#the professionals

[knivestothroats]

The Professionals - Tommy and Fletcher go to White Castle

the fast food place in question is not necessarily white castle i am just using the same naming convention as "buck and fletcher's excellent adventure" co-written with @victimeyez The Professionals || In The Woods Somewhere || Professional//Victim CW: long term captivity, panic attack, the realization that you got old and sold out

Tommy hated going in the basement.

It was dark and cold and too reminiscent of his old room. His old prison, more like. Especially after the last time he pissed Caius off. 

Your room is upstairs, he kept telling himself. Your room is upstairs. They’re not keeping you down here. 

But Tommy knew Fletcher could change that on a whim. He just had to be good and not give them a reason to. And that meant not protesting when Fletcher said he had to help look for something in the basement.

“I’m pretty sure the people I trade with are keeping more of my jars than they’re giving back,” Fletcher said. “I don’t know why else they’d be disappearing. Fuckers.”

Tommy was pretty sure the last part was said as a joke, but he wasn’t positive.

Fletcher still had shelves full of preserves, but they had said something ominous about making it through the winter. So, the two of them were digging through boxes to look for more jars. 

Fletcher made sure Tommy steered clear of certain boxes. He didn’t ask what was in them. 

Tommy pushed aside a box filled with clothes to check the next. But behind it was not a storage tote. It was long and rectangular - a hard case for an instrument. 

Tommy flipped open the latches and lifted the lid. Inside lay a bass guitar. It was a deep, sparkling blue with a strap patterned with lightning bolts. He gingerly picked it up and held it, positioning it over his knee like he was going to play.

“Put. That. Down.” Fletcher snarled from behind him. 

Tommy quickly returned the instrument to its case and shut the lid. 

“Sorry!”

He turned to apologize to Fletcher, but was taken aback by just how angry they looked. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t touch your stuff,” Tommy went on.

Fletcher said nothing. Their hands were clenched into fists at their side.

“Do you… play?” Tommy asked. He wasn’t sure if he should push it, but he felt the need to claw his way out of the furious silence.

“No,” Fletcher said shortly.

“Oh. Um…” Tommy tried to think of a better way to ask, then why do you have it? “Did you… want to learn?”

“It’s my friend’s.”

“Oh! Okay. They don’t, um…”

Fletcher folded their arms and looked up at the ceiling. “He doesn’t play these days.”

“I see.” Tommy drummed his fingers on the top of the case. “Did you… want to learn? Because I can - I can only play bass a little, but I can, like, follow along to tab, um, if…”

Fletcher looked down at him. Their expression had eased up, and they looked interested now.

“You play?”

“I used to play drums in my band,” Tommy said. “My friends showed me a little bit of their instruments.”

Tommy could swear he saw Fletcher’s eye twitch.

“Drums, huh?” they said flatly.

Tommy swallowed and nodded.

Fletcher sighed, closing their eyes for a brief moment. They slowly raised their arm and pointed.

“My guitar is over there.”

Tommy’s face lit up. “You play guitar!”

“Not in years,” Fletcher said.

“Were you in a band?” Tommy asked.

“...No.” Fletcher’s eyes were wandering, lost in thought. Hands still in fists folded over their arms. They wanted to say something but wouldn’t.

“You and your friend played together?” Tommy prompted.

“Yeah…” Fletcher took a breath like they were going to say something else, then shut their mouth. “Let’s keep looking”

~~

“I have to go into town, and I don’t want to leave you here alone,” Fletcher said. They had pulled up a chair to talk to Tommy as he sat on the edge of his bed. “Do you think you can handle coming along?”

“Um,” Tommy blinked a few times. The thought of getting out of the house should be exciting, but he had barely been out in public in years. Closest he got was the conventions he was taken to as a product demo, and the aquarium trip, where he’d had a panic attack. He ran his hands over his legs. “Like, where are we… going?”

“I have to do a supply run every month or so,” Fletcher said. “At least while there’s a group in the house. We need groceries. Sometimes I have to pick up ammo, medical supplies, things like that. But I don’t want to leave you here unsupervised, and I don’t trust the trainees to… well, you can ask Buck what happened when I left him behind to go on a run.”

It was odd to think of Buck being trapped here at the whims of violent tormentors. Tommy knew it had happened, of course, but seeing Buck come and go of his own volition made it difficult for those perceptions of him to coexist in his mind. 

“So… not really a choice, right?” Tommy forced a half-smile.

“Hm, no,” Fletcher said. “Just getting a vibe. Do you think you’re going to panic?”

“Um. I don’t know,” Tommy picked at the sheets.

“Well, look, we’ll see how it goes, maybe you can wait in the car for some stuff.” Fletcher shrugged. “But, we have to talk security measures. Can’t have you running off or running your mouth. It would just be a big mess for me to clean up, in the end. You understand that, right?”

Tommy nodded. 

“If anyone finds out about you or this place, I’d have to kill them,” Fletcher emphasized.

Tommy dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded again. 

“So, to be safe…” 

Fletcher pulled something out of their pocket that sent a shiver up Tommy’s spine.

It was his old collar. The one Caius had made him wear, with the electrified barbs that dug into the tender skin of his throat. He felt sick just looking at it.

He was grateful for the new, painless collar. Buck had still looked put off when he saw it, and it had made Tommy somewhat embarrassed, but to be honest, he didn’t know how he would feel not wearing a collar after all this time.

And now the old one was back.

What if they weren’t going on a supply run at all? What if Fletcher was taking him back to Caius?

“If you’re good,” Fletcher said, watching his pale expression. “Next time it can be a normal shock collar. No barbs. Okay?”

Tommy nodded, eyes never leaving the collar.

“Alright, c’mere.” Fletcher gestured for Tommy to lean forward. He obeyed in a stiff, robotic motion, forcing himself through the fear. They reached behind his neck and unbuckled the collar. Freed for a moment, but now his throat was rendered vulnerable to his old collar’s teeth. Tommy sat deathly still as Fletcher replaced his old collar, even when the barbs bit into his skin. He white-knuckled the sheets.

Tommy’s chest felt too tight for his heart, too tight for his lungs. Tears stung as his eyes. He couldn’t move. With a blink, the tears breached and spilled down his face.

“Woah, you good?” Fletcher sounded surprised.

Tommy tried to say “I’m okay,” but all that came out was a tight lipped “Mrmm.”

Fletcher observed him carefully. Hands twisted tight in the fabric, chest rising and falling rapidly, crying silently. 

They didn’t want to walk it back - relent and let him wear a different collar immediately after declaring he needed to wear this one. But they didn’t know how to comfort someone having a panic attack. They only knew how to instill fear, not subside it. 

Fletcher put their hands on Tommy’s arms.  

“Can you do this for me?” They gave him a gentle squeeze. “Can you keep it together?”

Tommy gave a slow, unconvincing nod.

“I won’t use it if you’re good,” Fletcher assured him. “And all you have to do to be good is do nothing.”

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut and nodded again.

“Okay. Look at me. Deep breath, okay?”

Fletcher took a big, slow breath. Tommy followed along. Fletcher held it a few seconds, then slowly blew it out. Tommy’s breath came out shaky as he copied their actions. 

“In for five, hold for five, out for five. Okay? Do it again.”

In, two, three, four, five. Hold, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four, five.

Despite the exercise, Tommy made an involuntary noise of distress - a muffled moan from behind his clenched jaw. He began to shake, nervous energy overflowing in his body.

“Okay, hey,” Fletcher moved their hands to his shoulders. “Watch me, watch.” They held up a hand. “Touch your thumb to your pinky, ring, index. Skip the middle. Pinky, ring, index.”

Tommy watched, unsure, before looking down at his own hand to mimic the movements. Pinky, ring, skip the middle, index.

“Okay, good. Now, pinky, middle, index. Pinky, middle, index.”

Pinky, middle, index. 

“Alternate those. Pinky, ring, index. Pinky, middle, index. You’ll have to think about it.”

Tommy tapped his thumb to the tip of each finger. When he changed the pattern he hesitated, making sure not to touch the finger he needed to skip. Fletcher was right, it required his focus. His breathing began to calm down on its own. 

