Work Text:
The thing about working in a bar is that drunk people sometimes don’t understand consent very well. Mac’s experienced it before tens of times- a straying hand on his arm as an intoxicated woman who doesn’t understand he’s gayer than a goddamn tree frog breathes a boozy pick-up line into his face, a disorderly guy outside (or inside, it’s fairly common at Paddy’s) getting a little too ballsy and deciding to give him a push. It’s to be expected, most of the time. As a bodyguard, it’s essentially his job to experience all of this.
For Dennis, though, it’s an entirely different story. The guy’s never been good at receiving physical touch outside of the very controlled environment that is his bedroom, and thankfully the bar often acts as a physical divider between him and the rest of the world. Mac watches him work most times- the gentle furrow of his brow as he gets into the flow on a busy night, pouring drinks without a care for anything else that’s happening around him. A tranquillity about him that isn’t often present anywhere else.
Until, of course, it’s rudely cut short.
Mac notices the woman before Dennis does- he conducted an ocular patdown on her on the way in, but unfortunately it seems like the four fireball whiskeys she’s consumed in the span of the last half hour have turned her from non-threat to threat. She’s loose and flirtatious in the way she sidles up to the bar after downing her last drink, batting her eyelashes coquettishly at the bartender who’s too much in the zone to register her presence.
From his position by the front door, arms folded over his chest, Mac watches as she leans forward, lips moving to presumably order another drink. Dennis nods, eyes not meeting hers, and says something else Mac can’t quite hear over the chatter but is likely to be a vague acknowledgement of her request.
Instead of simply sitting back and waiting for Dennis to get to her, though, the woman pouts, hair falling over her face. She speaks again. Dennis doesn’t say anything, only nods- if he makes any sound at all, it’s only a hum.
That’s when the woman reaches out.
The touch lasts only a fraction of a second, because Dennis doesn’t allow it to continue any longer. His facial expression transforms from relaxed, neutral at worst, to visibly distressed as he yanks his arm away, eyes widened in something like terror.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
In spite of the noise, Mac hears Dennis’ ice-cold tone all the way across the bar. Sees the way he steps back reflexively, stiffening.
The woman raises her hands defensively, and Mac decides this is his cue to step forward- if she isn’t careful, she’ll get clawed in the face. Except... oh no. As he approaches, it becomes clear that this isn’t just Dennis being startled.
His eyes are closed now, nostrils flaring slightly, and Mac can see the almost imperceptible way he’s tugging at his fingers below the bar, yanking so hard he looks liable to dislocate them. The woman- and now that Mac is closer, he can also identify her as older than he first expected (not a good sign when it comes to Dennis). She turns to him when he reaches her side, and to her credit, she looks apologetic.
“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-“
Mac ignores her, eyes fixed on the man behind the bar who seems to be losing control more and more every second.
“Den? Den? You good, bud?”
A few drunk patrons at a nearby table laugh heartily, and Dennis slams his hands over his ears instantly. At the other end of the bar, someone slams against it with a shot glass.
“Ay, barkeep! What’s the hold up?”
Mac shoots him a glare. “Would you shut up?”
The man shrugs, obviously too drunk to say or do anything else. When Mac looks back at Dennis, he’s frowning ever so slightly, that tell-tale sign that he’s barely holding back tears.
“Den? You okay, man? Did you wanna go out to the back for a while?”
At the lack of response, or any signs of improvement, Mac wanders round the bar until he’s right in front of Dennis. His touch is as gentle as he can make it when he reaches out to pry Dennis’ hands away from his ears, shh-ing at the way he flinches at the contact.
“Hey, it’s alright, dude. We’re gonna head out, ‘kay?”
The other man finally opens his eyes, nodding slowly. His mouth is an emotionless line again, but Mac knows better than to assume this means everything’s fine.
“Okay, great. We’ll keep an Irish Honour System going at the bar til we get back. C’mon.”
Taking Dennis by the hand, he leads him through the bar, past the rowdy patrons that make his Adam’s apple bob with discomfort and his eyes squeeze shut, until they finally step outside into the cool night air of the alley, where Charlie happens to be stamping down some trash into a bag.
“Oh, hey.” He greets, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Where’re you guys off to? It’s not the end of the night yet, is it?”
Mac hazards a glance at Dennis in case he doesn’t want the incident disclosed, but he’s still closed off, now tugging repetitively on his earlobe. “Uh, someone touched him.”
Thankfully, Charlie doesn’t need any more information than that. He nods in understanding and gestures vaguely towards the street. “You’re heading off to the-?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Always makes him feel better, right?... Did you wanna come?”
Charlie looks back at his work- a charitable term, given the fact that it’s basically just a bunch of crushed trash- and hums thoughtfully as if he’s the president of the United States deciding whether to sign a peace treaty. After a few seconds, though, he turns back and shrugs. “Sure, why not. I’m basically done here anyway.”
“Cool. Let’s go, then.”
