Archive of Our Own ^beta

18 weeks ago.

London, Putney.

Shitty inn with prices higher than the ceiling.

“I’ll ask you for the very last time, love. You sure?”

Fletcher catches a new puff in his face instead of an old-school word-woven answer.

“Yeah, but seriously, Ray. Need to be hundred fucking percent confident and you ain’t helping right now.”

From his seat, Raymond keeps silent. Not even glancing at the private investigator. It’s a shitty question, really. Not the one you’d proudly dive in, choking on puppy-like ‘yesyesyes’. Enticing, tantalizing – that’s what you could feel about every Fletcher’s question. However, this one… Another level but you haven’t defeated the boss yet.

Well, not the Boss …

He doesn’t want to defeat him. Unfair, non-deserved. Michael gave him so much, offered more as he gave more, and Raymond was fine with it. On the other hand, what Fletcher offered appeared to be the only thing impossible to buy, to win in a fight, to conquer, to merit. His hands are deep into Raymond’s mind. Pressing the correct keys, none of the notes played falsely. Being an instrument no new to him. Everything depends on the performer. It just so happened that both Michael and Fletcher knew how to play.

Duel of fates, huh…

For a piece of meat called Raymond Smith.

“‘S hard,” a smoke ring escapes Ray’s lips, the last drag. Fletcher doesn’t miss his chance to fool around, his ring finger enters the smoke figure. Funny: his finger with a real ring is just next to this one. “Don’t start messing around. I remember my promises. You’re not the only person beating oaths of me like some bloody piñata. Not going to lie, Fletcher: it’s hard for me to keep all my words ever given.”

Bed sheet whisper of the previous night, rough and hot, semen spots still on the pillows. Ugh, it was hard to sleep with only arms under their heads… Standing closer to him, Fletcher lets the wry fox smile leave his face. His fingers run loosely through a few wheat-colored strands, lulling. Always works when Ray has sleep issues.

“Then, it’s only good for you to finally leave the chains binding you, isn’t it?”

Yeah, he’s right.

“I do have one condition, though.”

“Yes, love?”

“Do not harm Mickey, or Ros, or–”

“Whatever you wish, sunshine.”

A squint at the still undone bed.

“Any chance before we part ways for today?”

Present days.

“Buenas Tardes, Raymondo.”

Eyes bewildered, heart skips a beat – jumps right into sick tachycardia. It puts a crimson veil on his sight, even the glasses don’t help; the whole world revolves in blood shades. This piece of shit… Fuck! Bloody cunt! He himself gave Fletcher the keys! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I should stab you with that fucking rolling pin!”

“Oh, come on, I missed you, darling.”

That’s not an excuse. Not between them, whatever else there’s messing too. Not a fucking script play of Fletcher where they lived happily ever after. No fucking ‘after’. Almost five months! It’s nearly half a year!

“Don’t you fucking dare talk to me like that,” as Fletcher dares to step forward, Raymond’s already at the most distant corner of the cooking part. The kitchen’s not the most spacious room yet it’s full of weapons. Yeah, weapon… Dark, depressively-black lightning bolts crack the crimson veil his anger brought upon him.

He’ll never hurt him. Not Fletcher. A taboo.

A Tower-sized neon cross above Fletcher’s head won’t outshine the inner restrictions Raymond has built through their… Their…

“Why won’t we get an old cozy drink together? I’ve got news for you–”

“You disappeared for five fucking months!”

“Yes, but–”

“I thought you’re dead!”

An index finger, for a fleeting moment, points at him as if the Lord’s will should have shot Fletcher with all the possible might of the heavens. At this very moment, Raymond wishes it to be true. He’s ready for any circle of hell, not quite sure there’s anything to impress him. Besides, he’s pretty tired of dealing with a fucking smiling devil in shaded RayBans.

“Well, as you may see–”

“I don’t wanna fucking see you right now, you cunt! I’ve been waiting for you, hell, I’ve been sticking to OUR fucking plan!”

A sip of an old scotch should warm his innards. For a hot minute, Fletcher bites his tongue only to roll the beverage with the words in his mouth. Side to side, swallows. Unfortunately, not the words.

“...so, I’ve got a meeting on Saturday–”

“I swear to God, Fletcher–”

“Don’t be a cunt, love. I’m here exactly to fix things, not to drive you nuts. Though, I like it when you talk dirty to me.”

Ray blinks, again and again, but slower, and it doesn’t help to get rid of the sand feeling. He probably should follow someone’s advice to have a longer sleep. These days, ugh. Shutting his eyes tightly, till the stars blinking – to invoke something wet. Sure, if he gets a nose-breaking right cross right now, his eyes won’t burst into tears. Hell no. A fucking desert.

Behind him, the kettle warms his spine.

…shit, the coat. Getting too warm in here. Fine. There’s been enough room for emotions. In through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Count to ten. He can throw Fletcher out at any time, right? 

“To the point.”

Start putting the coat off. Do the routine, get yourself grounded. Fold by fold, a sleeve to the sleeve – and rest assured the pockets are empty. Pockets must be empty. Or the unnecessary folds will spoil the perfectly ironed surface.

