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ATTN: EMMA & ARIA
The cab had to park behind another cab, which was parked behind two large white vans, and Thom found himself hugging his laptop to his chest as he wandered through the wide-open front door, almost convinced that he'd written the address down wrong. Or that Thomas had decided to spend the week before the conference playing some kind of elaborate game, which Thom would normally have been in favour of, but he had rather been hoping for a cold drink -- a lot of cold drinks -- instead of a morning spent following clues and listening to Thomas laugh at him over the phone.
But just then he heard Thomas's laugh -- not the real one, but the deliberate one, which was a few tones higher and a little more polite -- and followed the sound through another open door and into a room that appeared to have been invaded by cutlery. Thom blinked a few times, put his suitcase down and kicked it carefully under a table, and then moved himself squarely in front of the laugh.
Thomas was wearing a very nice suit and the kind of frazzled undergraduate expression that Thom associated with computer laboratories and the early hours of the morning, cold pizza and terrible coffee and assignments that refused to cooperate with Thomas's mind and swiftly typing fingers.
"What's going on?" Thom demanded, in place of greeting.
"Thom! You made it, good, good to see you, oh -- there's a wedding on."
Thom dodged a moving basket of flowers which was almost as tall as he was, and ignored the muffled apology that emerged from behind it. "Whose?"
Thomas laughed and stepped forward to hug him, briefly, and when he pulled back his expression had moved into another one that Thom recognised: the one that said, I've won this round. Thom narrowed his eyes in return.
"Actually," Thomas said, "mine."
~
Go! Write! Leave prompts for other people, too.
Any timeframe. Any event. Any pairing. BONUS POINTS FOR STEPHEN WALTZ.
*I* would like: something in which Thomas Moore gets drunk, anything involving computer hacking AND/OR 'hacking' MIT-style, something with Richard King, and anything set in the far-off-future. Evil PMs very welcome.
(I am going off to study now, but will write some more tonight.)
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~
Geneva, winter. Thom considers taking the train for all of 0.005 seconds before turning to step into the street and hail a taxi, immediately after which decision he runs into Thomas Moore's back.
"Ow," says Thom, dizzied, and then, "Oh, no."
Somehow affable, Moore points out, "I believe that's my line, life-stealer."
Thom's lip curls. "Don't insult me, we both know you've none to speak of."
"And yet you do seem to have used me for a pattern." Moore smiles. "Of course, you've made your improvements. Of course. But is the real innovator he who performs first or he who performs better? Buy me a drink," he suggests then with no change in tempo; as if the thread of his conversation continued unbroken. "Like the sweet boy you are."
"I believe I'd rather garrote myself with your shoelaces."
"One drink," says Moore, "and I'll make you a present of them, purely out of munificence."
"Promises, promises." Thom kicks him in the shin; not waiting for the shining moment in which Moore's pain will be visible, he tries to walk away but is brought up short when Moore seizes his shirt by the retreating collar.
Moore says, rather paler than he was a second ago, "Don't make me make you come for a drink -- I could, you see, only I'm afraid you'd enjoy it."
Thom blushes, furious. "Let me go," he says, "or there'll be cyanide in that drink."
"If you're really paranoid enough to carry cyanide on you, I'll happily be poisoned." Recovered now, Moore gives Thom a shove in the direction of the nearest bar. "Come on, Thommy, before you freeze and die of natural causes, without human agency."
"Why?" demands Thom. "What unfathomable delusion has convinced you that we could ever possibly have anything to say to each other?"
"Isn't it obvious? I think I could stand to learn a thing or two from you and," Moore leers, "I know there's a thing or two you could learn from me."
Thom trips over his own feet. The stumble surprises Moore just enough for Thom to break free, and run; but Moore's laughter pursues him through the crowd, and around the corner, and all the way back to his hotel.
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This fills one of the gaps from Essential Singularity. The first summer.
~
Summer and Thomas walks to the bus station in the awakening heat of the morning, and then back again in the afternoon, his skin aching to be out of the wilting fabric of his shirt. It's a twenty minute walk each way; he has plenty of time to sort out his thoughts.
As he sees it the choice for next semester is this: withdraw, regain control, and refuse to play whatever game Thom wants him to play. Or acknowledge the fact that the rules make him uncomfortable, and then play anyway.
Thomas sits at a desk with the sun tanning his forearms and thinks about how much he dislikes being manipulated; to have opened up like that and to have been tugged around so completely. But the idea of cutting his losses, while practical, hurts his pride even more. Thom Trebond is something remarkable and -- Thomas knows, with the easy perception that has him whiling away the summer in the corporate half of the engineering world -- will become something even more so. It would be a pity to loosen his grip now, now that Thom seems to find him...what?
