PAIRING: Schillinger / Other.
RATING: Recalled m/m sex, Vern-o-vision. R.
A typical Oz morning: The mess hall athrong with rumbling, yawning, farting, complaining men, noise washing back and forth across the room like the coloured oil in those desktop wave tanks every yuppie in the world seemed to own once upon a time. Only instead of deep indigo blue or bright red, the oil in *this* tank's a murky grey full of mottled suspicions and febrile sheens of venomous colour, weighted down to its low pitch by boredom and weariness. And in those sluggishly stirring waves of conversation, one can find lone figures of silence and stillness, like stones in a polluted sea, black specks suspended in the oil, ignored and overlooked.
One of them sits at the Aryan Brotherhood's table, soundlessly eating with the dull, slow, repetitive movements of someone forcing himself through an obligatory ritual. The bruised shadows under his eyes are those of a man so shocked by some unimaginable betrayal that he cannot even find access to rage, or to hatred, or hurt -- merely a kind of numb confusion that is more the absence of thought than any sort of concrete cogitation. They're the eyes of a child who's found itself in a war zone, the eyes of a loving wife raped by her husband on the day he lost his job.
Or the eyes of a would-be prag on the morning after finding out just what that job *really* entailed.
Egon Kobold has known he was gay ever since he was fourteen -- the realization inspired not by any of his school classmates (he returned their universal hate and contempt too viciously to consider what other tensions might exist), but from his reaction to the images he'd begun downloading from the Net the year before. Even then, he'd been drawn to the fetishistic celebrations of Aryan physique you had to search carefully to find: The ice-white flesh and hair, pale eyes of blue or green, clean-lined muscle and bodies shaved of all surface hair. But the women who met that ideal were few, even in cyberspace, and Egon had never found himself responding to them. The men, on the other hand... Cut, firm muscle, square jawlines, strength rippling beneath smooth skin and prominent, uncircumcised (through frequently shaven) manhoods. Even now, Egon's breath shortens at the memory.
As if in response to his faltering, fleeting arousal, his entire backside clenches in agony. Egon closes his eyes and clamps his teeth shut on the moan, sick and ashamed. Not of what was done... but that he had been so overborne by it.
Even given his amazing new fitness, Vern is a far cry from the Aryan ideal. He's balding, of course; he's not really very *tall*; and his recently-acquired trimness and muscle don't conceal his fundamentally stocky, almost peasant physique. And for steel-jawed young Aryan Heroes, Vern's about as off the mark as can be imagined. Hell, *Robson* looked more the part in some ways.
But it hadn't been about appearance. Appearances are games, and last night Vern Schillinger had torn all illusions of gamesmanship or fun from Egon. And *there* was the thing Egon had really responded to, the thing only intimated in those plastic-perfect Aryan pinup boys and brought to full and shocking life in Schillinger: The *power* of the Aryan ideal, the sheer force of conviction and perfection in one's own identity. The power that beat from Schillinger like heatwaves off a furnace, the power Egon had touched himself in the delirium of cyberwizardry that had left the Spic neighbourhood burning.
The power that had bent Egon, twisted him savagely. Smashed him downwards onto his knees, unable to breathe for the power thrust down his throat, until it erupted in sticky white bitter-salty consummation.
The power that had slammed him forward over the lower bunk, night air cold on his naked ass, torn his cheeks apart and shoved in. Driven him against the wall, over and over again. Drowned him in sensation so acute, so freezing and burning, so humiliating and exalting that he was unable to name it pain or ecstasy. Left him shivering on the floor, crying, dick and asshole and legs all sore, his own orgasm more an electrical reflex spasm than any kind of pleasure.
The power so strong that Vern himself had seemed weirdly subdued afterward, hauling him upright, bearing him to the sink and slapping a damp washcloth into his hand. "Clean yourself up," he'd ordered -- mumbled, really. As if he himself was unsure what to make of this power, uncertain of his ability to control it.
All the power Egon had felt in himself, all the glee of accomplishment and execution to get himself to this point... all of it's gone now. Spent. Like his seed against the concrete floor of Schillinger's cell. Schillinger had made him clean *that* up too. Then left him to crawl alone into the lower bunk and shiver there, trying with savage determination not to sob, while above him Schillinger's snores soon sawed the air.
He realizes he's stopped moving, fork halfway to his mouth with a chunk of greasy fried egg. He stares at the congealed lump and has to drop it and push his tray away, breathing slow, heavy breaths to keep from vomiting.
(Oh, Jesus God, I gotta get a handle on this.)
"Kobold?"
Low, clear voice, cutting through the conversation -- not to silence it, just to carry under it. And Schillinger himself is looking over, evidently having finally noticed his new prag's expression --
(or lack thereof)
-- is even more withdrawn and nervous than usual.
"You gonna make it?"
For half a heartbeat Egon's mouth fills with bitter, black hatred. Nothing there but mild concern for a tool. Not even a brother; something Vern is *using*. As if he has no idea and less interest in what Egon went through last night, no care for the pain or the desolation that kept Egon awake for hours, nothing but this fleeting concern over the potential squandering of a resource.
But it *is* concern, and that tiny shred of decent feeling is enough evidence to collapse the anger and bring the helpless, hopeless adoration back. Amazing himself, Egon is actually able to muster a smile.
"I'll be fine, sir."
Schillinger considers this, then nods with a shrug. But he doesn't look away until Egon forces another mouthful of fried egg down his throat. Egon swallows, and strangely, his stomach settles. Suddenly ravenous, he pulls the tray closer and starts devouring its contents with an enthusiasm previously missing.