“There you go!” Fletcher ruffled his hair. Tommy leaned into it, but the touch lasted only a moment. 

~~

There was a chill bite in the air. Fletcher had wrapped a scarf around Tommy’s neck to hide the collar, and given him a coat to wear - a heavy denim work jacket, lined with well-worn flannel. It dwarfed his thin frame, but kept him cozy.

Tommy pulled himself up into the truck, settling into the bench seat in the back.

Fletcher turned around in the driver’s seat to look at him.

“What are you doing?”

Tommy stiffened, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. “Uh…”

“Am I your chauffeur? Get up here.”

Tommy hesitated only a moment before clambering out of the back and moving up to ride shotgun. He tucked his hands between his thighs, both to keep them warm and to maintain his distance.

“What kind of music do you like?” Fletcher asked. They plugged an aux cord into an ipod and began to scroll.

“Oh, um, whatever you want to listen to is fine,” Tommy assured them.

“Not what I asked.”

“I, uh… I like punk music,” Tommy admitted.

Fletcher looked up at him and smiled. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Um, like… Billy Talent, The Offspring, Destroy Boys, uh…”

“Green Day?”

“Yeah.”

“Against me!?”

“Yes, some.”

“Bouncing Souls?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, I’m just going to put it on shuffle, you can tell me what you recognize.”

Fletcher drove carefully through the woods, following a path through the trees marked only by previous tire tread. The truck bumped along steadily until they emerged onto an empty country road. 

“We’re just going into town to go to the grocery store,” Fletcher explained. “There’s a farm I have a barter system with, and I normally like to go there for my produce, at least, but… I took Buck there one time. And having one guy with visible scarring who has to wait in the car is explainable enough. But a second guy with visible scarring who has to wait in the car, that starts to get suspicious. So, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t want to stop going there, but I also don’t want to have to stage a death cult situation if they catch on that something is up. They’re nice people.”

“...Sure.”

“I don’t… love going out in public, either,” Fletcher admitted. “But I’m good at lying. You… maybe just hang back a bit and try to stay calm. In fact, it’s best if you don’t talk to anyone. We can get you some headphones or something if it’s overstimulating. I don’t know how bad off you are.”

“I… I think I can hold it together,” Tommy mumbled. He watched the scenery go by out the window. Everything was frosted in snow – the trees, fields, the occasional home or warehouse set back from the road. It was all a reminder that a normal world still existed, even though he hadn't been part of it for years. 

Caius usually cuffed his hands to the inside door handle. Without being tethered in place, he wasn’t sure what to do with them, so he kept them tucked away. 

Tommy gasped suddenly and turned his head away from the window.

“What?” Fletcher asked, eyebrows raised.

“Just… dead cat. On the side of the road.”

“Aw, that’s awful.” Fletcher shook their head. “I don’t know why people still think it’s okay to have outdoor cats. They think their pets are somehow immune to the dangers of the world, and then they get hit by cars or eaten by coyotes or whatever. Or come home with fleas. Diseases.” They took their eyes off the road for a moment to look at Tommy, their gaze heavy on him. “It’s just not safe out there.”

Tommy swallowed and nodded, letting his eyes drift back outside. 

When they got to the grocery store, Tommy trailed close behind Fletcher, hands tucked into the pockets of the coat. Fletcher would ask for Tommy’s input occasionally, but mostly moved through swiftly, stocking up in bulk. His role was as their shadow, collecting items here and there at Fletcher’s direction.

It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else how on edge Fletcher was, but Tommy could see it. A tightness in their features, tension in their shoulders. The way their eyes moved around like they were scanning for threats. 

Tommy was feeling the anxiety as well. It had been so long since he had been around so many people that were just… normal. Going about their days. Didn’t know who he was, or what he was. The aquarium visit felt distant, faded like far more time had passed than actually had. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as the grocery store was, bustling with people. He caught some eyes lingering on the pale patches of his skin, on the long scar that ran down beside his eye. He shook his hair down in front of his face to cover him as much as it could, hiding a grimace when the motion tugged painfully on the collar.

It crossed his mind - what if he tried to get help? Even if he ran up to a stranger and begged them to help him, would they? Did it make a difference if he found the store manager, asked them to call the police? What if he made a scene, screaming that he was being held against his will?

He would probably just look crazy. People would turn away, more uncomfortable than concerned. He’d seen the shocking amount of apathy people had when he was sleeping rough. Even if someone cared, Fletcher would talk their way out of it. Or, if they fled the scene, they would find him later, and take him back. And then he’d really be in for it.

He couldn’t imagine it working. Nothing had worked out for him in years. All it would accomplish would be to ruin any good graces he had with Fletcher. They would never take him out of the lodge again. He could lose privileges to food, to outdoor access, to any small luxuries Fletcher allowed him. They would hurt him for sure. Worse - they might send him back.

So Tommy behaved. He only spoke when Fletcher asked him a question. He avoided eye contact with the other people in the store. He didn’t ask for anything. 

The cart was filled to the brim by the time they were done. Fletcher climbed into the bed of their truck and had Tommy pass them the bags so they could load them into coolers against the cab. 

“We need to leave room,” Fletcher said. “We have more pickups.”

Tommy didn’t ask where they were going. The next stop was a house in a residential neighborhood. He waited in the car while Fletcher went up and rang the doorbell. A woman answered and welcomed them inside. They emerged a few minutes later carrying a grocery bag, which they put in the back seat before driving off again.

 “You hungry?” Fletcher asked. 

They took Tommy to a fast food drive through. Tommy was overwhelmed by the amount of options on the menu, and picked a simple staple - cheeseburger, fries, chocolate shake. 

Tommy took a bite of the cheeseburger. It was… underwhelming. He really was spoiled by Fletcher’s cooking. Next, the fries. Now, those scratched an itch he didn’t know he had. He took a few more and dragged them through his milkshake, reveling in the complimentary flavors of salty and sweet. 

Tommy had scarfed down his food by the time they made their next stop. The truck pulled up along the curb outside of a music supply store. He looked at Fletcher in surprise, but didn’t say anything.

Fletcher said nothing either, just got out of the truck. Tommy followed them inside and up to the desk.

“Hey, I’m picking up an order for Fletcher.” They rapped their knuckles lightly against the counter. 

The employee tapped away at the computer. “Mkay… Fletcher? Yep, got it right here. That your truck? We’ll start bringing it out to ya.”

Fletcher nodded and headed back outside. Tommy lagged slightly as he followed, looking around wide eyed at the vast array of shiny new instruments. He badly wanted to stay and check some out, but he had to stay at Fletcher’s heel.

He still didn’t ask.

The employee wheeled out a u-cart. Most of it was in boxes. But the boxes had labels - images of what was inside. And the bass drum was in its own distinct travel case. 

Fletcher lowered the tailgate and began to load in the new drum set with the employee. Tommy jumped in as well, hands shaking. He remembered packing up Avi’s van to play shows. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Fletcher thanked the employee. They turned back to Tommy.

He was on the verge of hyperventilating. He had told Fletcher that he used to play drums, and now they were buying a whole drum set. A new drum set. But yet he couldn’t bring himself to say, is it for me? It felt too presumptuous, too fragile. If he didn’t ask, then Fletcher couldn’t hurt him with their answer. Instead he stood there and waited, wide eyed and trembling.

“Yes, they’re for you,” Fletcher said.

Tommy couldn’t contain himself. He brought his arms up, nearly squealing with excitement, before rushing forward and embracing Fletcher in a hug.

“Woah! Okay.” Fletcher recoiled at first, but Tommy held fast. They patted him awkwardly on the back. “Alright.”

“Thank you so much!” Tommy pulled back to talk face to face, but was still clinging to their coat, his eyes shining with emotion. “Thank you, thank you, what do I have to do?”

Fletcher half smiled. “Uh, not judge me for being out of practice.”

Tommy’s eyes widened again. “We’re going to play together?!”

“Yeah, I’m not going to let you have all the fun.”

