tampered | Log - Completed

His first thought is stop it; that hurts. His second is that this is yet another nightmare. Unlike the others, he's not in prison in this one but as he tries to move, he realizes his right hand is... stuck. No, not stuck. His hand's tied to something.

These nightmares are getting old. Eyes shut against it -- if he doesn't open them, he might be able to fall back to sleep -- he tells himself it's just a dream, just a nightmare, not real. He can move his arm all he wants. He's not back on the transport ship leaving Pluto; he's not manacled to that wall.

The only problem is this nightmare is pretty vivid. He can hear the clink of the chains and his arm just won't...

"This isn't right."

Now he does open his eyes; they widen with the sudden knowledge that he's not alone. Instinctively, reflexively, he covers his chest with his (thankfully free) left hand; he's almost afraid to look to his right. Instead he looks down at his wrist and follows the handcuff's chain from his right arm to someone else's left arm. And then he looks up.

Oh, shit.

"What... Lin?"

If this is Vicious's doing, he won't be so ineffective next time they meet. He'll kill him.

In the moments between Gren's words, Lin's put it together.

The man he's handcuffed to is the man who killed him.
He's not in his apartment, or his bed. Hence the lack of Peter Murphy. And the shampoo that definitely isn't his.

That voice - that fucking voice. Of course he recognizes it. Really, was this necessary? Weren't all of his karmic grievances wiped clean by his essentially pointless death? Did the City really need that much of a laugh at his expense?

Apparently it did.

"Gren." Lin tries to control his disgust. With the situation, with Gren, with himself, it's uncertain. "Good morning."

Good manners get you far in life.

Lin's good morning is so incongruous that it makes him laugh; he covers his lips apologetically.

"Good morning." The politeness has to be acknowledged before he can continue. "What's going on? How did you get here?" He knows he played his regular Monday night gig last night; he remembers walking home from Lux as usual, although he might have looked over his shoulder a time or two more than he normally would.

The meeting with Vicious had him a little rattled.

But he's sure he made it home because he remembers walking up the five flights of stairs, unlocking his door, sitting down and cleaning his saxophone, putting it carefully away, making a cup of tea, getting into his pajamas, brushing his hair, his teeth, getting into bed. He knows he did all of this even while he was listening for hidden footsteps on the other side of the wall in the apartment next door.

This... is terrible. He knows he's a lapsed Catholic, but maybe he shouldn't have lapsed quite so far. This day's starting to feel like the classic definition of hell, and he hasn't even gotten out of bed yet.

Of course, it could be worse. Their legs could be chained together too.

Gren laughs at him and Lin isn't the least bit surprised. He runs his fingers through his hair. It's all stuck to one side of his head from sleeping without washing the gel out of it. Could it possibly be more embarrassing to be rumpled and unkempt than it was to be naked on a curse day? Somehow he's approaching that level of shame. Lin hates being caught off guard.

"My guess is it's a curse. I fell asleep on the couch in my apartment." He often doesn't make it to bed, and he doesn't mind that. Lin rubs his neck, finds his loosened tie where it's slipped down the back of his shirt, fishes it out.

Lin looks over the room and considers his options. His piece is on the coffee table in the apartment, where he'd set it after cleaning it. Not that shooting would help the situation, but it might make him feel a bit better.

"We can try and break it, or look on the network for a lockpick, see if there's a key. But we're more than likely going to have to sit it out like every other curse."

Pause.

"Tell me you have whiskey."

Lin doesn't drink - he quit, no, really, honest - but there's absolutely no way he's going to be able to do this without the edge taken off. Why him? Don't think like that. There's no reason. There's no reason to be had here, ever.

A curse: and here he was beginning to think that after the nightmare thing, he'd be immune to City curses for a while. This is some pretty terrible luck, not to mention a logistical nightmare. But the shock's starting to wear off and now rational thought -- as much as he ever has this time of day -- is starting to creep back in.

And now that the shock's moving out of the way, opportunistic claustrophobia's starting to creep in; he does his best to swallow it back but during his time in prison, he lost any appreciation he ever had for being stuck in a place and unable to leave, or unable to move around the way he wants.

He probably ought to say something about it. Just so when he starts to have a full-blown panic attack, Lin won't take it personally.

"I'll call Julia. She's good at picking locks. Sooner would be better than later, right? Because while -- and I know this can't be mutual -- I don't have anything at all against you, I do have... um... problems with confinement."

How long will it take, he wonders, before he starts destroying his wrist in an attempt to get out of this exactly like he did on the way from Pluto to Jupiter? It's clear to him now and was then that some wounds never heal, and Lin's suggestion of inviting alcohol into the picture is starting to sound good.

"You want that whiskey straight up or in a cup of coffee?"

"Let's at least try and get it open for ourselves first, before introducing another person to this situation." Goes without saying: Especially not her, please. Lin hasn't seen Julia since he's come to the City, and he's not really sure he wants to. After all, he knew about how she stayed in contact with Shin. And therefore, so did Vicious.

No, he's not guilty. He's just not all that fond of her. Mixed feelings don't begin to describe it - when he was a kid he looked up to all three of their little band. And now?