Coat – onto the shelf. The mug dragged closer to the cooking stove.

“So, my Saturday meeting. At your favorite newspaper, by the way.”

Crawling up his spine, the anticipation of the shitty avalanche wraps its greasy tentacles around his throat. Under Raymond’s skin, it’s getting deeper and deeper following every Fletcher’s word. Step by step, waltzing into Ray’s inner sanctum. His nervous system heats up. Blue flames; the investigator gas burns bright, Satan would be jealous.

Fuck, a spot on the table surface. Ray’s hands act separately from his mind; his whole nature doesn’t accept untidiness on his territory.  No fucking stains.

“...but in this case, it’s bad for you.”

Into the mug: a spoonful of honey, leaf tea captured into the little stainless steel tea strainer...

“...a terrible antipathy for your boss…”

…and half of the mug becomes occupied by Lawson’s cheap shit. Just because it kicks his mind faster than any of the bottles in this damn house. Blinks again, but the dark dots still float around. Great, just fucking amazing how troubles love him. Tough, harsh, without lube.

“Blood and feathers everywhere, love. But!” Fletcher salutes with an empty glass, only ice cubes ringing, slow to melt. “I’d rather screw Dave. ‘Specially, as I have certain feelings for you, my darling.”

No pure alcohol, just wait for the kettle. Otherwise, who knows how deep it would be shoved into…

Control, Raymond.

You’re in full control.

Only to avoid the temptation, Raymond finally faces Fletcher fully, arms crossed at his chest. For anyone, it wouldn’t be obvious but Fletcher’s eye’s accurate. He always knew where to look at, when, and why. As if holding himself from the next sinful move, Raymond’s fingers clench tightly at his own arms, probably digging between the muscle bundle. An old habit, a painful one. To stay calm.

For his boy, it’s important. Control is everything. And here’s Fletcher: ruining everything again after fucking up and not fixing it.

Sadly, it’s a bitter pill to swallow. Better sooner than later.

Now, Fletcher’s only trying to save everyone and everything. At the start of the current project, he didn’t expect to dig that deep into Michael Pearson. Dave’s motives didn’t seem dangerous. Fletcher hoped he’d be fine with the filth yellow press usually has: driving drunk, fucking his wife’s dad (What? The previous week’s articles were terrible. Almost made Fletcher eye-bleed), or being insanely cruel to animals. Sick, giving an eye-catching title and harmless to Pearson as Fletcher promised.

Wanna make the gods laugh? Tell them you’ve got a plan.

“Fletch?”

“Let’s say, I know your boss has very, very deep pockets. How about inviting him to have a teeny rummage in them?”

Warmth spreads, barely saving Raymond’s back from unnerving shivers.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Tea, think about your tea. Tea, not the kettle. It’s tasty, fragrant… Not the fucking knives. No-no, you’re a good boy, Raymond. Don’t start the thing over again.

Blinking doesn’t help much but he doesn’t abandon his attempts.

“Ya see,” Fletcher’s snapping his fingers. Jesus, why can’t this numbhead just behave normally? Hyperactivity, especially with someone talking about his sun going down – doesn’t sound credible. Looks cheap. “...be so kind to furnish me with 20 million British pounds…”

Hissing. It’s hissing, the kettle. The Serpent seducing. Oh, Fletcher would scream, hell, his high-pitch teen-broke-voice would be heard at…

…hold on.

HOW MUCH DID HE SAY?

Ray’s short and swift gesture liberates the investigator from any further lines. It pins him on his spot. Just one hand, index and little fingers straight and tensed, the others falsely relaxed. “We just went from 150 thousand to 20 million. A steep rise in 30 seconds.”

However, Fletcher doesn’t seem bothered. He simply rolls his eyes as if waiting for something else.

“Did I not say I’m still going to follow our plan? Just with…some…” he bites his lip. Eyes run around the counter. “...adjustments? Honey, the new identities aren’t cheap these days.”

“You say in the plural .”

“Of course.”

Hand down, Ray’s eyes too. Their plan to escape…

“I know that look of yours, Ray, sweetheart. Don’t fucking tell me you discussed your retirement with Michael.”

He didn’t, and it’s almost true.

Almost.

Almost 5 months.

“What else do you want?”

“You. For now, play a game with me.”

“I don’t want to play.”

“Please?”

The way Fletcher still looks at him, and talks to him, killing. With his little touches – more of an attempt; Raymond doesn’t allow the investigator to approach. As if there’s still something they didn’t even give a name. Something stillborn. No touches for now. Not after…everything. Without apologies, a simple human thing, for fuck’s sake! Suddenly, the piles of work he has been doing fall on him, shoulders feel heavier than he’s able to lift. In front of his eyes tightly shut the alarm clock from the future. You will be forced to predict the future without a fucking crystal ball if your everyday routine is alarm clock, X miles to drive. At XX:XX you stand outside the mansion, waited, wishing good morning. Then, you’re a personal driver. Then, if Bunny…

“...no.”

