sv fic post: East of the Sun part 47
8/21/08 10:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: East of the Sun
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/Clark
Rating:PG-13
Word Count:2073
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: AU, so very AU
Fair warning, dear readers—the mistakes here are all my own. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danceswithgary for her encouragement and of course, the lovely cover!
He pushed through the doors of the club and was intercepted by a deferential boy dressed in someone's over-romantic idea of what an Indian servant should look like, shiny brass buttons, bejeweled turban and all. He raised an eyebrow, refrained from rolling his eyes and handed over his coat, let himself be ushered through the doors that led to the dance floor.
Sound. That's what struck Lionel first—a discordant clash of sound: music, and layered over that the drone of dozens and dozens of different voices, the shrill ring of feminine laughter…the clatter of dishes and the scrape of chairs across the teak floors. He took a step through the archways leading to the dance floor, the tables. Smoke, perfume, cologne—the air was thick with it and humid with the coming summer…fans turned, their long blades churning the air and not doing much more than fanning the smoke. Table lights did their best to pierce the smoky gloom…it looked a little like brunch in Hell, he thought. It was an atmosphere that Lionel hadn't experienced in decades, one that he hadn't missed at all.
He huffed in annoyance and tried to avoid the waiters as they weaved in and out of the tables—poured drinks or presented dishes with a grand flourish and sometimes what seemed to be an impromptu dance. Just high good spirits and the joy of waiting on rich white folks…all part of the entertainment the club provided.
Towards the rear of the club, Morgan sat at a double table, men arranged on either side of him, almost like an obscene reworking of daVinci's depiction of the Last Supper. All eyes swiveled towards Lionel. They tracked his progress toward them in silence, raked his body and rested on the briefcase in his hand. One of the men leaned close to Edge, whispered something that made him smile. He stood, and holding out his arms, said, "Leo! Come sit near me."
Lionel felt a wash of freezing cold sweep up his body, lodge in his throat. "My name is *Lionel* and thank you no, I'd rather not sit. This isn't a social visit." He held up the case, relieved that his hand didn't shake. "Here it is, every cent. Now let my sons go."
"Sons? And here I was under the impression you only had one." Morgan sat again, lifting a crystal goblet to his mouth. He sipped, rolling the wine slowly, deliberately, in his mouth before swallowing. "One son. But you're claiming the monster again?"
Lionel looked away. "In recent years…I've come to understand it wasn't Alexander's fault. He was the victim. That man wasn't the only one who took advantage of him—or tried to." He leveled a cold look at Morgan.
Morgan pretended to be shocked. "Victim? That's not what Mahaney says. He says Alexander has been more than willing to sell himself for what he wants. He likes to do strange things, I hear. Dangerous things," Morgan murmured, so softly Lionel found himself leaning forward to hear him. "And Wade…the boy thinks he's hiding something from me. Eh. Doesn’t really matter at this date. Alexander's too old to interest me; he has no use at all, no value, unlike Wade…or young Julian."
Lionel lifted the case to the table top, cold clammy sweat clung to his back, his shirt felt too tight across his shoulders. "I tell you again, the price you asked for is here. All of it. It wasn't easy. I sold off what I could—you know that it's not easy to get my hands on such a large amount of cash. It's been rough all over …"
Moran waved his hand. "Say, what's your son's life compared to some pennies, right? Be proud of yourself, you're a better father to Julian than Wayne was to his boy. Did I ever tell you how much I enjoyed young Bruce? He was a good trade…valuable. Still is…Julian would have been as well. Could still be…?"
Lionel restrained himself from spitting in the man's face—he was a lot of things but suicidal wasn't one of them. "Thomas was a weak shell of a man—and what you made out of Bruce Wayne is a sick, twisted copy of what should have been a decent person."
"Oh, speaks the patricide. Speaks the man who pushed his son out into the street because he bent over a desk for teacher…you didn't give a plugged nickel for that boy then, what's the deal now? I tell you, between you and Wade begging for him, he almost becomes interesting again."