Sometimes he thinks he might be creating memories out of nothing: the cruel edge to Thom's voice and lips; the man called Sam looking at Thomas as though he were a curious insect, his bright sharp eyes providing the display pin and the analysis all at once. Thom begging spare change and then feeding it into the library shredder along with Thomas's lecture notes. The way it felt to give in to whatever force lifted his arm and made him lash out. He hadn't thought of himself that way before; it makes him uneasy, rubbing up against his ideas of decency and worth, but sometimes he chases a memory of Thom's deliberate, mocking kiss and he thinks: non-zero sum. Perhaps. Perhaps it doesn't have to be about one person winning, and perhaps that way he can keep control of the rules after all.
Thomas shakes hands with so many people that he loses count, dry confident palms in their air-conditioned offices, and he keeps eye contact the whole time. But he begins to get a feel for the meaning of strength, and dominance, and he squeezes hard but not-quite-as-hard as the important men to whom he is being introduced, and the seventh time he does this he understands what Thom was doing to him. At least in part.
Summer and Thomas wears down the soles of a pair of good leather shoes, to and from the bus, his feet against the hot pavement, and his skin turns a little browner and his heart turns a little harder.
Summer dwindling to a close and Thomas has become comfortable with the violence of his own hands, comfortable with his decision to keep playing the game, though not quite comfortable yet with his conclusions when it comes to Thom's motivations. There isn't enough data; what exists was coloured by experience and emotion.
So when the last of his books has slid onto the narrow shelf in his room at MIT he closes the door, locks it, puts the key into his pocket and goes to find Thom.
Thom who grins, vivid and unrepentant, and says: "So you did miss me, after all."
When his fingers dig into the skin of Thom's shoulder he sees it again, that flash of satisfaction that had twisted the boy's upper lip after the very first time; the blow that had been an accident. Thomas's own fist knocking them out of whatever illusion Thom had been letting him live in, and into something terrible and new.
So he hadn't been imagining things after all.
He sees that expression and it's proof enough.
"Miss you? Yes, I did. And you owe me a cab fare." And it's honest, but the white of his nails against Thom's green shirt is more honest yet.
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This is nice and mean! I approve. More!
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~
Richard visits Cambridge in the spring. He doesn't tell any of the family what he's up to, for fear some well-meaning sibling might want to come along and catch up with dear Henry. He's beginning to suspect he's the only one who can catch up with Henry.
The sensible thing to do would be to seek his brother out. Sit Henry down, force some tea into his system, draw him out a little. But Richard can't shake the stupid nagging conviction that Henry's somehow crept in and stolen his rightful inheritance and then, because he's Henry, managed to do it more spectacularly than Richard ever could. So: Richard's here to selfishly guard his right to be more fucked up than Henry. Good.
He goes looking for Thom instead, stalking through the grand architecture of the physics buildings. He has some dim recollection of either Thom or Henry mentioning one of the physics professors, Thom doing some sort of project Richard hadn't bothered trying to understand. Waltz. The name, not the dance. Richard asks around and at length locates the man's office.
Waltz, when Richard finds him, is alone, and strikes Richard at once as being creepily collected and creepily cold. No wonder Thom likes him, Richard finds himself thinking uncharitably. "Hi," he says, "I'm looking for --" and switches tacks halfway. "I'm Richard King."
Waltz steeples nicotine-stained fingers and gives him a look that conveys his absolute unsurprise to find young men appearing in his office and introducing themselves without warning. Richard fully expects a faintly caustic and impeccably polite reply. Waltz does manage to sound both these things, but all he says is, "Any relation?"
Richard flushes to the tips of his ears. "His brother." Deep breath as Waltz's eyebrows raise a fraction. "I was looking for --" he starts, and a few more stupid pieces of the stupid, stupid mess Henry's made go falling into place. Abruptly he doesn't want to find Thom anymore.
"Yes?" Waltz prompts.
"Sorry," Richard says, a general apology to the universe at large. "Must have got turned around."
He makes a hasty retreat. He retreats all the way to the train station, and then all the way to Hounslow to bunk with Elle's folks for a few days. It should calm him down enough that he won't have the overwhelming urge to hit people anymore. There seems to be more than enough of that going on already.
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DID I MURDER WALTZ. I am not sure if he said enough for me to murder him but I am still worried.
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"I ought to close this door in your face," Thomas says without preface. "This isn't a good time."
