mort met Bain's eyes for a long moment, then nodded his thanks and closed the file.
It quickly became apparent that Bain knew a great deal more about computers than Mort, but he continued to speak as if he were the learner and Mort the teacher. The time sped without Mort being aware of it as they discussed the merits of various brands and types of computers and of assorted software packages and even, eventually, games.
"What games do you have on this?"
"None. Well, maybe Solitaire, but that's all. I don't do computer games. Sorry."
Bain's eyes lit up. "We will go into town today and buy whatever is needed to rectify this deficiency. Is there a computer store in New London?" He shook his head and laughed. "A foolish question. Is there any town without a computer store?"
"Tashmore Lake." The words were out before Mort thought. He lowered his head. The city. My city, and I can't even go there anymore and I say the words and they hang in the air like a big dark cloud. Shit.
Bain's hand came up to cup his chin and lift it. "We do not need to go there. Do not let them…"
There was a tension in the fingers touching Mort's jaw, something almost… protective in Bain's face, in the tone of his voice. Mort had an absolutely ridiculous desire to lean toward the other man, a yearning toward the physical contact he hadn't realized he'd missed.
Jesus Christ, you fucking idiot, get a life. You're sitting here with a half-naked man and you start leaning toward him and he's going to think… He sure as hell won't think you just want a hug. Or that you want to stop with a hug. You'll be lucky if all he does is beat the shit out of you.
Bain let his hand drop and stood, gathering his clothing. "I will dress, and then we will go computer shopping for both of us." As he passed behind Mort, his fingers danced across Mort's shoulders, teasing. "And then I will show you how to network our computers and play shooting games and we will kill each other many times."
"Peachy." And, to his surprise, Mort realized he meant it.
----------
It was the best weekend in more months—in more years—than Mort could remember. Their trip to New London's computer store, resulting in a selection of enough components and games to fill the trunk and back seat of Bain's car. Picking up fried chicken from the KFC drive-through and sprawling on the floor in front of the TV, eating and laughing over an I Love Lucy rerun. Mort struggling to learn how to play the games; Bain's patient instruction, as if it were important; Mort accepting gracefully when he knew that Bain had allowed him to win. Spending hours talking about books and channel-surfing and discovering how similar their tastes in entertainment were. And just sitting quietly together, Bain reading while Mort set the laptop on the coffee table and worked. Bain hadn't asked a single question about Mort's new novel, although Mort had caught a glimmer of interest in the dark eyes more than once.
Mort lay in bed, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof. It's Monday. I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to get up. Monday means it's over. It's time for me to call Herb and get the lease stuff going and then pack up and…leave. Bain'll probably be glad to be rid of me and have the place to himself, but shit…I'm going to miss him. Stupid.
"Are you awake?"
Mort turned his head at the sound of Bain's voice and the discreet tapping at the bedroom door. "Yeah. Come on in. I was just trying to get up enough energy to…"
"A day like this is a day without energy." Bain crossed the room and held out a steaming cup. "I thought this might help you."
"Thanks." Mort pushed himself to a sitting position and took the coffee, sipping carefully. It was hot and strong, and it did help to clear away the cobwebs. "Lot to do today," he mumbled.
"Like…?" Bain waved at the foot of the bed and, when Mort nodded, perched there companionably.
"Call Herb. Pack. Change the sheets, clean the bathroom, load up the car…"
Bain laughed and placed a hand on the blankets covering Mort's ankle. "There is no rush. Not on a day like this." His fingers tightened quickly in a friendly grip, then released. His face lost its humor. "Where will you be going?"
I don't have the first fucking clue. New York? Where am I going to go when I leave here? When I leave… Ah shit. I like Bain. Not that kind of like, but…okay, well, yeah, I do like it when he touches me, but it's not… It doesn't mean anything, just friendship. He's just one of those touchy-feely people who hug you and ruffle your hair and put their hands on your arm when they talk and… It's just been such a long time since anybody's touched me with any kind of affection. I like it. I like him. He's the first person I've liked this much in…
"Mort?"
"Sorry." He shook himself. "I'm not sure yet. Herb will find me a place."
"You can stay here until he does."
"That's not fair to you."
Bain's expression went soft. "It is fair, my friend." He stood. "Come with me now, downstairs. We will sit on our porch and watch the rain and wonder if it will turn to the winter's first snowfall. And then we will have lunch. And then you can write. And later, when it is not raining, we will discuss what comes next."
Because all that was exactly what he wanted, and wanted badly, Mort found himself smiling and nodding. Okay. It can wait. Herb'll be there tomorrow.
----------
At some point during the afternoon, Mort realized that he'd left the phone unplugged since the day Bain had arrived. He bent to hook it up as he passed by, not totally surprised when the phone began to ring almost immediately. Shit.
Bain stopped him with an upraised hand. "Let me."
Why not? He gave a sweeping "be my guest" wave of his arm.
"Hello?"
Mort could tell by the expression on Bain's face that it was the kids again. Don't they ever give up? Don't they ever get tired? He watched as Bain's amiable features hardened, eyes narrowing and mouth tightening. Bain allowed their abuse to go on for a full sixty seconds before he spoke.
"That is enough." The tone of his voice sent a shiver down Mort's spine. "This is going to be my house now, and this will be my telephone, but that does not matter. You will treat me with the respect you should have shown to Mort Rainey. You will never call again. If you do, I will come into town, and I will find you, and I will wrap your tiny balls around your ignorant neck. Comprende? Now run away and tell your parents that I have threatened you, so that they can call me to complain. And then I can explain to them how their children should be supervised and disciplined."
By the time Bain slammed down the receiver, Mort was almost doubled over with laughter. "That was beautiful. Just beautiful."
Bain wasn't laughing. "I will do this," he said simply. "I will not going to allow them to fuck with me."
Mort forced his face into a sober expression. "You know, somehow I don't think they will."
"Good. Now let us eat."
Bain had gone onto the porch to watch the continuing rain when the phone rang for the second time that night, so Mort answered it, prepared to deal with the aftershocks. What are a few irate parents? How much more can they hate me?
"Hello?"
"Mort? I've been trying to call you all day. What the hell's going on?"
"Hi, Herb, nice to talk to you too." He turned to lean against the back of the couch. "I had the phone unplugged. Damn kids again. But I think it may be under control now. That guy you sent out—"
"Wait—hold it! That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"What?"
"The message you left Friday. I don't know what you mean."
Mort rolled his eyes. "It means pull the ads for the house. It's rented. The guy you sent wants it. All we need is for you to—"
"Mort, I didn't send anybody out there."
In the silence that followed, as Mort was trying to process what Herb had just said, he heard a single footstep behind him. He spun. And found himself staring into the barrel of a very large and very serious gun. A real gun. Not the kind in the computer game. Well, that kind, only…real.
"Tell him you will call him back," Bain whispered.
"Uh…" He licked his lips, swallowed hard, tried again. "There's…uh…been some sort of…of misunderstanding."
"Mort? Are you all right?"
Oh fuck, if you only knew. Oh fuck oh fuck.
"Yeah, fine. Let me…um…I'll call you back tomorrow."
"Mort…"
Bain gestured with the gun. Mort slowly replaced the receiver, cutting Herb off in mid-question, then stepped away from the phone.
I don't understand. He was…we had…I like him. But Herb said… What's going on here?
"Bain…"
"Sit down, Mort Rainey. You look as if you are going to fall."
No shit, Sherlock—and with good reason. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I am who I said. But as for what I want…that is different. A little." Bain jerked his head toward the couch. "I think now is a good time for us to sit down and discuss it, sí?"
Bain smiled.