Lionel's smile had all the warmth of a shark's. "He's a grown man now Morgan, I don't think you'll find it easy at all. He's tough as nails my boy, and he wouldn’t trust any honeyed words of yours, not by a long shot. I made him that way—to protect him from something much, much worse than what he is now."
Morgan frowned and suddenly, his eyes grew wide, he stared at Lionel with a comical look of surprise. "You did that to keep him from me? All that…just to keep him out of my house?"
Lionel said, "I'd have killed him to keep him out. I've seen what happens to the people you want. Bruce, others…and Wade. I remember that boy you bought."
"You were there, you didn't stop me." he shrugged, smirked a little. "And it was a most worthwhile purchase. So easy to train…but he was half-way there when I got him, eh? Maybe, maybe I should experiment with Julian. Train up another attack dog. Do you think he'd take to it as easily as Wade?"
"Give me back my sons!" Lionel slammed his fist onto the table, spilling drinks, knocking over the lamp and throwing the table into darkness. The men around Morgan reared back like cobras, ready to strike but Morgan shook his head, motioned them back. "You got a nerve, Leo. You got a nerve. Remember when it was fifty-fifty all the way? The days when if I had something, meant you had it too? We were closer than close, closer than brothers—and then came that job. The last job. And you got rich, and respectable, and me? I got this." He leaned over the table. "I'm not saying I don't love this--but I wanted more."
"I gave you what I could. It's not my fault if the blue bloods didn’t take to you. Not my fault you couldn't fit in—wouldn't fit in."
Morgan nodded; a strange expression flitted over his face and was gone. "I never ratted on you. No one knows the truth but you, me, and Mahaney…everyone else is gone."
"I know." Lionel dropped his eyes. "I never ratted on you either. Doesn't that square us?"
"You roped in that society bitch and had no use for me after that. How the fuck does that square us? Everything we were—"
"I never turned you from my door, not in those days. And…you could have stopped me."
Morgan stared at him, something ugly and hot making his eyes glassy." No, I couldn't. And that made me sick."
Lionel stared into his eyes. "My sons?"
"Tomorrow. Wait outside the riding school. Be alone, or nothing happens. Understand?"
Lionel turned away without answering. He retrieved his coat, and headed for the curb and the car he had waiting. There was a line of cars waiting, unusual for how early in the evening it was…all the drivers were Negros, some leaning on the side of the cars, smoking…some looking quite insolent. At his back, there was a commotion coming from the club, but his driver was opening the car door, and he'd had enough of socializing for the night.
"Straight home, Alfred. There'll be no stops tonight. I'm dead tired."
@@@@@@
The noise in the kitchen was almost deafening—but it was a good screen too. The waiters picking up the food were having some trouble—most of them had no idea what plates they were supposed to be carrying, or how this tray carrying business worked at all. The white uniforms bulged under the armpits on a lot of them, or the jackets belled out in the back a bit....
"Now you boys remember, trays high, smile, don’t hit no body, dance a little when them folks wave a dollar and smile god damn it, smile like you mean it. Ya'll bring the money back here, we split it. Some of ya'll look like you wanna slap the hell out of them folks—remember, tomorrow ya'll will be doin' whatever the hell it is you do, but we still gotta be here. Try not to ruin it for us, hear me—"
The 'waiters' looked at each other, some chewing their lips or coughing. Some looked like they were talking to themselves, praying. Some just adjusted the pieces in their holsters and looked bored to death. Pete Ross was worried, to put it mildly—he couldn't dance for shit, and the unfamiliar weight of the gun in the back of his waistband ratcheted up his nerves to an unbelievable degree. He must have been fucking insane—what the hell was he doing here? All he knew about guns was a summer or two spent down south with his aunties when he was a boy, shooting at squirrels in the backyard and missing them.
The club's real headwaiter tried to give Royal's lieutenant a last bit of advice but he shrugged the man away impatiently. "Look here, Uncle," he said, "You can kiss cracker ass another day—us, we got a job to do. *You* just make sure your people stay out the way and run when the signal come." He looked at the rest of the men in the high collared white suits. "*Everybody* be ready to throw when you get that signal—Royal wants 'em all gone—"
"Shit all ready!" Simon snapped, "We been over this backwards and forwards." He turned to snap at Pete next. "Why the fuck don't you get out of here? This shit is not for you, I don’t want you here." He hefted a tray and bit down hard on his lip, shifted it around until he let out a small sigh of relief.
