heroeswork | So fitting so fitting of the way you are, you can't cover it up can't cover it up

So fitting so fitting of the way you are, you can't cover it up can't cover it up

Billy was still worried about Tim. He'd been worried since leaving the last time. He had hope, but he still worried. He'd extended his stay as long as possible, until he was sure Tim could stand on his own. He'd intended to come back much sooner, but between and extra long mission and pressure from Higgins, it was harder to get more time. He kept in touch with Tim when he was state side, almost every day. Doing everything he could to be there for the deputy without physically being there.

His flight had been delayed for weather, so when he finally landed, he texted Tim the hotel information. It would be a bit before he could even get off the plane, get his rental car, and get to the hotel. Cold weather and holiday travel was slowing everything down. By the time he did finally reach the hotel, he felt like he'd been dragged behind the car rather than having driven it. He looked forward to just wrapping his arms around Tim and sinking into that big soft bed.

When he arrived at the hotel, the desk clerk made a comment that didn't sit right with him. "I thought there were only going to be two of you." Off handed and of no consequence to the clerk. Billy tried to tell himself that Tim probably had someone like Raylan with him when he checked in, but his instincts didn't sit well with that. Trying to push it from his mind, he headed up to the room. Tim had been fine the last time they'd talked. He would be fine now.

Still, it was with some caution that he unlocked the door. He just wished the mechanism wasn't so loud. He pushed the door open, peering inside, hoping he'd find Tim and someone else from the Marshal's office just chatting or watching TV.

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Tim fucked up.

At this point, that wasn't anything new. He fucked up a lot, especially recently. Mostly recently. It was just easy to fall into that pattern with Mike. Fucking and using and getting angry about it, just to do it all over again. It was easier than trying not to fall into that pattern. It was easier than trying to be okay.

He'd been doing good. With Billy's help and attention and concern, he'd gotten clean (He hated that word, clean. It meant admitting he had a problem in the first place, and it meant acknowledging that the entire thing happened at all.) and he'd stayed clean. It wasn't easy, by any means, but he'd managed. Keeping his distance from Mike for awhile helped, too, but that couldn't last forever. Not when Mike was his CI.

And that, really, was his downfall. Because he saw Mike, and Mike got him all riled up like he always did, and Tim couldn't resist falling into bed with him roughly. He told himself that was as far as it'd go, but eventually, it went further. It came down to one thing, really, and that was he was weak. Tim was weak, and Mike said as much, and that was why it was so easy for him to fall back into that pattern, somewhere between the time Billy checked up on him last and right now.

He was on his way down from a fix when he got Billy's text, murmured something about needing to go, and Mike followed him. That, he thought, was a bad idea, but he didn't really have the mind to stop it. So he and Mike checked in, and what Billy found when he pushed open the door was the very opposite of a couple of marshals chatting or watching TV.

It was Tim and Mike, propped up against a mountain of pillows. Tim's fingers were holding a pipe, handing it back to Mike, and he was exhaling white smoke into the air.

It's easy to wrap Tim around his finger. It's come to the point where he doesn't even actively try, because he can't be fucked to, in all honesty. There's heat, now, and it's getting harder to keep things straight.

It's the situation, Mike tells himself, not the drugs. Crowder's smart and Givens is smart and that's what's doing him in. Not the oxy and the plethora of other shit he's getting, not the fact that he can't seem to let go of Tim and how he clutches the other as he drags him down because misery loves company.

He hardly remembers why they're in a hotel that's not their usual hotel for interactions, nor does he remember Tim telling him it was a bad idea and Mike agreeing but stumbling over there anyway. Now, in the comfort of a bed that had turned into a pillow fort, he's sitting up to grab a pill and crush it on the nightstand, only to freeze like a deer in headlights when he realizes someone else has come in.

He's perfectly still, staring, wary and apprehensive, paranoid that the other doesn't belong. (He doesn't, but that's something Mike will think about later once he gets resettled.)