Vern is what he is, after all; no point in deluding himself about it. Last night was a breaking-in ceremony -- that's how Vern'll *have* to justify it to himself, after all. Like all would-be straights Vern can go to amazing lengths to excuse any one act as not "really" faggy or homosexual. Even if Vern tries to sustain last night's level of brutality, sheer inertia and fatigue will defeat him. And all Egon has to do is wait, and before Vern knows it he'll find himself a happily married man.
Finishing his breakfast with a smile he doesn't see, it doesn't occur to Egon that for all the jizz this was supposed to bring Schillinger, he hasn't mentioned a thing about it yet to anyone else in the Brotherhood.
* * *
Even in Oz, where time is elastic and repetitive, blurring memory and disrupting calendars, the days pass. Schillinger finds himself startled to realize, one morning as he sorts through the mail, that it's been almost two weeks since he's taken in (taken ON?) Egon Kobold. Startled, and just a little bit unnerved.
(Don't tell me I'm getting fuckin' *used* to the kid.)
But he does NOT want to think about Kobold right now. Not about how annoyingly quickly the kid settled into Vern's routine. Not about how, once Vern finally began beating that puppy-dog diffidence out of him -- both in the gym and in their cell -- the feeling of having somebody you could actually *count* on, at your back, was so, damn --
(seductive)
-- it put his hackles up almost on sheer principle. And *definitely* not about how, for all Vern's grim intent to make the necessary actions of prag-and-master brutal and painful -- painful to Vern *himself*, if necessary -- Kobold stubbornly refuses to knuckle under to them; somehow even manages to imply he's ENJOYING the shit Vern puts him through. Which in and of itself is fucking Vern up almost to the point of not being able to get his goddam dick up --
( -- but only ALMOST, Vernon?)
Vern is reminded, irresistibly, of Lardner, almost two decades past, and his brief... what? Involvement? Fling? Affair? LiAIson? -- with his once-coconspirator, now-enemy Chris Keller (that fuckin' slut): Played for the high-on-his-own-jizz moron he'd been, then; taking Keller's studied resistance and orchestrated capitulation at face value, only slowly coming to realize that he took nothing from Chris Keller that the younger man hadn't already tossed away as worthless. You couldn't humiliate a man who had no pride; you couldn't get jizz out of fucking a prag when the other man somehow managed, Christ almighty knew how, to get off on it. But Keller, who knew that as well, always managed to let you *think* you'd broken him; putting up JUST enough fight to convince, then rolling over to play puppy at the exact last moment before you switched from pissed-off-and-horny to killing rage.
And -- this was the truly pissy thing -- Keller was so *good* at the actual fucking that it took real willpower to remember you were being played, even once you'd figured it out.
Egon Kobold doesn't have anywhere near Keller's... *expertise*, yet. But after two and a half years with nothing but his own right hand, Vern's body is betraying him, reacting almost as strongly as with Beecher in those first few weeks. For all his discomfort at what he senses from Kobold, for all Vern's angry resolution to make this about pain and submission, Kobold's willing and enthusiastic compliance is beginning to grind him down. It's getting to the point where Vern's tempted to just start pleading fatigue and falling asleep without bothering, rather than have to work himself up to the pitch of anger and lust that's getting harder and harder --
(so to speak)
-- to find with each encounter.
(Not tonight, honey, I got a headache.)
Jesus fucking *Christ*....
As if in answer, the prayed-for distraction materializes: A letter from Harrison Beecher, postmarked from the law firm, the paper stiff and bright and cool. Schillinger tears it open without a second thought, many years' reflex making the movement smooth and precise, and flips open the letter within. A ghost of a grin washes across his face as he imagines Beecher's reaction, were he to come across this moment -- anger, humiliation, maybe even fear if he was expecting information that could be used against him. Any of which would be a welcome sweetness in this sour day....
And then the words register and his smile collapses, the disappointment bitter and sharp enough to cut through his pretended tormentor's glee. It's a letter. An ordinary, pointless, *boring* Hi Mom Hi Dad Hi Son piece of horseshit. Nothing else. No information, no documents, nothing about --
"Looking for this?"
Hackles bristling, a bear smelling blood, Vern snaps his head up to face the mailroom door. Beecher lounges in it, arms folded, smiling lazily. In his right hand, tucked neatly in his left elbow, a folded sheaf of paper hovers between his fingertips.
Vern almost rushes him instantly, but stops himself at the last second, with only the barest shift of weight. Hacks are never far away, and Beecher's other hand is hidden between his arm and body; Vern doesn't intend to leave himself open to any concealed shanks. He simply waits, poised. He knows Beecher. The other man never could keep his mouth shut for any length of --
Perkily: "You do know tampering with the mail's a federal offense, right?"
Yeah, that's right.
(THERE's my boy.)
Vern gives Beecher the sidelong eye, snorts. "Yup. Know how many people in here *care*?"
Myself--and McManus, and Glynn, and probably Governor fuckin' Devil too, assuming you could actually get a close enough hold of him to COMPLAIN about it--included?
To which Beecher just shrugs and smirks, raising a faint blond brow of his own: Well, sure; point taken. And continues,unfazed:
"Ever since you gave me that little --'Valentine's surprise', way back when--I've switched over to getting these firsthand at the contact visits. And since I assume you're probably already plotting to fuck me out of my parole, I thought I'd better try and head the next move in our usual pas-de-fuck-you off at the pass with a long-awaited gesture of ..."