"Why?" says Thom. "Are you cohabiting?"
"For the weekend, yes."
Thom looks interested; as if he'd like a good gossip, and doesn't care that the party under scrutiny is the same party with whom he is engaged in conversation. "It's not someone from your lab, is it?"
"No, Thom," says Thomas. "I wouldn't dream of trespassing on your territory."
Thom glances away -- to hide a blush, presumably. When he looks back he says, "Don't be an idiot, you know we don't work at the same lab."
"And yet I wouldn't doubt that you could smuggle yourself into someone's circle of trust at mine, even living on the other side of the country. Why is that, I wonder?"
Easy, Thomas thinks, watching Thom look away and look back again, still blushing this time. Too easy.
He's missed this.
"Maybe I have," Thom retorts -- or rather, voices what passes for a retort from him on this topic.
Endeared, feeling rather fond, Thomas laughs at him. "You wouldn't be here now if that were true. You wouldn't waste your time on me."
"Cold words," says Thom, "from someone who won't let me into his apartment. You should, you know, or I'll have skin cancer when I grow up and then you'll be sorry."
"It's just lucky for me that I favor delayed gratification."
But before Thomas can shut the door, Mel's voice says from behind him, "Darling, I had no idea you could be so cruel! Let the poor boy in."
She squeezes Thomas's hand and smiles at Thom. "You must be Thom. Thomas has told me absolutely acres about you."
"Oh, yeah?" Thom scowls, like a child, and throws Thomas a look which Thomas interprets as: You didn't tell me you were with a girl. It's enough to make Thomas start to feel more amused than anxious.
Addressing Thomas, Thom says, "If you had any manners, you'd introduce us." To Mel: "You, on the other hand, would appear to be Thomas's best-kept secret."
Evenly, Mel says, "There's a photo of me in his wallet."
"I stand corrected," says Thom, raising an eyebrow. "Thomas's wallet is his best-kept secret."
"Yes, that's why I call him Penny Miser McScrooge in private. Why don't you come to dinner with us tonight?"
Thom says, his voice poisonously sweet, "I'd love to, Mellifluous, only you can't be too careful what company you keep, isn't that so? And besides, I've got to catch a plane East in an hour."
"That's convenient for you," says Mel. "Insulting people you don't expect to have to see for more than five minutes. You'll never make the airport in time, you know."
"We got off to a late start, to be sure," Thom says, shrugging. "But insulting people and catching planes are two things I can do under any time constraints. Thomas, I brought the results we talked about -- you can use them to make some friends down at the lab, I know how hard that is for you."
He stuffs a few poorly-folded sheets of paper into Thomas's hand. "Feel free to drop in if you're ever in the area, both of you," he says, "since I can see we're all going to be such good friends."
With a wave and a smile, Thom turns and starts walking downhill; his odd gait young and girlish at this speed, almost a skip. Thomas watches him go, wanting to laugh, feeling Mel's hand pressing harder on his arm -- until she releases him, backs off and says, "Funny, isn't he? I see why you like him."
For a moment, Thomas considers telling her some of the things that aren't so funny about Thom, but then, hasn't he just entered the best-case scenario? So instead he says, "Yes, he's like a skeleton who won't stay in his closet," and kisses her when she laughs; asks himself how long he'll go on this way.
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~
It was very fortunate, Melody Dawn thought, that a) her mother couldn't plan a wedding if her life depended on it, and b) Kelly Beech had only the one child and was determined to plan his wedding come hell or high water. Kelly was also nearly as punctual as Mel herself; the caterer had been treated to a coordinated tongue-lashing upon his fifteen-minutes-late arrival.
Mel yanked the cord of her dressing gown even tighter and dashed -- carefully -- down the stairs, trying not to stop and admire her hair in every reflective surface. The sight of Thom standing in front of Thomas, the one looking annoyed and the other looking amused, was enough that she changed course and went to nudge her fiancé in the side with a fond elbow.
"Melody." Thom gave one of his insulting smiles. "Thomas was just telling me about the proposal."
Mel had never been the type of person who was convinced that the day should be all about her; in fact, she was pretty sure that the amount of money the Beeches had poured into the wedding made it all about Thomas. Nevertheless, she was getting married, and Thomas's friend and workmate and ex-whatever was not going to ruin it.
Mel smiled back. "And I suppose you're planning some clever remark about how many times he's gone down on his knees for you."
This did not engage the battle of wit in quite the way she'd expected; instead, Thom turned a spectacular shade of pink, which had the pleasing effect of rendering Mel once again the prettiest person in the room.