"I'll take it with coffee. Just a little."

"A little coffee, or a little whiskey?" (He knows the answer.)

Thank God he's clothed: his so-called pajamas are sweatpants and an old button-down shirt from a thrift shop. It's been years since he gave up his preferred method of sleeping undressed. No, prison took that away from him too. As he pushes back the blankets and swings his legs around, the enormous complexity of this situation hits him squarely. He can't shower or shave; he can't even use the bathroom without company; he can't move about without Lin at his side; he can't even get agreement on letting the best lock picker he knows try to free them.

"Twenty-four hours, right? That's how long City curses usually last?" Giving the chain a little tug, he moves toward the kitchen which... Lin has no knowledge of since he's never been here. Those months on the transport ship taught him no small amount of dexterity with his left hand; he can make the coffee well enough.

It's a good thing this is a small apartment.

"Whiskey's in the pantry." He nods to a door at Lin's side. "Help yourself to anything you want in there. And if there's anything you need you don't see, just ask." In the meantime, he takes the sharpest, pointiest knife he's got out of the drawer.

"Are you left-handed or right-handed?"

"Coffee." Lin typically doesn't touch the stuff, but a little kick of caffeine in addition to alcohol can't hurt the situation. Though somewhat of a social maladjust, Lin reads people fairly well, not that it would take much to know Gren isn't thrilled with the situation. Fair enough, neither is he. These City curses strike without warning and seem to enjoy centering in on some deficiency. Today the deficiency was touching, nearness, speaking to others. Wonderful.

"24 hours exactly. And likely we won't be free until then. Picking or destroying the lock - that's too easy for a curse."

He cadges the whiskey bottle and sets it on the counter, glancing over the contents of Gren's pantry. Not that he expects anything out of the ordinary. If he bothers with food at all.

"Both. I was born biased to the left, but that's inauspicious." And a pain in the ass when it comes to firing guns.

"That's an old superstition." Despite Lin's admonition, he has to try picking the lock, although he's sure he won't be able to do it left-handed. As the coffee brews he gives it a go but it's useless.

His comm is on the kitchen counter, right where he left it last night -- at least that hasn't changed -- and a brief look at the network traffic tells him Lin's right. "We're not the only ones cuffed together today. That's..."

What? Unfortunate is the word he was going to use, but he tables that and replaces it with the less obnoxious good to know. "At least it should be over at midnight."

That leaves him filled with a little less panic. He still doesn't like the situation, but he knows it's temporary and he can deal with temporary confinement. The coffee, rich and dark, takes his mind off it again; he reaches for a couple mugs and pours: two-thirds of a cup for him, less for Lin, as requested.

"So why do you think they picked you and me? I mean, I know I owe you a chance at retribution. I guess if you want to kill me, there's not a whole lot I can do about it but try to stop you one-handed." He's heard the whole bit about City death; he knows he'd be back in twenty-four hours or at least that's what's supposed to happen. "And please. Have a seat. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, given the circumstances. I'm usually a way more gracious host, but it's been a long, long time since I woke up with someone in my bed and didn't remember how he got there."

It's a pretty feeble attempt at humor, but what else can he do? Weep? That would be silly.

Lin gives picking the lock a try as well. Petty crimes were never his forte, even as a kid, but knowing how to get out of a pair of cuffs was pretty elementary. No dice, of course.

"I'm sure it can't be worse than the day everyone was naked. All attempts to remedy the situation were likewise thwarted. Couldn't even wear a towel."

Lin has no real pride in his appearance, and showing it off had made for one hell of a bad day. At least he got to spend it with Havoc.

Maybe he should write her. They usually spent curse days together. Then again, it didn't seem really fair to ask her to come spend time with a stranger. And Lin had just shot down Gren's suggestion of aid from another.

"I read one theory that the City feeds off emotions. So it creates emotional situations." Lin pours the whiskey for himself, offers Gren the bottle.

"I could kill you," he agrees reasonably. It's certainly not out of the question, and even without his gun, he's certain he could do it easily. It might even bring him some pleasure to do. That's a thought he wants out of his head quickly. Lin swallows some of his whiskey-with-coffee and after a moment, sits. He's not the type to relax. His posture is very good. "Retribution. For my death? Unnecessary and inconvenient. Unless I tortured you for the 24 hours, I'd be stuck with a corpse the rest of the day."

"This is a pleasant conversation." Accepting the bottle, he pours a measure of whiskey into his own cup. Usually he takes cream with his coffee, but getting it right now seems like a lot more trouble than it's worth. Not having it seems a small price to pay to placate the man he killed, at least for a few minutes. "I'd offer myself up for torture, but I'm not that selfless." The urge to reach across the table and smooth Lin's hair gets stifled: it's an intimate and kindly gesture and he has no business making it.

The chain between them rattles slightly as he first forgets then remembers to lift his coffee cup only with his left hand. Being chained up is uncomfortably familiar, not that Lin would have any idea about that.