(Contempt? Ridicule?)
"...gratitude."
"Yeah?" Schillinger moves slowly out from behind the counter, giving himself room to manoeuvre; but his voice is even and uninflected. "Eat me, you skanky little pervert."
"Well, I'm not gonna go THAT far. But, fact is--"
"Whatever you've got, I could care less."
"--we found Hank."
Vern freezes; knows he's frozen, and knows -- from the gleam in Beecher's eye -- Beecher's seen it. Rage leaps, hot in his face, acid on his tongue.
"My Dad and me," Beecher goes on, as if Vern's too dumb to understand the comment. "That's what you call him, right--Heinrick Junior? Andy's big bro?"
(Awww, you fucking *whore*--)
Red in front of Vern's eyes, back and forth and in and out like a fluttering brothel curtain--but Beecher's already unfolding his arms, waggling the sheaf of paper at him like he's shaking a bone at a dog: Here boy, *here* boy! And Vern takes the bait, hating himself for it: Snatches the paper with one quick lunge, scanning its pages swiftly, throat thick with--
(apprehension?)
P.I.'s report. Hank's police record appended. Words jumping out, here and there, as the air congeals to jelly around him. Narcotics use. Suspected narcotics *trafficking*. And...
(Aw, Christ, *no*.)
"Hey, too bad about those multiple solicitation convictions, huh?" Beecher's smile is strangely bitter, with none of his usual smugness. "I mean--looks like you *really* do need to be out in the world again... free legal advice, Vern, ex-lawyer to non-client. Or maybe--Dad to Dad."
Then adding, with slightly more venom, before Vern can even BEGIN to react to that last--*statement* of his--
"'Cause you always DID have a lot invested in striking that particular pose, didn'tcha, 'Daddy'? So now your own son's riding a Vice/Narco rap, but you're in here, where you've finally got what you really always wanted -- a 'son'-figure you can fuck up the ass, and not even have to feel guilty about it..."
The fuck?
...oh yeah. KO-bold.
"Jealous," Vern says, not making it a question. Beecher wrinkles his nose, sniffs strenuously: Yeah, RIGHT.
(Yeah. *Right*.)
"Vern -- what, exactly, out of all the time I was with you, am I now supposed to be missing? The rape? The humiliation? Those --exTREMEly *un*funny-- racist jokes of yours I had to make myself laugh out loud at, or suffer the consequences?" Now it's Beecher's turn to snort. "'Course, you didn't have to tattoo Kobold yourself, for which I'm sure he'll always be eternally grateful..."
"Hey, the cryin' and squirmin' like a little girl part was *your* choice, sweetpea. You'd just shut up and gone with the flow --"
(like *Egon* does)
Beecher coughs, disbelieving ly. "You really still don't get it, do you? Don't even *begin* to understand what I'm talking about."
Vern, shrugging: "Nope."
Never have. Never will.
(So fucking THERE.)
Beecher sighs. Then cocks his head and gives him a considering look, completing his own thought. "Question is, though...could you *pretend* to?"
"Why would I want to?"
"To get us both *out* of this Godforsaken place."
Vern frowns. And, much to his own surprise--finds himself listening, without comment, as Beecher goes on.
"My parole hearing's coming up soon. So's yours. And Sister Pete's Victim/Offender program --" quick looks away, teeth gritted -- "could make the difference for both of us."
Vern prides himself on being typically smarter than most people give him credit for, but the sheer lunacy of what Beecher seems to be suggesting is throwing him off his usual mental stride. His growled reply, therefore, hangs somewhere halfway between anger and confusion:
"You think the word 'forgive' is ever gonna mean ANYTHING between us, Beecher, it's *you* doesn't understand a Goddam thing."
"I'm not *talking* about forgiveness --"
-- (you fucking moron,) rings the underlying subtext --
-- "I'm talking getting through that fucking gate! Look--" And here Beecher actually moves *closer* to him, blue eyes locked so intensely on Vern's own that the older man finds himself truly, if momentarily, unnerved -- "I'm the guy who inputs everybody's files, right? Practically got YOURS memorized. So I can tell you all the right things to say, since you seem so patently unable to get 'round to saying them yourself. And considering how just about every discipline charge we've racked up betwen us so far has basically been because of shit we've done to each other, I guarantee that if it even SEEMS like we want to sit down and bury the hatchet --" Beecher's hand moves between his chest and Vern's, as if tracing some invisible connection -- "Well, McManus and ex-Sister Pete, they *live* for that kind of happy horseshit. Restoration. Reciprocity. 'Closure'. Which means they will eat it the fuck up, Vernon, believe you me."
"Are you trying to fuck with me, Beecher?"
Beecher does that *snort* again, retreating slightly. "Pretty elaborate plan, if I *was*."
"Yeah, well... you got a pretty fuckin' 'elaborate' brain on you, you actually take a mind to use it."
"Aw, you *noticed*; THANK you, honey."
Beecher tilts his head, flutters his eyelashes -- a gesture Vern actually *recognizes*, one of the first familiar things in this whole fucked-up conversation: Sneering, fear-laced mockery. Wariness dissolves in a heat-flash of disgusted anger as everything suddenly, finally, makes sense.
More bullshit. This has all just been more --chain-yanking-- bullshit.
"Fuck this -- " he snaps, starting forward.