Tommy stepped back, hands on his cheeks, beaming at the drums in the back of the truck.

“I can’t believe you bought a whole new kit,” he said in wonderment.

Fletcher chuckled. “I know. The employees probably think you’re my sugar baby.” They closed the tailgate and headed back to the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”

Tommy was still buzzing with excitement, nearly bouncing in his seat.

“I can’t thank you enough, Fletcher,” he said. “Really, whatever I need to do-“”

“Relax,” Fletcher smirked at him. “I’m, uh, trying out this thing where I’m… a little nicer. I have my reasons. I’m trying to make your stay with me better.”

“I really, really appreciate it, Fletcher.”

“Yeah. I’m still gonna, you know, be mean sometimes. So.” They drummed their fingers on the steering wheel. “When I played with my friend, we could never find a drummer.”

Tommy sensed that this was sensitive information Fletcher was revealing. “Yeah, not enough of us to go around,” he offered a small laugh. “Maybe, if you want to call up your friend, we could all play together?”

Fletcher shook their head once. “He’s dead.”

“Oh.” Fuck. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s fine,” Fletcher cut him off. 

There was silence for a bit, other than the hum of the motor and the rumble of rough road. Tommy wracked his brain for how to recover the conversation, not wanting to end on such a sharp turn from positive to negative, but it was Fletcher who spoke up first.

“Me and him were partners in crime. There was another guy we ran with. We tried to get him to learn drums but he wouldn’t. Couldn’t exactly audition for a drummer and not let on that two-thirds of the band were murderers for hire. So it was just us.”

“It’s still fun to jam with friends,” Tommy encouraged, his voice soft. 

Fletcher nodded. They pulled out their ipod and turned the music back on. 

I am a patient boy

I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait

My time is like water down a drain 

~~

The two of them cleared out a section of the basement and set up the drums. Fletcher laid down an area rug so they wouldn’t be on the cold cement floor.

Tommy felt a little twist in his stomach and the prospect of having to spend time down there in order to play, but he wasn’t going to argue. 

“This thing is so out of tune,” Fletcher muttered to themself, strumming each string of the guitar over their knee. It was red, a little scuffed, and the strap was covered in pins and buttons which Fletcher had stopped a moment to sentimentally ruminate over. They adjusted the knobs as they plucked away. “Okay, let me see if I can remember…”

They played a few chords haltingly, cursing under their breath and trying different placements of their fingers. The chords came together. It was below tempo, but still recognizable as the intro to Blink-182’s “Dammit.” Fletcher giggled in accomplishment. 

Tommy hesitated with his sticks above the drums. It was going to be loud. He couldn’t imagine being allowed to be loud. And he hadn’t played in more than five years. What if he couldn’t do it anymore? What if he lost the skill he had spent so long honing? He made constant micro adjustments to the over-the-ear noise canceling earmuffs Fletcher had given him. 

“Just do some practice stuff,” Fletcher said, watching Tommy’s hesitance. “Like, uh… what do they call the, like, building block stuff, when you’re learning?”

“Rudiments?”

“Yeah, do some of that shit,” Fletcher said. “Just ease back into it.

Tommy ghosted the sticks above the skins a couple more times before finally bringing one down gently on the snare. It rattled back at him. He tried again, with more snap in his wrist. 

One… two… three… four… One… two… three… four… one, and, two, and, three, and, four, and…

The grip felt natural. The movements were a little stiff, but he could tell they would come back with a little exercise. He smiled, biting his lip as he moved from eighths to sixteenths.

Tommy tried a roll next. It was clunky, but not far off enough to discourage him. He looked up at Fletcher, expecting to share an excited smile - a bonding moment as they both returned to their instruments after years - but Fletcher was looking suddenly morose. Their eyes were on the ground, but their vision was distant. They plucked a single string with their thumb repeatedly, barely enough to make noise.

Tommy stopped playing. 

Fletcher looked up at him, saw his concerned expression, and huffed. They covered their eyes, then pinched their nose. 

“Don’t fucking look at me, man,” they groaned. “Turn your fucking stool around.”

Tommy shuffled around in his seat. He faced the wall awkwardly, drumsticks in his lap.

A pause, a sniff, a throat clearing cough. Foot tapping against the ground.

“Okay. I’m good. You can turn back around.”

Tommy turned back slowly. He tried to study Fletcher’s face without looking at them straight on.

“It’s fine,” Fletcher stated firmly. “I haven’t played… since.” They scratched their head. “It’s been like six years.”

Fletcher fell to silence again, eyes again dropping into the distance. Tommy didn’t dare interrupt.

“Were you like a full punk kid?” Fletcher asked, changing the subject. Their tone was light and conversational once more. “Or just like a pop punk suburbanite?”

“Mm… I mean, I grew up in a trailer park with my mom. It was a pretty safe neighborhood, honestly. But I got kicked out, and no one wanted to hire a seventeen year old, and then it was just one bad job to another…” Tommy looked down at his lap, swinging his feet absentmindedly. 

There was a long pause, and he realized he hadn’t answered the question.

“I did protests, put together some charity shows, whenever I wasn’t working. I was knicking some things to make ends meet, but I got caught, and no one paying anything would hire me. Then it was just whatever I could make off of shows and DIY shit, odd jobs, cleaning houses for friends, bottle returns. I couldn’t afford rent anywhere, so as soon as another sketchy roommate dipped, I’d be back sleeping in my car again. But when you’re in the scene, people don’t judge you so much for being poor, for sleeping rough. They’re a lot more accepting, willing to help out.”

Fletcher nodded, thinking for a moment before they spoke.

“I was never like, broke or homeless, but my family was, you know, working class. Both my parents worked and they had three kids, so I had to get a job when I was… 16 or 17 at a local diner. I was waiting tables but I was so bad at customer service they stuck me in back of house. That’s why I like to cook. But right after high school I started doing crime professionally. It took a minute to figure out how to get connected and get a name for yourself and start making money, but once you do, it’s good money. So by the time I was in my 20s I could pretty much buy whatever I wanted. But I never wanted to live the lifestyle of the rich and famous. For one, I didn’t want to flash blood money, but also, I grew up working for chump change and wearing hand-me-down and thrift store clothes, you know? Some people are desperate to ditch that lifestyle but I never felt like I should be a wealthy elite type. I always felt more comfortable in dive bars. Now, I am rich, but I try to be mostly self-sustaining, so I’m just sitting on the money.

“But - punk, right. I was into, well, all of it. Punk, emo, metal, hardcore. My parents didn’t really care if I was downtown at some DIY show until midnight, and mosh pits were the best outlet I had for my…” they gestured vaguely at themself. “You know, whatever is wrong with me. Violent aggression. And people would pick me up when I got knocked down. I always loved that about the scene. You knock each other down and pick each other up. It was violent but everyone had each other’s backs.” 

They both sat in silence for a few moments, remembering those days. 

“It’s funny how you end up sometimes,” Tommy mused aloud.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, uh… never mind, I didn’t…”

“No, really, what did you mean?”

Fletcher didn’t seem angry. Yet. 

“Just that, you know, we were both punks, and uh, it’s like. Anarchy and rule breaking and f-freedom and stuff.”

He paused, hoping the implication would be enough without having to elaborate, but Fletcher still waited. Their eyes had narrowed.

“And now I’m like, an object. A possession. I just do whatever anyone tells me, which isn’t very punk rock. And you… you know.”

Fletcher remained silent. They just wanted him to say it. 

“You’re, like, an authority figure.”

Fletcher stood abruptly, lifting the guitar strap off their neck.

“I’m done for today.”

“Wait, no, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“”

“Just…” Fletcher put up their hand to silence Tommy. They picked up a practice pad and passed it to him. “Take this. Go to your room. Practice your fucking paradiddles.” 

Tommy took the pad, clutching it close along with his sticks. Fletcher returned their guitar to its case and snapped it closed. Tommy scurried up the stairs, eager to get out of Fletcher’s sight and retreat to his room. It was disappointing not to get time on the set yet, but he could feel he had touched on something very precarious in Fletcher. With no way of knowing what it was, he had to tread carefully, and then some. 

