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He doesn’t know what the fuck to do. His body feels heavy, stomach churning, and he doesn’t even flinch at the sound of the gun hitting concrete, deafening even in the busy night-life of the city. The man in front of him is already gone, bleeding out like a stuck pig, and James takes a step back, afraid the blood might spread too close, pool beneath him, and then what the fuck would he do? He doesn’t really know how to clean blood out of stuff; that’s Aleks, the one who usually fucks up like this.
But was it a fuck up? The guy was clearly trying to fuck them over. James had seen the tactics before from Aleks, knew what turning tricks looked like from experience. It just made his head dizzier to think about it, though. What if he was wrong? He swore he saw a gun, but now, when he tries to fish for the thought, it’s gone, disappeared like something nonsensical he heard on the radio that sticks for thirty seconds and is gone. Shit. Shit.
Muscle memory has him pulling his phone out, and when he calls someone, he’s surprised himself with the voice he hears.
“James?”
“I fucked up.”
“What did you do?” Brett’s tone is unchanging, though James knows he can hear rustling over the phone, “James, talk to me. What did you do?”
“The guy… he’s, uh… dead.”
“Dead? What guy?”
“I don’t remember his name! Justin, or something! He was our mule for the cocaine, dude, he’s dead!”
“Ok, hold on,” Brett pauses, grunting over the phone, and James hears the jingling of keys, “what happened? Tell me slowly. And tell me exactly where you are.”
James starts to pace, trying to keep out of any light as he moves, tries to pretend there isn’t a dead body in front of him. Remembering is harder, though. His mind is sluggish and feels like lead, a fuzzy snow of static covering each thought. “I don’t know, fuck, I think I’m near Bel Air. I’m… uh, I’m across from a bar. It’s called Rabbit.”
“Sounds like a gay bar.”
“Fuck off.”
“Chill, James. Trying to lighten the mood. So, what happened?”
Throughout the conversation, James can just faintly hear the ticking of the car as Brett starts it up, the burst of music before it gets turned off. “I don’t know, seriously, I can’t think… He had a gun, I swear, he was reaching for it, I just… shot him. He was being dodgy, like… you weren’t with him for that, but Aleks, when he was by himself, he did this shit all the time, you know? To other gangs. I know what it sounds like, what it looks like, I lived it. The guy was a worse Aleks.”
“Ok, so you shot him. Anyone come running?”
“No, I mean… not yet, at least.”
“Ok. Just… try to keep out of the light. Don’t leave wherever you are. I’ll find you.”
And he hangs up and leaves James alone with all his thoughts, which are just enough to want to drive him crazy. How did Brett do this all the time? Or hell, Aleks? How did either of them just get over the fact they took lives? James squatted down, feeling a rush of nausea hit him as his mind blanked. This was not the fucking time to get a panic attack, but clearly his body thought otherwise. He could just sit here and breath, and maybe it’d be ok.
But that’s just not how things went.
He pukes, first, and manages to miss himself with it. A small blessing, he guesses. Second, he gets so fucking dizzy he almost faceplants into it, but catches himself and falls back on his ass instead, nearly cracking his head on the concrete, which, James can only remember mildly clearly, is covered in blood. Maybe not the whole street, but still. Blood’s around here.
But laying down feels good, even if he’s on dirty fucking California ground, and just closes his eyes to keep the sky from spinning so rapidly above him.
It feels like hours he’s laid here, but when he opens his eyes to Brett above him, calling his name in the sweetest voice James thinks he might have ever heard, he finds it’s only been twenty minutes.
“... I’d ask if you’re ok, but you’re not.”
“I think I’m dying.”
“Atta boy,” Brett murmurs, reaching down and hooking his arms under James’ armpits, yanking him up to his feet, “yup, dying. Just go sit in the car, ok?”
James doesn’t have to be told twice, but when he takes a step, he stumbles and catches himself seconds from falling on his fucking face. Behind him, Brett sighs, like he’s irritated, but he lays a hand on the small of James’ back, uses the other to pull James forward, guiding him towards the square he calls a car. James manages to get himself in from there, sinking down into the uncomfortable seats and closing his eyes.
When he comes to for the second time, Brett’s in the car, breathing hard and wiping something off on his pants. James wishes he knew what it was, but his stomach can guess it’s blood, and vomit starts to creep back into his throat and burn. He swallows it down, looking up at Brett, trying to focus on his form.
“What’s going to happen?”
He kind of hates how weak and small he sounds. For someone part of a gang, James sure as hell doesn’t have the heart or stomach for this.
“We’re going to go dump the body in Death Valley. After that, you’re going to come home with me. You’re having a meltdown, and I don’t know what compelled you to call me, but I’m the only one equipped to handle it. Aleks will just call you a pussy.”
James manages a smile at the comment. Brett’s not wrong, but it feels so weird to joke like that. The car doesn’t even have a trunk, so James knows, just a couple inches behind him, sits the dead body. Joking near dead bodies has to be a crime, possibly worse than making the dead bodies. The drive out to the desert is quiet, but Brett asks him the same question every ten minutes or so. How do you feel?