"Vern --" Beecher gives ground, but doesn't look away, the sheer force of his low voice suspending Vern's anger. "Look, if I screw you here, I screw over the one thing I want even more than I hate your fucking guts: Getting GONE from this shithole. And if the price of me getting out of Oz is *you* getting out of Oz, then... at this point...." He swallows a deep breath and seems to *push* the words out. "...I can live with that."
Vern hesitates.
Whether Beecher knows it or not, he's picked the one explanation that Vern can actually believe. Beecher's never had the discipline to stick with *anything* for long, not when there's a distraction or a way out of it. Even with everything Vern's done to him,not to mention all those regular-as-clockwork promises of vengeance, Beecher doesn't know anything about *really* paying back your debts. Give him the chance to cut and run, he'll run. And if Vern can use that cowardice to his own ends...
(So you can cut and run too, Vern-o? Seems to me Beech-ball wasn't the *only* one promising to see somebody else dead, remember?)
But: Shut up, shut *up*, shut UP, Vern tells that inner voice savagely. Vern's proven his discipline as much as anybody ever needed to. He has nothing left to prove here, he owes nothing to anybody in Oz. If he wants to take his revenge on Beecher in another way -- if he lets the other man live the rest of his life, knowing he *willingly* helped get his own deadliest enemy OUT of prison -- that's *Vern's* choice.
Provided, of course, this *isn't* bullshit.
Vern folds his arms and glowers at Beecher, springing his trump card. "Keller know about this?"
Beecher pauses only a moment. "Not unless you tell him."
(*Real*ly.)
That does change things. Right there, Beecher's given Vern a way to fuck him royally, if only in a metaphorical way. Which argues that if he's willing to risk leaving himself *that* open, to Schillinger of all people, he wants this very, VERY badly. Unless Keller does know, and this is all a lie to get Vern in front of Sister Pete so Beecher can fuck Vern's parole while somehow retaining his own...
Except--that makes no sense, either. Being as how Vern knows Chris Keller, and how part of that knowledge is that the one thing Schillinger and his *other* ex-prag have in common is they don't let *anything* go until *they're* tired of it.
"Huh. How you know I won't, just to see him squirm?" Vern throws the question out as if he isn't even paying attention.
And although Beecher's response is quick and strong --
"You can see THAT on your way out the front gate."
-- Vern sees what he's looking for, the one thing he can *always* spot in Tobias Beecher: Fear. That one, quick flicker of fear, the reflex response that betrays him every time. That animal truth that illuminates all the layers of bullshit.
(Bailin' on your sweetheart, and he doesn't know. Oh, Toby, you bad, *bad* boy.)
"So. Deal?" Beecher's mouth is tight. The words evidently don't taste any better to him than the thought does to Schillinger. For a moment he hesitates.
This is Tobias Beecher. The man who nearly put out his eye. Who shit on Vern's face. Who humiliated him in front of the entire Brotherhood. Whose very *existence* is an insult. Who brought about the death of Vern's own goddam SON...
(the man you--WANT--*dead*)
...is *anything*, even freedom, worth letting that go unpunished?
Vern waits for the surge of righteous, vengeful fury those thoughts always bring.
What comes is something he doesn't expect: A neat, perfectly cleaned cell. A stack of crisply folded laundry. And an acne-framed, metal-garnished, puppy-dog cheerful smile.
"...okay."
There's a heartbeat of silence -- as if neither of them can quite believe what's just happened. But finally Beecher draws a breath, shrugging his shoulders slightly as if to shake himself awake. "Good," he says. "Now -- you go talk to Pete."
"The fuck for?"
"'Cause she *knows* me." Beecher's mouth twists in an angry, ironic smile. "Which means it'll sound a hell of a lot more plausible coming from you."
And for one surreal moment, Vern actually feels tempted to laugh.
* * *
It's a Daliesque image: In Oz's computer room, a clump of grizzled men gathered around one of the terminals and chattering like a group of unruly schoolboys. In the spotless white chamber, the blue-black of denim, tattoo ink, filth and hair makes them look like an excised tumour plopped into a medical pan.
Standing in the doorway, Egon smiles with a mix of relief and genuine delight. It was something of a gamble -- trying to get people like this interested in anything more technological than a carburetor is always risky -- but he's done his research. Following their more-than-half-mocking responses to his suggestion on how to kill the afternoon, Egon took them on a tour of a selection of sites he's worked out in advance -- a careful combination of porn sites chosen for all-Caucasian models and White Power political sites. Nothing too complicated, though. Vern's intermittent stabs at Ayn Rand aside, the Brothers really prefer their jingoism in primary-coloured monosyllables: White Good, Black -- and every other shade in between -- Bad.
Now they're hooked, surfing from site to site with the wild flickering speed of the fresh techno-convert. All the information and support you could ever want, and no shortage of targets for vitriol. Even as Egon watches, one of the group has found an e-mail address for the webmaster of a Zion Remembered website, and within moments all of them are gleefully shouting out suggestions for new insults to fill up the (no doubt horrendously misspelled) message. Egon folds his arms, feeling happier than he has in a long time, and weirdly paternalistic.
(Ah, my boys.)
If this is the feeling Vern gets when he sees people working to carry out his plans and orders, the whole "leadership" thing suddenly makes a lot more sense.
"Kobold."
Egon jumps, flushing, and turns. "What?" he snaps, forcefully enough to evoke a raised eyebrow from -- oh *shit*, it's the hack, Murphy. Egon subdues himself. For all his even temper, Murphy is not a man to mouth off to. "I mean -- can I help you, sir?"
"You've got a visitor."
Egon frowns, opens his mouth.
"Your mother."
Egon's mouth stays open. The heat drains out of his face.