"What." Thom's voice was almost shrill, and Thomas met her eyes and visibly swallowed down his laughter.
pt. 1
He'll just have to do something foul enough to get him noticed Below, he decides. Thom gives it a moment's consideration -- and sets about ruining lives.
Two weeks later, Thom is playing at a purportedly insoluble equation, chewing on his pen, when Lucifer breezes into his office and says, "Really, Thom, you might have called."
Thom looks down the hallway; has anyone seen Lucifer come in? No? Impossible, he thinks, but convenient; he shuts the door.
"Give me a number," says Thom, watching Lucifer settle atop his desk, long legs eased out, bare feet still resting on the threadbare carpet. Lucifer will do no such thing, he knows, even as he says, "I'll call."
"As well you might, but what would oblige me to answer?" Lucifer's lips hint at a smile. "And then, of course, the method you've found is so much more -- engaging."
"Just so long as you're careful not to respond to any false alarms."
Thom leans back on the door, arms crossed, as if to protect himself from Lucifer's full attention. "I've had an idea, and I want your help."
"Oh?" says Lucifer, his voice rich and perfectly pleasant. "And why should I do that, Thom? Haven't I -- helped -- you enough already?"
Thom bites his lip; silences a hiss of displeasure. It seems Lucifer is in the mood for games, but Thom does not feel like playing. "Listen to my idea," he says, trying not to sound urgent. "Then decide."
Seeing Lucifer's gaze move obviously to his mouth, and as obviously linger, Thom blushes. Lucifer says, expressionless, as if it were not worth his bother to smirk, "Very well. Tell me your idea."
pt. 2
Lucifer raises an eyebrow. "Don't you think you overestimate my interest in ensuring that -- as you so eloquently put it -- the world gets even more fucked up?"
Frankly, Thom says, "No. But a lot of people will do a lot of interesting things, and the rules of the game will change. Drastically."
Unfolding his arms in what would look like relaxation to anyone else, he asks, "Doesn't that interest you even a little?"
"Oh," says Lucifer, seemingly unmoved. "Quite possibly. You haven't explained what you'd want me to do."
"I need the start-up financed," says Thom. "By someone very, very rich. And nonpartisan. And free of scruple."
Lucifer studies Thom in silence; he begins drumming his fingers on Thom's desk, and Thom thinks, intuits, I've won. Slowly, Lucifer says, "Surely you know the rules too well to mean me."
Thom makes a You don't expect me to answer that face -- and wins Lucifer's first smile of the evening. "All right," says Lucifer. "Whom did you have in mind?"
"Famine," says Thom, blithely.
For an even longer time, Lucifer says nothing; then, rising in a moment's grace, comes forward to stand in front of Thom; forces Thom's chin up with one elegant hand, presenting his face for inspection. "Shall I be flattered, I wonder," he muses aloud, "when the people of this world come to think of you as the devil's work? -- No," says Lucifer, sighing, "don't say obviously, Thom, or you'll live to regret it."
Thom feigns disinterest in the prospect. He asks, "So you'll help me with the contract?"
Lucifer's fingers relax; drift down to circle Thom's throat. Thumb rubbing up and down the warm blue line of Thom's jugular vein, he says, "If you can make him accept it."
Thom's breath quickens slightly. "Oh, that," he says. "That's nothing."
"Why?" asks Lucifer, amused. "Is he fond of you?"
Surely I would know, says the pressure in the devil's fingers, if he were.
Thom says, "No," -- twisting now, trying to shake his head, toss his hair out of his eyes -- "but I can make him be."
Lucifer laughs. "I thought you preferred not to speak openly of those tactics," he says, and shoves Thom back into the door when he blushes again, mouth open and stammering.
"What tactics -- " Thom begins, but Lucifer cuts him off: "That particular set of lies doesn't become you."
Redder than ever, Thom says, "Yeah? What would you recommend, Mr Omniscient?"
Lucifer slaps him for that; Thom's teeth cut into the side of his cheek and, tasting blood, absorbed in reflection, he thinks: Finally.
"You'll have to adapt your approach," says Lucifer, calmly, as if remarking the weather. "I doubt he'll believe you haven't already been corrupted."
"Tsk," says Thom. "Have you been talking about me behind my back again?"
"No," Lucifer says. He steps back. Thom doesn't protest. Lucifer takes Thom's hand and turns it palm-up; carefully unbuttons the cuff of Thom's sleeve and rakes his nails across Thom's wrist, watching the pale skin discolor with a murmur of something like approval.