Billy just stood stock still as the door fell shut behind him, staring at the pair on the bed. He'd seen a lot of terrible things, his job required him to be elbow deep in the worst the world had to offer. But this cut deeper than anything he'd faced before. Mostly because he wasn't braced for it. He wasn't in the right mindset. Even as he tried to work through what he was seeing, the betrayal registered on his face.

His overnight bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a solid thump. He didn't seem to notice. One heart beat, then two. He didn't even seem to be seeing them anymore. He blinked a few times, his chest labored beneath his waistcoat. Then all at once it was gone. His face was as stone-cold serious as if he were in the thick of a mission.

"I don't know who you are," he said to Mike, pointing at him. He could make a pretty good guess at the man's identity even without knowing a name. "But you're leaving. Now."

Tim lowers his gaze to look at Billy. Mike's stiffened, gone still, but Tim is utterly relaxed. It's just Billy. He's not dangerous. Not to Tim, anyway. Somewhere in the back of his mind, underneath the pleasant haze of oxy, he probably feels bad for this. The betrayal clear on Billy's face, and if Tim were more sober, maybe he'd notice that this is the first time he's ever seen an emotion on Billy that Billy didn't mean for him to see.

As it is, though, he doesn't have room to care through the smoke and the haze. He doesn't have room to care about much of anything besides the pipe in Mike's hand, honestly.

He puts a hand on Mike's knee, a lazy and almost clumsy 'it's okay' gesture as he moves forward on the bed closer to the edge, kneeling now.

"Nobody's gotta leave," Tim says, and his voice is even more mumbling and drawling than usual. "We can all stay. It's okay."

"Nobody's gotta leave," Mike repeats, and his worried look turns into a slow, relaxed smile.

Yeah.

This wasn't anything to get mad about, this wasn't anything to get pissed about and get ejected from his own party. Mike blinks, slow and sleepy, and then the smile that had brushed on his lips before widens.

A party. That's exactly what this could turn into if he plays his cards right. And he wants to play his cards right. Tim is damaged goods and Billy--Billy not so much, but he's cute and Mike is high and he needs to keep this going a little longer. He has enough pills for a bender, and he can get more if he counts his cards right.

He'll think about that later. For now, he crushes the pill with the lighter he's holding and nods.

"What's your name, man? We can all stay."

Billy needs to hold back a moment to remind himself that these were American civilians. Well, one was. The other was a deputy US Marshal that he had assisted in hiding a drug addiction from the world. Either way, this was not a drastic situation, it did not call for drastic measures, no matter what his heart said. Because his heart was in a box, isolated from everything else. Incapacitation was not necessary in any form, as they were halfway there already.

Leaving his bag in the middle of the floor, he strode over to where Mike worked at the pill on the nightstand. In one deft move, nimble fingers snatched the lighter and his hand swept the pill to the carpet.

"This is not okay," he said to Tim, giving him a pointed look.

Well that's not good. Billy is seriously killing this vibe they've been riding, not to mention wasting good drugs.

"Whoa whoa, hey." Tim's voice is all low murmurs, even as a faint note of urgency enters it. He gets to his feet, carefully but surprisingly quick for the state he's in, and puts himself between Billy and Mike before Mike can get mad. He reaches up, curling his fingers around Billy's and the lighter, but not quite moving to try to take it from him.

"It is okay," he assures, and he tips his head forward to rest his forehead lightly against Billy's chest. "This is so much better," he continues, his voice a little more muffled now. "It's better. It's okay, Billy. It can be if you let it."

Edited (holy html fail batman) 2016-01-02 08:19 (UTC)

The only reason why Mike doesn't push into a blind rage right then and there is because he's more occupied with the drugs. The crushed pill is on the floor now, and Mike, desperate even though that's not his only one, sinks to his knees to try to pick it out through the fabric on the floor. It's gaudy, part of him--the high part of him--is momentarily infatuated.