"Were you ever in the military, Lin?" Stranger things could have happened, and Lin does sit like someone who's more than used to standing at attention for hours on end. Before he left for Titan, the military made sure that he -- along with his fellow soldiers -- knew how to kill quickly and efficiently. He might not be as easy to kill as Lin thinks. It isn't that he minds his life being in danger all that much, but there are some things he'd rather not repeat.

Dying wasn't one of his favorite experiences, and he's still sorry he killed Lin.

"Torturing you would be pointless. There's nothing I want to learn from you that would warrant having to get this shirt dry cleaned." It's humor so dry that it's almost nonexistent. Lin doesn't show much on his face. He fidgets with his tie with his free hand, then goes back to drinking. "We could talk about the weather instead."

But Gren asks him an interesting question. "The military? No. I was not old enough for Titan." And they needed him in Tharsis, even when he was so young. He wasn't a problem to be quieted as Vicious was, but a young mind to be molded, a valued supporter for the new leadership the Red Dragons intended to place. In that way, he's very much a soldier and a killer.

The fact that Gren's so sorry is pretty humorous. Lin doesn't know how many people he's killed. He's never kept count because truly doesn't care.

Well, that's lucky. As far as days go, this one's shaping up to be... really annoying. If they just sit here drinking coffee laced with whiskey, it could shape up to be really humorously annoying too; he's a cheap drunk these days, although that wasn't always the case. His body wasn't the only thing that changed in prison. Everything changed: his hopes, his dreams, his tolerance, his taste.

His desires.

While he did his time for the crime he never committed, he met a lot of truly tough men. A lot of them were really horrible, took pleasure in doing equally horrible things to people. Then there were those who weren't complete psychopaths but just unfortunately mean; the military breeds some strange circumstances and he'd say that probably 50 or 60 percent of the people locked up with him were just normal people who'd had things go bad. There was a small percentage of people who were just... zombies -- that's what he turned into after the drug testing -- who weren't really alive and they weren't really dead: they were just there, just surviving because death was not an option. Most of those prisoners weren't being used for drug testing, though: that was a small and sadly elite group he got to count himself a member of.

And then there were those who truly regretted whatever it was they'd done that brought them to Pluto. You could see it in their eyes: they were so haunted and sad all the time. Easy prey for the wolves. Sure, there were men who proclaimed their innocence -- just about everyone did that -- but after a while he could pretty much tell when that was bullshit and when it was honest. The number of people wrongly accused wasn't large, but there were more of them than there should have been.

Not all of them went as crazy from the bleakness of it all, from the confinement, from the betrayal as he did. All the nightmares about this lately have it on his mind. one of these days he's going to have to find someone to talk to about it all, but his trust level for doctors is still so low as to be nonexistent.

And he won't share any of it with Lin. If he does it will go straight to Vicious, and he knows he's already too much of an open book where Vicious is concerned.

"That's lucky. Titan was no place to be." The memory makes him shiver slightly: so much death, so much sorrow. What a stupid war.

He lets his thoughts linger there because Lin is nearly impossible to read.

"Lucky, am I?"

The only thing he offers. And Lin knows a little bit about Gren - he picks things up, after all. He would have been happy to serve beside Vicious as Gren did, no matter what the cost, but he was just too young. That's his crime at all times - dragging behind just a few years as everyone he tries to keep pace with.

He runs a hand through his hair. It's still sticking up in odd places.

"Why do you ask?"

Bullshit question. He's pretty sure he knows why Gren asked.

"You sit with military posture."

Tick-tock, tick-tock: this time it's the clock on his wall, not the omnipresent City clock: it's going to be a long day. With a sigh he pours himself more coffee, offers more to Lin, and notes with some small relief that the whiskey bottle is mostly full.

That won't last long.

The delicate business of figuring out how to do simple private things like using the bathroom and brushing teeth handcuffed together works itself out as sort of an awkward dance that involves a lot of almost-juvenile not looking. Going out into the city itself is pointless; there are things he does to prepare before he goes out that he certainly can't do with one hand cuffed to Lin. Fortunately, he isn't asked to explain his physique. Lin remains stoic and tight-lipped and that's all right. If the city deities had any expectation that locking the two of them together was going to lead to some sudden confessional friendship they got it wrong: it's just uncomfortable.

The whiskey helps, though.

Because it's his home Gren makes a simple lunch. Something that goes well with whiskey: not so easy; Callisto was primarily a vodka town. He can do Russian food with his eyes closed and his hand not cuffed but tied behind his back, but... sandwiches will have to do.

He mentions calling Julia to try to pick the lock one more time. Again, it's met with immediate refusal and for Lin's sake, he respects that. He's not sure what the story is between Lin and Julia, but he knows Lin's not the one to ask.

He's tired of the small kitchen and has no reason to take Lin back into his bedroom. That leaves the living room with its wall of pictures. It's not what he would have chosen to show Lin given the choice, but the choice is out of his hands. There are the newer pictures, mostly of Abby, but he doesn't put a name to the face for Lin's benefit. No, he only refers to her as a friend. The other pictures are old and worn but none so worn as the picture of him and Vicious on Titan, the one torn apart and taped together a hundred times.

