qaf_giftxchnge | Gift # 32a of 36 (Reply)

TO:

gaeln
FROM: cheburashka_2
BETA: Predec2 & mom
TITLE: Exile
GIFT REQUEST: Fic S5, 'What if' fic of the author's choice. Brian/ Justin, psychologically driven, characters thought processes (a little porn is fine, but not as main focus).

Exile

By Cheburashka_2 for gaeln, QAF GiftExchange 2012

Chapter 1

Justin needed a smoke. Badly. As much as he enjoyed the festive, energetic and almost giddy atmosphere along with the other partiers inside Babylon, it suddenly got to be a bit much and he needed some cold fresh air on his face and the harsh, bitter smoke of a Marlboro in his lungs. He didn’t have to wonder why his mood suddenly needed adjusting – he caught himself looking through the crowd, unconsciously searching for Brian, even though he knew full well that his ex was either on his way to or already at the Pittsburgh International Airport and awaiting a flight bound for Sydney. He knew that Brian wouldn’t be there, but he looked for him anyway. Will it always be this way? He wondered. Will I always look for him in a crowd? The answer seemed pretty obvious that he always would. No wonder he needed a smoke. Spoiling the evening for himself as well as everyone else in his family was the last thing he wanted.

Unwilling to face anyone at the moment, Justin walked out the back entrance into the alley, looking for a quiet place to smoke and regroup. The usually well-lit back alley was strangely dark – only one of the lights Brian had ordered to be installed there was working. Although surprising, this didn’t concern Justin at the moment; he decided the darkness would suit his purposes perfectly.

He took a few steps toward the recently emptied dumpster, broken glass crunching under his feet. He looked up and realized that the lamps looked like they’ve been busted. Must be something really recent or Brian would have had it fixed, he thought, especially before an event like the one tonight. He decided that rather than standing there brooding, he’d do something useful with his smoke break and look if there’s any other weird damage to Brian’s club. He started walking further into the alley, still looking up and playing with his zippo lighter. He really shouldn’t have been surprised when his foot caught something – a stone, a corner of the dumpster, empty air – and he went sprawling on the cold ground littered with tiny shards of glass. Cursing softly and laughing at himself, he got up and realized that the lighter that flew out of his hand mid-fall was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck!” Justin realized that the darkness in the alley was no longer useful and would make it that much more difficult for him to find it. The zippo, a nice, weighty pewter inscribed with his initials, wasn’t worth much monetarily, but was important to Justin as a memento of Vic Grassi and he treasured it greatly. Getting down on his hands and knees and not caring in the slightest at what this would do to his dress clothes, he started looking for it. He thoroughly checked the area where he fell, but found nothing. Lying down flat on the ground, he looked under the dumpster and saw a faint glint of something way behind by the wall. If that was his lighter, then it somehow bounced off the wall and fell into a little niche created in the corner by the dumpster, the wall and a chimney-like protrusion.

“Great! At least it didn’t fall into dumpster itself. Thank God for small graces.” Justin continued to grumble as he used all his strength to move the dumpster slightly in order to allow him to crawl into the niche and retrieve his possession. He shimmied into the tight space with difficulty and bent down as far as he could and tried to reach his lighter.

A minute later he heard the door open and a couple of people step out. He was about to call out and ask for help moving the heavy dumpster a bit further out, but something made him change his mind.

“Check the alley, see if anybody’s here. We don’t want some fag seeing us, now do we?”

“Why do you think I busted the damned flood lights, for fun?” Came a harsh response.

Justin heard the men moving around, one of them coming awfully close to the niche behind the dumpster where he was concealed. Thankfully, he moved on without detecting Justin’s presence.

“All clear. We are alone.”

“The camera?”

“Didn’t I fucking already tell you that I disabled it? Memory faulty, Pete? Want me to repeat it again, just for good measure?”

“Shut up. Did anybody see you?”
“Not really.”

“What the fuck does that mean, Stan, not really?”

“Some skinny blond fag asked me if I needed any help when he saw me fumbling around by the bar.”