"Nothing doing. Look at you—how the hell are you gonna take care of yourself—you can hardly hold up that damn tray." Pete shook his head. "I'm here to make sure you don't get killed. Mom would pull my guts out through the place my heart used to be if I let something happen to you."
"Fuck Pete, don’t you get you're going to kill me just 'cause you stand out like a mother fucking target? I'm going to die making sure you don't. I need to concentrate Pete—can't do that if you're dancing around getting your ass shot up."
Pete started to argue but really, Simon was right, sort of. He *was* bound to get hurt trying to have eyes in the back of his head. Pete figured, all right, he might not be worth a shit in the way of protection to his brother…but fuck if he could sit safe and sound at home or holed up in the Al-Kazar while the man was in the worst danger he'd ever been in. Right at the moment, Pete hated King Royal worse than anyone in the world. "Simon…how 'bout I stay back in the kitchen and wait on the cars?" Simon didn't have to know where he'd really be….
Simon threw his arms wide, and shouted at the ceiling, "Yes Lord, thank you Lord, for showing this knucklehead the way. Get out there in the kitchen and—and help those boys spoon up some of this slop." Simon and the other 'waiters' grabbed trays and bottles, and headed out to the floor.
Pete huffed and stalked towards the back of the kitchen. "Knucklehead, I'll show him knucklehead…"
@@@@@@
Morgan clicked his fingers impatiently and one of his men rushed forward. "Call him--tell him to clean up the loose ends and bring me the boy."
@@@@@@
King's lieutenant snapped his fingers and the rest of the men looked to him. "When I say go, drop these fuckin' trays and ventilate them thievin ' ofays." He folded a tea towel neatly over the sawed-off shotgun in his hand. "It's cleaning day, boys."
part 48
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/Clark
Rating:PG-13
Word Count:2073
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: AU, so very AU
Fair warning, dear readers—the mistakes here are all my own. Thanks to
danceswithgary for her encouragement and of course, the lovely cover!He pushed through the doors of the club and was intercepted by a deferential boy dressed in someone's over-romantic idea of what an Indian servant should look like, shiny brass buttons, bejeweled turban and all. He raised an eyebrow, refrained from rolling his eyes and handed over his coat, let himself be ushered through the doors that led to the dance floor.
Sound. That's what struck Lionel first—a discordant clash of sound: music, and layered over that the drone of dozens and dozens of different voices, the shrill ring of feminine laughter…the clatter of dishes and the scrape of chairs across the teak floors. He took a step through the archways leading to the dance floor, the tables. Smoke, perfume, cologne—the air was thick with it and humid with the coming summer…fans turned, their long blades churning the air and not doing much more than fanning the smoke. Table lights did their best to pierce the smoky gloom…it looked a little like brunch in Hell, he thought. It was an atmosphere that Lionel hadn't experienced in decades, one that he hadn't missed at all.
He huffed in annoyance and tried to avoid the waiters as they weaved in and out of the tables—poured drinks or presented dishes with a grand flourish and sometimes what seemed to be an impromptu dance. Just high good spirits and the joy of waiting on rich white folks…all part of the entertainment the club provided.
Towards the rear of the club, Morgan sat at a double table, men arranged on either side of him, almost like an obscene reworking of daVinci's depiction of the Last Supper. All eyes swiveled towards Lionel. They tracked his progress toward them in silence, raked his body and rested on the briefcase in his hand. One of the men leaned close to Edge, whispered something that made him smile. He stood, and holding out his arms, said, "Leo! Come sit near me."
Lionel felt a wash of freezing cold sweep up his body, lodge in his throat. "My name is *Lionel* and thank you no, I'd rather not sit. This isn't a social visit." He held up the case, relieved that his hand didn't shake. "Here it is, every cent. Now let my sons go."