He ought to feel more protective of it, he thinks. Take it down, put it away, keep it private. But this is his apartment, dammit, and there it is for Lin to see... if he chooses to look. Who knows: it might spur an actual conversation and that will be a first for the day. They have to talk about something during the remaining six or so hours.

This has to qualify as one of the worst days he's ever had, and he's had more than his share of those.

"I'm very self-disciplined."

Dour, too. The whiskey doesn't seem to loosen him up that much, but it has at least calmed his thoughts somewhat. He knew he'd need the alcohol - the whole of this was so disgusting he'd have been quite ill by noon without some sort of catalyst. Instead, for lunch, he was quite calm. The sandwiches were good and he said as much.

No, he still didn't want to see Julia.

In the living room he scans the pictures. The merry, dark-haired woman was of absolutely no interest to him. He only grunts in response to the fact she's a friend. Naturally, he gravitates towards the abused photo. It provokes the first sign of genuine emotion he's had since waking. There's a slight twitch to the corner of his mouth, an exhalation that's almost a word. "Hn."

That's not the picture Lin asks about, though. Instead, he stops at a photo of Gren as a child, in the arms of a smiling woman. "Your mother. Were you an only child?"

Frankly, it's strange to him, the memorabilia. Why would someone take all of this detritus with him into his second life?

Lin is so strange. Off. Wrong, and he doesn't think it's because he's dead: they both are, and he doesn't think of himself as so... broken.

Maybe that's wrong; maybe he is and just doesn't know it. Oh, who's he fooling? He's completely broken in a lot of ways. It's just that he's spent so much time around people that he knows how to maintain all the social niceties. It could just be that he and Lin aren't so different... but he knows they are.

He can still answer the question and points to the picture Lin's looking at, taking Lin's arm with him.

"Sorry."

He doesn't lower his arm, though. "Yeah, that's my mother and yeah, it was just the two of us. She adopted me when I was a few months old." There's a very logical and probably expected follow-up to that. "Why do you want to know?"

How can it actually matter?

"Didn't hurt," said Lin dismissively. Would he have felt it if it did?

"I have a twin brother. Perhaps Miss Julia has mentioned him, he was close to her, I believe. I was just thinking I haven't spent this much time this close to someone since we were kids."

He tests the length of the chain like he has at random intervals, all through the day. It clinks, and he thinks he could probably navigate it in a few moves to crush Gren's windpipe. City death. How could you kill someone by choking them if they didn't need to breathe?

None of it made any sense, the more he thinks about it. Bleeding out, again, is disaster through lack of oxygen. Losing all of the blood would destroy muscle functions effectively, though...

Not that Lin has any interest in killing Gren. Watching him struggle, on the other hand...

Lin turns his attention back to the photograph. "If Titan was horrible, why do you want to remember?"

Gren knows he's not the one Lin wants to be spending time with, or close to. Why would he? They don't know each other. They only met one time before in the City, and the time they met before that he sent Lin to an early grave. It's an absolutely stellar record they have together. Fortunately for all concerned he's made his apologies and won't do it again. That will only get irritating and cloying and he knows better.

Whether or not Julia has mentioned Lin's brother isn't something he'll go into. He doesn't share anything that they've talked about with anybody: that's just how much he protects Julia's privacy. It might be old habit but he's not about to break it just because they're all stuck in a shiny yet disgusting new place together.

Lin's last question is a good one; it catches him off guard. "Why do I want to remember?" Reaching up again, he runs his finger down the tape holding him and Vicious together in the photograph.

Breathe, breathe, breathe: the answer is right on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't ever have to dig far for it. Answering is a simple question of semantics now and so he phrases his answer honestly but carefully.

"Because it's the last time I loved anyone... or thought I did."

He doesn't look at Lin.

Lin laughs.

What's worse is he can't stop for several moments. He's laughing so hard his face and chest hurt and he sort of doubles over until he can make himself stop. Then, just as suddenly, he yanks Gren back to the kitchen so he can drink more whiskey. And he doesn't speak or do anything else until he's had another full glass.

"Sorry. I wasn't laughing at you, at least, not like you think."

He pauses. Sets the glass down. "I was laughing."

That obviously doesn't happen very much. In fact he can't think of any time he's had such an outburst.

"You were laughing."

He almost doesn't care. He's almost not insulted. He almost keeps quiet, pours himself another glass of whiskey, sits there, and laughs along with Lin.

Almost.

"Why? It wasn't that funny."

Stupid, sure. Ridiculous? Absolutely. Misguided? Definitely. Unthinkable?

Vicious wasn't always as crazy as he is now.

"No, I find it very funny. Black comedy appeals to me. Like Hamlet and Othello. Love and revenge are universal themes of man's undoing."

Lin sits then as if collapsing under his own weight. The alcohol's finally getting to him.

"I must have found it very funny, because I don't laugh."

"You don't?"

That's pretty sad. And while he's all right at the moment being some stereotype that's easy to make fun of, he still thinks the bigger tragedy here isn't that things went bad for him after Titan or that the Army fucked him over and experimented on him or that the quest for answers made him go against pretty much everything he stood for. It isn't even that he killed Lin or that Vicious took his apology for doing so in such a matter-of-fact way and that he didn't even care about Lin.