He closed the room to his door behind him, dropped the pad onto his bedside table, and flopped face-first onto his bed. Every time he thought things were going well with Fletcher, they’d suddenly get pissed off, and he would suffer for it. 

Years of learning to be a people-pleaser, learning to read people and what they wanted from him like his life depended on it - because it did. The one thing he thought he was truly good at, yet his time with Fletcher had shaken his confidence to the core. Nothing that Caius wanted worked - offering himself as a sex doll drove Fletcher to put a gun in his mouth. Attempted flattery was punished as mockery, asking permission was met with annoyance. The apologetic nature Caius had beaten into him for years was now treated like a nuisance. Fletcher could have moments of such startling kindness, like buying Tommy a whole new drumset just today - and then turn around and deliver such cruelty. Whatever this mood was, at least he wasn’t really being punished - for now - but he could stay up all night wondering what exactly he did wrong and still be no closer to understanding by morning. It was emotional whiplash, how fast their mood could change. Tommy was used to walking on eggshells, yet he constantly misstepped with Fletcher. 

He burrowed his face into his pillow and groaned, shaken by the interaction. Tommy felt frustrated and helpless. If he told Fletcher that, they might smile. Or - fuck, who knows. 

He sighed and reluctantly got back up, repositioning himself to work on his practice pad. He didn’t want to know what would happen if Fletcher caught him eschewing the practice they’d ordered. Tommy started to tap out his old fundamentals, obedient. 

Par-a-did-dle Par-a-did-dle Par-a-did-dle-

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr

[bodhrancomedy]

When you’re watching a 1970s cop show which has a whole episode that essentially boils down to “fuck homophobia” and “fuck cops with no regulations” (ironic since the show is *about* cops with no regulations), you have to get through this bit before the “let’s fuck with homophobic cops” bit.

On one hand, this is embarrassing.

On the other, queer people are handled way better here in the 70s multiple time than the 90s reboot where our heroes are actively homophobic for laughs.

[princessnamora]

Claudia Cardinale as Maria Grant in The Professionals (1966)

[victimeyez]

https://whumpcast.zencast.website/

Introducing...WhumpCast!

@knivestothroats and I have been working on setting up this podcast, and we are finally ready to share our pilot! We lay out who we are, what we write, and how we discovered whump...er, well, we try our best.

The podcast discusses whump community trends, whump writing, and whump in popular media. Give us a listen, and let us know what you think!

What would you like to hear about? We want to talk all whump tropes, popular whump AUs, best whump moments in media, diversity in the community, and the importance of giving a murderous online stranger your address.

*Contains some non-explicit talk about noncon whump.

[fanlore-wiki]

Terminology Thursday: BOTW (Babe of the Week)

This Terminology Thursday, we’re looking at Babe of the Week, or BOTW for short. This term is primarily used for female love interests who appear in only one episode of a series and are neither seen nor mentioned again.

The main reason for these one-shot love interests was to ensure that the story’s status quo is restored by the end of the episode. This trope originated from American/UK TV series in the 60s and 70s, most notably Star Trek:TOS and The Professionals. Due to the heavily episodic nature of these series, absolute continuity between episodes was required so audiences could easily tune in at any point.

Some slash fans perceive the BOTW negatively as the character interferes with their preferred pairing or OTP, while others find that the BOTW further adds to the slashy subtexts since she ultimately goes away at the end, thus further solidifying the bond between the two (oftentimes) male leads.

Fans may also find BOTW pairings desirable and interesting, such as the Sam/Sarah pairing in the Supernatural fandom.

Want to learn more? Visit Fanlore!

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[dailypros]

[cimmerian-war-shrine]

[leona-florianova]

The Professionals (1977)

*so they are on tv yet again...

**also while looking for references I stumbled upon this [X]article about the show and..what a great read.

[signorinaclaudiacardinale]

Claudia Cardinale in "LIFE" magazine:

Italian beauty takes a desert bath on location in Nevada. /In this photo Claudia was filming "The Professionals" on July 8, 1966/

Claudia Cardinale, a wary beauty is afraid Hollywood will ruin her. Claudia Cardinale has a problem. At 26 she has become the most admitted international film star since Sophia Loren. Lusciously built along Italian lines, like Sophia, Claudia also has a special tender beauty in her face. Easy to work with, she is a director's pet. Unmarried, she has no close family worries. So what's her problem? Her problem is, now that she has finally agreed to work in Hollywood, she is afraid she will be over-glamorized and exploited-as Sophia was. Her first Hollywood movie, the recent 'Blindfold', confirms Claudia's worst fears of her. And she has two more coming up soon. Between Hollywood chores, she rushes away to make films in Italy, Spain, Brazil, anywhere but Hollywood. She gets paid less in Europe. "If I have to give up the money, I give it up," she insists, "I don't want to become a cliché."

She'd rather lose money than be a cliché In high spirits at being out of Hollywood and back in Italy, Claudia stopped her car to join villagers who had shouted "Claudia, Claudia", Then they all joined their favorite star for a picture.

Claudia likes the sun of Italy more than of Hollywood. Always rushing from one picture into another, she grabs five minutes to back on her Hotel Excelsior Lido balcony in Venice.

Anthony Quinn, who has acted with both Claudia and Sophia says: "I adore them equally But if I had to say, well, I relate easier to Claudia; Sophia creates an impression of something unobtainable but Claudia-She's not easy, still she's within reach".

Helping pick Miss Italy, Claudia lunches with each judges at Salsomaggiore. She got her own movie start by winning a rather specialized contest as "Most beautiful Italian in Tunisia". In Las Vegas, working on her next Hollywood picture, 'The Professionals'.

In Brazil a waiter proposed to her by mail, posted a marriage notice in his church, and changed his name to "Mr. Cardinale".

Claudia gobbles up a pile of magazines. She reads them to improve her English and keep up on fashions.

Claudia hangs on the words of Luchino Visconti, who directed her in 'Sandra', which won a Venice Festival prize.

Claudia says: "He sees me as cat that someday will turn into a tiger."

Credits:

📷 Photographs by Howell Conant. 📰 Text taken from the magazine "Life" in 1966. 🎥 My Gifs are behind the scenes of "The Professionals" memories.

[justablah56]

I DREW THE ROBITS

I'm v happy with how they turned out ! anyways . VR LA and Maxim . in real gay love . trust me .

[lamardeuse]

One of my absolute favourite vids by the Media Cannibals (remix by Justacat)

[knivestothroats]

The Professionals - Overdraft Fee

(Because it comes after Withdrawals) The Pros Masterlist || ITWS Masterlist || Pro/Vic Masterlist CW: drug addiction/withdrawls, vomiting, hallucinations

Fletcher eased the door open and peered in at Tommy. He was pale and sweaty, squirming in discomfort on top of the bedsheets.

“Hey,” Fletcher shut the door behind them. “How are you doing?”

Tommy’s eyes snapped open to glare at Fletcher, but he held his tongue.

“Drink more water,” Fletcher said, nodding to the still mostly full bottle on his bedside table. “You don't need to ration it. It’ll help with the aches.”

“It’ll help with the aches?” Tommy repeated scornfully. “I can think of something that would help more.”

Fletcher put their hands on their hips. “Okay, I understand that you’re going through it right now, so-”

“You don't understand what I’m going through!” Tommy snapped. Some of the anger dissipated from his features under Fletcher’s cold stare, replaced by fear and misery. He pressed his hands over his eyes. “I’m sorry, just… I can be useful to you if I’m not sick. Please, just… give me something.”

“Look, I can get you methadone tomorrow - probably. You just have to make it ‘til then.”

“I don’t believe that you don’t have anything.”

“Why would I withhold that?”

“No, drugs!” Tommy snapped again. “You have to have something!”

“I never said that I don’t have any painkillers,” Fletcher responded evenly. “I don’t keep recreational drugs in the house, though. So no coke. And no antidepressants, either, although we can… figure that out later if we need to.”

Tommy scoffed. “Maybe you should.”

