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Well, if that didn’t prove he’s the biggest fuckin’ idiot in all of Louisiana, then he doesn’t know what will.

Marty navigates the oncoming traffic with careful hands, trying to reconcile himself with what’s just happened, tries to keep his hands steady on the wheel with all the adrenaline pumping through him, making him wired.

He’s an accomplice to a crime - a pretty fuckin’ big one, if the sirens and screaming he hears say anything about it. He’s still not entirely sure what Rust did - fucker’s busy trying to punch Reggie LeDoux’s location out of the scraggly, bruised guy in the backseat. Doesn’t seem to be going too well, though, from what Marty can see in the mirror.

It doesn’t bother him unduly. Rust ain’t the type to give up easy.

All the energy in his veins makes him feel like doing something with his hands, shaking the steering wheel until it breaks off, taking an axe to something, ripping apart a person or an animal or a house or even a fuckin’ plant. It’s a struggle to keep calm, to get them out of there. Local cops won’t get a perimeter up for at least another hour or so, given that the mayhem seems to be just getting bigger as they drive away.

Once they’re cruising smoothly on the highway, Marty looks in the rearview mirror to see Rust whispering something, probably threatening, maybe cajoling, maybe both, to their captive. He clears his throat.

“Where to?”

Rust looks up at that. Guy looks manic, red-rimmed eyes, skin an odd, yellow, unhealthy shade. His eyes seem strange, filmy, unclear, and Marty can’t read anything in ‘em, which makes him frown. He’s not scared, just - maybe - worried. Rust just stares for a few seconds, lets the question hang in the air, keeps a tight grip on the other guy, then seems to shake something off.

“Know a warehouse few miles away. Abandoned. We can go there; it’ll be more private.”

The last word he says to the bearded guy, all ominous, with that emotionless, bottomless Rust stare he sometimes turns on Marty. Suddenly Marty wants to laugh, feels giggles build up in him and it’s all he can do to keep them down. Doesn’t know whether it’s at Rust’s intimidation performance or at the sheer ridiculousness of what they’re doing. An abandoned warehouse. Well, shit.

“You sure it’s safe?”

Rust stares down the bearded man while he replies. “Yeah. Local PD won’t be canvassing far past the neighborhood for a few hours at the least. We’ll be fine.”

From a quick glance in the rearview mirror it seems as if Rust and the other guy are locked in a staring contest, Rust unreadable as always, the other man with something that looks akin to murder in his eyes, though it may only be the coke and the punching that’s making him look so fuckin’ crazy. Marty wonders just how much history’s between these two. From the looks on their faces, a whole fuckin’ lot.

“Who’s our new friend, Rust?” he asks, just to be able to put a name to the face.

“Name’s Ginger,” Rust replies after a moment. “And somehow, I feel our friendship has recently come to an abrupt end.”

Marty grins. Can’t help it. “Good riddance,” he says, and glances in the rearview mirror before saying, “What the fuck kind of a name is Ginger?”

 

They get to the warehouse in around fifteen minutes. It’s somewhere off the highway on a narrower road, which they take up to a thin, gravel-laden path. Rust directs him to park ‘round the back.

It’s clear and cold outside when Marty gets out, moon a thick half-crescent in the sky. Feels like there’s nobody left in the world but their sad little trio. He goes around to help Rust hold Ginger in place as they shove him into the building, which is conveniently unlocked.

He’s having trouble picturing Rust here, hanging with the guys he saw at that bar, belonging with ‘em. Imagining Rust - wet-eyed, flower-bearing Rust, with the barely-stifled emotions and the deep shadows under his eyes - as a mean, jaded gang member. Learning lots of new things tonight.

They’ve got to do the whole intimidation deal justice, of course, so once inside they tie Ginger to a chair with some rope and then stand back. Marty’s reminded, unnervingly, of the anecdote Rust told him about the face-ripping. Though they don’t have any duct tape. Thank fuck for that.

Marty’s holding his gun on Ginger just to make sure he keeps quiet. In general, though, Marty’s willing to let Rust take the lead on whatever the fuck they’re doing here - looks like Rust has some idea, as he’s prowling around their prisoner, back in that walk of his, stiff and oddly dangerous-looking. Like his joints don’t work correctly, or he’s about to pin you down and rip out your throat. But there’s something wrong this time, something that looks not quite right to Marty. Rust’s stride looks too tight, body held too carefully, like he’s in pain.