"Sons? And here I was under the impression you only had one." Morgan sat again, lifting a crystal goblet to his mouth. He sipped, rolling the wine slowly, deliberately, in his mouth before swallowing. "One son. But you're claiming the monster again?"
Lionel looked away. "In recent years…I've come to understand it wasn't Alexander's fault. He was the victim. That man wasn't the only one who took advantage of him—or tried to." He leveled a cold look at Morgan.
Morgan pretended to be shocked. "Victim? That's not what Mahaney says. He says Alexander has been more than willing to sell himself for what he wants. He likes to do strange things, I hear. Dangerous things," Morgan murmured, so softly Lionel found himself leaning forward to hear him. "And Wade…the boy thinks he's hiding something from me. Eh. Doesn’t really matter at this date. Alexander's too old to interest me; he has no use at all, no value, unlike Wade…or young Julian."
Lionel lifted the case to the table top, cold clammy sweat clung to his back, his shirt felt too tight across his shoulders. "I tell you again, the price you asked for is here. All of it. It wasn't easy. I sold off what I could—you know that it's not easy to get my hands on such a large amount of cash. It's been rough all over …"
Moran waved his hand. "Say, what's your son's life compared to some pennies, right? Be proud of yourself, you're a better father to Julian than Wayne was to his boy. Did I ever tell you how much I enjoyed young Bruce? He was a good trade…valuable. Still is…Julian would have been as well. Could still be…?"
Lionel restrained himself from spitting in the man's face—he was a lot of things but suicidal wasn't one of them. "Thomas was a weak shell of a man—and what you made out of Bruce Wayne is a sick, twisted copy of what should have been a decent person."
"Oh, speaks the patricide. Speaks the man who pushed his son out into the street because he bent over a desk for teacher…you didn't give a plugged nickel for that boy then, what's the deal now? I tell you, between you and Wade begging for him, he almost becomes interesting again."
Lionel's smile had all the warmth of a shark's. "He's a grown man now Morgan, I don't think you'll find it easy at all. He's tough as nails my boy, and he wouldn’t trust any honeyed words of yours, not by a long shot. I made him that way—to protect him from something much, much worse than what he is now."
Morgan frowned and suddenly, his eyes grew wide, he stared at Lionel with a comical look of surprise. "You did that to keep him from me? All that…just to keep him out of my house?"
Lionel said, "I'd have killed him to keep him out. I've seen what happens to the people you want. Bruce, others…and Wade. I remember that boy you bought."
"You were there, you didn't stop me." he shrugged, smirked a little. "And it was a most worthwhile purchase. So easy to train…but he was half-way there when I got him, eh? Maybe, maybe I should experiment with Julian. Train up another attack dog. Do you think he'd take to it as easily as Wade?"
"Give me back my sons!" Lionel slammed his fist onto the table, spilling drinks, knocking over the lamp and throwing the table into darkness. The men around Morgan reared back like cobras, ready to strike but Morgan shook his head, motioned them back. "You got a nerve, Leo. You got a nerve. Remember when it was fifty-fifty all the way? The days when if I had something, meant you had it too? We were closer than close, closer than brothers—and then came that job. The last job. And you got rich, and respectable, and me? I got this." He leaned over the table. "I'm not saying I don't love this--but I wanted more."
"I gave you what I could. It's not my fault if the blue bloods didn’t take to you. Not my fault you couldn't fit in—wouldn't fit in."
Morgan nodded; a strange expression flitted over his face and was gone. "I never ratted on you. No one knows the truth but you, me, and Mahaney…everyone else is gone."
"I know." Lionel dropped his eyes. "I never ratted on you either. Doesn't that square us?"
"You roped in that society bitch and had no use for me after that. How the fuck does that square us? Everything we were—"
"I never turned you from my door, not in those days. And…you could have stopped me."
Morgan stared at him, something ugly and hot making his eyes glassy." No, I couldn't. And that made me sick."
Lionel stared into his eyes. "My sons?"
"Tomorrow. Wait outside the riding school. Be alone, or nothing happens. Understand?"