“What?” Pete roared.

“Don’t worry, Petey, I told him one of the beer taps was busted, that I’d already fixed it. The kid smiled prettily and walked off. Didn’t suspect a thing, I promise.”

Fuck! Justin thought. He’s talking about me. What the fuck is going on?

“What did you mean by ‘fumbling around,’ Stan?” Pete asked in a tone that sent shivers down Justin’s spine.

“I said don’t worry. The bomb’s in place, safe and sound.” He cackled gleefully. “They, however, won’t be. In a few minutes this place is history and the fags will think twice before trying to raise money for their filth.”

“That kid…you sure…”

“Fuck, Pete, he’ll be dead with the rest of them as soon as you press the button. By the way, where were you while I was doing all the hard work?”

“Taking care of the guard stationed by this door and any passers-by who came by this way. What do you think?”

Justin broke out in cold sweat. He walked out that door just a few minutes ago. He had no idea how he had missed the killer, but he thanked God that he had.

“Now,” Stan said, “let’s get the hell out of here before we are seen or you accidentally blow up the both of us along with the rest of the faggots inside.”

“In a minute. We need to make the call first.”

“Make it quick!”

Justin heard a phone being dialed, very faint ringing, then Pete’s said in a surprisingly deferential manner, “Mr. Schneider? It’s done…No, I meant it’s planted…I’m sorry Mr. Schneider, I thought you wanted an update once we…of course…yes, Mr. Schneider…yes, I’ll call you back as soon as the place is rubble.” He clicked off and kicked the dumpster viciously.

Justin felt the vibration of the kick and was grateful that the dumpster was heavy enough not to have moved an inch and crushed him in the process.

“Fuck! I thought you told me he wanted progress reports at every step, Stan? He was fucking pissed I called him while the place is still standing. You better not have fucked up the set-up, Stan. Cause if you have…so help me, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I told you, I got it done. Don’t worry, we’ll level the place. Now, let’s get the fuck out of here. Where’d you park the car?”

“7-11 a mile west of here.”

“Perfect.”

Justin heard the two moving away. As quietly and as quickly as possible he shimmied out of his hiding place and crouching low to the ground, he glanced towards the mouth of the alley at the two retreating men. As they briefly stopped at the entrance of the alley, bathed in bright light coming from the street, Justin recognized the man at the bar who planted the bomb, as well as the other one, Pete, he saw him delivering beer to Babylon a few days before when he stopped by with freshly printed promotional posters for tonight’s benefit. He must have been scoping out the place, Justin thought.

As soon as the two killers were out of sight, Justin scrambled up and ran inside the building. Carl, I have to get to Carl. He’ll know what do to, were his only thoughts. He saw Carl across the room standing close to the stage where Cindi Lauper was performing “Shine” near his family and friends. He tried to get to him through the crowd of people as fast as possible, but the mass of dancing bodies was making it difficult. He didn’t want to scream that there was a bomb in the place and cause a panic, but he realized that if he didn’t get to Carl soon, he may have to come up with an alternate plan.

Unfortunately, he had no time to do either, because a minute later the place was rent apart and his body was flung through the air and crashed against a wall. He was conscious for a few seconds hearing screaming and unbearable noise, seeing sparks shooting out of every corner and the beginning of a fire.

Too late, he thought. Then everything went to black.