* * *
Against the blank monotone whites and greys of the visitor's room, Elaine Kobold looks like she always does: tall, cool, proud, beautiful, long blonde hair perfectly arranged over the pale blue jacket of her suit. Like a lily growing in the cracked asphalt of a parking lot. As she watches Egon sit down and pick up the phone, she directs a narrow glare around the room, as if she's an insulted princess enduring the halls of a crude provincial fortress.
"Hi, Mom."
"Egon." She moistens her lips. "You're looking... you're looking well."
Egon shrugs.
"I tried to get a contact visit. They told me the room was already completely booked." Her lips tighten. "I'm going to make some calls. There's no way I'm letting some pointless bureaucracy keep me from seeing my son --"
"Mom, really. 'S'okay." Egon manages a smile. "You're not gonna get any favours out of these people by dropping my name."
"Well, be that as it may. I was talking to Lewis, and his firm has some contacts in the state corrections department. He might be able to --" She stops, seeing the way Egon's face stiffens, and her eyes flash. "No, Egon! I don't want to hear any more of your garbage about Lewis being Jewish, all right? Not now! He's already gone far against his better judgement agreeing to help you, and --"
"Mom, listen to me." Egon grips the phone with both hands and leans forward, keeping his voice low and level. "If it gets around a Jewish lawyer's trying to get me privileges, I am a fucking dead man, do you understand me? I mean I will be literally dead. Somebody'll shank me in a stairwell or I'll get my skull cracked in the shower."
His mother stares at him. "Who? Who would do that?"
"Jesus *Christ*, Mom!" Egon has to laugh. "Where do you think I am, the fucking playground of P.S. 81? This is a maximum security prison! They kill you over cigarettes here!" He waves a hand as she opens her mouth, looking frightened. "Look, Mom, don't freak. I've got some protection lined up --"
"Then why do you have to worry about Lewis? Won't these friends of yours protect you?"
"Fuck, Mom, they'll be the ones who kill me if they do!" At her blank look, Egon blows out breath between his clenched teeth: half groan, half sigh. "They're the *Aryan Brotherhood*, Mom. I'm a member, now --"
"Oh good God." His mother covers her forehead with one hand.
" -- and I'm in the same cell with the leader, Vern. He's..." Egon can't quite muster the nerve to be honest. "He's looking after me."
(And into me, and *up* me....)
Elaine spreads her hand over the plexiglass pane separating them, as if trying to push her way through it by sheer force. "Egon, look. I know we -- we've had our differences. I know it was difficult for you, after your father left, and I'm sorry I wasn't there for you as much as I wanted to be. I see this kind of thing in my work all the time...."
"Mom, I'm not one of your fucking social work cases. I'm your son."
She ignores him. Like she's always, *always* ignored him whenever he began to disagree too strongly. "The lack of a father figure impacts a child in all the wrong ways, especially intelligent and sensitive children. I know you wanted to find an authority system you could respect, and if you're seeing this Vern as some kind of substitute father --"
And *that's* the last straw. Egon feels his temper crack, mixed with uncontrollable laughter in a weird speedball of hysteria and fury. He falls back, howling. "Substitute *father*?" he gets out. "The guy *fucks me up the ass* every night, Mom! And I like it! You hear me? I WANT him to!" He jackknifes forward, yanking his voice back down: Yelling always brings the hacks. "You always tried so goddam hard to 'understand' me, Mom, and the truth is you don't understand a fucking thing. About me, about anything. I'm Aryan. *You're* Aryan, for Chrissake. We're a separate *species*, Mom. All your equality, compassion, decency -- in here, it's all bullshit."
He slumps back, catching his breath. Then adds with his best dazzling, metal-adorned smile: "Oh yeah. And I'm gay."
Elaine's face has gone from flushed to pale, eyes glittering with tears that she's holding her head high in an effort not to shed.
(Don't wanna ruin the mascara, Mom?)
"You're *confused*, Egon," she says with slow, distinct precision. "All you ever wanted was to feel special. Powerful. That's natural. Everybody feels that. You just had the bad fortune to stumble into an illusion that gave you that feeling... without showing you any of the price."
It's Egon's turn to stare. Jesus fucking wept, doesn't she *ever* give up?
"What you did -- tell me the truth, Egon; it was like playing a video game, wasn't it?" Elaine's mouth works, though her voice remains determinedly steady. "Enter the right commands, watch the pretty graphics on the screen, read the articles. You never really understood what you were doing, did you? It was a disconnection, a disassociation --"
"Don't fucking EXCUSE me!" Hacks or not, Egon can't keep the yell down this time; he jumps up and slams his hand against the glass, jolting her back as if he's actually hit her. "How goddam stupid do you think I am? I knew what I was doing, okay? Those fucking spics live in their subhuman filth, making their own homes into a goddam firetrap, I saw it happening and I said -- I actually *said out loud* to myself, Mom -- 'Let 'em burn.' I changed the dispatch orders and I *knew* what that meant. I knew they were going to burn to death. I knew some of their kids were gonna choke on smoke. I knew some of them would get blown up by the backdraft when they tried to go through the wrong doors. I knew some of 'em would jump five floors and break their back rather than burn. I knew you'd be able to hear the screaming for blocks. I even knew what it would *smell* like, okay?" Egon's voice shakes and cracks like a tenement collapsing in an earthquake, darkness smothering his face in billowing clouds. He's vaguely aware his cheeks are wet. Red light shifts before his unseeing eyes. "I knew they'd smell like burnt pork. Like a ruined barbecue. Goddam motherfucking apes...."