It's that Lin doesn't let himself laugh.

"Why not?" He hasn't had nearly as much to drink as Lin, but it's been a long time since he started a day with alcohol and even longer since he drank the whole day away. He's tired.

It's time for this day to be over. If only the clock would agree.

"As a child, I had a horrible accident and lost my sense of humor. You know how it is when you're in poverty, no money for extra surgeries for unnecessary things. So I learned to live with my disability." This is Lin's idea of sarcasm, telling that type of story with a straight face.

"Today you have proved to me that I can, indeed, still find things funny. And you've done it by... loving someone you then became determined to kill. Love must be funny."

"I hate those kinds of accidents. They can really ruin your day."

The truth is that he does know what it's like to have nothing, although he didn't grow up that way at all. No, he didn't grow up in want. That came later, after he got to Callisto. He's not sure if the whole bit about no money for extra surgeries is a dig leveled at him and his physique or not, but he doesn't really care one way or the other.

Lin's just given up something really big, probably unintentionally. If he was the spy they accused him of being he could probably use that knowledge in some way, shape, or form. But he's not a spy and he never was a spy, and he tries pretty hard not to use people.

"They say love and hate are just flip sides of the same coin. I never used to believe it, but I guess I do these days." Now he does reach for the whiskey bottle. It's close to empty anyway; he tips a little bit into his cup and pours the rest into Lin's. "I don't know how funny it is, but it is pretty ironic." The toast he gives Lin is only a little sloppy: it's been a long day.

"So tell me: haven't you ever been in love?"

Lin clinks glasses with him, why the hell not?

"Haven't I ever been in love? That's an excellent question." Lin has to mull it over. Or maybe he just wants to drink more before he gives his answer. "I guess I have been. Once or twice." A chuckle escapes him.

"The word love contains optimism I've never been stupid enough to possess. I'd prefer a term like ill."

"That's really sad, Lin."

Oh yeah, this is why he doesn't drink this much: it makes him stupid. Fortunately, there are only two of them here at the table and Lin might just be in worse shape than he is, so it all evens out in the wash somewhere along the line. "I mean, look at you. You're young and tall -- even taller than me and that's pretty rare -- and you're really good-looking. Especially when you smile; you have a pretty smile. You're wrapped up awfully tight, though."

The cup meets the kitchen table a little more heavily than it was intended; Gren rests his head on his left hand. "I don't know. You might find it funny that what I thought was love turned on its ass and got ugly. I happen to find this whole city funny. Curses, life after death, people who are supposed to be ghosts... what's the point? I don't know about you, but I grew up Catholic. They taught me that once you die, you either go to heaven if you're lucky or hell if you aren't. I stopped believing in those as literal things a long long time ago, but nothing I read in the Bible talked about either place being a city like this one. So..."

He reaches across the table and musses Lin's hair.

"So where are we? And why are we here? They have to be rhetorical questions, because... there aren't any good answers. All I know for sure is that I shouldn't be able to sit here drinking with you. Especially not handcuffed to you, although there has to be a little poetic justice in that somewhere except I can't see it. I don't know. Whiskey's not my drink. If this lasts much longer, we'll have to break into the vodka, and that's one type of alcohol I'm pretty picky about. I only buy the good stuff."

He knows he's rambling, but he's too tired to stop himself. Is it midnight yet?

Gren's praise of his looks has Lin stammering, completely perplexed and embarrassingly shy. Okay, so having been in love with Vicious at some point, Gren clearly liked men, but this, this was completely and totally uncalled for. And unexpected. He clams up completely for a moment before telling his body okay, hey, really, we're good here.

He knows he's not hideous, but considers himself ordinary. He's built up strength, but it's for work rather than vanity.

If Gren is a spy, well he now knew one of Lin's weaknesses: such praise result in embarrassment, confusion, and a swift change of subject.

"My mother taught me a little bit about old Chinese superstitions and to respect my ancestors, but I personally am an atheist. They say the deities start the curses and stuff, well, I've never seen one. We could be part of a computer program, for all we know, or someone's dream. It doesn't really matter."

He leans over just a little bit, maybe more than he meant to, and pushes a few strands of hair from Gren's face.

"I happen to believe that everything is inherently pointless. Or maybe that's just what I force myself to believe, I don't know."

"That's a pretty bleak outlook."

Empty cup, dry throat. If he weren't so tired and unsteady from a day of more whiskey than food, he'd have caught Lin's hand in his for that little stunt pushing his hair away. He can't remember the last person he let do that and get away with it besides Julia who... can do whatever she wants with and to him and he won't complain at all.

"You need some light in your life. Death. Existence: whatever you want to call it. You want a cup of tea or something? I need one. The last time I was in handcuffs it was for... a month solid. Took my wrist twice as long to heal; that ought to tell you how badly I wanted out of them. That was a long time ago. I'll probably start having nightmares about it again now."

When he stands he tugs Lin along with him: time to start sobering up a little bit. The day's finally heading to a close. The cuff tugging at his skin brings back old visceral bad memories, but this curse ought to be over soon.

