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mander3-swish.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
qaf_giftxchnge2012-12-31 03:02 pm
Gift # 32c of 36
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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).
Chapter 6
Justin looked in the bathroom mirror and hardly recognized himself – unremarkable, muddy brown eyes courtesy of colored contacts stared back at him. His hair was gone – completely this time, unlike the fine fuzz he had in his Pink Posse days – under an astonishingly realistic wig of thick, wildly curly hair in the same muddy brown color as his eyes. His eyebrows were died to match his hair. Who knew there was such a thing as eyebrow dye? At least I don’t have to wear mascara, thank God! Unlike some blonds, his eyelashes have always been thick and several shades darker than his eyebrows and hair, making for a nice contrast on his face and making his blue eyes stand out even more. Not anymore, he thought, shaking his head at his unrecognizable and utterly boring, almost nerdish appearance. Not that his looks would matter one iota at Archer Academy – a private, non-religious, all-girls school with 90% of faculty being female and where starting Monday morning he would teach art history, art appreciation and drawing to the young progeny of wealthy Portland suburbanites.
“Fucking Portland!” Justin said aloud to his reflection. “If Michael couldn’t stand Oregon, how the hell will you?” He left the bathroom shaking his head, walked into his new living room and collapsed onto the couch. He knew that life could change in a blink of an eye. The bashing had taught him that. But even knowing that, he still had trouble coming to terms with how quickly his life, his very identity seized to exist and he feared it would never be the same again. At least after the bashing he still had his name. Now he didn’t even have that…
Barely 48 hours after the bombing at Babylon, Justin, his appearance already altered, was no longer in Pittsburgh, but at an FBI safe house in Boulder, Colorado, half-way across the country from everything and everyone he knew. Half-way across the country from Brian. Things being what they were, he didn’t even get to say goodbye to anyone before leaving Pittsburgh, except for Carl. To say that it was a difficult goodbye would be an understatement – Carl was his last link to the life he was leaving behind for the foreseeable future.
When Carl first told him that Modig and he had no choice but to tell his mother that he was dead, he was angry. But the anger abated once Carl explained that with Craig, Tucker and Brian there, and Jennifer immediately jumping to the wrong conclusion right away made things rather tricky and they took the path of “least resistance” and perpetuated a necessary lie. When the men left for the morgue, Carl stayed behind. Once Jennifer calmed a distraught Molly and helped her to her room to rest, Carl told Jennifer the truth. According to Carl, although she took the whole thing hard and greatly feared for his safety, Jennifer Taylor impressed him with her grace under pressure, with her pride at her son’s bravery, her willingness to help the authorities in any way, including keeping the secret of Justin being alive, and with her conviction that they’ll bring the perpetrators to justice, because with Justin’s testimony on their side they couldn’t possibly lose. Hearing Carl speak with such admiration for his mother melted the remnants of Justin’s anger. So when he said goodbye to Carl in the fancy FBI safe house in the suburb of Pittsburgh, he didn’t just shake his hand, he hugged him tightly, taking comfort in Carl’s awkward, but affectionate embrace, in the old fashioned scent of Old Spice and in his gruff voice promising that everything would be OK.
“Will it, Carl?”
“You just stay strong, son, stay safe and take care of yourself. I’ll keep an eye on everyone here in the Pitts. Agent Modig will give me updates on how you are doing once a month and I’ll update Jennifer. She’s made of strong stock, your mother. She’ll be OK.”
“I know. Take care of…everyone, Carl. Keep them safe. I’m counting on you.”
“I will. Good luck, son.”
By Tuesday morning, a little over 72 hours after the horrific event at Babylon, Agent Modig who accompanied Justin to the safe house in Colorado, presented him with the documents of his brand-new identity – social security card, birth certificate, driver’s license, medical records, even a passport. Justin couldn’t help but be impressed with the efficiency with which the FBI got things moving.
“Randy Harold. Seriously? What kind of a name is Randy, for fuck’s sake?” he asked the FBI agent indignantly. “It sounds like a fucking nickname.”“Exactly. It’s obscure. The name hasn’t been popular since the 1950’s. And Harold is just generic enough not to draw attention to itself without being as contrived as Smith, for example. Nobody will be looking for a Randy Harold, believe me. Especially not at an all-girls school in suburban Portland, Oregon,” Modig said, throwing another bunch of papers on the table, including a glossy brochure emblazoned with the name Archer Academy in curly, flowing script.
“What?”
“We got lucky. My sister-in-law, who happens to be a vice principle at the school, was complaining in my ear on the phone the other day that they lost their art teacher in the middle of the semester – quit due to family medical problems. Being the awesome brother-in-law that I am, I offered her a solution – you.”
“Does she know I am in witness protection? And teaching? I don’t have a degree. I never completed my program at PIFA.”
“No, she doesn’t and won’t, unless it becomes absolutely necessary. As for the teaching, I am being told that you are the next Andy Warhol and that you know more about art than people twice your age. I’m sure you’ll be able to teach a bunch of girls what you know. And remember, Justin Taylor doesn’t have a degree. Randy Harold, however, graduated with bachelor’s degrees in Art History and Education from Colorado State University and is fully qualified to teach. Don’t worry; the school’s standard background check will verify everything. Besides, with my recommendation you’ll have no problems.”