Chapter 2

Brian’s limo was speeding along the streets towards Babylon. He kept urging the driver to go faster, even though he subconsciously knew that they’ve broken every speed limit already. The only reason they haven’t been pulled over, was probably because every cop in the Pitts was speeding towards Babylon, just like he was.
He punched redial on his cell, but yet again got no answer and the same inane message about the “party being unavailable or out of range.” He didn’t allow himself to think the worst, but he couldn’t escape the words explosion, Justin and please running through his mind over and over again, like a broken record.
When the limo driver pulled up as close to the club as he could, Brian got out in seconds and ran towards the club. The scene was horrific enough to terrify even the devil-may-care Brian Kinney, but he continued on forward until he saw a shell-shocked Jennifer and a soot-covered Tucker. Her words “Justin, he’s still inside,” spurred him on and heedless of warnings, he ran into the still-burning building.
The sight that greeted him was straight out of a war movie – rubble, dust, soot, fire, sparks, smoke, acrid smell, crying, bleeding and injured bodies. His eyes scanned the visible area and every person he encountered for any sign of Justin, but there was no sign of the blond. He went hoarse screaming Justin’s name to no avail. He moved forward, disregarding firefighters’ orders to leave the building and didn’t stop until he came upon a dead body. He stopped short, but when his brain registered that it wasn’t Justin, he moved on. He saw four more bodies while he scoured the building, looking for his blond. Every time he’d stop and as soon as his brain signaled “not Justin,” he’d move on.
A mini-explosion with a shower of sparks forced him, as well as a few remaining people out of the building. One thing he knew for sure – Justin wasn’t inside. He didn’t see him there, either among the living, the injured or the dead. He began a frantic search among the crowd of people outside. He went back to Jennifer and Tucker, but Justin wasn’t with them. He saw Daphne, Ted, with his hysterical date, Emmett and Drew, Lindsey and Mel, Debbie and Ben, who were themselves busy looking for Michael. None of them saw Justin recently. The last time anyone remembered seeing Justin was a couple of minutes before Cindi Lauper came on stage – he was going to get some fresh air. Brian knew what that meant. Like him, to Justin “fresh air” meant smoking either a cigarette or a joint. So, Justin went out to smoke and nobody has seen him since, Brian thought and began to hope that Justin just left, went home, gone anywhere and wasn’t there when the explosion happened. But he couldn’t be sure until he searched the people congregated outside the club.
Suddenly, he saw Carl in the distance standing next to a patrol car and ran towards him.
“Carl! Carl, have you seen Justin?” he asked breathlessly when he reached the policeman.
“Justin? No, Brian, I haven’t.”
“Shit! I can’t find him. No one can. If you see him, will you call me?”
“Sure, Brian. Of course. I wish I could help you look for him, but I’m on duty now and they need me…”
“That’s fine. Fine. Just call me, if you see him.”
“I will.”
“Thanks. I gotta go.” Brian turned around and continued looking through the crowd, shouting Justin’s name. A few minutes later, a familiar face and body, bruised and bloody, lay on a gurney and was being rushed towards the nearest ambulance.
“Michael!” He ran towards the gurney carrying his oldest friend and was soon joined by a weeping Debbie and the rest of the family. Seconds later Ben was inside the ambulance and it was on its way to the hospital.
Brian didn’t know what to do – on the one hand he wanted to drive Deb to the hospital, on the other, he needed to find Justin and know that he was safe. He briefly debated putting Deb in his limo, but he didn’t want her going to the hospital alone. A minute later Carl came to his rescue.
“Listen, Brian, I’ll look for Justin. As soon as I see him or find out anything about him, you’ll be the first to know. Go to the hospital.”
Brian agreed and helped Debbie to the limo.
The next few hours were a blur of anger at the hospital staff that wouldn’t take his blood; tense, worried hours waiting for Michael to get out of surgery; weeping Debbie; angry Debbie; worried Debbie; scared lesbians; Emmett acting crazier than usual; dozens of cups of bad hospital coffee; and a frantic Jennifer who either called or showed up at the hospital once every hour looking for her son. He periodically called Carl for an update, but got no new information each time.

He briefly left the hospital to check the loft, the diner and then Justin’s apartment in the bad part of town to see if he was there. He wasn’t. He called Daphne, who was at home recovering from mild smoke inhalation, but she hasn’t seen or heard from Justin either. Brian went back to the hospital and continued to prowl the visitor’s room in fear and agitation, waiting for some word on his blond.

24 hours after the explosion at Babylon, no one had heard from Justin or had seen him alive.