Strong hands seize him by the arms, haul him upright. Egon clings to the phone like a lifeline and raises his voice in a scream, seeing his mother's shattered face floating in a blur of tears before him. "You probably cried more for them than you ever did for me, huh, Mom?! Well, FUCK YOU!" Elaine's face crumples, but Egon can't see it any more. His grip gives way. The phone hits the counter with a crack of plastic, and the hacks drag him towards the door; he kicks, struggles, writhes. "Fuck you, Mom, and don't you ever fucking cry for me again, you hear me? Don't ever fucking cry for me again!"
(You fucking race-betraying Jew-loving bitch....)
Feet dragging down the concrete floor of the corridor, Egon sags in the guards' arms, bawling, limp and wet as a discarded rag.
* * *
Blowing up during a visit isn't sufficient to provoke Hole time, unless the fit lasts longer than it takes to drag the offender back down the corridor leading towards Em City. The hacks drag Egon to his cell in Unit B and deposit him there, shoving him onto the lower bunk --
(Vern's)
-- without even waiting to see if he hits, they about-face and stride out.
Egon lies there, snuffling, scrubbing at his nose until it's clear enough of snot for him to take in the scent-traces left in the sheets and pillows: Vern's sweat and smell, faint, vaguely yeasty, a tinge of acrid salt. It's absurdly comforting. Vern might think of him as a kid and a fuckup -- Egon doesn't mind that; he knows it takes a lot of time and effort to win Vern Schillinger's true respect, especially from somebody as young as Egon is -- but the one thing Vern's never done --
(for longer than one fight at a time, anyway)
-- is tell Egon that he doesn't know what he wants, and to neatly shut him out and away in the name of protecting him from himself.
Egon curls up on the bunk, his last, shuddering silent sobs beginning to smooth out into slow, exhausted deep breaths.
His mother's wrong. He's never really missed having a dad. The few times Elaine's boyfriends, especially the current and much-reviled Lewis, tried to fill that role, he found far too quickly that none of them could keep pace with his own thoughts; none of them could explain the hypocrisies he spotted in their behaviour every time, with merciless observation and eidetic memory. None of them could discuss anything intelligently that interested him, and none of them really *wanted* a real discussion -- they just wanted to air their views and have a wide-eyed, awed agreement from "the kid". They all defined *son* -- whether in temporary or potentially permanent step- status -- as "blank slate to turn into somebody like me".
Which wasn't really surprising, he has to admit in hindsight. That was all they ever saw in how his *mother* treated him. So who could blame them for mimicking her behaviour? -- given that all most of them wanted was to get into *her* pants, and befriending him was never more than a means to that end. Well, fuck that. He had no interest then, and has none now, in being the recipient of anybody's secondary, perfunctory affection purely for the sake of appearances.
(Oh yeah? Then what, exactly, the FUCK are you doing right now?)
The voice is tiny and treacherous, located somewhere deep down in the back of his skull -- a knot of tension behind and above his soft palate, its tone black, liquid and insinuating as a cigarette-tar-spawned lung tumour. Egon's breath slows.
(You think Vern's doing what he's doing because he LOVES you? You think he actually has FEELINGS for you, you naive little dupe? You were only able to talk him *into* your little faux-picket-fence "relationship" because you convinced him it'd be a valuable gesture to have a prag again -- and 'cause he was so fucked up over that queen-bitch Tobias Beecher that his dick was gonna take any excuse it could to let him loose again.)
Shut up, shut *up*, shut UP, Egon tells himself furiously. Impotently. The voice -- his own voice -- continues, slick and sneering.
(You're a fucking *receptacle*, Egon. You're just as much a means to an end as you ever were with your mother's asshole boyfriends. 'Sjust a different end.)
So to SPEAK.
Egon makes himself straighten out, forces himself to roll slowly up to a sitting position; he sucks in deep, purposeful breaths. No. That isn't true, and he knows it. Vern may not... may not feel what *Egon* feels -- he's too scared to name the emotion aloud or even think it, as if, like a birthday wish, speaking of it would negate it -- but he knows Vern sees him as more than just a depository for excess sperm. He's a Brother, a helper, a colleague, a -- well, maybe not *confidante* --
(not YET, anyway)
-- he's *loyal*. And whatever else Vern is, he knows what loyalty is, and when a real Brother is in trouble, Vern will help.
With one more deep breath, Egon stands. Goes over to the sink, splashing cold water on his face, feeling the relief in the sore tissue around his eyes, sluicing away the crusted mucus on his nose and upper lip. Rakes his hands through his disordered dreads, restoring them to a semblance of neatness. And strides out of his cell, heading for the mailroom.
* * *
Vern's not there.
(Sheez. Anticlimax.)
Egon startles himself with a snorted laugh. The mailroom's empty, nothing left in the Incoming carts and the delivery shelves likewise denuded; Vern's clearly on his rounds, having finished the daily sort. Egon sighs, slips around the counter and checks the storeroom behind the holding racks. Nothing there, either. With an outrush of breath he lets himself slump against the doorframe, then slides down to sit on the floor.
He's too tired to do anything but sit there for a minute or two. Vern'll be back to lock up the place and do prep for tomorrow morning's delivery; there's no point in trying to track him down. He closes his eyes, telling himself it's just for a second.