“How are you supposed to know me? In case she asks.”
“You are my boss’s grandson. The baby of the family, the only one not in law-enforcement, but who makes everyone, especially grandpa, very proud.”
“So…in the closet I go?” Justin asked pointedly.
“Not necessarily. That is entirely up to you. I would prefer for you not to draw any kind of attention to yourself, for obvious reasons. But we don’t know how long this will take. I don’t expect you to be a monk for God knows how long. Just be discreet and keep a low profile.”
“Fuck, it’s doubtful anyone would be interested in me, the way I look.” Justin scoffed. “Anyway, my sex life is certainly not the most important thing here. Sorry, if I am acting like a selfish asshole. I’m just…overwhelmed, scared, pissed off, heartbroken…the bombing is all over the fucking news. People died, Agent Modig…”
“Listen, I understand that all of this is overwhelming, unsettling and upsetting. You lived through a horrific event, lost friends and to top it all off your life just drastically changed. I get that, believe me. So, you are allowed to be a bit…”
“Of a dick?” Justin suggested with a rueful smirk.
“Trust me when I say that compared to some of the other people I’ve put in protective care, you are all sunshine and flowers. If this is you being a dick and a selfish asshole, then my job of keeping you safe just got a heck of a lot easier. I know this is difficult, but just remember that you are doing a good thing here. An important thing. This investigation needs you, Justin. Or should I say, Randy?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think this was important. I want those bastards behind bars almost as much as you. I know the people who died in there. I know the people who got hurt. Fuck, Michael nearly died!” Justin fell silent for a second and looked out the window at the pale morning light. “About the name…According to the news Justin Taylor is officially dead. So, yeah…Randy it is.”“Good. Now, Randy. Let’s talk about your living arrangements. We got lucky there as well.”
Coming back to the present from his reverie, Justin looked at his surroundings and absolutely agreed with Agent Modig’s assessment – they did get lucky. A wealthy widow, Bettina Tincher, was renting out a fully-furnished apartment in the attic of the converted stables in the back of her rather large property situated less than two miles from Archer Academy, making it easy for him to get to school either on foot or on a bike.
Since her husband’s passing several years before and since her two grown children and young grandchildren living overseas at present, Mrs. Tincher felt rather lonely and wanted some company on the property. While she wasn’t expecting a 22-year-old young man straight out of college to be her lodger, she didn’t hesitate to rent him the space after talking to him on the phone for about five minutes, a decision she didn’t regret after meeting him in person.
And what a space it was. The stables which used to house six horses years ago, was completely converted into storage areas and a workroom/woodworking shop, a hobby of Mr. Tincher’s before his death. The attic above the stables/woodshop was converted into a huge, fully self-sufficient apartment, with an open floor plan where the kitchen, bedroom, living room and office area shared the same space. Only the bathroom was enclosed for privacy. The apartment had gorgeous hardwood floors, fresh paint on the walls in a warm tone of golden sand and comfortable furniture of real mahogany and leather that looked well used, but lovingly taken care of. The best thing about the space was the abundance of natural light – large windows overlooked the wooded area in the back of the property on one side and the main house on the other; and four large skylights allowed the view of the sky from almost any point in the apartment.
His landlord told him that her husband wanted to try his hand at painting as a new hobby, so he had converted the space with an art studio in mind, but had died of a heart attack before he could use it. Since she didn’t want the space to go to waste, but had no artistic inclinations herself, she altered her husband’s original plan to add a kitchen and bathroom and make the studio into an apartment. At about 1000 square feet, the space was almost the size of Brian’s loft and five times larger than the one-room hovel that Mikey and Ben had helped him rent back in the Pitts. Since he was able to find space to paint fairly large-scale pieces in a 200-square-feet room, Justin knew he’d have no problem painting in this amazing space. When going into this exile, Justin thought that he would have to abandon his art, as well as his name. Now, however, he realized that he could continue to paint, thus, keeping himself sane.
The alarm on his new cell phone suddenly went off. Noon. Or 3 PM Pittsburgh time.
Justin got up from the couch, poured himself a shot of Beam and walked over towards the east facing windows. He looked at the horizon, where the sky met the tops of the trees in the heavily wooded area of this suburb of Portland, his thoughts flying over towards Pittsburgh, where a body bearing Justin Taylor’s name was being laid to rest at St. Andrew’s Cemetery. Justin raised his shot of Beam high in the air and said, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rest in peace, Justin Taylor.”
Randy Harold then drained the glass and turned away from the window.
Chapter 7
No, Brian thought, this is worse. This is the worst moment of my life.