Marty pushes the thought to the back of his mind. If Rust’s gotten himself shot or some stupid shit like that, Marty hopes he wouldn’t be idiotic enough to try to ignore it. Then again, Rust can be surprisingly stupid for such a smartass of a guy.

Ginger doesn’t look too happy from where he’s trussed up, blood on his hairless head, bruises on his nasty face. He’s still got that same look in his eyes, all dazedly defiant, violent, same look Marty’s seen on countless little white racist shits who get taken in, thinking they’re invincible when they’re just a special brand of idiot. But there’s an odd sort of gleam in his eyes that makes Marty nervous, makes him feel a trap.

“Now, I don’t wanna make this too hard on you,” Rust lies, stopping to stand directly behind their captive. “But we got a powerful need to find out where your supplier is.”

Stuck in the chair, Ginger gazes at Marty while he bites out a reply to Rust, still with that creepy, penetrating expression. “I gotta be honest, motherfucker, I never suspected you was involved with the law. Thought we had somethin’ special.”

At that, Marty shoots a glance at Rust. The guy doesn’t react, just leans down so his mouth is positioned right near Ginger’s ear, intimate-like. “Where is Reggie LeDoux?” he asks, almost too quiet to make out, each word clearly enunciated.

“Don’t know.”

Rust straightens up, stares emptily at Marty over Ginger’s head. “Well, then,” he says, slow, deliberate. “I guess we have to find some way of convincing you otherw - “

Out of nowhere his body seizes. He grabs his lower stomach, bends over, and Marty hears him make kind of a moan, short and quickly cut off, like he’s been hit by a ton of bricks and doesn’t want to show how much it hurts. Doesn’t sound like anything Marty’s heard him do before.

Marty makes a move toward him; stops. He gets distracted by the look on Ginger’s face, the gleam from before solidified now into the sort of obnoxious, knowing kind of expression Marty often finds himself wishing to hit out of perps. In that second Marty’s sure that Ginger knows something about what’s going on, why Rust’s doubled over, clutching his midsection, breathing hard. Makes him want to take the guy’s fuckin’ head off. But. Focus.

Ginger grins at Marty, but his words seem to be directed to Rust. “It was a special type of blow, y’know. Added somethin’ in just for you. Thought we could celebrate after the job.” The fucker laughs then, low and nasty. “But I guess this is just as good a show, considerin’.”

Rust makes no sign he’s heard, but after a moment, he straightens up gingerly, still holding his stomach. Marty tries to make eye contact, because he’s confused as hell about what’s going on, but after a moment Rust just jerks his head toward the door and steps away, almost limping. After a second, Marty stuffs a dirty rag in Ginger’s mouth to make sure he shuts up, and follows.

He finds Rust leaning against the cement wall in what looks like an empty storage room. His face is sweaty, breathing labored, expression tight with what looks to Marty like a whole fuckton of pain. The filmy glaze Marty noticed in his eyes is more pronounced now, making him look wild, like a rabid dog. Looks like he’s trembling, too. Fuck.

“What the fuck, Rust?” Marty steps closer, but to his surprise Rust flinches away at the movement, body going tense, caved in. Marty stops moving. Tries to keep his calm. “Are you alright?”

He can see, somewhere through whatever the fuck is in Rust’s eyes, the other man deciding what to tell him.

Rust’s voice is hoarse, cracked, when he finally speaks. “He put blue stem in the coke, Marty.”

“Blue stem?”

Rust shifts against the wall, blinks a few times. “You probably know it as bremelanotide, PT-141. Drug that enhances - “ here he breaks off, bends over, breathing gets faster and harsher. After a second, the spasm - if that’s what it is - seems to stop, and Rust straightens up. His pupils are unnaturally dilated, Marty notices, and he still won’t make eye contact. “Uh, it enhances sexual arousal. Aphrodisiac.”

Oh, fucking shit. Marty doesn’t know what to say to that. He does know 141 - it ain’t even in the trial period yet but there’re fuckers plying the black market with it. Lotta guys they take in for assault and the like have had traces found on ‘em.