When his eyes jolt open at the sound of voices and footsteps, hard-acquired reflexes kick in before he can consciously figure out what's happening. He rolls back around the doorframe into the darkened storeroom, pulling the door almost but not quite completely closed, and freezes, silencing his breath. *Nobody's here*, he projects as hard as possible. *Nobody's here. Nobody's here. Nobody's....*
"...you think *I'm* gonna enjoy this, Schillinger?"
Egon's jaw drops.
"I haven't got the first fucking clue what you *enjoy*, Beecher." Vern's heavy, irritated tread clumps into the mailroom,t he mailcart's wheel squeaking as he shoves it into one corner.
"Oh, THERE's a revelation." A lighter, tension-quick step; the sound of a closing door. Egon peers around the doorframe, keeping his eyes in the storage room's shadow. Through the storage racks, beyond the mail counter, he can see Vern and Beecher glowering at one another... but it's not the formless, reflexive loathing it's always been, this look. There's thought and focus in this. Intent. Planning.
Planning *together*.
"You wanna do this or not?"
"Em-PHAT-ically not. Believe me on this."
"Believe *you.* Yeah."
"God da --" But Beecher does something amazing: He snaps his eyes shut, cuts himself off, and sucks in air like he's swigging from cheap wine. His flush fades a little. "We have to get our stories straight," he says in a reasonable facsimile of calm. "They figure out we're faking this, we're screwed worse than we were before."
Vern glares at the floor. Egon can see his fist clenching. But the low mutter that comes out of him is equally stunning. "Okay. Fuck, all right. Okay." He looks up and meets Beecher's intent gaze. "So how does this shit work, anyway?"
Beecher doesn't speak for a moment, as if Vern's acquiescence has knocked him back on his heels too. But he recovers quickly. "We admit that we understand how we've hurt each other, we apologize for it."
"Apologize to you," Vern repeats, flatly.
Beecher's twisted smile flares. "Look sympathetic, Vernon. Understanding. We both know you can do THAT."
Vern snorts. "Pete's a fuck of a lot smarter than you were back then, Beecher."
If the smile was twisted before, it's jagged now, like broken steel. "Maybe. But I was desperate to hear something I wanted. And she is too. You can use that, Vern."
Vern narrows his eyes at the younger man. There's silence, as if he's daring Beecher to say something else. Beecher returns the silent challenge with a lifted eyebrow.
Then:
"I was wrong," says Vern. Unemotionally, evenly, almost mechanically. "I raped you. I humiliated you. I beat you. I made you work for me, like a servant. And that was --" Vern's voice stumbles for a moment; he recovers with a breath -- "That was wrong. I hurt you, Beecher. I'm sorry."
Egon can't move. Neither, apparently, can either of the other two. It's a long minute before Beecher finally rubs his face with his palm, as if recovering himself. "I suppose saying'Once more with feeling' would be a bad idea," he muses.
Normality returns with a flash of rage in Vern's eyes, and a reflexively raised fist. "Hey, you fucking bitch, if you think it was easy for me to say that --"
"Oh, I would *never* think you found it EASY to admit you'd done something wrong," Beecher snaps in response -- even as he takes an instinctive step backwards. Vern advances, still seemingly on autopilot, and for a moment Egon thinks *That's it* -- it's over; whatever weird little scam the two have concocted (TOGETHER?!) is about to collapse right here and now....
...except this time it's *Vern* who seems to remember something, makes himself stop, and lowers his fist as if he's pushing it down against strong resistance. Beecher watches him warily, and when Vern does nothing except stand still Beecher relaxes out of his alert stance. He folds his arms, looks at the ceiling as if checking a cue card, and begins.
"You were trying to offer me protection," the ex-lawyer says, and if his voice has more natural intonation to it than Vern's did, there's also a subliminal tension that betrays his iron self-control. "You didn't understand how what you were doing could hurt me the way it did, because you didn't know anything about me or my world. You figured that no matter how badly I took it, I'd figure out that if I shut up and went with the flow, I'd learn to deal with it -- and I'd figure out I'd be a lot worse off without any protection or affiliation at all. You were trying to teach me how to find a place, and survive in it, and if you were benefitting yourself in the process...." A shocking, bitter smile. "Well, if *anybody* understands that, a corporate litigate attorney does."
Vern is surveying Beecher with narrowed, considering eyes. "You really think she's gonna buy that."
"Oh, I can be a *lot* more convincing than this."
"Yeah, well, you're gonna have to be."
"You just let me worry about *my* performance, Vernon. Look, let's go over this again from the beginning --"
"No."
Beecher's eyebrows shoot up, as do Egon's in hiding. "'No'?" repeats Beecher, the habitual mockery not quite concealing the sudden nervousness beneath.
"I had to say how I hurt you, and you understood." Vern folds his arms, his stance and gaze uncompromising. "Now let's hear you pull the same shit off. If you can make me believe *you're* sorry for what YOU did to ME, then I'll think we actually have a shot at this thing. Otherwise you might as well just go back to your fuckslut right now, 'cause there's nothing else to shoot for in here."
"Yeah, you'd know about settling for the most convenient fuckslut, wouldn't you," Beecher snarls. "Kobold learning the ropes faster than I did?"
Egon's breath stops.
"Kobold --" Vern flushes, and Egon can't read the expression: Rage? Humiliation? Uncertainty? "Kobold doesn't matter. Any more than Keller matters to you, right?"
Beecher closes his mouth on whatever retort he was about to make, even as Egon's world begins, very slowly, to crumble around his ears. He can sense it happening, but can't move, not quite able to believe what he already knows. Beyond, in the mailroom, Beecher sighs. "No. You're right. None of that matters now."