Chapter 3

Justin looked around the windowless, airless, tiny interview room at Carl’s police precinct thinking that the TV shows had it right, except for the fact that apparently not every interview room had a two-way mirror. He’d never been in one of these before. The one time he got arrested because of his father, he was taken straight to a holding cell and was released shortly afterward. He never thought that he’d ever see the inside of a police station again, especially a room where they interrogated suspects. Thank God, I’m a witness, not the perp, he thought shaking his head and immediately regretting the action. He’d hit his damned head again when the blast hit and now had a bitch of a headache.

Justin came to a few minutes after the explosion. Though he wasn’t sure how many – it could have been two or twenty. He ascertained that he was alive, that his body seemed to still be in one piece and that besides a throbbing head, ringing ears and a small cut on his brow he was basically unharmed. He got up and walked out the side entrance and straight into Carl, which was a blessing of enormous proportions. Carl wanted to take him to the hospital or at least get a paramedic to look at him, but Justin convinced him otherwise will a well-chosen sentence: “I saw the men who planted the bomb.”

“What? Bomb?” Carl exclaimed. “I thought it was a gas leak or something!”
“Shhhh. Keep quiet! I overheard them when I came out to smoke. The one that planted the bomb behind the bar saw me. He knows what I look like, Carl, and that I can identify him. What the fuck do I do now?”
“Get in the car!” Carl said, and shoved him into the back seat of a patrol car they were standing near. “Get down, stay out of sight and don’t make a fucking sound, Justin. You understand? Not a sound, no matter who I am talking to, OK?”
“Yeah, OK.” Justin answered and the next thing he heard was Brian’s unmistakable voice calling Carl and asking him if he had seen him. Hiding low in the patrol car, obscured by Carl’s wide back and listening to Brian’s worried voice was one of the hardest things Justin had ever done. He wanted to get out of the car, throw himself in Brian’s arms and hang on for dear life, but his witnessing a crime that killed people trumped any personal desires he had at the moment. He had to trust Carl right now and once the policeman figured things out, he’d let Brian know he’s OK.
Carl told him to stay hidden in the car for a few minutes, locked the vehicle and walked away. By Justin’s watch Carl was away for about ten minutes. When he came back he told him that Michael was badly hurt and was being taken to the hospital. He also said that he’d take Justin to the police station and they’ll figure out what to do from there.
The door opened quietly, jerking Justin, who was resting his aching head on the desk and thinking about the last couple of hours, upright and to his feet. Carl stepped into the room and said,
“We’ve got to get you to a safe house, Justin. Now. Let’s go. Agent Modig will meet us there.”
When Justin had told everything he had seen and overheard to Carl on the way and when they had gotten to the precinct, Carl immediately called the FBI. Apparently, he knew an agent at the Bureau who has been working on taking down an organization responsible for a number of acts of violence and domestic terrorism largely directed at abortion clinics, gays and gay-friendly businesses for about a decade. Based on what Justin had said, Carl suspected that this bombing was somehow related to that group. It took a while to get a hold of the agent, but when he did, Carl relayed everything Justin had told him. The agent told Carl to keep Justin under lock and key and not to let anyone see or have access to Justin until he spoke to him. They were told to wait and so they did, talking of their loved ones and worrying about Michael.
Half an hour later, the agent called back and Carl stepped out to talk to him. Now, they were hastily leaving the precinct. Luckily for them, the station usually quiet this time of the night anyway, was more deserted than usual due to the bombing at Babylon and other emergencies happening around town. Therefore, Carl and he left the building as unnoticed as when they came in.
The drive to the safe house took them out of Pittsburgh and almost towards the West Virginia border. The entire half an hour ride was spent in silence, neither man in the mood to chat and both preoccupied with the horror of the night’s events. Justin was looking out the window and thinking, his eyes seeing, but not really registering the dark countryside or the mansions they passed by, some of which were still covered with Christmas lights six weeks after the holidays.
“We’re here,” Carl suddenly announced, bringing Justin out of his weird stupor.
They got out of the car and Justin looked at the enormous Tudor-style mansion in front of him.
“This is a safe house?” he asked incredulously.
“Don’t ask me,” Carl shrugged. “I’m just a cop, not an FBI agent. I have no idea how they can afford to get digs like this.” He continued and then pressed the doorbell.
The door opened before the bell finished its musical ring.