"Come on, get up. I need to make tea. On Callisto they have the best tea in the whole solar system, Callisto Blue tea, it's probably the only good thing about the place. Did you get to try it when you were there? I wish they had it in the City. It was my favorite."

It's the little things he misses. Tea. His piano. His shitty apartment in his slummy neighborhood. Being alive.

"What do I need light in my life for? So I can be like you, consumed and then destroyed for love? I sought something better." Unless it happened already, but he pushes that thought away. "What is it with people in this city? Next thing you'll be telling me I have a heart, too." He won't remark that he's worried that it's true. Won't remark on those silent, peaceful and undeniably happy moments with Havoc, where everything else sort of melts away. Won't remark on his curiosity and resentment of Gren, or the scent of his hair. Lin's on his feet now - forced to them - and he suddenly feels like screaming.

"Why tell me about your nightmares?" He asks this quietly. "I'm not bothering you with mine. Do you think I'll be sympathetic to your sob story? Maybe we'll make a breakthrough and be friends? You really are sentimental, aren't you? It doesn't bother you that if Vicious asks me to wring your pretty little neck, that I'll do it without hesitation?"

Drunk as he is, Lin's very guilty of acting his age. 20 and belligerent, and angry at Gren for pushing buttons the older man had no way of knowing existed. "I didn't come to Callisto to take in the local color, so no, I didn't try it."

"I haven't even begun to tell you about my nightmares, you poor fool." Eyes closed, he shakes his head: he's tougher than he looks. He has to be. Lin has no idea what he's been through.

And that's okay. His story's not an open book. Fuck pleasantry: he needs both hands to fill the kettle and so he pulls at Lin's arm harder than he has all day long. Lucky for Lin Gren's not a nasty drunk, just a talkative one. "I don't care if you're sympathetic to me or not. I don't care if anyone is: I don't want sympathy. I don't want anything from you."

That's enough water; the stove will heat it up in just a few minutes. "I don't care if you drink tea with me and I don't care what you think of me. I don't care if you come by the club and listen to jazz or boycott the place for the rest of your days. I don't care if you never had tea on Callisto either, or if you really would wring my exceptionally pretty neck on order. It wouldn't be pleasant, but I've had worse things done to me." His shrug is entirely unimpressed.

"But I know you have a heart. If you didn't, you wouldn't be angry with me now. That's the giveaway, Lin. Love and hate, flip sides of the same coin. You can't hate if you can't also love. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I'm really good at keeping secrets."

An unbidden wave of distress flows over him like a cold fog; he closes his eyes to ward it off. "I didn't ask to get chained to you any more than I intended to shoot you in Blue Crow. Sometimes, things just suck and there isn't anything we can do about them." Reaching forward, he rests a finger on Lin's chest. "And you know that right here, in that heart you've got. And for the record, it was never love that destroyed me."

That might be a half-truth, but he's too tired to care. Luckily for Lin he's nowhere near as predatory as he was before he left Mars for Titan. If he was, he's probably had just enough whiskey that he'd try to teach Lin a thing or two about love.

"Oh, come off it," Lin mutters, not enjoying being called poor fool whatsoever. Though it's really the only insulting thing Gren's said all night - maybe he should be glad for that. He has the distinct impression they're from two different worlds, even if they're from the same universe. It's not surprising that they would... dislike each other so much.

"You're lying. You care too much, and it gets to you. You ask after me on the Network. And to say that - things just suck and there's nothing you can do - I just told you. I find everything pointless. I don't care that you killed me. More than that, I'm glad you did. I fulfilled my purpose - I saved his life. And dying on Callisto meant I didn't have to see my dream go to waste, or fight my brother when things went to shit on Tharsis."

So what emotion is it that killed Lin?

He jerks away at the touch to his chest, forgetting that he's rather effectively anchored to the slightly-shorter man. Trying to get away just brings him closer, smooshes their chests together for half a moment.

Wait, that's odd.

He forces calmness now, hates how they can only be an arm's length away.

"Everything would have worked out perfectly if I just died and that was the end. I'm not one for all this drama and complication."

Now it's Gren's turn to laugh, and isn't that how the day started? With him laughing at Lin's oh-so-polite good morning? It's the way Lin tries so vainly to move away, only succeeding in pulling the two of them closer. It's the touch of their bodies for the first time after this whole day spent chained together. It's Lin's feigned stoicism, his stubborn insistence that he doesn't care: only someone who actually does care would protest his innocence so much.

Still laughing, still face to face with the man he murdered who claims he's glad it happened, he pulls Lin closer so he can whisper into his ear.

"We're both liars. Of course I care."

While he's here -- while they're this close -- he runs his free hand through Lin's hair. It's half affectionate, half exhausted, and all foolish. "Go ahead, kill me again. If that's what you want to do. It's almost midnight. You'll be able to walk away from it soon enough."

He'd rather care too much than pretend not to care at all. He'd rather be consumed by love and hate and jealousy and the thirst for revenge than to sit alone day after day and pretend that none of it bothers him. He'd rather feel sorry for Lin than hate him. He figures it this way: if Lin does kill him, he'll miss one night of work -- his first -- and then be back again for Friday. If Lin doesn't kill him, they won't be any worse off than they are now.

