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Devon Holmes
Tue Aug 29, 2006 01:00

He could do this. No hyperventilating, don’t trip over the curb, and resist the urge to smack Michael on the ass when he walks in front of you like that. Hell, he wasn’t even really staring at the man’s ass, it was just the fact that it was… him. Vile tempting bastard. Mumble.

“Michael, that is the most… colorful shirt you’ve ever sported.” The fed started snickering under his breath at Michael’s expression; maybe he had worn it for shock factor. “Devon, the run-way model look suits you.” He immediately scowled, and glanced down at his clothing. What the hell was wrong with this?! But it was enough to get his mind off of the impending conversation. Right up until the waitress left.

“Thanks for meeting us—me.” Dumbass. Kick! “I mean… us.” That’s better. “We… ahm that is, Devon and myself are…” Jesus, he’s turning red! Shaking his head, Devon decided to ‘fix’ it.

“We’re sleeping in the same bed.” What was so hard about telling Ben and Hugh that? They honestly had not fornicated, and were slow – God, so slowly – exploring their unconventional relationship. Oh hell, Devon could feel his cheeks heating now!

“Well, that’s a relief.” What?! “We were getting worried that you were out drinking and driving at all hours of the night.” Then the two men decided this was some huge damned joke. “Wouldn’t you rather have them arrested for sodomy rather than vehicular homicide?”

Devon was certain his jaw dropped to his chest.

But then there was the annoying default ring tone emitting from Michael’s pocket, which he gave a brief glance towards before returning his attention to Ben and Hugh. Devon felt just a bit snarky, because frankly, he couldn’t believe that Mick actually answered the damned phone during this fracking conversation! God help him, but he was going to smack the younger man into next week.

Michael’s phone conversation was a dull thrum beside him, while he continued to have a bit of small talk with Ben and Hugh. Mainly about if he still had the leather chair, and when was he going to have to head back to the office. It was something he was dreading, but at the same time looking forward to as well. It was driving him insane not to have anything to work on, though setting up the apartment had taken up a great majority of his time for these last two weeks. And the next two weeks… Well, he could see his time being taken up by Michael. Not that he was complaining, mind you.

What?” The three men at the table turned to stare as Michael began to rise from his seat. His outstretched elbow knocked into the waitress, jostling one tea that managed to splatter across his slacks.

“Damn it!” Devon muttered, brushing at the mess with a napkin. “There goes the run-way model look. Excuse me for a moment, gentleman.” Not that Mick heard him. Sigh.

The feeb had to weave his way through the crowds of tourists that had suddenly appeared and were waiting to be seated, before asking the hostess where the restrooms were. Ah, direction! He hurried along, rather anxious to get the tea off of his pants, and his leg where it had soaked through. Gah, he smelled like lemons! The bathroom was empty when he walked in, thankfully. He always hated wandering by a man at the urinal, it was just creepy. Pulling a few paper towels out of the dispenser, Devon set about cleaning his pants with a bit of warm water. At least this place had one of those automatic hand-driers, though. Serendipitous.

In the middle of his cleaning, the door swung open and shut, though he paid it no mind, to be honest. He was more intent on getting the rest of this lemon-tainted tea off of his clothing!

Devon never saw it coming.

There was a heavy blow to the back of his head, causing him to tumble from his crouched position into one of the nearby sinks. The scent and taste of copper exploded in his mouth, infringing upon his senses. “What the fu—” He never even got to finish his sentence.

One of the largest men he had ever seen in his life, and this was a mean feat considering who he considered family and friends, hauled him up by the collar of his polo, casually tossing him towards the stalls. Thankfully, he didn’t go sailing through an open door, but instead against one of the supports. As soon as the bastard got close enough, where Devon could smell the stench of an unwashed body, he kicked upwards with all his might between the man’s legs.

Judging by his attacker’s twisted grin, he was pretty sure the man just enjoyed that.

The next few moments were a blur of hands and fists. The wall decided to stop his head again, and he got in no more punches or kicks this time around. Instead, the rank odor of an unwashed mouth assailed his nostrils, and he would have recoiled had the man not hauled him up by the throat and collar, shoving him against the wall. Devon never would have looked at the fellow with a swarthy expression and a buzz cut twice. Not before.

“Listen good, mate,” the giant hissed, warm breath crossing over his features. “You ask your dear ‘ol drinkin’ partner why this happened. He’ll know why.” Then the man was gone. Devon didn’t even try chasing him out the door, he was too busy pulling in clean air through a set of burning lungs. Eventually, he found way back to the hostess, who looked practically in tears once she had a decent gander at his injuries. Perhaps it was worse than he though, judging by the size of the icepack she gave him.