The first few hundred metres are filled with the relentless noise of late night Philly, all honking horns and the wail of police sirens. Dennis, now freed from Mac’s grasp (he knows where they’re going, and now that he does there’s little chance of him trying to escape from it), winces at every little sound, rolling his shoulders and continuing to tug at his fingers and earlobe intermittently. He hasn’t said a word since they left the bar, but this is normal, and Mac and Charlie don’t attempt to make small talk either. Why would they? Neither of them enjoy it. They’re comfortable just to walk in silence through the dark urban jungle, kicking at the rocks which they find scattered on the sidewalks and occasionally humming.
“D’you reckon they’ll have closed the gate tonight?” Charlie asks when they pass beneath the bridge which indicates they’re getting close.
Mac chews on his lip. “Who knows. I don’t think the owners really care enough about what’s inside to keep it secure.”
Luckily, he’s right- the creaking iron gate swings right open when they eventually reach it, and Mac’s damn grateful he doesn’t have to convince an overstimulated Dennis to scale a fence with him and Charlie.
The three of them walk into the junkyard surrounded only by the sound of crickets and the distant thundering of trains going over the tracks, and lit by no more than the few flickering lamps that cast a dim glow over the piles of unwanted belongings stacked in teetering mountains across the lot. While Charlie stands with Dennis, Mac dips into the little hut by the entrance, and returns wielding a baseball bat and a grin.
“They still haven’t found it.” He announces smugly. “I told you I’m good at finding the best hiding places for stuff.”
“I still don’t know why we can’t just bring a bat with us.”
“Because, Char, the jabroni cops around here don’t take too kindly to men with baseball bats. Philly can be pretty rough, but it’s not that rough yet.”
They carry on their pilgrimage through the forest of refuse, Charlie stopping every so often to pluck something from one of the piles and examine it. If he deems it useful, or interesting (by Charlie standards, that is), he pockets it. Soon, they’ve reached their summit- the clearing that houses everything breakable, from old TVs to ceramic jugs and even the rotting carcasses of abandoned cars. All moved here over the years by the three of them to create their very own little playground.
Mac reaches out to take Dennis’ clammy hand and curls his fingers around the handle of the baseball bat.
“Here, man. Ready whenever you are.”
Just like always, the first few seconds are largely unproductive. Dennis flexes his fingers around his new weapon, eyes drifting from the ratty covering hanging off the handle to the lingering scratches and indents on the other end. Runs his hand across the side of it, seeking the sensory experience of something other than pain.
And just like always, once this is over, he tightens his grip, steps forward towards one of the items laying abandoned on the ground, and swings.
Mac and Charlie whoop at the first hit- it’s an old TV, and the screen shatters upon impact, sending shards of shimmering black glass scattering across the concrete. Charlie has to leap to avoid one of them slicing him right in the leg, laughing like a boy.
“Nice one, man!”
The corner of Dennis’ mouth lifts ever so slightly, and he passes the bat over to Mac beside him.
“My turn?”
He nods. Presses the bat insistently into Mac’s palm.
“Aw, thanks, dude.”
Mac picks the rusted side of what used to be a Porsche, before the weather and car part thieves stole in like vultures, and slams the side of the bat into one of the doors. It dents, the aftershock sending it rattling on its hinges before he moves upwards and shatters one of the mostly-in-tact windows. Yet again, Charlie whoops, and even Dennis cracks a barely visible smile when he thinks nobody’s looking.
When it’s Charlie’s turn, he’s so hyped up he spends the first few seconds leaping about, undecided on what to go for. Eventually, though, he brings the bat down hard on an already-cracked and chipped piece of old pottery. The sound is so satisfying that all three of them break into peals of joyous laughter.
“You want a go again?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear, holding the bat out to Dennis.
In the dim lamp light, Mac pretends he can’t see his roommate’s eyes glistening as he nods.
“Uh, y-yeah. Thanks... thanks, man.”
“No problem. You feeling any better?”
The ensuing shrug isn’t as certain, but the other two know Dennis well enough to understand that this is par for the course. This takes time.
With each broken item, with each whoop and holler, though, Dennis slowly comes back to himself. He laughs properly again, stops tugging on his fingers between turns and instead puts his hands in his pockets and grins while he watches the obliteration of radios and vases and old fridges. He takes the stance of a league baseball player, keeping his legs apart just so and wiggling his ass like he’s seen in the movies, when Mac steps up with a crockery set bundled in his arms. Charlie becomes an ESPN commentator, narrating everything from the moment Mac steps up to bowl to the laughter-filled climax, when the teacup that he’d thrown is shattered mid-air by one of Dennis’ swings.
The celebration is unmatched. Dennis joins the whooping and hollering this time, running in circles as he’s tailed by the other two until he comes skidding to the ground, raising his hands to the sky.
When Charlie and Mac bundle on top of him, and they end up rolling about in the dirt, Dennis doesn’t flinch away. He laughs- really, genuinely, laughs- and for a moment, they’re three teenagers again.
Different, and misunderstood, but known by each other.
At home in the junkyard with all the other abandoned things.