“I said: play a fucking game with me, Ray.”

He can’t win Fletcher in his game, he knows it. Nobody can win the opponent’s game, under the pressing rules you never know.

He turns the kettle off…

“Right.”

…but not the boiling.

4 weeks ago.

At Raymond’s.

“Boss? Didn’t expect–”

“I’ve come not as your boss, Ray. Mind if I come in?”

“Of course! Shoes–”

“...off inside, I remember.”

They rarely see each other like this: Raymond’s in his home clothes, not very different from his formal suits, however. Lack of tie and accessories only make an impression of a person who’s too much into his work forgetting about his appearance. For Mickey Pearson, it means Ray finally relaxed, enjoyed his days off, and got rid of the stress burden. Well, soon they all should sleep tighter as their deal ends here, in England.

Raymond hastily sweeps his personal things from the dining table. Michael takes his time to examine the hall and the kitchen as he enters his best man’s sanctuary.

“Wash your hands, I’ll be in a minute. Beverages?”

“Don’t bother yourself. I’ll drink whatever you’re drinking.”

With soft ‘tea, then’, Raymond disappears behind the crack-opened inner door separating the hall from the living part.

In the bathroom, as well as in the hall and the next room Michael gets in, the situation remains the same he recalls. Not even a hint of dust. The house’s cleaner and nicer than the day they bought it – and be sure, the real estate agent did her best to lick her product sterile. All triangular, square, rectangular, any-angular things such as books, boxes, postcards, or whatever (not many, though) are aligned with the surface angles. Pearson bets if he were to put the ruler, he couldn’t find any deflection. Perfect straight angle. With elliptic forms, another laws work at Raymond’s house: they must stand right in the middle of the composition. Whichever it is.

Similar forms sorted by height: shampoo, shower gel, and other bottles. Books: by the alphabet. From title to the author. Cups and glasses: grouped by their size, purpose, and usage frequency with the precision of the chemical laboratory assistant. And, of course, they’re clean. No one, even the most hypercritical eye, will hook the slightest trace of lip or finger touch. Pure as the Virgin Mary.

People call it OCD. Disorder.

To Mickey’s taste, Raymond’s sympathy to clean things, his sticking to the straight order is amazing. To keep your nerves do all the work alone, to carry the responsibility. That’s why he’s the best. Even if Raymond doesn’t like hearing this.

They…they don’t understand him, Those, who call him unstable. No, Michael Pearson has seen unstable ones. And he’s happy to have Ray by his side, all these years.

Speaking of…

“Ugh, they put this thing into every tea cup. This taste of notorious Inglaterra keeps me sick.”

“It’s bergamot, actually a pretty cool guy, you know? It’s citrus. People do drink tea with citrus.”

Michael measures his cup with an inspecting look.

“Doesn’t feel like lemon or orange.”

“The plant gives the green lemon-like fruit. While the essence from its skin is added to the tea. Helps with stress relief, sleep, et cetera, et cetera.”

A skeptical arch of a brow.

“For real? Did it help you?”

“No, I just ran out of coffee and got nothing to drink today.”

They share a laugh mixed with the hideous tea. Michael suggests bringing coffee or sending managers to replenish Raymond’s supplies but he received an expected refusal. Because Ray can manage everything himself. Because Ray is a big boy and can take care of it.

Which leads them to the high-priority theme Pearson has to bring up.

“I’ll only ask you once, Ray. Whatever you say, nothing changes, okay? Consider it a small talk of old friends.”

Raymond scratches his palms. He whispers, he can’t stay calm when Mickey says things like that. But he acts in control.

“First of all, how’s your therapy?”

Michael counts eight extra blinks before Ray finally breaks the silence. Nothing to worry about, he says. His therapist meets him online, a proven person. Not into their business, of course yet not working with a wide range of patients. A clever woman who knows what sort of people might need her consultations. A clever and experienced in soldiers' disorders. Bull’s eye for Raymond.

With a short smile almost hidden in the low tilt of his head, Raymond shared his little victory.

“...I don’t feel fucking itchy every time I find a stain on my shirt, and that’s a fucking relief, Mic.”

Of course, there’re a ton of stains. And will be, for a while. Thankfully, their deal’s about to bring an end to the turbulence. Life will eventually become peaceful. And they all will forget the sickening taste of bergamot.

“Glad for you, Ray. Now, please, tell me: are you planning to quit?”

If the human glance was a physical object, it’d roll along the dining table, jump onto the windowsill; along the shelves, gently dodging the objects. And then stop under the table, at Pearson’s feet. To find Raymond Smith in a state like this, you must know him. Strangers would think it’s a shy, peaceful man in front of them. Michael Pearson, from his point, watches a terrible disaster ruin a whole village. The only thing concealed from him: if there’re still citizens, such as hopes, plans, and beliefs.

“No,” under breath. “I was. Not anymore.”

“May I ask why?”

Slowly, Ray lifts his eyes. His posture doesn’t change: hunched, fingers locked together tightly. Blinking, with pauses. Oh, Ray…

“Let me guess: there’s a special person?”