Thom keeps his eyes on Lucifer's and so does not see him repeat the gesture, but he shivers when Lucifer says, sounding pleased, "I simply have reason to believe that my colleague knows a good thing when he sees one."
The devil laughs at Thom's reaction -- Even now? he seems to say; digs in again with his nails, and kisses Thom too hard, too fast for him to gasp.
Re: pt. 2
(ENLIST HOLLY, she can write Blue Sun-related drabbles!)
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There is a little bit more to this drabble (like an afterword) and I'm going to write it now.
afterword
"What you said earlier," he says to Lucifer's raised eyebrows. "About people calling me the devil's work. It'll just be another instance of human beings displacing personal responsibility and assigning it to circumstance, or to powers they don't really believe exist. So it will irritate you -- not much, but a little."
Thom smiles. "But you'll also feel slightly proud. Not of me, because I'm not your work. But for me."
"Why, Thom," drawls Lucifer. "You do seem to have put some thought into our future together, after all."
He pushes Thom's hand away and, casually, knocks him upside the head. "When you're feeling a little less starry-eyed," he says, "if you need to see me, commit an original sin."
"You couldn't just have a P.O. box," Thom says, petulant, rubbing at the dark fingerprints inside his wrists. Then he kicks at Lucifer. "How will you know the difference between the sins I commit incidentally and the ones I commit with you in mind?"
Lucifer shrugs. "You're supposed to be clever. You'll think of something."
And he leaves, closing the door behind him just as Thom's peeved voice says, "Get out!"
Re: afterword
never to return. In this story it seems to have been Thom's idea (the contract with Famine, not sending my computer to Apple Repair Land, though I will happily blame him) rather than Lucifer's prompting, unless it was subliminal or something which I would not put past him. ANYWAY. Fantastic. XDno subject
And Thom is just very clever, you see :) :)
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Again, he thinks.
He dresses slowly and with care, then goes in -- thus armed -- to meet his fate. Of the three men lounging on and around his kitchen table, only Thom doesn't bother looking up when Thomas comes in.
"Sam," says Thomas, "was it? Good to see you again, at last. And," addressing the tall, gaunt man at the head of the table, dressed only -- melodramatically, Thomas thinks -- in black, "I'm sorry, I'm afraid we haven't been introduced."
The man gives a slight, almost painfully grave nod. "True. Dr Trebond has certainly been negligent in that respect."
Thom rolls his eyes, but Sam -- at his ease on the tabletop, posed at its head, one foot swinging out just now to catch Thom in the ribs -- laughs. "Our poor Thom has always been unfortunately deficient in the social graces. Thomas Beech, this is Dr Raven Sable. Dr Raven Sable, Thomas Beech."
"Dr Beech," Dr Sable acknowledges.
"Thomas," says Thom, absently drawing the backs of his fingers along his kicked ribs. He smiles. "I've told you about Dr Sable, he's going to provide our start-up capital."
Thomas Beech feigns disinterest; the absence of ire. "Yes," he says, "you did tell me," and pulls up a chair. "After the fact. Though I suppose you felt it was thoughtful of you to let me know at all."
Dr Sable raises an eyebrow. "Is your associate in the habit of taking decisions without you? You realize," turning to Thom, "that that isn't a responsible way to conduct business."
Thom flutters his eyelashes. "I'm not a responsible businessman."
"Stop that," says Thomas. "You look stupid."
His voice deep, amused, Sam concurs: "Yes, Thom, you do." For the time it takes to look Thom slowly up and down, as if for the first time -- as if it were hardly necessary to look a first time -- he is silent, but then he adds, in a low murmur, "And cheap."
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Dr Sable shakes his head. Seriously: "You wouldn't say that if you knew what this little endeavour is costing me."
Sam mimics him. "If I knew? Old friend, have you already forgotten I negotiated the price?"
"Condescended to do a bit of haggling, did you," says Thomas, not quite managing to suppress his sour tone.
And Sam glances at Thomas. His expression makes Thomas's fingers close into fists under the table. "Don't worry," he says. "It was for form's sake, not Thom's."
Dr Sable looks faintly taken aback; uneasily, Thom says, "Look, Beech -- "
Thomas says, "That's funny, I thought you were in the habit of doing things for Thom's sake. Since he was -- fifteen? fourteen?"
Younger? Thom had said years, after all. And he was seventeen then.
Thom opens his mouth for what should be, knowing Thom, a vulgar explosion of protest; forcibly, casually, Sam shuts it for him. Perfectly calm, long fingers lingering on Thom's jaw, Sam says only, "Yes, that was true once. Back when Thom was precocious."