Explains Rust’s behavior, he supposes, if he’s snorted a sex drug that he didn’t want, wasn’t remotely prepared for. Marty feels uncomfortable, suddenly, awkward. What do you say to a guy who’s taken a mega-dose of some Viagra shit he never meant to?

He searches for the right words. He feels as if he’s got the responsibility to be the calm one, now, has gotta keep his head on straight. Can’t get all fucked up over this. He carefully keeps his eyes on Rust’s face, tries his hardest not to look down.

“How much do you think you took?”

“Don’t know. Could be a gram. Maybe less.”

Another spasm wracks Rust, making him groan, guttural with what’s either pain or frustration. Marty watches, suddenly feeling sympathetic to the guy. Rust’s doesn’t seem to enjoy losing control, the control he seems to cultivate and preserve as carefully as a fuckin’ flower, and Marty can imagine how much this must make him fuckin’ crazy, to have Marty see him like this. Open. Vulnerable.

“When do you think it’ll wear off?”

Rust pauses for a while longer before answering. “Could be a day, Marty. This - I’ve never felt anything like this before,” he admits, slowly, then coughs harshly. Doesn’t sound good.

“We don’t have a day, Rust. Police’ll be hounding this area in a day. We gotta get out in an hour, tops, get across the state line in three or less. We can’t - “

He breaks off as Rust doubles over again. When Rust speaks again, his voice is gravelly. “I am aware of that, Marty,” he states, with a shadow of his normal precise diction. “We’re not leaving him here, though. We gotta find out where LeDoux is; it’s our only chance. We got nothin’ else.”

At that, Rust grits his teeth and raises his eyes to Marty’s, who feels pinned in place. Fuck, but he knows Rust is right. They can’t afford to give this guy up, not after the shitstorm that just went down; can’t afford to leave with him either, not with all the cops around.

Marty looks closer at Rust, notices that his pupils are now almost all black, giving him a demonic look, and his face is pale, breathing still heavy.

“Alright,” he says, trying for soothing. He doesn’t dare make any moves toward Rust. “Alright. So we have to get someone to take care of you, right?” He’s got little to no knowledge of these kind of drugs, but he’s heard things from perps, heard this shit wears off quicker when you indulge in extreme sexual activity. “I don’t know any whorehouses around - ”

“Don’t have time for that, Marty,” Rust interrupts. His body seizes right after he stops speaking, and he closes his eyes tightly. Marty watches him, confused.

“What do you mean, we don’t have time? You have to get through this shit, and fuckin’ soon. You’re the one who knows this guy, can talk to him, persuade him. All I can do is hurt him, I can’t - ”

Rust’s shaking his head. “Fuck it,” he says under his breath, a thin whisper. He looks up at Marty again, face set, firm through the tightness of pain. “You’re gonna fuck me, Marty.”

For a second, Marty gapes at him. Can’t possibly have heard what he thinks he heard. Then: “What?”

Rust’s moving now, slowly, taking off his jacket with tight, careful movements accompanied by short winces. He clears his throat. “You’re gonna fuck me, Marty, and I’m gonna come, and we’re gonna put this whole fuckin’ mess behind us so we can get LeDoux.”

He throws the jacket on the ground and is hit by another spasm. Marty’s lost count of how many there’ve been. This one seems worse than the others, though, as Rust’s face contorts for a split second in what looks like agony. When he opens his eyes, he looks wild again, desperate like Marty’s never seen before.

“Come on, man, the sooner you get it in the sooner it can end, alright? Look, go in there, throw him around a little, and you can come back and stick it in me. Simple. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Look, Rust,” Marty can’t even find words to express how insane this idea is. He doesn’t fuck other guys. Never has. He’s not sure how they’ve arrived at this point. Whole night feels like a blur, and things are moving too fast for him to comprehend. “No offense, but I have no inclination to put my dick up your ass. It’s - ” he struggles to explain - “just not something I can do. We have to find another way to - ”

Rust lets out a short yell of pain, interrupting his rationalizations. The latest spasm seems to be the worst yet, making him fold himself almost in two. The guy closes his eyes tight before he speaks. “Please, Marty,” he edges out, and goddamn, but Marty never expected those words to come out of his partner’s mouth, especially not this desperately, despairingly. “I need it. I need it.” He opens his eyes, which look crazier than before, deep black and almost animal, and searches Marty’s face. “It’s just another hole to fuck, right? Just another hole, okay, please, please, just fucking - ah - ”

With his eyes on Rust’s bent form, Marty hears thunder in his ears, thinks, fuck it. “Okay,” he says. He hears himself force out the words as if from far away. “Okay, just - make sure you’re prepared, or whatever the fuck you need. I’m not shoving my dick inside you and making you bleed on me.”

