Santa Clara crossover
Voices and Dove/Damon
By Byrne
PG
Archived at Pastorale, Bellum Viri



Gent and Damon have a chat....

Odd things happen to me. I meet people, I talk to them, and sometimes they just… well, sometimes it makes me really glad I'm living the life I am.

I'm at the Razor's Edge, shooting pool. Paul's working late on some sort of budget thing, said it could be most of the night, and Jamie, for the first time ever, is in New York. The owners of the store wanted him at the other shop for a few days, but we're not really sure why. End result? I'm at loose ends for the first time in, like, months.

So I'm playing pool. I've been running the table for about an hour-yeah, I'm that shit hot. The fact that it's a Tuesday and no one's around helps. Well, there's a few people around; some guys from the college, having a few drinks, and a guy at the bar nursing a beer. He's been drinking that beer for an hour, I swear.

I'm kind of watching him. Not sure why, he's nothing special, just a guy. About my age, dark hair and eyes, just… quiet. Maybe that's it. He looks unhappy. That's something you see a lot in bars, guys drowning their sorrows. Except this guy's not drowning anything, he's just sitting there. Thinking, maybe.

Eventually, he turns around and watches me play with the latest college kid. Kid thinks he's hot shit, or at least puts on that attitude. The guy he's with looks amused when I sink three balls in a row and line up of the eight.

"Told you, Nolan."

"Shut up, Clark."

But it's easy, teasing. They seem like okay guys, even if they are a little more clean cut than the usual crowd in here. Like Paul before the piercing. Mind you, Paul had Jamie before the metal, so there ya go.

I clean up Nolan, and Clark drags him out, heat in their eyes. Doubt they'll make past the alley, those two.

So dark haired guy steps up. Cool. He racks the balls and I get set to break. "Hey," I say, nice and friendly. "How're you doing?"

"Not bad." His voice is deep and smooth, and he speaks really softly, but I can hear him, even over the music. And he's lying. We all got our own shit, though, yeah? I'm not going digging, I'm just playing pool.

"I'm Gent," I say, and then I lean down to break.

He waits until I'm done (sank two solid) and says, "Damon."

And that's it. We shoot pool in silence, aside from the occasional "Excuse me," or "Nice shot." We're pretty evenly matched, and soon enough we're chasing the eight around the table. Damon finally sinks it, off two banks, and then he's looking at me with a slight smile.

"Thanks," he says. "Good game."

I nod and glance around the room, but no one's popping up to take my place. "Again?" He says sure, so I rack up and he breaks.

"What do you do?" I ask, just to social.

"Work at the Murtaugh Building," he says, glancing at me. I know the place-full of lawyers and brokers and accountants. It's HQ for the big wigs of Santa Clara, and frankly looks a little above his speed, although he could be slumming it to hang in a gay friendly atmosphere. He smiles a little and shakes his head. "Not one of the fancy jobs-all I do for Charles Murtaugh is night maintenance. Paint, light bulbs and trash." Just a working schmuck. Cool. He sinks a couple of balls and asks me what I do.

"Ink. Do tattoos and draw." He nods and acknowledges the coolness of that, and we settle into our game, mostly quiet again. Guy's got something on his mind.

We're almost done when a little shadow falls across the table, a lean dark haired street rat trying to get Damon's attention.

"Rex," he says evenly, ignoring the kid as he takes his shot, and then they walk a couple of paces away. I watch 'cause I've seen the kid in here before. We always card him, because he looks young, but if his ID is fake we've not been able to catch him. Probably won't. Rex is a whore, we all know that, and we don't like him much in here, but he's never once cruised for a trick inside so there's not much we can do.

Makes me wonder about Damon, though, if he's got friends like this.

Couple of moments later Rex says "Later," and books, not looking back. Damon comes back to the table and waits while I take my shot, doesn't say anything about the kid. We play some more, and this time I win, sink the eight pretty easy. Damon's game is gone.

"Want another?" I ask, meaning pool, but he looks at his half empty beer and shakes his head. Not that it matters-if he wanted a beer I'd spring for it. I know where I belong and buying some guy a beer isn't gonna change that.

As it is though, he just wanders over to a table with his piss warm bottle and sits down, looking a little lost. I get myself a beer from Taff and go over. He doesn't even look up when I pull out a chair.

"Wanna talk about it?" I ask.

Damon looks at me and shakes his head. "Nah. I should just go home."

"Cool," I say, and nod my head. What else should I do, right? None of my business that the guy looks like he's lost his best friend. But I'm me and I never know when to shut up. "Got someone there you can talk to?"

Damon snorts and shakes his head. "Not about this, no."

I don't know what to say, so I just drink my beer. He's watching me, just because his eyes happened to be, and as I put down the bottle he says, "Nice ring."

I smile, 'cause I always do when someone says that, or when I even look at it. "Thanks. It's pretty special to me." I hold out my hand and he takes a closer look, takes in the P and J on the sides.

"Your name?" he asks.

"Just the G."

He nods, and then asks, super casual, "Married?"

I think about it for a second. It's on the right finger for that, but I gotta say no. "Doesn't work like that," I admit. "But close enough, yeah."

He looks away, eyes sort of lost, like he can't quite imagine it. "Must be nice," he says. "Being that close to someone."

Ah. Broken heart, just got dumped. Figures.

Then he kind of shakes it off. "So how come you're here shooting pool?" he asks, looking around.

I shrug and gesture with my left hand. "Working and out of town. I've got nothing to do and there's nothing on TV."