Lionel turned away without answering. He retrieved his coat, and headed for the curb and the car he had waiting. There was a line of cars waiting, unusual for how early in the evening it was…all the drivers were Negros, some leaning on the side of the cars, smoking…some looking quite insolent. At his back, there was a commotion coming from the club, but his driver was opening the car door, and he'd had enough of socializing for the night.
"Straight home, Alfred. There'll be no stops tonight. I'm dead tired."
@@@@@@
The noise in the kitchen was almost deafening—but it was a good screen too. The waiters picking up the food were having some trouble—most of them had no idea what plates they were supposed to be carrying, or how this tray carrying business worked at all. The white uniforms bulged under the armpits on a lot of them, or the jackets belled out in the back a bit....
"Now you boys remember, trays high, smile, don’t hit no body, dance a little when them folks wave a dollar and smile god damn it, smile like you mean it. Ya'll bring the money back here, we split it. Some of ya'll look like you wanna slap the hell out of them folks—remember, tomorrow ya'll will be doin' whatever the hell it is you do, but we still gotta be here. Try not to ruin it for us, hear me—"
The 'waiters' looked at each other, some chewing their lips or coughing. Some looked like they were talking to themselves, praying. Some just adjusted the pieces in their holsters and looked bored to death. Pete Ross was worried, to put it mildly—he couldn't dance for shit, and the unfamiliar weight of the gun in the back of his waistband ratcheted up his nerves to an unbelievable degree. He must have been fucking insane—what the hell was he doing here? All he knew about guns was a summer or two spent down south with his aunties when he was a boy, shooting at squirrels in the backyard and missing them.
The club's real headwaiter tried to give Royal's lieutenant a last bit of advice but he shrugged the man away impatiently. "Look here, Uncle," he said, "You can kiss cracker ass another day—us, we got a job to do. *You* just make sure your people stay out the way and run when the signal come." He looked at the rest of the men in the high collared white suits. "*Everybody* be ready to throw when you get that signal—Royal wants 'em all gone—"
"Shit all ready!" Simon snapped, "We been over this backwards and forwards." He turned to snap at Pete next. "Why the fuck don't you get out of here? This shit is not for you, I don’t want you here." He hefted a tray and bit down hard on his lip, shifted it around until he let out a small sigh of relief.
"Nothing doing. Look at you—how the hell are you gonna take care of yourself—you can hardly hold up that damn tray." Pete shook his head. "I'm here to make sure you don't get killed. Mom would pull my guts out through the place my heart used to be if I let something happen to you."
"Fuck Pete, don’t you get you're going to kill me just 'cause you stand out like a mother fucking target? I'm going to die making sure you don't. I need to concentrate Pete—can't do that if you're dancing around getting your ass shot up."
Pete started to argue but really, Simon was right, sort of. He *was* bound to get hurt trying to have eyes in the back of his head. Pete figured, all right, he might not be worth a shit in the way of protection to his brother…but fuck if he could sit safe and sound at home or holed up in the Al-Kazar while the man was in the worst danger he'd ever been in. Right at the moment, Pete hated King Royal worse than anyone in the world. "Simon…how 'bout I stay back in the kitchen and wait on the cars?" Simon didn't have to know where he'd really be….
Simon threw his arms wide, and shouted at the ceiling, "Yes Lord, thank you Lord, for showing this knucklehead the way. Get out there in the kitchen and—and help those boys spoon up some of this slop." Simon and the other 'waiters' grabbed trays and bottles, and headed out to the floor.
Pete huffed and stalked towards the back of the kitchen. "Knucklehead, I'll show him knucklehead…"
@@@@@@
Morgan clicked his fingers impatiently and one of his men rushed forward. "Call him--tell him to clean up the loose ends and bring me the boy."
@@@@@@
King's lieutenant snapped his fingers and the rest of the men looked to him. "When I say go, drop these fuckin' trays and ventilate them thievin ' ofays." He folded a tea towel neatly over the sawed-off shotgun in his hand. "It's cleaning day, boys."
part 48
TBC
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