Rust nods, jerky, sagging against the wall, looks so fucking relieved. His hands fumble with his pants, and Marty suddenly has no idea what he’s doing. He looks away. “I’m gonna go - talk to the guy. Try to make some progress,” he says weakly, ignores Rust pulling down his pants with shaky hands, and walks back into the room, head buzzing. Fuckin’ shit. What the fuck is he doing?

Ginger looks like he’s halfway to unconsciousness where he’s tied to the chair. His head jerks up when Marty comes closer, though, and he growls something around the gag, tries to project anger into his coked-up eyes. Marty ain’t buying it. He takes his gun out, pulls the rag out of the guy’s mouth.

Fuck you,” Ginger hisses as soon as it’s done. “Fuck you. I hope your motherfuckin’ partner is havin’ fun with what I gave him, that motherfuckin’ bastard.”

Marty backhands him with all the casualty of a man who just doesn’t have time for bullshit anymore. “Listen to me,” he grates out. “Listen to me, you little fuck. You’re gonna tell me where LeDoux is, and we’re gonna let you off with nothin’ but the scratches you got on you right now.” He gets in Ginger’s face, bends down to look him right in his eyes. “Doesn’t have to be painful for you, man.”

Ginger sneers. “Fuck you.”

Marty shrugs, pinches the guy’s nose until he can shove the rag back into his mouth. He takes his gun and slams it down onto Ginger’s right hand, where his wrist is tied to the chair.

The guy howls. Marty thinks he heard the crunch of breaking bone, and an ugly part of him feels complete, vicious satisfaction. He bends down again and looks into Ginger’s eyes, scrunched up with pain, more fearful now, like Marty’s dangerous. Funny how these guys can pull the sickest shit on other people, cut their fuckin’ faces off, and one little broken pinkie gets them all tied up.

“I can break all your fingers, Ginger. One by one. I don’t have many qualms about violence - ‘specially regarding those who deserve it.” Marty straightens up. “Think about Reggie LeDoux. I’ll be back.”

When he glances over his shoulder on his way out, Ginger looks appropriately frightened, now, straining away from Marty in the seat, wide-eyed and wary.

 

Inside the storeroom, Rust’s fingering himself. At least, that’s what Marty thinks, seeing him braced against the wall, one hand reaching down past his dick and moving between his legs. He’s shed his pants since Marty left, so Marty gets a clear view of lean thighs and a surprisingly tight, round ass. And unfortunately for him, Marty’s always been an ass guy.

In any case, it’s Rust’s face that’s gets him feeling hot, the guy’s eyelids fluttering with each movement of his arm, mouth open like it’s the fuckin’ rapture. Shit, but suddenly it doesn’t seem impossible for Marty to get a hard-on. Actually, he -

But he must’ve made some sound walking in, because Rust turns his head, eyes open, fingers slip out of his ass. Marty doesn’t look.

“You okay with this, still?” Marty asks hoarsely, because he’s half hard, and he feels like if he does this he’s gonna cross a line he can’t ever get back over, and he’s so scared and turned on at the same time it almost feels like he’s the one amped up on an aphrodisiac, which is just. Fuck.

Rust swallows, fuckin’ pushes his ass out like he’s presenting it to Marty for easier access. “Yeah,” he says, voice still raw and husky. “Yeah, please, Marty.”

Fuck it, Marty thinks again, feeling panic edge into him. But he closes the gap between them, unbuttons his jeans, pumps himself to full hardness and tries to ignore how his dick is only inches away from the two tan, curved globes of Rust’s ass. He hates how easy it is get it up. Strikes him as funny, all the sudden, how he still hasn’t gotten a clear look at Rust’s dick - things’ve gone too fast for simple observation.