A blink with a longer pause.

“Come on, I’m not here to judge you. Or fire, or whatever you could think. I only want to know if you’re okay. And if I can help…with anything.”

Being human means having both strong and weak points. Our weaknesses, our awareness, make us steady. Prepared for the next blow, because you always know they strike at your weak point first.

“No more person. It was a mistake.”

Weakness isn’t a mistake. It’s the sign. Only you know what’s written there. It’s up to you to decide whether it’s worth protecting. Worth becoming something else – anything – to save what you hold dear.

“Ray, affection–”

“There’s no fucking affection!” Their eye-to-eye contact doesn’t last long as Raymond’s glance retreats again, somewhere closer to the ground. “Sorry. ‘S just not a problem anymore, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” As if having no idea where to put his hands, Raymond rubs his forehead, fingers running over shirt cuffs, fixing the folds. “So, who told you?”

“Here comes a fun story…”

Nobody told Michael. He’s an attentive person, that’s it. For the last few months, Raymond was acting too cool, distracted. Besides, today, as Pearson’s car approached the house, he caught a glimpse of broken, torn-apart suitcases in the backyard.

Put two and two.

“Now,” Michael on his feet, warm palm softly clenches at Ray’s shoulder. “Let’s get outside, make… How you say, shitty American joints, and I’ll tell ya what my old man told me about girls.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mic…”

Present days.

At Raymond’s.

Deep night when only garbage-hunting foxes don’t dare to sleep.

He pauses at the bathroom doorstep, the actual door’s shut. Outside, in the bedroom, in his bed… Muscles feel numb. Palms itch again, red already. Raymond has already reached the limit of scratching. If he keeps doing it, his skin won’t tolerate that.

Inhale-two-three.

Just one step, one tiny move separates him from diving into memories. Unpleasant, just like the man in his bed. His. HIS.

The fact someone intruding on his personal sanctum sanctorum runs under his skin in the form of biting ants. They crawl and clamber, inch by inch, conquering new territory as Raymond’s losing his. Those years, long roads built on trust, mutual interest, on principles of non-harming. Primum non nocere. The first principle of medicine tells not to bring evil into a patient’s situation. That was the very essence, the start of their…of them. Simple pleasure, a joy available to anyone.

Only the devil knows how it grew into this tangled piece of biting shit.

How it grew into ‘do harm at all costs to save your ass’.

…probably, it doesn’t matter anymore. Because there’s no more them. Just Raymond stepping out of his bathroom. And Fletcher, deluded shit-eating cunt, whose level of greed should become the national heritage.

“Lights off.”

“Honey, don’t–”

“Lights off , Fletcher.”

While Raymond makes himself comfortable in his bed, absolutely naked in stark contrast to Fletcher in his night shirt and boxers, the investigator keeps silent. It’s not a simple silence, oh no, even the darkness doesn’t appear as an obstacle for him. His glance licks Raymond’s whole body before most of it disappears under the blanket.

Lie on his back with palms resting on his belly. He shakes his head slowly, feeling Fletcher’s hand sneak higher along his thigh. No. Not today, at the very least. Tomorrow brings a mind-blowing pile of work while his today didn’t put mercy upon him, no rest – no energy, no energy – damn coffee and shitty tin-cans again, shitty tin-cans… Ugh. One day, the bloody stomach ulcer will kill him, ahead of the lazy Russian bullet.

Somehow, Fletcher achieves his goal, partially but still. One hand under Ray’s head, pulling him closer. Fletcher’s body isn’t created to sleep on it: too skinny where shouldn’t be. Too firm, too tensed, dry. But there’s a spot on his shoulder… When Raymond adjusts his head, it’s tolerable. Fingers run through his hair, softly, chasing insomnia away. Fletcher is warm. His hands dry and warm, too. Not that type of warmth you become tired of, looking for a cooler spot on your bed to get a break. A comfortable, calm warmth, accompanied by steady heartbeats makes itself comfortable in your head, occupying the whole space. Thoughts don’t stand a chance, fleeing away like scared moths.

Lips pressed to his temple.

“...I’m really sorry, hon.”

The problem – one of many yet to be solved – is that Raymond doesn’t know if it’s not true.

A few days later.

Raymond’s backyard.

A ‘mysterious and slightly menacing friend’ makes himself comfortable in his chair watching the barbie owner practicing cooking witchcraft over the steaks.

Pepper, coarse pink salt…what else? What else to add today? Damn it, he forgot to get the fresh rosemary. Gotta manage with garlic, then.

“...my lads? Safe now? Hope ya’ll don’t recruit ma’boys on your army now, see,” the Irishman fidgets on his place, dragging Ray’s attention from fire. “With all due respect, ‘course.”

Chewing vowels and little words rather than the meal. Nervous, but it’s okay.