"For what it's worth, I didn't want the drama and complication either." He presses a tired inconsequential kiss to the side of Lin's face. "But we're both stuck with it."

Stepping back, he rattles the chain between them. "What a weird fucking day."

From the moment Gren draws him closer, he's rigid and bewildered. Trying to ignore how he's sort of overall tingling, how nice Gren's hair smells. Perhaps Gren can define a kiss as inconsequential, but Lin certainly can't. His experience with affection is severely lacking, thus his decorum also lacks.

He's more shaken than his body language says. He slowly puts his hands around Gren's neck, though he of course has to lift Gren's hand as well to do it. His large hands seem to fit perfectly like that. He doesn't exert any pressure. Not yet.

"I always wondered what your appeal was. I should have known you couldn't be ordinary."

"You found me out."

Human nature dictates that when one is being strangled, he fights off his attacker. It's instinct and reflex. In basic training, the Martian Army taught all the recruits how to escape from a stranglehold. Unfortunately, that training didn't include escaping when the soldier found himself handcuffed to his assailant.

What a shame. Anyway, Gren isn't like most people and Lin's just brought that point home with unintended severity. The height difference between them isn't particularly significant; Gren studies Lin's unreadable eyes for a moment, hands strong and capable on his throat. When he closes his eyes and smiles, it's not because he's taunting Lin. Far from it: dying the first time wasn't a fun experience and he's neither looking to repeat it or nor is he playing out some death kink fantasy. No: he smiles because that's all he can do. He'd like the moment of his second death to be a little more... peaceful, if that's possible, than the first.

"So. Lin." He swallows, and that only reinforces the feeling of Lin's hands around his neck, his own right arm dangling ineffectively not too far from Lin's left. "Are you going to kill me or kiss me?"

It could go either way; he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't want to remember Lin looking like a cold-blooded killer if he doesn't have to.

On the stove, the kettle starts to whistle.

Lin swallows. Something about this seems horribly obscene. Had he lost his temper so much he really considered strangling Gren? There were plenty more effective ways to kill a man, even in this situation, that wouldn't leave fingerprints. That wouldn't require him to touch him.

He's dizzy. There's too much to think about. Just get through these last few minutes of the curse - he could go home soon, pass out, start anew tomorrow. He doesn't have to cross any line he can't come back from. He could let go.

This is a problem. This is a major problem. That's his mantra as he leans forward and brushes lips over Gren's. For half a moment, the touch as soft as moth's wings is sweet.

"Get your goddamn tea," he growls, and quickly lets go. Can't get away, still, but he surrenders the death grip.

Saved by tea: that's a new one. He'll try to remember it for later but now he lets out a sound so tiny it's almost inaudible before pursing his lips together like he's trying to memorize the way they taste. He lets his gaze linger on Lin's face until he can't any more. Turns away, takes the kettle off the stove, turns off the heat.

This day has worn him out.

His kill me or kiss me wasn't an ultimatum; it wasn't an either/or proposition. Lin took it as one anyway and his response was a surprise. Gren can hardly even remember the last time a man kissed him with such hesitant tenderness. No, his more recent past with men has been less loving and a lot more violent, but that... that was prison for a pretty man with a woman's chest. What would anybody expect?

His nightmares are well-founded.

"You want a cup of tea?" Goddamned or otherwise. If the clock's slow progression toward midnight doesn't hurry up, he might just cry.

Lin doesn't like being stared at. Doesn't know what's worth seeing - he's ordinary. Drunk, angry, confused, but ordinary.

That was not a good idea. And he'd known that. And he still did. Fuck.

"Tea," he says after a moment, pausing as if he forgot what he'd say next, "Would be great."

"Okay." The word hangs between them for a moment; Gren turns and grabs a couple of fresh mugs. No alcohol this time, just plain green tea in bags. Cheap, efficient, easy, distracting.

Valuable.

His hand is steady pouring the water; he hands the first cup over to Lin and takes the second for himself and as they did earlier, take their seats at the kitchen table. It shows the detritus of the day: the empty whiskey bottle, the spent coffee pot, lunch dishes stacked up. They're not cohesive enough as partners to have washed dishes together but that's okay; he'll do it later once the...

...cuff is gone, just like that, mid-sip of tea. It takes him a moment to notice that the link tying them together for the past sixteen or eighteen hours -- however long it's been -- has just vanished.

At first he doesn't say anything about it, but that's kind of sick behavior; setting down his cup, he reaches over and massages his right wrist, flexes and extends his fingers, clenches and relaxes his fist. Everything still works; it's not leaving Pluto all over again after all.

That's a relief.

"Your wrist; is it okay? I have first aid stuff if you need it."

Probably, Lin won't answer. Probably, he'll be up and out the door as quickly as possible: this has been a really fucked-up day and he wouldn't blame him at all. What he wants to say is that Lin's welcome to stay as long as he likes, but the words won't come. They're unnecessary anyway... aren't they?

Lin notices the absence of weight on his wrist immediately, but says nothing. He sets his cup down only when he's done with it. "It's a little rubbed raw," he notes, rubbing his thumb over the sore spot. The pain is faint, but noticeable. That pleases him. "It'll clear up by tomorrow."