Fletcher stepped closer. “What?”

Tommy scowled and looked away. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“No, what did you mean?”

Tommy looked at them now, hate burning in his eyes.

“Maybe you should be medicated. Or at least take something that makes you fun to be around, instead of being some sad asshole who lives in the woods out of-”

Fletcher slapped him hard enough to make his head spin. Before Tommy could curl up in a defensive position, Fletcher grabbed his face and brought it close to theirs.

“Out of what?” they hissed.

Tommy averted his eyes and gritted out, “Sorry,” despite still looking pissed.

“No,” Fletcher gave his head a little shake. “Out of what? Tell me what you were gonna say.”

Tommy wasn’t out of his head enough to finish his sentence. He knew it was better to keep his mouth shut. But they were digging their fingers into his cheeks and demanding a response and they weren’t even letting him beg or bargain for pain relief and….

Tommy began to cry, still caught in Fletcher’s grip. He didn’t mean to, but his head was pounding and his body ached and he was hot and cold at the same time and he never stopped feeling like he was on the verge of throwing up and Fletcher wouldn’t even let him do anything to get drugs. They wouldn’t give him anything at all. 

Fletcher made a noise of disgust and released him.

“Give me a shout if you think you’re gonna die,” they said over their shoulder as they stormed out of the room, leaving Tommy alone again.

I just have to get through the break, Tommy kept telling himself. This fever - the withdrawals - they had to break at some point, right? 

God, he missed the internet. WebMD, save me now. He wasn’t sure what would happen, or how long it would take. Would he really die? 

The idea of Fletcher letting him die, purely out of spite, just because they wouldn’t give him drugs, was a funny thought. Funny enough that he laughed about it. It felt like a real possibility, real and close to happening, and he was just snorting and giggling about it on his sweat-soaked sheets. 

Maybe they’ll do it. It might as well happen. He’d had his fun, got to play for a few hours thinking maybe this new life could be okay, could be better. Only to have it snatched away, the dwindling drugs leaving him dying here would be a poignant last kiss goodbye from Caius. He stopped laughing. He laid there in silence and wished things were different. That maybe he could have been someone else.

He hated Caius. He hated Fletcher. To his surprise, Caius visited first. 

Tommy didn’t hear him come in. There was a hand on his face, cradling his chin, another pushing the hair back from his sweaty forehead. He smelled like clean cotton and sandalwood. He was put together as always, beautiful as he was the first day they met. He was wearing that soft linen shirt Tommy liked, that he would rub his cheek on when he pulled it out of the laundry just because it felt nice. So few things in Caius’s home made him feel nice. 

There were no eyes past his clear rimmed glasses, replaced with glowing circles, just like spots in his vision when he’d stared at the sun for too long. The hands on his face were hot, too close, his skin felt unbearably sensitive to his touch - but Caius had come back for him, he wouldn’t let Fletcher leave him to die.

“Caius,” he breathed, and a sob of relief bubbled in his chest. “You - you came back for me.”

“You look awful. Is this any way to behave for one of my friends?” His tone was deceptively gentle, the way it always was, chastising him softly.

“Nooo,” Tommy wheezed, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“They’re sending you home with me. They don’t want you, either.”

Tommy whimpered, sneaking a peek back at the window, at the sunlight streaming in. He felt a pang of remorse for snapping at Fletcher, after all they’d done for him. Caius’s hands pulled his face back, forcing him to stare back into those hollow eyes.

“It’s okay now Tommy, I can make it stop.”

Tommy clutched at his wrists, needed to feel he was real.

“You can?” The whole room was swimming, and all he could do was drown. 

“Please, please, make it stop, please, I’m so sorry,” he begged. He could go home with him happily if he would just stop the pain.

“What are you sorry for?”

Caius’s voice turned cold. So did his hands, suddenly freezing against his skin. He feared they might stick, like a tongue to a frozen pole. He couldn’t speak. He was frozen, too.

“For ruining everything we had? How about that, Tommy, is that it?”

“Yes,” Tommy gasped, as Caius’s nails grew into talons sharp against his face. “Yes, Caius, I’m so sorry, I-”

“Look at me,” Caius snarled, and he gripped the sides of Tommy’s face, looming in closer. Those fingernails burrowed into his scalp. Tommy couldn’t look away, staring into the blinding suns of Caius’s eyes. It burned a searing pain, his eyes were on fire, but he was paralyzed with fear. Caius pressed his thumbs under Tommy’s eyes, pulling the lower lids down as if to peel them from his face. His fingers were long and needle-like now, the sharp tips hovering only a hair’s breadth away from Tommy’s eyes. 

“I’m going to make sure you never see the sun again,” Caius hissed, and he plunged his armored thumbs into his eyes, turning the whole world black in an explosion of pain. 

Tommy screamed and thrashed. A shadow moved in Caius’s eyes and suddenly he wasn’t there. Forming in his place was Fletcher leaning over him, blocking the harsh glow of his ceiling light.

“Hey, hey.”

The hands on his face were human again. He reached up and grabbed onto Fletcher’s wrists. They felt more real.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wailed. “I’m sorry for what I said. I don’t want to go back, I don’t want to go back in the dark…”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Fletcher assured him. “You’re not going anywhere, okay?”

Caius peered down at him from over Fletcher’s shoulder.

“I can make the pain stop if you come home with me,” he promised.

Tommy wanted the pain to stop. He wanted it more than anything. But he knew going back with Caius meant being locked back in the dark, cold basement. He knew he would be trading this pain now for more pain in the future. He had made Caius so angry… but still…

“How could you get rid of me?” Tommy sobbed. “How could you… how could you not even say goodbye… after everything… after everything you did to me…”

Fletcher’s brows knit together as they watched Tommy babble to no one, eyes unfocused and drifting. His body jerked suddenly and he rolled over to throw up into the garbage. 

At least he had the wherewithal not to asphyxiate. Fletcher pushed his hair off his face as he heaved again. He was hot to the touch.

The door opened and Williams poked his head in.

“What’s going on in here?”

“Do you need something?” Fletcher asked impatiently. 

“I heard screaming; are you torturing him or something?”

“Willy, you thought I was torturing him in here and you just walked in?”

Williams bristled. “It’s Billy.”

“What do you want?” Fletcher repeated.

Williams nodded towards Tommy. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s going through withdrawals.”

Williams blanched slightly. “Oh, yeah? What, uh, kind of stuff was he on?”

Fletcher sighed and shook their head, watching Tommy spit into the can. “I don’t know. Opioids mostly.”

“Methadone helps with that.”

Fletcher sighed louder. “If I had methadone, I would be using it. I have a hook up, but I can’t get it until tomorrow.”

Williams studied Tommy for a moment. “You buy this guy on the black market or something?”

“…Something like that,” Fletcher conceded. “Last time I’m going to ask you if you need something, otherwise leave.”

Williams put up his hands in surrender and left, closing the door once more. 

Fletcher turned their attention to Tommy again. He seemed to be done retching, and at least wasn’t begging to empty air anymore. 

“Okay, try to stand up.”

Fletcher took Tommy’s arms and gently pulled him up. They put an arm around his waist to guide him onto his feet. Tommy grabbed onto their shirt to steady himself, leaning against them as he wobbled through the first few steps across the room.

“Easy, Model-T,” Fletcher cooed. They kept him steady as they led him to the bathroom and shut the door behind them. 

“Alright, get out of your clothes.”

Numbly, Tommy disrobed, refusing to look at Fletcher. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, too empty to retch again. He was distinctly aware that he was not impressing Fletcher. 

Fletcher looked him over with a clinical eye. They’d noticed the new scar on his face, and some uneven marbling of his skin, but they had assumed them to be more scars, or a skin condition. Whatever it was, it was brought to stark relief with him nude in the bathroom light. He was dappled all over in patchy white marks, so bleached they looked almost translucent. His ribs jutted out, clearly underfed and malnourished from years of neglect. Whatever the hell they had done to him, his body had taken a severe toll. But now was not the time to interrogate him.

“Okay, get in the tub. You can sit if you need to.”