“Devon, are you alri—” No, he was not!

“Michael, some punk just jumped me in the men’s room. Said you’d know why… bugger was huge.” That was the understatement of the year. Glancing down towards his clothing, expecting to see large blooms of blood soaking through the material, he was caught off-guard when Michael gave him one of the fiercest lip-locks he had ever had the chance to experience. It nearly made him forget about his aching jaw.

“There are things I must attend to. Stay at your brother’s house tonight. I’ll get in touch.”

“What the hell do you mean? Michael?” But he kept walking. “Mick!” Devon hauled himself from the counter, and the flirty hostess that kept toying with his beyond-sore neck while holding up the icepack, and tried to chase after Michael, but the man was gone by the time he got outside. What was waiting for him at one of the tables though was something he never would have imagined. “What the fukk happened here?!” The feeb cringed at his own voice, and quickly leaned in to peer at Hugh’s arm.

“I’m going to kill the bastard!” Ben was heatedly growling, and Devon wasn’t sure if the man was speaking about Michael, or whoever did this to Hugh. Who did do this?! “Police are on their way.”

Great, just great.

It took several hours, a trip to the E.R. for both himself and Hugh, along with scores of police officers following them around. Even Vince, the chief, had gone so far as to show up. He found Devon in a small cubicle beside Hugh’s, complete with paper dressing gown that showed off his ass. But things became sorted after that, and the police left them alone after one more round of questions. ‘Just in case’, they said. Well, they could shove those little notepads up their asses for all he cared right now.

The damage was done, though. Hugh endured an intense cleaning of his wound, and some medication, while Devon was wrapped up and given a splint for his wrist, which he had managed to sprain during one of the falls. Drugs all around! Ben had been kind enough to call Lucy, because apparently Caleb was in the office for the next week, and cleared everything with her. Why the hell did he have to go stay with his brother and sister-in-law, though? It didn’t make any damned sense!

But he did it anyhow. The evening was brief, because it wasn’t long before he was nodding off with all the medication flowing freely through his system. Lucy forced some food down his throat, chiding him for not eating, and practically sending him off to be like a little boy. This was not how he envisioned his evening.

The next morning – or shall we say afternoon? – Devon rolled out of bed twenty shades of black and blue, and feeling like shit for it too. He only got so far as to tug on the pair of sweatpants that Lucy had apparently left at the foot of the bed for him, before stumbling out of the guest bedroom. Sometime during the early morning, the security alarm had begun blazing across every intercom in the house, which had roused him into alertness. But that didn’t last more than five minutes, before he was certain that everything was all right, and Caleb could take care of it, before passing out once more.

A late lunch was had, and he called Ben and Hugh to check up with them and make sure everything was fine. They hadn’t heard from Michael, just as he hadn’t, which was more than slightly infuriating. What the hell was going on here? And why was the man that he… was coming to care about at the bottom of it all? He was going insane here.

“Oh, Devon? I washed your clothing this morning. Your things are on the bedside table.” Mumbling a thanks, or what he hoped sounded like one, Devon toddled off in that direction after accepting the folded clothing from Lucy. He would need to pick up the rented SUV today, and hope it didn’t have any parking tickets, and drop it off at the rental place before grabbing his new mode of transportation. Then he could find out what the hell was going on, he hoped.

Struggling to get into his clothing was a mean feat with a bruised body and a sprained wrist, along with depositing everything into the appropriate pocket. It was a piece of paper, folded into fourths, which caught his attention. He couldn’t remember anything like that being stuffed into his pockets, though it had been a haze of paperwork yesterday. Carefully opening the document, scrawled in very familiar handwriting, Devon scanned it. Then read it far more slowly.

…There is a good chance that we will never see one another again, at least in a casual situation and there are things I should have told you. Things I would have told a wife, had biology not gotten in the way of that. Here, then, is my oldest secret, a family legacy that you will recognize right away. Anything else I cannot write down in this letter, but I can direct you to your brother Caleb, he shall have more answers than I can give this. Know only that I have never lied to you, except by omission.

James Michael Moriarty

“No fukking way.” Devon’s voice had become monotone, as he stared at the document in his hand. “No!” Then he thought of something better. “FUKK!” Oh God, he wanted to hurt something.

“Jesus! What’s wrong?” Lucy had sprung into the bedroom, probably thinking he was dead, dying, or hurting himself very badly. Without a word, Devon handed over the paper, and sat heavily upon the edge of the bed. Moriarty. It just… wasn’t possible. Those were always old stories and rumors, nothing more! Oh God.

Burying his face in his hands, Devon was secure enough in his masculinity to admit he cried.

A/N: Mooooore coming! Probably in the morning/afternoon. :\

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