“Don’t worry. Our deal’s over once you cross the gate. Your boys don’t interest us. Mind me–”

“Oh, nah, no, sir, thanks, er…mate? Havta watch the lads. Madhouse instead of the gym, these days.” Clicking his tongue and shaking his head, mostly to his thought than to his words. Probably. “No discipline, see. Huh. But, er, thanks anyway… Who’s there? The bugger we’re waiting?”

Indeed, Fletcher couldn’t hide his presence even if he tried. That person’s not about sneaking. He’s performing as if the audience has to wait for him, to savor his every wink and gesture, whenever the fucker decided to show himself, he expects everyone to be ready. Oh, Raymond is ready. Not without Coach’s help, though. Surprising how random acquaintances can play into your hands. Let it stay a one-time action, it’s about the impact the Irishman and his ‘lads’ brought. They’re good, really good. Ray’d think about recruiting them if not a sincere conversation the two had not so long ago. Coach…doesn’t see either him or his boys involved, and that’s a fair point.

Raymond respects principles.

What Raymond does not respect – the absolute fucking lack of realization one should possess at least one bloody principle never to sacrifice. If you’re a man of self-respect.

However, his second guest is, to put it mildly and simply, cut from another piece of cloth.

That piece was once used to wash a shitty ass.

“What, is it Wagyu again for breakfast, Raymond?”

With that smile, he dares to find the situation funny? Wow. Striking how naive Raymond allowed himself to be. A pup unable to see anything, that’s how Fletcher saw him? Floundering in the ‘free stupid cubs’ box, the last one nobody wanted to take? Not so fast, Fletcher. You should’ve rubbed the box inscription, and to do that you must own a little shard of an unknown, unfamiliar thing for someone nebby like you: precaution.

Not a ‘free stupid cub’, you cunt.

It’s ‘good old trap’, asshole.

“...what that’s for? My money, eh?”

“Here’s your payment,” the Irishman nods at the case on the table while Raymond gathers himself cooking. Mickey warned him not to overdo things. He’d like to have a chit-chat with Fletcher. Cunt or not (there’s no ‘not’ with Fletcher, okay?), the role of private investigator means having lots of useful connections, mine of the purest, most expensive ore, information.

“You have my thanks, mysterious stranger.” Fletcher shoots a judging glance at Ray but in vain, he doesn’t look at him. In purpose.

Fletcher’s strongest part is the direct eye contact.

“Wha–” Raymond hears him gasp. “So, what the fuck am I looking at? Uh? Doesn’t look like 20 million…”

While Coach enlightens Fletcher about the skeletons he captured in that case, Ray’s focused on making the perfect center cut. Not too much blood and not too pale, a perfect one. If this eye of the storm proves to be able to keep him stable right now, he’ll deal with Fletcher further. If not… Bunny and Dave are the right guys to proceed. Mickey would understand. He consistently does.

Their trilateral negotiations end with Fletcher locked in the fucking box.

“Three strikes – I’m out.”

Raymond nods at Coach leaving.

“Deal’s a deal. You’re a good man, Irish. I like you. We appreciate your help.”

“Uh-huh. With all respect, hope never see ya again.”

Fair enough.

“So, Fletcher,” nonchalantly, while cutting his steak. Phew, he didn’t fuck up with the roast. Which leads him further, through the valley full of thorns. “Where were we?”

However, this even tone requires all of Raymond’s might. Not to say he didn’t expect Fletcher to pull a trick. Obviously, he can’t live without his fucking tricks. For Ray, unfortunately, it went too deep than just under his skin. Into his blood and bone, into his flesh. Ground him to the finest powder, sift Raymond through the finest sieve, and you will find atoms of Fletcher’s toxin. Infected Ray’s every cell.

“Listen, babe, I thought we passed the stage of that gangster–”

“Oh, I remember now.” The first bite of meat, hm. Not bad, not bad. He might visit that butcher again. “Our relations, hon. Or should I say ‘your fucking precious plan of screwing me?’”

“Ray–”

According to the muffled thud, Fletcher tried the trunk lid.

The thing passed the exam.

“Not gonna lie, Fletch, you’re good. So good. I almost trusted you. Packed my suitcases, imagine. Almost kissed goodbye to old days, Rosalind almost caught me red-handed.”

“Color me flushed, darling, but lemme–”

“Darling, I’m not finished yet. Why ‘almost’, you’d ask.” Ray bit his lip. Accepting the truth inside your head differs from verbalizing it. Like snapping the tape off your skin. The faster the better. Make it slow, and it will hurt. “...and I’ll say: because it appeared I’m better. Better doing my job which still includes watching the borderlines. Spying the spies, you piece of shit. Pulling out the weeds, sorry for this pun. I knew you won’t resist a fifteen hundred pound single malt. Eighty pound fucking steak. The barbie that keeps your knees warm. It was the scotch running through your veins warming your heart, not my name. You  act  as a predator but  I’m the predator , dear. This is what I’m paid for. For my nature, sweetheart. And you thought you could suppress me. Train, tame. Didn’t you?”

After the steak is done, and the glass of fresh mineral water contains only air and a few drops, Raymond leans in his chair. Feels like a fucking therapy.

Oh shit.