Fletcher turned the water on as they gave the instructions, putting their hand in the stream to check the temperature. 

Tommy teetered as he lifted each leg to step into the tub, and kept a hand on the tiled wall as he lowered himself down. 

“Okay, it’s gonna be cold,” Fletcher warned before pulling the diverter and switching the stream of water to the shower head. 

Tommy flinched as the water hit him. It wasn’t hard, and it wasn’t freezing, but it was a shock against his feverish skin. After a moment, it became a relief, grounding him. 

Tommy leaned against the wall, resting his temple on the tiles. He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms under his knees.

“‘M sorry,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to keep saying that,” Fletcher responded, sitting on the closed toilet. “I don’t even think you know what you’re apologizing for.”

“No… I’m sorry you have to do all this for me. I’m sure this isn’t what you wanted… when you bought me.”

Fletcher said nothing.

“I, um,” Tommy swallowed. “I’ll make it up to you. When I’m better.”

Fletcher sighed. “Alright. I’m sure you’ll be cussing me out for not giving you drugs in like ten minutes.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the rush of the falling water.

“Are you going to send me back?” Tommy asked in a small voice.

“No.” Fletcher didn’t hesitate.

All things considered - at least until the next wave of pain and nausea hit and the cravings took over his system - Tommy hoped they were telling the truth.

Fletcher stopped the shower before Tommy got too cold. They let him towel off and returned with clean clothes before leading him back to his room. 

“Try to get some sleep. I’ll be back around.”

Sleep wasn’t on the table for Tommy. Not in this state. He tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable.

When the door opened again, it wasn’t Fletcher - it was Williams.

He slipped carefully into Tommy’s room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“What were you on before?” he asked. “Percs, oxy?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy groaned, turning his head away. “Probably.”

Williams leaned down close. He took hold of Tommy’s chin with two fingers, turning it towards himself and guiding it down. Tommy dutifully opened without much thought. Williams placed something on his tongue.

Tommy’s eyes widened.

It was a pill.

“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya.”

Tommy grabbed his water and drank down the pill as Williams slipped out again.

Maybe it was foolish not to spit it out and check what it was. He wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to tell. But at this point, he didn’t really care. He just wanted to feel good enough to return to his chores. 

Whatever happened, he couldn’t lose the light again.

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr @victimeyez

[bodhrancomedy]

Me: I do not need anymore t-shirts, I have so many I need to get rid of some because my crappy chest of drawers don’t fit very much in them.

Also me:

Hehoheha Professionals T-shirt

I also just realised I can get more duvet covers if I want to, and they can be nerdy.

[princessnamora]

Claudia Cardinale as Maria Grant in The Professionals (1966)

[victimeyez]

Withdraw

Part 2 of the Professional//Victim + In The Woods Somewhere crossover series The Professionals

~

Tommy spent the rest of the day outside, between lying in the sun and walking laps around the property. It felt like a dream after being in the hole for so long. Well, he assumed it was long - he had no way of knowing how much time had passed since Caius took away the last of his light. 

He’d been outside for a couple of hours before he realized it might look bad to Fletcher. If they suspected he was trying to plan an escape, they might take away this freedom just as fast as they had given it. Tommy stood in front of the lodge, taking slow, even breaths to try to steel himself. 

He finally ventured inside, nervous to walk through the house alone to try to find Fletcher. Luckily, they were in the kitchen, cooking something that reminded Tommy how hungry he was. He hadn’t dared take anything, even after Fletcher said he could. It felt like a trap. 

Fletcher glanced in his direction. “What’s up?”

Oh. Tommy immediately forgot what he had prepared to say.

“I uh– I guess I just wanted to…check in. Do you need– do you want me to help with dinner? Or…anything else?..” He cringed internally, but offered Fletcher a timid smile. Please, please like me.

“Mm, no, I’m just cooking for myself right now,” Fletcher said. 

“Oh, okay. I’ve just been outside, you have really - the grounds are really beautiful.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it. Have you eaten yet?”

“Uh…no, not yet.” The idea of taking his own food sounded infinitely daunting. Caius had been very strict on that, and it felt wrong now to assume what he could eat, and when. Tommy fidgeted uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself like a shield.

Fletcher said nothing. They retrieved two bowls from the cabinet, filled one for themself, then dished the remainder into the second. It was smaller, but still enough to be a decent serving. They picked both up and held the smaller one towards Tommy.

Tommy looked at the food. Steaming, vibrant vegetables tossed with rice. His stomach growled loud enough he was sure Fletcher heard it. He looked up at Fletcher, trying to read them, to see if this was real. They just waited.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tommy reached for the bowl, and Fletcher pulled it back. Tommy snapped his hand back like Fletcher had tried to bite him.

“I’m being nice,” Fletcher informed him. “I told you to eat hours ago. I’m not cooking all your meals for you. I’m cutting you some slack because you’re new here. But you need to feed yourself. Understand?”

“Yes, Fletcher.” Tommy swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to… overstep.”

“I told you more than once that you can get your own food from the kitchen.”

They held out the bowl. Tommy haltingly reached for it again, and this time Fletcher let him take it. 

“I’m sorry… thank you,” he added timidly. The bowl was warm in his hands, and the smell was making his mouth water. 

“Do I eat at the table?”

“Sure,” Fletcher said, heading off towards the couch. “Wherever. You can eat in your room, just bring your dirty dishes back.”

Tommy absconded to his room to eat. Sitting at the table felt like too much. He snuck his dishes to the sink and sequestered himself back into his room until nightfall, just sitting at the window, trying to drink in the dream while it lasted. 

When it started to grow late, his meditation was interrupted by a knock on the door. When Fletcher entered, Tommy scrambled to his feet.

“Stand down there, soldier, I just brought you some necessities. Since apparently they sent you without anything but the clothes on your back, I put together a little pack for you.” Fletcher opened the bag and showed him - shampoo, conditioner, deodorant,  a bar of soap, a toothbrush, tooth paste, dental floss, antibiotic ointment, and a big box of bandaids.

Right. Still going to beat the shit out of me. Don’t get too comfy, Tommy chided himself, but accepted the pack gratefully. 

“I don’t – I don’t know what to say, thank you,” he told Fletcher, hugging the bag to his chest. 

“There’s some clothes in the dresser. Should fit you, sort of.” 

Tommy nodded, thanking them again. Fletcher made a vague grunt of acknowledgement and left. He found a pair of gym shorts and a soft tee to sleep in, both baggy on him, but good enough. Fletcher didn’t lock the door to Tommy’s bedroom when they left, or even after he showered and brushed his teeth. Tommy couldn’t bear to turn the lights off, so he sat in bed with them on, anxiously waiting to see if Fletcher would lock his door. He was still waiting for the sound of that click when he finally fell asleep.

~

He woke up early on his own. It took him a minute to remember where he was, all that had transpired yesterday. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen asleep without a heavy dose of meds from Sam. He wished he had some now, a thought that had occurred to him numerous times while he had sat vigilant the night before. He wasn’t in any real pain, other than the usual aches he had from things that never healed quite right. The meds still offered comfort, the best break he could get from his reality. 

Through the window, he saw the grounds illuminated in a dull blue light. Sunrise hadn’t broken yet. Maybe it was the new surroundings, maybe it was a hanging fear of Caius coming for him – whatever it was, Tommy felt sick to his stomach with anxiety. He decided to get up and make his way downstairs to get a jump on the day. If he showed Fletcher that he was useful, then maybe they would maintain their mercy on him for a little longer.

It felt good – or, at least, better – to do something. He found an assortment of cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the sink, and got to work. Without knowing Fletcher’s schedule yet, he wasn’t sure how long he would have, but he was hellbent on doing the most thorough job he could. Everything was wiped down twice, every corner and crease scrubbed to perfection. Tommy was still furiously wiping at the grouting between the shower tiles when the door to the bathroom swung open. 