He's a little too fucked up to get mad from the looks of it, anyway. And it's when Tim uses that gentle, surprisingly angelic voice that Mike gets an idea.

It can be if you let it, Tim had said, and Mike is already grabbing the pills from the nightstand. He's using the hitter to crush it up this time, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he works.

If Tim can talk Billy down enough, they can all use this to their advantage.

Billy plants a hand on Tim's shoulder, forcing him back. He pulled his other hand away from Tim's, fingers curling into a loose fist around the lighter. He wanted to be angry at Tim. All of that hard work, all of that sweat, those exhausting days and sleepless nights of his last visit. All of it wasted. But he couldn't blame Tim. Addictions were not something one overcame in an instant. They required patience, and understanding, and support.

All of which he could already see Mike did not have. So his goal was to get rid of the third party, but first he needed to convince Tim of it.

"No, Tim, it is not better." He managed to keep the frustration from his voice, if barely. It was a soft and understanding sort of tone, if a little strained. "This is in no way better than when I left. Let's talk...." he glanced at Mike, back to crushing his pills. "Alone."

Tim shakes his head. Billy forces him back and he doesn't seem to mind. He laughs a little, and curls his fingers around Billy's wrist, finding some way to keep at least one hand on him even as he's pushed away. He doesn't mind anything right now. Mike's behind him crushing another pill and Billy's in front of him, concerned, but that concern goes right over his head. He really can't be bothered with it. Not when he's well on his way to what he thinks will probably be a three day black out.

He hates those times, afterwards. He always hates the black spots in his memory, but he keeps doing it anyway. Because by the time he decides to, he's too high to remember that he hates it.

His hand slides up, fingers wrapping around the hand Billy has on his shoulder, and he's laughing again, smiling just a little.

"I think I'm in love with everything right now," he admits, and the thought makes him laugh again. "I have never felt so great in my life. How is this not better?"

Nevermind that Billy requested they talk privately. Tim doesn't appear to be moving from where he's standing anytime soon.

"In love with everything now," Mike repeats, and he's got a lazy grin as he fishes for another lighter and actually produces one first try. It's alarming, even to him, very briefly.

Yeah. Yeah, he and Tim can do this. Billy's hot--probably the accent--and Mike would shoot the other a wink but he's far too busy taking a quick hit and breathing out once he inhales, letting the silvery smoke curl and watching it rise to the ceiling for a few brief moments before his head lolls to the side, watching the two.

Now's the time, isn't it? It's better than any, and Mike moves behind Tim, putting the other in the middle of them, and he swears the surge of opiates rushing through him is matching music in his head. He puts his chin on Tim's shoulder, slides the hitter and the other lighter in the other's free hand, the end still warm, and kisses at the bruises on Tim's neck before whispering.

"He'll understand if you shotgun him. That's the sexiest way to do it, anyway."

Billy's face hardened to absolute stone as Mike moved up behind Tim. It was taking all of his resolve to not slam someone's face into the nightstand. Maybe even Tim's. The pain would sober him up and knock some sense into him again. But he refrained. Casey would have gone for that without question, but Billy was intent on using his words.

It didn't matter what Mike was plotting. Billy could handle two grown men on his own, especially when they were completely wasted. He moved his hand to Tim's neck, covering the very marks that Mike was trying to kiss. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on Tim, firm and unwavering. "Do you remember the last time I was here? What I helped you do?" His thumb ran over Tim's cheek, trying to coax him back to what he was before.

Billy's hand on his neck is lovely. Almost as lovely as Mike's mouth was, but not quite. Not quite, because Mike's mouth always leads to his teeth and those teeth always lead to more aching bruises overlapping the ones that are fading, and he'd been anticipating that. But it's gone as soon as Billy's fingers are covering it, and Tim sighs quietly.

Not that it matters. Because the hitter is in his hand, and it's warm, and Mike's voice is in his ear talking about shotgunning. Shotgunning is sexy. He wants to show Billy how sexy it is. He wants Billy to understand.