He didn’t warn his therapist. Fuck. She’ll be mad at him.

“It took us a while to find your insurance policies, you naughty little squirrel. But it was a lot easier after planting the tracker in your shoe. But that’s not everything. Coach and his lads, they didn’t know what else they found. But I know how to read signs. Fucking signs of fate, Fletcher. You taught me. Single tickets. Single hotel rooms.”

From the very beginning? Or did the idea come to Fletcher after he dug deeper into Raymond’s work? Truth be told, it was a smart plan. Really fucking smart. You need to be deep into psychology to find Ray’s weak spots. Not simple affections to food or cars, or favorite sports club. No, you have to find the old mental issues, traumas, play on the thinnest strings you grope, hands washed of course before delving into one’s soul. Show the one who’s never into relations that the impossible is achievable. With Raymond hesitating, not a big deal to persuade him he’s tired of his work – and he really is, all of a sudden! A logical conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, hides in the simple suggestion of leaving. With money and somewhat of years in the pocket before it’s too late; a perspective of peaceful life which seemed a forbidden fruit draws closer, almost gasping at your ear.

At some point, the pocket becomes common, for the two of them which automatically invites Fletcher’s hands upon the money. Convenient, safe, everything’s done for him. Then, it’s just a matter of his will: when and where. Not ‘with whom’ because the tickets are single.

Raymond doesn’t lie to himself: it was a huge mistake. Now, he has to fix it, and thankfully, it’s still possible. Unfortunately, you can’t return the years. Years.

“...if you’d be so kind… I can still provide information. Vital information, darling, and you’ll regret it if you don’t listen to me.”

Of course, Fletcher will be trading. Fucking…fucking cunt.

“You may provide up from the trunk. Go on.”

“Ray, dear, if you think our time spent together,” at the last word, Raymond winces, a frown darkens his stormy eyes. “you’re wrong. See, there’re circumstances above me. I can’t change what’s not under my…jurisdiction.”

“So is the trunk.”

“Ray, please! You… It’s not about you and me! It’s about Mickey, and his wife, and this whole fucking thing! You don’t know the whole picture!”

“Enlighten me, sweetheart .”

A new portion of fret and new knocks at the lid reach Ray’s ears.

“Not from here, love. I have something to show. Come on, am  I  a threat to  you  now?”

Raymond stifles a growl. One more trick. Undoubtedly. On the other hand…his hand lies on a kitchen towel covering a gun. Good old friend not planning to scam him and ride off into the sunset on his train to Sacramento. Michael asked not to kill. He hardly needs one or even both Fletcher’s knees to be healthy-wealthy.

All right then, the knees he’ll shoot first. Not a threat, true…

Out of the trunk, Fletcher does show him the picture Raymond expects the least. “Russian oligarch. Ex-KGB. Whose only son was killed – how’d you put it – by gravity. Don’t shoot me with your beautiful eyes, sweety, I know you didn’t plan it to happen…” Fletcher cast a quick look at his watch and goes on. “See, the Russians. Goal-oriented people, might say. Working effectively. Clean and neat. And they’re not going to fail again.”

Sharpened by unnerving week, Raymond allows the shivers running along his nape lead him, his intuition.

“How did you know?” His hand grabs the towel as Fletcher rolls his eyes.

“My back’s flat against the wall, love. They didn’t leave me any choice, I swear. You know I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

It feels like a little black hole just appeared in his stomach. And it’s not fucking steak.

“...why did you look at your watch just now?”

A cold grab on Ray’s chest seems about to crack his ribcage, let something dark, all-devouring breakthrough. He wants to clench his teeth on Fletcher’s throat, feel his pulse, the very last throbs of weakening voice twitch with the streaming blood.

“Baby, it’s like I said: the Russians are gonna clean the house. And you, my love, are the part of the house.”

In a blink of an eye, Heckler & Koch USP in Raymond’s hand raised to Fletcher’s face level, but Smith looks at him no more. In his head, the schedule. Michael’s about to have the meeting. “Don’t fucking move,” through clenched teeth, the other hand texting and sending the message.

Fuck.

FUCK!

“Babe–”

Two distinguished shots in the crystal, virgin, silence sound almost deafening. Birds hurry up to leave their warmed branches. Cowardly, by his very nature, Fletcher almost falls under the table, leaving (as always) all the work to Ray.

At the gates, two corpses. Russians.

Coach clicks his tongue watching the assassination attempt. Shows Raymond four fingers.

Fuck.

Fletcher!

“Son of a…” turned around, he only catches the very last glimpse of the fucker’s back running at all might, fueled by fear.

Through the bushes, the neighbors' lawn. Away, far far away from Raymond’s life. Not from the grasp, of course…

“...oi, mate!” stinging, like it’s a blow of a whip, not a human hand, the slap shudders Raymond’s vision for a moment. Irishman! “Where d’fuck my boys!? With all respect, ya.”

His boys? Why he’d give a… Shit.

“Boss.”

Raymond sprints off his place to his car, the keys thrown to the astonished, anger-steaming Coach. “You drive. No questions. NOW!”