He realized that as he watched the coffin bearing Justin’s body while the minister droned on and on about ashes, dust, salvation and the afterlife. It was worse than the years of living with his parent’s abuse, worse than watching a baseball bat swing through the air, worse than the days at the hospital after the bashing, worse than the bombing at Babylon, worse than the morgue. Although, the morgue was pretty fucking bad. He truly didn’t know how he had lived through that…
Brian had ridden shotgun in Agent Modig’s car, while Jennifer’s ex-husband and current boyfriend were sharing the back seat. Again, in any other case, this would have been a humorous situation. Brian would have given absolutely anything, everything he had for it to be any other situation. But it wasn’t, so no one was laughing. The dread at what they were going to see when they reached their destination permeated the car and hung heavy like the smell of old sweat.The morgue was cold, just as Brian had expected. However, the fact that the room smelled sterile and somehow overmedicated, like an extra-concentrated doze of hospital stench, was surprising. For some reason he had expected to smell decay and death, and the lack of it was almost jarring. The compartment containing Justin’s body was already open. The pathologist led them to the sheet-covered body and with a quiet “Take as long as you need,” retreated. Agent Modig approached first, with Brian and the other two men following cautiously behind.
Brian didn’t know how he had ended up standing next to Craig Taylor on one side with Agent Modig and Tucker on the other side of the body.
“Are you ready?” Agent Modig asked quietly.
“No. God, no,” Brian whispered harshly. “He can’t…he can’t be…fuck, I can’t even say it!” He turned around with his back to the body, breathing hard and desperately trying not to lose it completely.
“Did you love my son?” Craig Taylor asked suddenly.
“Why?”
“I don’t understand it. I don’t condone it. I’ll never accept you or who he was, but he was my son. I was there when he was born, when he took his first steps, when he said his second word. I missed the first one. I taught him how to ride a bike, how to swim. He was a beautiful little boy. I may not accept or understand his choices as a man, but I loved that little boy. And although I support Prop 14, I don’t support this kind of violence. Law is where the God-fearing people will win the fight against gays, not senseless killing. He didn’t deserve to die this way, no one did. The little boy that I loved didn’t deserve to end up here. It’s for his sake that I want to know - did you love him, Kinney?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t look at him. That cop was right, you don’t need to remember him this way. You saw him bashed, that’s enough for any lifetime. Don’t look at him. Remember him as he was.”
“Why are you doing this?” Brian asked over his shoulder.
“If I didn’t give up on him so quickly, maybe he could have been cured. I didn’t do right by him in life. I will be his father and do right by him in death. For him and for his mother.”
Cured. “An asshole to the end, Craig. You’ll never change,” Brian whispered, defeated. Kicking Craig Taylor’s ass at this point would serve no purpose. This also wasn’t the place to unleash his fury on a man who couldn’t accept his son even in death. Besides, Brian finally realized that beating tolerance into this homophobe would be as useless as beating the gay out of him. He also realized that Craig was actually being civil towards him and in his mind was making quite the gesture. Well, he didn’t need this asshole throwing him a bone. He was Brian fucking Kinney and he could deal with seeing Justin…dead. He slowly turned around, looked at Tucker and Modig, who were quietly observing the exchange. “OK, I’m ready,” he said.
Modig took the corner of the sheet and was about to pull it down, when Tucker stopped him.
“Brian, you don’t want to do this. Trust me. You don’t want to do this. Jennifer will understand and so would Justin.”
“No, I don’t. But I’ll stay.” He turned around again and with his back to the body, waited. He heard the whisper of the sheet as it uncovered the body. He heard the harsh, in-drawn breaths of the other men. He heard an “oh, dear God” escape Tucker’s lips. He heard Craig’s “this is not my son, oh God, this can’t be my son” before he collapsed on the floor next to him openly weeping. He heard Modig’s dispassionate and quiet “I think this is enough” and the whisper of the sheet covering the body again.
Brian, who was rarely in touch with his feelings to begin with, preferring to drown them in booze, drugs and men, at the moment stopped feeling anything at all. He was suddenly numb to the core. So numb that he ceased to feel the coldness of the room, or smell its antiseptic scent. Even his hearing seemed affected, for Craig’s weeping began to sound hollow and muted to his ears.
“I need to be alone for a minute. Leave,” he said, and after a brief hesitation Modig and Tucker helped Craig out of the room.
Brian turned around and looked at the sheet-covered body. His hand hovered over the corner of the material as if debating whether or not to lift it off, but didn’t in the end. A few seconds later it moved and settled on the coarse, institutional fabric on the area of the body where a heart used to beat.
“Justin, I…ah…I wish I’d told you that I loved you. Now it’s all moot. I…I won’t forget you. Goodbye.”
He ran his hand along the shrouded body one time, then walked out of the morgue and kept on walking; ignoring Tucker’s echoing “Brian! Brian…”
“…Brian?” The minister’s question brought him back to the present to Justin’s graveside. “You are next. Would you like to say a few words?”
“No. I’ll say them later, in private,” he answered, looking at nothing and no one else but the coffin that contained the love of his life.
He now knew how he had survived the morgue, the horrible week that followed and why he was surviving Justin’s funeral – he was still numb.More Chapters coming soon!
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Can't wait to read more. Well done ♥
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This is an thrilling story.
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PLease, please, please update this as soon as feasibly possible.
:)
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