He wants Billy to be in love with everything, too, just like he and Mike are.

"I'll show you," he murmurs, but it's mostly inaudible and unintelligible, and he's ignoring what Billy's saying to him. But he brings the hitter to his mouth, lights it and inhales deep. For a moment, he just holds it, lets the smoke burn his throat and his lungs. Then he's leaning in, to quick for somebody who's as fucked up as he is right now, lips sealing over Billy's mouth to pass the smoke between them.

Billy could have pushed Tim away. He could have stopped any part of it. But he watched with resignation as Tim took the hit. He needed to remind himself that Tim wasn't doing this to hurt him. But he needed to take that box that contained his heart and put it into a stronger box. Protect it further. Seal it off.

It was that moment of focus that Tim pushed forward. Billy barely had time to hold his breath before Tim's mouth sealed over his. He shoved at the deputy's chest, trying not to breathe. Trying not to let the smoke in. Trying to pull back.

It's not unlike Tim's reaction the first time Mike tried shotgunning him when he was sober. Except there there was a lot more of Tim slamming Mike into a wall in the process of that. Billy won't hurt him, Tim thinks. Even as the other is trying to shove him back, he won't hurt Tim. He's almost sure of it.

He presses closer. One hand finds the back of Billy's neck and the other pushes away the hand that's trying to fend him off. Billy just needs to understand. Tim's only trying to help him understand. When he understands, it'll all be okay. They'll be okay and they can all stay. So he's instant. Moving in closer, pressing his mouth against Billy's harder.

He should feel bad, he thinks. Some part of him should feel bad, because as Tim leans in Mike silently slides his hand down to Tim's hip, squeezing his hipbone in wordless encouragement.

This will be better, Mike thinks, than the other outcome. It's survival. Mike is surviving. He's teaching Tim to, too, in front of things like this. And that's why he doesn't feel bad.

Billy tries to shove Tim away and Tim holds firm, both of their frames refusing to give, both of them intermingling, and Mike wants to intermingle with them, too, so he follows what he's doing and slowly moves the hand that was on Tim's hip over to Billy's hands. He's gentle with them, no sudden movements, almost like Billy is a frightened, and slides his fingers down the other's arm, up his forearm, and to his shoulder.

"It's okay," He encourages, and his hand is now sliding to Billy's--he thinks the guy's name is Billy--shoulder. He's looped around so he's behind Billy, now, and his other hand moves from Billy's hip to his shoulder, fingers trailing over his back.

"It's okay," He repeats, and this time his voice is small and encouraging in Billy's ear.

With Tim's hand on his neck, he couldn't pull his head back. One simple blow could snap that wrist and this would be over. The heel of his hand to Tim's jaw. Knee to the groin. One simple move and this was over. But any risked injury. Injuries meant medical involvement. Which mean discovery of the problem. Did Tim deserve that? Or did he need someone to give him a chance? This dilemma held him fast, if just for a moment. Frozen in indecision: hurt his friend in order to save him or give him the support he needed? The only thing at risk was his own sobriety.

In the moment of trying to pry himself loose without injury inducing violence, Mike moved behind him. The clock was winding down on his breath holding limits. His lungs were crying for air, but if he just held out long enough, Tim would give in. Relent and pull away. If not for the hand on the back of his neck, he would have snapped his head back and slammed into Mike's nose. He didn't care about Mike getting hurt. But then there were hands on him.

These struggles were usually far more violent. Or weapons were pointed at him to prove a point. It was never gentle caresses unless he was expecting them. And as he still tried to pry himself free, fingers moving up to Tim's hair to pull his head back, Mike's fingers hit just the right spot, near his hip. He inhaled sharply, a mere moment before yanking Tim's head back, drawing that smoke he'd tried to avoid into his lungs.