He chews briefly on one knuckle, looking again at the ceiling. This time his voice is slower, as if each word is more of an effort. "I took my own rage at myself out on you, Schillinger," he murmurs. "I nearly blinded you. I humiliated you in public by --" His voice trembles, but he regains balance quickly -- "well, we both know what I did."
Astounded, Egon realizes Beecher wasn't suppressing anguish, but laughter. From the heavy flush and the dull gleam of rage on Vern's face, he's realized it too; but he says nothing, just waiting in silence.
"I took your son away from you," the ex-attorney continues. "I turned him against you... made you... made you do what you had to do, to live up to the beliefs that make you who you are. I knew that was probably what you were gonna do, and I..." Beecher swallows. Suddenly, he doesn't look like he's faking regret or sorrow anymore. "I let it happen. That cost Andy his life and cost you your son. And I'm sorry for that. I'm truly, truly sorry, Schillinger."
Silence again. So long now that Egon wonders if time has stopped, or he's somehow lost the ability to hear. Maybe this is all just a dream, it occurs to him with a kind of desperate cheerfulness. Maybe he's still asleep and imagining all of this. Maybe --
"I never did anything to Andy," Vern says abruptly. "I don't know where he got those tits. I didn't have anything to do with that."
Beecher rolls his eyes. "Oh come on --"
"Is this what this was all about, Bitch-er?" Vern advances on Beecher again with a slow, bearlike tread, looking truly dangerous now. The younger man backs up unsteadily, like a cat waddling backwards in a fear-anger bristle. "Get me to admit about Andy in front of Sister Pete, so you can fuck *my* parole but still get yours?"
*Parole?* Egon mouths to himself, dazed.
"Oh, for --" Beecher spreads his hands and stops moving. "She's a *psychiatrist* and a *nun*, Schillinger! She can't report anything we say to Glynn or the police!"
"Last I heard, nuns didn't have any fucking seal of confession." Vern's expression doesn't alter, though he stops moving.
"She's a psychiatrist treating us as patients. That's just as good." When Vern raises disbelieving eyebrows, Beecher seems to forget his fear and snaps, "Look, trust me on this, Vern -- who's the one here with the fucking *law degree*, anyway?"
Gradually, Vern's snarl twists sideways into a smile. "Well," he murmurs, "right now... wouldn't be *either* of us. Would it."
Beecher flushes. "Okay," he finally says. "Okay. Nothing about you and Andy. I'll phrase it so it sounds like I think my turning him against you led *indirectly* to his death, because you weren't around to get him off the tits before he got hold of them in the Hole. Happy?"
"Peachy." Vern drops his head, pressing one hand to his forehead. "I can't do this shit any more today, Beecher. We've got a fucking week 'til we have to do this. Talk to me in a couple of days."
Beecher scowls at him, but when Vern lifts his head, the younger man raises his arms quickly. "Fine," he says, "okay, fine. Look, just think about a good report to the Parole Board. That's all that matters, right?"
Vern doesn't answer. For once, Beecher seems to realize that it's wiser not to press for a response, or to worry about finding the perfect last word. He eases past Vern the same way a soldier would ease around an unexploded mine, then hurries out.
Vern lets out his breath in an angry, exhausted gust, turning to lean on the mailroom counter. He wipes his hand across his face. For the first time since Egon's met him, he looks *old*. Drained and battered, weary and lined. Egon's heart goes out in a helpless rush of feeling that twists halfway into pain and disbelief -- how can he feel this way for the man who just wants to leave him behind? For the man who was supposed to be the unshakeable soldier, the indefatigable leader of the Cause?
How can he love a man who's just betrayed everything Egon ever knew about loyalty, friendship, or idealism?
Egon bends his head, his body racked once more by grief; but he's cried out all his tears from his mother's visit, and a dry burning is all that rakes his eyes. By sheer willpower he keeps the gasping, shuddering sobs silent. He doesn't see or hear Vern leave. He has no idea how long he kneels there in the darkness.
(It's a mistake.)
A different voice, this one, and yet the same. Hopeful against hope.
(He's just burnt out. He's tired. He isn't thinking straight. If he got out he'd be nowhere, he wouldn't have anyone. He doesn't *really* want to leave you or the Brothers. And if something stopped him from going through this... wouldn't he thank you, in the end? Wouldn't he understand what it'd mean to work with Beecher on getting away from the Brotherhood? Wouldn't he realize what a betrayal that'd be?)
*Well, hey*, Egon thinks, *if I was in his shoes, I wouldn't.*
(He won't be able to live with himself,) the voice comes back, stronger now, as if it senses incipient agreement, coalescing decision. (He'll hate himself. He'll wind up alone and abandoned; he'll commit a crime just to get back inside. He's institutionalized. This is the only place he can live, now. You know that. He knows that. He's just forgotten.)
"Forgotten," Egon murmurs aloud.
(It'd be for the best. He never has to know it was you. And best of all --) the voice turns sly, insinuating -- (there's a way to stop this without ever letting Vern know how it happened... at all.)
Egon waits, breathless. Wondering, with yet another part of his mind, if this is the onset of some kind of insanity: Voice against voice in his head, arguing the decisions of his life, with more clarity than half the spoken voices he hears every day. And now here he sits, waiting for his own subconscious to tell him what he's already figured out. Is he insane? Is this clinical MPD, or just too much TV, like the shrinks all said back in high school?
(Keller.)
And everything collapses to silence, to unity.
To resolution.
END PART THREE