He looks at me, head tilted to the side. "Two?"

I nod, and he looks vaguely horrified. Great. Time for me to go. I guess he sees it, 'cause he shakes that off too, and sort of grins. "Sorry. Was trying to imagine two of what I have, and I think it would kill me. He's… a bit of a handful, sometimes."

And now I'm confused. Not dumped, just sad for some reason, and I think that if I push he'll spill his guts all over the table. Not sure if I want to get into it, not sure if I want to send Damon out into the night without letting some of it out.

I'm a hell of a guy. Sometimes I wonder if I'm entirely sane.

"What's he do?" I ask.

Damon rolls his eyes and leans back, still holding onto that stupid beer bottle. "Well, let's see. You know many of the underground clubs around town?"

I nod non-committaly. I know a few, and I know there are some I don't want to know about.

"Ever hear of Not a Nice Place?"

At first I figure I misheard, or he misspoke. "I've heard of A Nice Place," I say, but know that's wrong. That's more for the likes of his boss's boss's boss. Eight dollar drinks and those who pull down less than six figures need not apply.

"Its ugly sister," he says. "How about The Chamber?"

The Chamber I've heard of. Never been-can't afford the cover and I like to take part in my live sex, thanks. I nod.

"Not a Nice Place is more blood, more pain, less about the show. Cheaper drinks. But the rest is the same idea."

"Okay," I say slowly. "He works there?"

Damon sighs and tips his chair back a bit. "Yup. Well, both. At The Chamber he's got this… thing. A guy from San Francisco comes up and they do their thing. At Not a Nice Place it's more a… need. He does it for money, yeah, but if he wasn't using his arm on guys who want to hurt he'd be… fuck, he'd be doing worse shit. He's done worse shit. This is actually a step up."

I admit I'm staring at this point. This stranger sitting there with me is telling me his boyfriend/lover/whatever has nasty sex in front of people for money and that he needs to… do something else at this other club. And I thought my relationship was odd.

"What does he do?" I ask again, meaning at the Not a Nice Place.

"He's a Dom. Good arm, flogs guys until they get what they need from it."

"Pain?" So I'm naïve sometimes.

"Lots of pain. Blood. If they want to get off he either flogs them until they do, or he flogs 'em and fucks 'em."

I'm still staring, and only part of it is the weirdness of some guy I met less than an hour ago telling me this. Thing is, my boys like a little pain sometimes, too. Well, Paul does. Jamie does it. Spanks our baby, takes him hard, whatever. It's what Paul likes. So if Paul can get off on it, people can get off on rougher. I get that, I do. I can even get that people get off on doing it, watching it.

And I am listening, even as my brain is rebelling. Really. Damon says his boy has to do that part, or he'd do worse. Okay. Rex is off the street, I'm getting that Damon and his guy aren't far from that. Fine, I can deal.

Weirdness is that Damon doesn't seem to like what his boy does.
"So how come you stay?" I ask. "You don't look like it's all that happy making, your boyfriend doing other guys for cash."

Damon doesn't bother trying to deny it, and he doesn't look like this is something he hasn't already thought about. A lot.

"It's who he is," he says. "Dove… he's been on the street since he was ten. I can't even comprehend that. He's got no skills, other than flogging, and he doesn't know anything else. He can't get a real job, even a shit one like mine, 'cause he won't be able to hold it. I'm helping him with some stuff, but… I don't know. I love him. So I make sure he at least knows his choices."

Ten. Jesus Christ. I think about my boys and the way we live, where we live. Paul and Jamie through college, me through art school and training. Even when their parents died my boys had people to love them, to help them. I don't want to think about what could drive a ten year old to the streets, and why no one got him back off.

Damon's still talking. "He used to steal, turn tricks, do a bit of dealing-anything to feed himself. He survived, a lot more than I could have. He got… hard. Cold. Had to, you know? Too much to deal with, and no way to handle it. So he's made his own way. Tried to take care of himself, 'cause no one else would." Dark eyes meet mine and Damon says, "He's the strongest man I've ever met."

I believe him. Have to.

"And now?" I say, not sure where I'm going with it.

Damon puts the bottle down on the centre of the table, very carefully. "Now he doesn't trick. Doesn't deal. Says he doesn't steal. He gets paid for what he does, and it's controlled. No one is going to rip him off, beat him up, or try to kill him on the street. Now he lives with me and he's learning to read."

"That's… great," I say, and hope to fuck he gets how much I mean that.

Damon nods. "Yeah. It is. He's got hope now. He's got… like, this spark. Like he's just figuring out his life doesn't have to be all about anger and pain and hunger. He's still holding back, not about to become middle class or anything, but he's starting to get that he might be able to see his next birthday."

"How old is he?"

"Eighteen. Can look younger, can look older, but he's not a kid. Hasn't been for years."

I believe that too.

"It gets to you, after a while though, doesn't it?" I say softly.

Damon nods. "Yeah. Of course it does. And his latest things is porn. More money, even further from the clubs-which is good. But the bad?" He pauses and I just look at him. Think that one of my boys doing porn would be bad enough. "He's gonna be real good at it. And I'm going to know, for years, what he's doing when he says he's going to work."

Damon stands up and nods at me. "Thanks. Don't expect I'll be seeing you again, but thanks."

And then he leaves. Just like that. And I'm still sitting here, trying to figure out that kind of love, that kind of need, and what it'll take to get both of them happy.

Like there's anything I can do about it.