Mike pitches in, and that's good. He doesn't think this would've worked if he hadn't. Billy could've held out longer than he could. But Mike's there to nudge it along, to use those fingers that Tim has experienced time and time again to relax and coax. Mike's the one that so skillfully opened the door to this world for Tim, and now he's helping Tim do the same for Billy.

Together, they'll help Billy understand. This is better. All that pain Tim knows Billy holds but doesn't talk about will go away, because this is so much better. Billy's always helping him in one way or another, and now it's time for Tim to return the favor.

The hand in his hair is not unpleasant, even as Billy yanks his head back. As a matter of fact, he makes a soft pleased noise in his throat as it makes his jeans feel a little tighter. He's ignoring though, mostly, in favor of watching Billy, watching the way his pupils dilate as the oxy hits his system. It's something he's watched on Mike dozens and dozens of times, and it's never any less mesmerizing or beautiful.

The hand on the back of Billy's neck slides forward a little, enough so he can run his thumb over the edge of the other's jaw. He sets the lighter and the hitter to the side for now, and his other hand finds Mike's where it is on Billy's hip, curling their fingers together.

"See?" he murmurs. "This is better. It's okay now."

"Shhhh," Mike says, and it's nothing to do with the fact that Tim is talking. It's directed at Billy, actually, in a semi-soothing way. There's a lot going on between the two of them and Mike would be jealous had he actually given a fuck about things like that.

As it is, he's just pleased his nose isn't going to bleed and if things keep going this way, he's going to get laid. But Billy needs more, not just one toke, not just one hit, because there's always that niggling piece of consciousness. There always is. It's not like they're forcing him, anyway.

The hand entwined with Tim's hand stays on Billy's hip, but he does pick up the hitter and lighter before it's put down.

God. Tim and Billy both have amazing eyes. Mike should look at them more, he thinks, as he puts the hitter to his lips. It'll be half of one by now, the pill mostly smoked, but he'll salvage. It's not for him.

"I wanna," he murmurs, and looks over at Tim mischievously, as if asking permission to shotgun Billy. Billy's Tim's property, after all.

Billy's head fell back and he just stopped. He exhaled immediately, but it was too late. The damage was done, and he could feel it. What started as a frantic burn in his lungs was already spreading into a relaxing haze through his body. It was alarming enough that the sound Tim made at the hair pull went unnoticed.

Forcing out the last of the smoke, he shook his head. As if that could clear it. It wasn't all that bad, probably not even enough to impair him too much. He was fine. But he needed to get out of here. He could come back later and deal with Tim properly. He had handcuffs stashed in his bag. Those could come in handy. But he only had one pair. Out was now the only focus he had.

His hands fell to Tim's shoulders, now trying to just force him back. "No. It's not better." Mike wasn't his concern or his priority right now. He needed to extract himself and regroup. Then he could handle this all properly.

Then again, it was likely that single hit was interacting with the partial mission mentality and skewing things in all sorts of strange ways. He just didn't notice.

Instead of trying to hold on and stay close, Tim lets himself be forced back. There will be plenty of time for all three of them to be close later. Because, for Tim, there's no way getting high doesn't end up in sex. That's how it's always been, every time he's smoked oxy. It's always involved fucking. In his mind, there's no way the two don't just go hand-in-hand now.

Billy just needs a little more. Just a nudge in the right direction. Once he sees how much better this is, how okay it is, Tim can stop feeling guilty for doing it, and for dragging him into it.

"It is," Tim murmurs, and his hands find Billy's, sliding up his forearms to his elbows and turning him around to face Mike. "Let Mike show you. Like he showed me. It's better."

He catches Mike's eye around Billy's shoulder, nodding at him. Is Billy his? Billy's probably his. Right now, at least, he belongs to Tim. And he's in love with that, too.