Twenty seconds to load the route of Mickey’s meeting, the navigator’s on and suggesting standard shit neither Coach nor Raymond pays attention to. On the front passenger seat, Raymond reveals a whole kit of cold weapons, all daggers, united by leather harnesses. One gets on his back, as he gets rid of the jacket. Next one – across the chest, the most dangerous steel easily accessible. A couple more for each ankle. The last one for his wrists, most inconvenient, for the tough situation.

Next goes the Beretta, Heckler & Koch MP5K – favorite yet bulky, hard to hide if not wearing something tall…

“Jesus f’ck’n Christ, mate!” Coach makes big eyes, pale to death. His hand still squeezes his Beretta 70 with the steering wheel.

“Don’t…worry. It’s just a precaution.”

“For phuc’s sake! A PRE-F’CK’N’-CAUTION? Yo gonna beat the shit outta Queen’s guard!?”

“Watch the road, mate .”

Fortunately, the only danger there appears is Coach himself shouting the hell out of his lungs when they find Mickey and Coach’s lads all safe and sound.

A week later.

Street parking at MIRAMAX FILMS.

Cabs hunt for their main prey – passengers.

“So, it’s Heathrow Airport, please, Terminal three.”

“Buenas Tardes, Fletchomondo.”

Fletcher’s shivering, disobedient – and not of the cold outside – fingers try the door locks. For nothing, of course. More of a habit to be sure than driven by a real spark of hope. The rearview mirror demonstrates Raymond’s piercing eye…drilling the road ahead. Palms at the wheel, clenching till the knuckles whiten.

“A man of many vacations, aren’t you, love? Glad to see you trying something new…”

“We don’t have much time.”

“Don’t we? Oh, I guess, Mr. Pearson rearranged his schedule. Tough now, ain’t it? Sent you, his seven-army man to reap my poor soul. Much honor, thank you, thank you.”

A slow sigh escapes Raymond’s lips. He didn’t sleep at all. Was thinking, creating this moment in his head again and again. Building the routes of conversation like a shitty online-map. Failed. And now he fails, too. Because he doesn’t drive the second he got Fletcher. The engine’s still off.

Raymond bites the tip of his tongue, literally. To make a slight pain help him stay calm.

“I was going to feed you to Mickey.”

“The king of the jungle, but of course. Why tarry, love?”

The glance falls down, skipping Fletcher at the backseat. Inside the cage of ribs, so close to the thudding heart, a dark matter twitches, coiling tighter. It moves the bones, shifts the blood vessels, messes Ray’s defined scheme of thoughts into tangled chaos of sticky regret. Raymond’s strong enough to be the winner but the abyss…the more you look into it, the deeper its tentacles penetrate his nerve endings.

“I need answers. True answers, Fletch.”

So quiet, it takes Fletcher a few heartbeats to realize the whole line.

“Of course, love. Ask whatever.”

To Raymond’s surprise, the captured doesn’t look disappointed. A relaxed smile of a person who reached Terminal 3 and now is waiting for the plane to take off. Lines-beams shine around his eyes as the glasses reveal his face fully. Shoulders not tensed anymore.

Fletcher…

“Why? Why you still calling me..?”

“Love? Calling you ‘love’?” Fletcher chuckles, for the rare time Ray has ever watched, sincerely. “Simply because I love you, believe it or not.”

Impulse prevails; the air temperature jumps high and then back to grave cold in a blink of an eye. Raymond hits the wheel. “Damn you! Stop fucking lying!”

…which only drags a new chortle.

“Oh-ho-ho! Ray, darling, what’s the point? I know, you’re angry. I feel your disappointment, it’s visible, see. Flying around you, forming a protective cocoon. My poor little chrysalis. The truth is that I wasn’t lucky. Everything fucking ruined when Russians as long as other bands discovered Dave commissioned me. Sweetheart, when I told you they didn’t leave me a choice I meant it. Blindfold, tied up, hands and feet. Wanna see bruises? Now, I’ve got plenty of them.”

He even starts to unbutton his coat but Raymond stops him.

“The best I could do was to catch up with you, as soon as possible, pass you everything I’ve kept hidden and warn you about them coming. Single tickets, single rooms, now you want to ask? Sweety, you know I’m followed, don’t you? Big Dave, Michael Pearson, Chinese, Russians, Spanish, Americans, French. A couple of tough Mossad guys. Baby, I need to build false leads. Keep my back covered. Not what I’m paid for, I must admit, but that’s what kept me alive till this very day. Being a predator isn’t my nature, you’re right. All I wanted was to quit the fucking animal cosplay festival and start living a human life. With you.”

In the dead silence, Raymond swallows too loudly. His whole body seems smaller, his head lowers under the weight of…

“I can drive you to the airport…”

“Yes, you can. But you won’t, love. Let’s not make a businessman wait too long.”

“Fletch–”

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“...next time… Next time, please, play safe. I don’t want to…”

Fletcher laughs.

“Next time? Hah… Next time… If you wish, love.”