James responds different each time, and he wonders if Brett’s just senile or it’s helping him calm down. He can think, at least. The snow is gone and his memories start to piece themselves together, click into neat little puzzle piece rows. After the fifth time, James feels almost exasperated at answering.
“Can’t you say something else?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point of this,” Brett murmurs, taking a sharp turn as the little square shitfest he calls a car tumbles around a corner. They’re going to fucking die before even disposing of the body, fuck. James should have called Aleks.
“Are we almost there?”
“You’re asking if we’re almost there to dispose a body?”
“I’m kind of still freaking out.”
“I know,” Brett’s tone changes from annoyed to soft and he glances at James, lays a hand against his thigh, and squeezes, “I know. I just need you to be coherent for me, hunny, ok?”
Coherent. James just nods, tries to ignore the way his mind wants to blank back out. Brett’s being tender, which is fucking him up way worse than killing the mule ever did. This isn’t how their relationship goes, James plotted it out to every last detail, and Brett being tender and kind was not words used in the outline.
But here they were, fucking everything up. James won’t admit it to himself until later, but God, he really wants to hear that voice before he dies, just one more time.
They stop an hour later. James wishes he knew where they were, but it was the fucking desert, and it just looked the same anywhere they went. He starts to get up, get out of the car, but Brett’s pushing him back into the seat.
“Just stay here. I can do it.”
James looks unconvinced, but he stays put. No need to get on Brett’s bad side, not right now, at least. He’s quiet as the trunk opens, as he hears Brett grunt and shuffle the body around. James squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think any harder about what’s occurring. Brett being gone for another thirty minutes, give or take his internal counting to keep himself sane, is enough for him to know what happened. Find a spot. Clear prints. Maybe do a burial, but James feels with how little time Brett took, it was just half assed. That’s fine too. He finds it, annoying and nagging at him deep down, that he trusts what Brett’s doing, more so then he would Aleksandr.
It makes him feel a little bad, but not by much. Brett’s experienced and that’s enough for James to keep his mind for nagging at him too hard.
When Brett’s back in the car, wiping his hands off on some cloth, James can’t keep himself from speaking up.
“Why are you helping me?”
“You called me?” Brett answers with a question, confused, “I’m not wrong, right? You called me?”
“No, I know I did, but you hate me.”
“No I don’t,” Brett rolls his eyes, starts the car up, and starts driving them back to the nightlife, “I don’t hate you, James. I thought we went over this maybe a couple hundred times. You called me. You’re part of… what I do. And when you call for help, I’m going to help you.”
James has a feeling Brett wanted to say something different, but he doesn’t push it. “I just don’t get it,” He says, instead, honest and soft, “I don’t get you, I don’t get this, I don’t get Aleks.”
“You don’t have the heart for it.”
“Then why am I here?” James knows why, he does, but maybe if he hears it out of someone else’s mouth, he won’t feel so foolish.
“Well, for him,” And yeah, that didn’t work. Still feels like an ass. James just glances out the window, arms crossing over his chest, trying to make himself feel and seem smaller.
Brett doesn’t speak after that, but the hand returns to his thigh, as if it’s supposed to be comforting, and James hates that it does it’s job.
They don’t talk the drive to Brett’s place, don’t speak when they enter the apartment. James doesn’t bother asking as he sheds clothes on the way to Brett’s bathroom, wanting a shower, and if possible, death.
He spends too long just letting the water soak his skin and there’s not even anything to wash off. Not like James was the dead guy. Just an idiot with a gun. When Brett knocks on the door, he realizes he should probably actually shower and not just waste water. James ties a towel at his waist after he climbs out, dripping onto the floor and feeling only a little bad. He dries off and keeps the towel cinched at his waist, peeking out the bathroom door and finding the door blocked just so by clothes. Oh.
James dresses in Brett’s clothes, after using Brett’s soap and shampoo, in Brett’s shower, in Brett’s bathroom, in Brett’s apartment. It makes his head dizzy with how intimate it suddenly feels. Shit. Maybe this, right now, was the worst part of his night. Everything else was just preparing him for this shitty, bad icing on top of the shitty, bad day.
But still, he doesn’t stop his feet from bringing him to Brett’s bed. The man’s already sitting there on the edge, still dressed, looking down at his phone, and when James sinks into the mattress, wraps his arms around Brett’s shoulders, he turns his head to look, and James kisses the corner of his mouth, kisses a beard getting slightly too long, and Brett sighs against his cheek.
That’s enough, though. Brett shrugs out of his coat and drops it to the floor and wordlessly let’s James pull him further back, to lay down against the blanket. Doesn’t speak when James wraps himself so tight around Brett, tangling limbs and gripping with some sort of need to stay grounded. If Brett minds, he doesn’t complain, and James takes it as it is.
But that’s just how life was, now.