"Yeah," Mike states, and he's actually not sure if he just thought that or he's voiced it out loud. It doesn't matter, ultimately, because this moment isn't about what he says or doesn't say. It's about pure emotion and energy--it's about the cloudy feeling in his head and how everything seems perfect. It's about sex and drugs and Tim coming to peace with the fact that Billy's here.

Doesn't help that he's attractive. Billy's incredibly attractive, so Mike doesn't bother to hide his grin as he licks his lips eagerly and takes the chillum, sparking it and inhaling. He doesn't waste time, instead moving forward. Hips touch Billy's hips as his hands ghost around the other's face, fingers barely brushing his skin before he leans over and presses his lips to Billy's. He doesn't kiss, but exhales, and it's only after he's done that that he actually kisses him. His hands ghost from his face down his body and they stop at his hips, pulling him closer, eyes closed, continuing to kiss him. He's distracted--and Tim will have to wait.

Billy stood there. Frozen. Watching Mike like a rabbit before a snake. He was a spy. An operative of the CIA. He'd taken down international criminals with his bare hands. Seduced dangerous men and women. Taunted drug lords. Driven through unknown streets on both sides of life-or-death car chases. And yet he was paralyzed to handle a pair of simple junkies.

He knew how to get out of this. He could do so easily. But his brain seemed stuck in a loop. Every option he considered could leave Tim gravely injured, or at least with something broken. His nose, his arm. Maybe a few teeth knocked out. Stop. Start over. Try again. Every scenario he ran seemed to turn out the same, unaware that in the fog settling over his mind he was just walking in mental circles. It wasn't a new plan, it was basically the same one over and over again. And always with the same conclusion. He couldn't do anything to physically harm Tim.

"No!" He tried to say as Mike came closer. "You can't--" But he had to stop talking as Mike's lips touched his. He tried so hard to hold his breath. But he hadn't expected that press of hips against his. Just enough to be far too distracting. With Tim at his back, for a moment something short circuited and he was kissing back. It just felt so good. A new plan. If he went with this for long enough, they'd give him an opportunity to escape. Let them think they were seducing him...

It was only when his hands started to move of their own volition that he seemed to snap out of it. A gentle touch on the other's shoulders became a firm grip. Squeezing tighter, he shoved Mike back.

"I am a CIA Operative and I will not let you..." He blinked hard, trying to get a focus on Mike. "...do this..." he finished in a far less commanding tone.

Tim laughs, a soft, breathy noise. This is good. This is more than good -- it's perfect. The drugs are wonderfully numbing, and he doesn't bother thinking more than a few seconds ahead. He doesn't think about how he has work in two days, how he's technically currently on call and could, theoretically, be told to come in at any moment.

Not, of course, that he'll go. He won't even answer his phone. He'll deal with whatever aftermath there is to face later.

Right now, all that matters is Mike and Billy and the oxy. Mostly the oxy.

"See?" He murmurs, his mouth near Billy's ear. He doesn't seem to mind how Mike kisses Billy, continues to kiss him. He's too distracted by the feeling of Billy's neck beneath his lips. "This is better. Isn't it better?"

His hands move down to Billy's hips when Mike is shoved away. His fingers are slow but steady as he unclips Billy's suspenders, one at a time, before rucking up his shirt to get it untucked.

"Just relax. It's better when you relax."

"We're taking care of you," Mike supplies, and he's all warm smiles and soft looks as he breaks away from Tim. He gets an idea, then--or maybe he's always had this idea, it's hard to tell. He smiles even wider and chuckles as he stumbles a few steps back to really observe everything.

Watching Tim's long, slender fingers unclip the other's suspenders sends shivers down his spine, and he unconsciously licks his lips before he decides to actually go through with it. Mike crawls onto the bed backwards, only taking his eyes off of the pair long enough to grab the pill bottle from the night stand.

"I want to see it, Tim. How you and Billy kiss and fuck. It'll help him relax, too. C'mon, undo his pants."

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its 6 am im sorry if this post sucks

Dude I was so loopy when I wrote my tag its cool

n e r d s

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