He picks up his cup again, breathes in the steam. "You make good tea."

After finishing the cup, he sets it down. Looks at Gren.

"I don't hate you for killing me. But I've long wondered what sort of person you were - obsessive as I can get about these sort of things."

Carefully, very carefully, he rolls down his sleeves and buttons his shirt over his wifebeater, taming his appearance somewhat.

"For you to give of yourself openly, to trust me and touch me, when you obviously know how what sort of thing's rewarded..."

Now the tie: He unties it, pulls his collar up, straightens the fabric, pulls the collar back down. He speaks as he does the knot in his tie, he could tie it in his sleep. He likes it a little too tight. Not like he needs to breathe, anyhow.

"You're profoundly stupid."

Now he stands up, walks to the bathroom. Finds a comb, stares at it a long moment before using it to straighten out his hair. This is all so much easier to do without a person anchored to you, and besides, he may still be drunk but he doesn't have to look a mess on top of it.

Thank you for the compliment, he thinks but doesn't say as he watches Lin move off as steadily as he can under the circumstances. For his part he'd like his apartment back, thank you very much, so he can have a shower and get out of these things he's wearing and never wants to put on again at this point.

He'll change clothes later. What he's missed most all day long has been his saxophone; while Lin's tidying up he goes and gets it, puts it together with the exception of the mouthpiece. He won't play until Lin's gone, but he needs to perform this small ritual -- cleaning and polishing his sax -- with or without company. Going without it is like going without his right arm and he's already had enough of that for one day.

The bathroom door opens; Lin walks out looking... perfectly put together. Calm, collected, a veritable blank slate. The anger and confusion are gone from his face now; it's as if by redressing he's shut himself down fairly completely and that's a shame. Gren was almost starting to like him.

Sitting at the table, polishing the keys on his sax, he speaks quietly. "Think whatever you like about me; I'm helpless to stop that. But I'm pretty sure you wouldn't really have killed me unless it was on Vicious's orders. If I'm wrong on that then sure, I'm profoundly stupid. You wouldn't be the first one to think so."

Now he glances over at his guest. "And don't flatter yourself that I've given of myself openly today, Lin."

He lets his fingers run over the saxophone's keys. Satisfied, he sets it back in its case on the floor. "You're welcome to stay and drink tea as long as you like. And you're also welcome to come back any time, unless you stop by to kill me. In that case I probably won't be so accommodating."

Before Lin left the bathroom, he slipped Gren's comb into his pocket. Sure, the older man would notice it was missing eventually. But a comb's fairly replaceable. It's a little bit of a habit from childhood left over. Take something small, something without any value. Just to prove to you were there. You got through that night.

"Fair enough. But you've given a lot without hesitance, and that's more than I would expect of anyone in your position." Then again, Lin's not exactly up with those 'normal' people, is he? "You're right. I had no intention of killing you. I'm not a sadist." He wishes he was, though, so he could easily explain his own thoughts. If it wasn't to kill him, what were his intentions?

He's rubbing his wrist absently. It's still weird, walking without the weight. Odd what the body gets used to.

"It wouldn't be prudent for us to see more of each other." Despite those words, he crosses the room to Gren. "I at least have one of the answers I wanted."

Not fond of the sensation of towering over another, Lin crouches in front of where Gren sits. Runs the line of the jaw with fingertips, making sure Gren meets his gaze. "You are suitable. It's a shame that things didn't work out for you two - but then, someone like you, it was doomed to failure."

It's a little shocking when Lin reaches over to stroke his chin: who's the one trusting and touching now? And then he goes on to talk about...

Vicious? That has to be who Lin's talking about and maybe he was right: he has been profoundly stupid. But he gets it now. He sees exactly what's going on here. It's not just a question of Lin's loyalty lying with Vicious.

It's a question of his heart.

No wonder Lin resents him so much. But he never really meant anything to Vicious but an opportunity to get rid of that music box; he was way too easy to frame. How can it be that Lin doesn't understand? Vicious used him on Titan; he used Lin on Callisto. He's still using Lin.

If he could find a way to do it without being entirely heartless, he'd ask Lin if he thinks Vicious really cares... but he won't do that. He knows Vicious doesn't. He also knows Vicious cares enough about him to keep track of his whereabouts, but that's a whole different story from Lin's slavish devotion to Vicious which... he gets now.

What a mess.

"A lot of things are doomed to failure." Reaching up, he cradles Lin's hand before moving it away from his own face. "But I don't know that there's any shame in it. Like I said, you're welcome here any time." Now he lets go of Lin's hand and stands: he's ready to go take care of his wrist, have a shower, brush his hair and his teeth, lock the door, and climb into bed. "What happened here today stays here."

He can carry a secret to the grave.

Now, though, he moves to the door although he doesn't open it yet. "It's been a long day. Get some sleep."

"Sleep. Right."

Lin can't think of any more to say. Easy enough: He says nothing. Walks out, hears the door shut and the lock click behind him, and finds his way back out into the street and to his apartment.

Log - Completed

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