“It’s a temporary safe house. We don’t usually get ‘digs like this.’ The owner is related to a higher up in the Bureau and is allowing the use of the house for a few months, rent free.” The man at the door explained as he ushered them inside.

It was obvious to Justin that they’ve been watched and were overheard. For some reason, it made him feel safe. He extended his hand as his WASP upbringing dictated and introduced himself.

“Hello. I’m Justin Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

“Special Agent Adam Modig, FBI.” They shook hands.

To Justin, who has only seen FBI agents as they were portrayed on television, thought that this guy was tailor-made for an episode of Law & Order – tall, dark-haired, but slightly graying at the temples, very handsome, but in a rugged kind of way, with piercing gray eyes that seemed stuck in a don’t-fuck-with-me expression, and, of course, wearing a dark suit that fit him like a glove.

“Carl, thank for calling and for bringing him here,” Modig said.

“No problem.”

“Now, Justin. I’m afraid, I’ll need you to tell me everything again in as much detail as you possibly can.”

“Sure. I’ll draw you a picture too, if you want.” When the agent’s brow went up in a question mark, Justin explained. “I’m an artist. I mean that I can draw their faces. I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

“Great. I’m sure it’ll help,” the agent answered, sounding rather skeptical.

Justin shrugged. He’d draw their faces as accurately as he possibly could and Special Agent Adam Modig would either be impressed or he wouldn’t. Justin didn’t really care; he just wanted to get this show on the road and stay safe in the process.

Agent Modig led them to a spacious kitchen, poured them all a cup of coffee and asked Justin to repeat his story once again. He listened in silence, without interruptions and almost motionless, except for his arm bringing a coffee cup to his lips every couple of minutes. When Justin requested pencils and paper, he found him some and then watched Justin sketch for about fifteen minutes. When Justin was done talking and drawing, Agent Modig took the sketch, looked at it for a full minute motionless, then got up and suddenly began to pace, raking his hand through his hair in a jerky, agitated manner.

“Schneider…I’ve been after this guy for a fucking decade! It’s him, Carl, it’s him and his little army of terrorists, and we finally have a witness again!” Modig said. Then he turned to Justin and explained that he was convinced that this bombing at Babylon was the work of the same organization and that the FBI had suspected Julian Schneider was its head and mastermind of various crimes, and they had been investigating him for years, but they never had any concrete evidence to connect him. Even worse, any time they got a member of the group in custody, they ended up dead one way or another before they could testify against anyone else in a court of law.

In the last decade there had been exactly two eyewitnesses to the crimes and both had ended up dead. A few months prior, an FBI agent who had managed to infiltrate the organization and finally found concrete evidence they could use to indict the man at the top and three of his top henchmen, died in a mysterious car accident on the way to deliver that evidence. A tanker carrying extremely flammable chemicals plowed into his car. The collision ignited the contents of the tanker, exploded and the fire destroyed any evidence the FBI agent had on him. Two years’ worth of undercover investigation resulted in nothing.

"So, what you are saying is that if I testify, I'm going to end up dead. Is that right?" Justin asked.

"Not if we play this right," the Agent responded.

"Play. Play? I barely survived an explosion, Agent Modig! This is the second time in my life I've almost died. If I testify, that'll be it - third time's the charm, right? I don't want to die."

"I will guarantee your safety."

"You people couldn't keep one of your own undercover agents alive! How the fuck can you guarantee anything? Do you have any idea how fast rumors travel on Liberty Avenue? If even one person sees me talking to the FBI, it'll be all over the community in an hour with half the people convinced I'm about to go to prison for something and the other half convinced I'm fucking half the agents in your field office. Meaning the guys that planted the bomb will know that I am alive and whoever is responsible for this bombing, this Julian Schneider, will know who I am before Liberty decides which half is right."

Agent Modig smiled in satisfaction. "Not if they think you are dead."