He tries to go slow at first - really tries, and he thinks he does a good job, because he’s having trouble breathing normally, this close to Rust’s back, strong shoulders shaking slightly, and dealing with the hot smell of sweat and pot smoke and all the things he’s never associated with sex before, until fucking Rust turned up.

Marty pushes into him with as much caution as he can, one hand gripping Rust’s shoulder for leverage, but he’s not prepared for the sound Rust makes when the head of his dick pops in, a rough groan of pure pleasure that sends heat waves up Marty’s spine. Rust fuckin’ pushes back against his dick, ruins Marty’s plan of going slow, tries like a whore to fuck himself on Marty’s dick, faster, harder.

“Oh, fuck, that’s so good, that’s so good,” he hears Rust whisper, and Marty can’t help it, he gets turned on by making other people feel good, when they enjoy him fucking them. He grips Rust’s shoulder hard enough to bruise and thrusts hard into him, relishing the sharp sound the other man makes, like Marty’s knocked the air out of him.

He fucks Rust harder than he’s fucked anyone in his life. Rougher than anything he’s done with Maggie or any other girl he’s tumbled in some dark dorm room in college. Rust’s louder than them, too, punctuates each thrust with a low moan, eggs him on with half-coherent mumbles, though Marty’s not sure how much of that’s the aphrodisiac. Doesn’t give a fuck.

He tries to go slower towards the end - wants Rust to be able to walk out of the place, be able to sit down without wincing for the next week - but Rust grits out, “Harder,” and so he slams him into the wall on the next one. Asked for it.

It ends after what feels like an eternity. Rust starts fucking back on his dick with more purpose, reaches a hand between his legs, breathing gets fast and rough, and he shudders, silent, around Marty as he comes. Rust stays there, limp, lets himself be pressed against the wall as Marty tries to finish.

He pulls out at the last second and wants so badly it hurts to paint Rust’s trembling back with his come. But he doesn’t. He comes into his hand with a short exhale, trying to be as quiet as Rust about it.

It takes a while for them both to catch their breath. Marty feels cold, naked, dirty, come on his hand and pants around his knees. Rust turns around, finally, starts to pull up his pants, and Marty doesn’t know what he feels when he sees how gingerly Rust moves, different from the jerky way he was before, but carefully, slowly, like it hurts to move. Doesn’t know what he feels when he thinks about Rust walking around the office like that, Marty seeing him and them both knowing.

“I’m sorry,” he starts to say, and doesn’t expect the roughness in his voice. Rust just shakes his head, picks up his gray shirt from the floor with a slow movement, wipes the come off his chest and throws it to Marty.

His face - well, fuck, Marty can never tell from his face. It’s closed-off tight again, eyes shuttered. But Marty can see he’s bitten his lip so hard he’s drawn blood, which stands out starkly on the paleness of his mouth. Marty doesn’t say anything else; uses the shirt to clean his hand.

Rust slides on his jacket and makes to move into the other room again, but Marty, after a split-second of doubt, catches his arm. It’s fuckin’ strange that he feels so reluctant to touch the guy after having fucked an orgasm out of him, but that’s life, he supposes.

Their faces are close, and he’s relieved to see that Rust’s pupils are back to normal size, more color in his cheeks. They lock eyes. Marty’s still got his hand clamped on Rust’s arm. Somehow, and this makes Marty want to laugh again, this moment feels more intimate than when Marty had his dick inside him.

“Are you alright?” Marty says softly, reminded of when he asked the same question just six hours ago. Feels like a lifetime.

Rust gazes at him for a long moment, scrutinizes Marty like he’s the fuckin’ Mona Lisa and there’re secrets hidden in his face that might give Rust the answer to some question Marty can’t even imagine. He feels Rust’s gaze drop to his mouth, for what feels like an eternity, then raise again, and he can sense something between them, a presence or a connection that feels fuckin’ otherworldly, electric. Marty’s breath sticks in his throat, and it’s all he can do to keep his eyes on Rust’s. But he does.

After a few beats, Rust blinks. Whatever it was between them vanishes like smoke, and Marty can breathe again, can follow Rust back to where Ginger’s still growling around his gag without wanting to run away and never return. He’s sure this’ll feel more real tomorrow, but he’s got a gift for selective inattention that’ll allow him to forgot fucking this ever happened, he’s sure. For certain.