One long road trip later.

Someone would call it the valley of shadow and death.

At Michael Pearson’s mansion. Only three in the spacious fancy room full of wood and velvet.

Raymond Smith is sent back home, a forced week off.

“Mr. Pearson,” Michael nods at him. “Mrs. Pearson.” Rosalind accepts a light bow and only then does Fletcher sigh with relief. “I know why I am here, and I have no intention to delay the inevitable.”

The man sitting in front of him arches a brow. Ice cubes in his glass melt slowly, licked by the amber of scotch.

“Oh, you know what you’re here for?”

“Michael Pearson, I know when it’s time to accept defeat. With no doubts, I lost whatever I could. Straight to the topic: every media I’ve gathered, which wasn’t stolen, was sent to Raymond Smith, our mutual friend. You see, my last word also considers him. So it appears, you’ve gained more than you expected.”

“And you’ve got a habit of calculating one’s profit, Mr. Private Investigator?”

Rosalind Pearson, her eyes bring shuddering thunder into anyone’s soul once they meet her straight gaze. For Fletcher, however, there’s indeed nothing to lose. For him, here and now, she’s but a confident woman who saw tons of shit, who followed her husband into the depths of hell. A truly magnificent couple.

Yet…

“Rose, love, leave us. Please.”

“Don’t let that weasel sneak into your pocket.”

“I won’t, promise.”

She leaves the room and a faint, fading trail of falling leaves. Autumn and rain, dead flowers, dried stems and grass, steps of Persephone descending to Hades’ realm. That’s what it looks like when the perfume suits perfectly.

“It’s you, then. A mysterious person who almost snatched my best man.” Michael takes a sip, eyes never leaving Fletcher’s face. “You must be better than they speak of you. Though I wonder why he didn’t tell me everything.”

Under the heavy examining gaze, Fletcher drags the closest chair to sit in front of, directly opposite Michael. Courtesy aside. It’s pure business now.

“People tend to be afraid of what they find dear,” Fletcher sighs. “Raymond thought, I’d be in danger if you discovered my existence. Five years ago, it seemed sensible.”

“Five years, then?”

Fletcher shrugs and clicks his tongue.

“It’s nothing compared to his loyalty to you. How many years, Michael? Ten? Fifteen? What do you do to keep him that close? He’s ready to die for you. Do me a favor before it ends, shed some light before the sun sets.”

They’re friends, Pearson tells him. Friends from the very beginning. A soldier who failed and an ambitious dealer. British and American, mentally unstable and the other being insatiable for money. Drive and driven.

“...he possessed strength, I gained power. He saved me, I dragged him out of mental shit. Friendship as a foundation. My best investment.”

Fletcher’s face lightens up as the idea strikes him from cosmic heights.

“Savior complex!”

Pearson tilts his head, confirming.

“Oh, that makes sense. So smart of you, Michael Pearson. While the Karpman drama triangle is a flexible whore, you may switch sides however and whenever you need. Tip my cap with the utmost respect.”

“Please, don’t consider this to be that simple. I am, indeed, Ray’s best friend, as he’s mine. It just happened we found and took the roles most suitable for us. However, I’m pleased to know he didn’t bury himself under work, a workaholic, isn’t he?”

With the last smile, and the last thought of the man he wanted to take away from any danger, Fletcher starts to speak. Leave a piece of advice, the working one. A dirty trick, to be honest.

“...no matter what happens to me, Mr. Pearson, you must be sure Ray believes in my death. Because, believe me, a hint of hope is enough for him to catch a scent. You will lose him if you don’t lock him up in despair. Three months would be enough. Then, he will never, you hear me, never make a new attempt to quit. Friendship won’t hold him, but anguish is the best chain. At the darkest hour, who will be by his side, again?”

Michael Pearson accepts the solution.

Michael Pearson made up his mind.

At Raymond’s parlor.

Dusk draws a dark tall American figure at the front door.

“Boss?”

Ray blinks at him nervously, with a marked pause.

“Ain’t your boss now.”

Michael drags his hand out of the coat pocket, on his palm, dully lit by the distant lights diffusing shyly from the depths of the house, a ring meets Raymond’s glance. Familiar design: the world tree, lovers form its trunk, connects the upper and the lower. Balance. Harmony.

“Guess you’d like to save it.”

People think a lot of things about the value of life. Some would say it’s money, for others, it will appear as family and kids. Ideas vary, they all deserve to exist. For Michael Pearson, the thing’s about the goal, not value. As a businessman, he knows the value may change, you can switch priorities, sides, minds. But you can’t change your goal once your life depends on it.

Michael Pearson knows the hardest goal to reach when you are the king of the jungle, is to stay human. Whoever has tasted the joys and sorrows of life, is human. Whoever has loved and lost, cried with grief, howled with rage at the tragedy of death that eclipses the miracle of life…is human.

…open, not like a flower stretches out to the sun but ripped-open, vivisected, barely breathing, Raymond comes to him. His hand covers the ring on Michaels, his forehead falls on Pearson’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you, Ray.”