“Uh…okay.” He recognized the trainee at the door, the only woman he’d seen around the lodge. Her hair was tied in a bun that more resembled a rat’s nest on top of her head, and she still had sleep in her eyes. She stepped back out the door, turning her head to call out–

“Fletcher! Your boy is taking up the bathroom!”

Tommy’s eyes went wide, still clutching the sponge when he raised his hands in a supplicant gesture. “No, wait, please don’t get–”

Fletcher appeared in the doorway, eyeing the disheveled Tommy standing in the bathtub. They looked over the bathroom he had already cleaned with a charming look of utter boredom.

“You. Let them use the bathroom.”

“Of course– I mean, yes Fletcher,” Tommy stumbled over himself, rushing to wipe the bleach from his hands and fleeing the bathroom while they waited. 

“You can finish it later, it’s a bloodbath trying to get in there in the mornings. Go put some proper clothes on and get breakfast, I have tasks for you today.” 

Tommy nodded eagerly and retreated to his room. He was already sweating, did Fletcher turn the heat on in the night or something? But when he wiped the sweat away, his skin felt clammy. He did his best to clean himself up a little, giving the dresser a quick rummage for clothes. 

He settled on a pair of jeans and an old shirt with a car on it, boasting the Ford brand. While Tommy was not loyal to any particular car manufacturer, it felt like a little link to his home back in Detroit. Maybe that made it a lucky shirt – and he could really use whatever luck he could get for his first full day with Fletcher. Everything was still big on him, but he found a belt in the bottom drawer that helped. He took a deep breath before heading to the kitchen, scared to keep Fletcher waiting too long. 

Having options to choose from for breakfast was a little overwhelming. He settled on a bowl of cereal and an apple. Sitting at the table with Fletcher helped a little - there had been very few times in the last five years that Tommy had eaten a meal without Caius’s supervision. Still, he bounced his leg under the table, and his anxiety nagged at him. 

Am I chewing too loud? What does Fletcher want me to do? Are they unhappy with how I was cleaning the bathroom? Sweat dewed on his forehead while he struggled to get his meal down, even though everything tasted good. Fletcher even let him drink coffee, which he immediately burned his tongue on, eager as he was to get to drink it again.

Afterwards, Fletcher presented him with a list. 

“Clean up the kitchen. Anything that doesn’t fit in the dishwasher needs to be hand washed, and don’t forget to wipe down the counters. Then start on the list. The order doesn’t matter, other than doing the dusting before you do the floors. I don’t care when you break for lunch, just don’t let me catch you slacking off for too long. I expect everything to be finished before dinner. If you have any questions, come find me, I’ll be with the students. Capiche?”

Tommy read through the list. Dust, scrub the floors, weed the crops, lunch, water everything in the greenhouse, clean the bathrooms on the middle floor and upstairs, clean up after dinner. It sounded doable - though the weeding could take a long time, depending on how bad it was. He tried to remember if he had seen many when he looked at the gardens yesterday – it couldn’t have been bad, he probably would have noticed that. Right?

He worked through the kitchen, trying to do as thorough a job as possible, as fast as possible. He upended the toaster over the sink, giving the bottom a few slaps to empty the crumbs out before wiping it down and replacing it. Dishes were rinsed with hot water before being loaded into the dishwasher, and he managed to slip the broom underneath the fridge while he was sweeping. There was an overflow of dishes from a day or two of neglect, so he was left with a lot of handwashes, which he polished dry. After a lot of rummaging in the cabinets, he eventually found where each thing went, or at least an approximation. 

Dusting next, afterwards floors, by then the bathrooms should be mostly clear - and he had a head start on one. He dusted furiously, straining on the tips of his toes to reach the top of the ceiling fan blades. Everything got a once over with the duster, and then again by hand with a paper towel, spraying any surface that could take it with cleaner. It was odd using real cleaners again - he’d been long banned from most anything other than vinegar and baking soda. Nothing that could put him out permanently if he drank it. 

He was soaked with sweat already before he moved down to the floor to scrub. No mop, just crawling around on his hands and knees to polish the wooden floors. The fumes from the lemon cleaner stung his eyes. With only a fitful night of sleep, his weariness was quickly catching up to him. At the same time, he was fervently anxious, buzzing with nervous energy. Jittery and exhausted, always a winning combo.

Tommy finished the main living room, his arms sore and knees aching already. He flexed his hands open and closed, trying to regain feeling. He kneeled on the floor and looked at the scrubber, and back up at all the flooring he still had to do, and a frustration welled up inside of him.

What stupid motherfucker buys a big fancy cabin they don’t even take their boots off in, and doesn’t own a mop. Invest in a goddamn Swiffer. How useless do you have to be to not even keep the bare minimum of cleaning supplies? Is that going to be my role here, being a housewife to replace your mommy doing everything for you?!

The moment passed, and he was a little taken aback by himself. Fletcher obviously wasn’t…whatever that was. They raised all of those crops, for fuck’s sake. 

Pace yourself better. We just need a little - a super quick break. Grab some water. 

Tommy set his supplies to the side and slipped into the kitchen. Unfortunately, he was not alone there, as a student was helping themselves to a late morning snack. Tommy had seen him yesterday, but steered clear. He was tall with a little bit of bulk, the poster boy of frat bros who’d recently gotten really into crossfit. His wavy hair was long on top, buzzed into a severe fade to the nape of his neck.

And he was making a goddamn mess.

A knife handle smeared with jelly stuck out of a jar of peanut butter on the counter, crumbs decorating the counter Tommy had just worked so hard to polish. He had a plate out, but opted to eat leaning against the counter instead, letting crumbs and drips of jam fall where they may on the newly cleaned floor. 

Tommy stared at him for a moment in disbelief. Here was some real, shameless laziness to be mad about, but what could he say? He considered turning and leaving to drink from a bathroom faucet, but the trainee had spotted him. Nervously, Tommy made his way to the fridge to find a pitcher of filtered water he’d spotted earlier. 

The trainee watched him with open curiosity as Tommy approached the refrigerator with the tribulation of a tightrope walker. When he extracted the pitcher, victorious, he peered inside to find it had been fridged empty. Tommy stared at it, dumbfounded, before raising his gaze to the sink, only a few feet from the other resident. 

It was with a dramatic resignation that Tommy approached to refill it. His hands trembled holding it under the tap, wrists tired, already sore.

“I’m Billy,” the student offered. Tommy gave his general direction a curt nod, a thin smile. 

“So uh…you live here now?”

Tommy set the pitcher on the counter, waiting for it to trickle through the filter.

“Yeah, um, I guess.”

Billy munched at his sandwich. There was a smear of peanut butter in his short beard.

“Why are you wearing a collar?”

Tommy froze, a deer in the headlights. He had assumed Fletcher had offered some form of explanation to the trainees. Or maybe they did, and Billy was trying to fuck with him. The familiar weight of his collar around his neck suddenly felt heavy, sweaty, conspicuous. The barbed tines inside itched.

“If it’s a sex thing, you can just say so. You look like you’re into some freaky shit.” Billy wasn’t subtle about checking him out, his eyes sweeping over Tommy with a lurid gaze. Maybe Tommy could have fielded it, if he was still under Caius, but what Fletcher expected from him remained an enigma. Should he ignore it? Dispute it? Agree with it? Excuse himself? Fletcher hadn’t said anything about how Tommy was supposed to treat the students.

“Jesus dude, chill. I was just asking.” Tommy hadn’t realized he was breathing hard until Billy raised his hands innocently.

“I’m – I’m sorry, I don’t think – I’m not sure if Fletcher…” Billy raised an eyebrow, waiting for Tommy to form a complete thought. Tommy waited for one, too. The awkward pause only grew more awkward. 

“I just – came here for some water.” Tommy ended weakly. He snatched a glass from where he’d put them away earlier and poured some water in with shaky hands, spilling some on the counter. He wiped it up hastily with a towel, cursing under his breath. 

“You look crazy tense. When’s the last time you got laid?”

“No,” Tommy snapped. Simple, but an unconscionable protest. He slapped a hand over his mouth and retreated, beelining for the bathroom. He enjoyed his hard-earned glass of water sitting in the half-cleaned tub, behind the curtain, hiding from the world as best he could behind a door with no lock.

His frantic compulsion to please Fletcher forced him out after only a brief break. He washed his face in the sink, sweat beading on his brow almost instantly. His head felt foggy, and a throbbing headache was blossoming in his skull. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, before wringing his hands out as if to banish his shakes. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Fletcher was waiting for him.

Fletcher looked like they were about to say something, but stopped when they saw Tommy’s face. It was pale and sweaty, dark curls sticking to his forehead, deep shadows under his eyes. Not a huge difference from his usual demeanor, but enough to give them some pause.

“You good, dude?”

“Yes,” Tommy said quickly. Then, “Um, actually, I just have a headache. I was wondering if I could maybe get some painkillers, please?”

“Yeah, sure,” Fletcher said, still eyeing Tommy skeptically. 

They led him back to the kitchen. Billy was gone, but his mess remained behind. Tommy could feel his heart racing. Should he tell Fletcher that he had cleaned the kitchen and Billy had messed it up again? Or would they get mad that he was blaming one of their trainees?

Fletcher glanced around but made no comment. They opened up a cabinet and fished out a bottle of ibuprofen, dumping two small red pills in Tommy’s hand.

Ibuprofen was not exactly what Tommy had hoped for. They may as well have stuck a bandaid on his forehead for all the good it was going to do him.

“Thank you,” Tommy murmured, staring down at the pills in his palm.

“You need water?”

“Oh...right. I got it.” 

Tommy picked up the pitcher on the counter and shakily refilled his glass. He tossed the pills into his mouth and drank them down. He forced a smile to Fletcher.

“All good. Thanks.”

Everything went blurry, then sideways. The ground hit him hard.

Tommy laid on the floor staring up at the starburst of the ceiling light. Fletcher appeared over him, lightly slapping his cheek.

“Hey, hey, you with me?”

“Uh… uh-huh,” Tommy managed. 

He started to stand up, but the room swam, and he fell back with a groan. He felt feverish, his short break hadn’t helped the sweating at all. His head pounded like a hammer to his temples. He felt so weak he could barely move, yet he trembled uncontrollably. 

Tommy couldn’t deny it any longer. He’d tried to dismiss it, tried to power through, but he knew this feeling - it was unmistakable. It didn’t always happen when Caius took his pain meds away, depending on where in the healing cycle he was, if he’d been tapered off slowly - but when they cut him off cold-turkey, things got bad fast. He just wanted so badly to prove to Fletcher that he was worth keeping around. Instead, he was twitching uselessly at their feet on the kitchen floor, a junkie going through withdrawals.

Fletcher sighed, kneeling down over him. “Alright, alright, c’mere.” They pulled Tommy by his arms to sit up, hunched over his lap limply like a ragdoll. With a surprising swiftness, Fletcher pulled him over their shoulder and lifted him up in a fireman’s carry. Tommy squeaked, dizzied from the rapid shift, and swallowed back nausea as Fletcher carried him off. He was deposited unceremoniously into his bed with a bounce and a yelp.

“Bag, please, bag-” Tommy stammered, but he only lasted long enough to crawl to the edge of the bed before retching onto the floor. 

“Great,” Fletcher mused dryly, and walked out, shutting the door behind them.

They only left Tommy to wallow a few minutes before they returned with paper towels and a cleaner Tommy had left in the living room.

“I’ll clean it up,” Tommy mewled, but when he reached for the paper towels, Fletcher slapped his hands away easily. Chastised, he curled his hands against his chest, whimpering in distress when Fletcher did a quick clean up. 

Oh, they’re going to leave me to die in the woods for sure now - it should never be their duty to clean up after me. Fletcher’s aid had immediately iced Tommy’s agitation, leaving him feeling remorseful and meek. 

“‘M so sorry,” he slurred miserably. Fletcher didn’t answer, just removed the soiled paper towels from the room without a word.

They returned a few minutes later with a water bottle, a sleeve of crackers, and a small garbage can that they placed beside his bed. 

“Here, just, stay hydrated. I can make some ginger tea or something if you still feel… nauseous…” The end of Fletcher’s sentence trailed as they looked Tommy over. “You’re shaking real hard.”

Tommy wrapped his arms around himself as if he could hold himself still.

“Sorry,” he forced out through a clenched jaw. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Being too sick to work?

Fletcher placed their hand against his forehead. 

“When did you start feeling sick?”

“This… morning.”

“Hm.” 

Fletcher stood there watching him for a moment, then sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed, drawing their phone from their pocket and dialing a number. There was a moment while they waited for an answer, then Tommy heard one half of their conversation.

“Hey, I got a guy here who got really sick all of a sudden. He just got here yesterday and seemed fine then. Feels like he’s running a fever, definitely sweaty, shaking, throwing up, headache, passed out for a second, looked like. Seems kinda out of it. He’s not like sneezing or coughing, though. Hey, anything else?”

Fletcher poked Tommy in the leg to signify they were talking to him.

“Um…” Tommy tried to take stock. He tried to remember the symptoms Fletcher had already said. “Hurts.”

“Hurts?”

Tommy nodded. The motion made his head swim.

“Okay, uh, body aches I guess,” Fletcher added to the person on the phone. 

Fletcher pulled one of Tommy’s arms toward them and pressed their fingers to his wrist. After a moment they said, “It’s elevated.”

Fletcher listened to the person on the other end, then reached over and pulled Tommy’s eyelids open, looking closely.

“Yeah, I think so.”

They released, and Tommy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, Fletcher was pinching the bridge of their nose.

“Yeah, I was worried you would say that.” Fletcher moved the phone away from their mouth and spoke to Tommy. “You on drugs?”

Tommy’s mouth flapped like a fish out of water. They said on drugs like someone in a DARE psa, and he didn’t want to get in trouble so quickly. But it would be worse if he lied. It was obvious now, so he should just cooperate. Maybe… maybe Fletcher would get him what he needed if he was forthright about it.

Tommy nodded an affirmative.

“What were you on?”

“I, uh, I don’t know, exactly,” Tommy responded sheepishly. “Mostly, painkillers and sedatives. Sometimes….some coke, to wake me up. I just took whatever they gave me, I don’t - I didn’t ask questions. I think… I think the doctor started, um, overdosing me on purpose.”

Fletcher stared at Tommy a moment before speaking into the phone.

“I’m gonna have to call you back.”

Fletcher ended the call. They began dialing a new number, walking out of the room as they did so. They didn’t particularly want a chat with Caius, but it seemed to be in order. 

“Tommy’s not giving you trouble, is he?” A silky voice asked when he picked up the call. Caius oozed charisma - an insufferable tryhard at his best.

“Well, he was perfectly well behaved before he started going through fucking withdrawals,” Fletcher said as they shut the door to their office behind them. “I need to know what drugs he was taking since you and your associates conveniently forgot to mention this.”

“Oh, well, we have a doctor on staff who provides cutting edge medical care-”

“What. Fucking. Drugs,” Fletcher cut him off.

“I’m saying,” Caius sounded annoyed, “that I didn’t administer the medications myself beyond some basic painkillers.”

Fletcher took a breath through their nose. “Then put me in contact with the doctor.”

“I’m not at liberty to be giving out the personal information of-”

“I will come to your fucking house!” Fletcher yelled through the phone. “Meadowview Community. Only house in an abandoned neighborhood development, props on pulling that off. You sold me a defective product. Don’t fuck around with me right now.”

“...One moment.”

There was shuffling and muttering on the other line before a new voice spoke into the receiver.

“This is Dr. Sam Snow, how can I help you?”

Fletcher blinked. “Were you fucking sitting next to Caius this whole time?”

“Well-”

“Put the phone on speaker. I want a list.”

Sam sighed, and Fletcher could hear him shifting in his seat on the other end.

“I make customized blends and dosages to fit the specific needs of-”

“Of what?” Fletcher interrupted again. “I don’t need the sales pitch, I need names of drugs.”

“Some of them are pre-market, the names wouldn’t be of any use to you. What do you need them for? Maybe I can help if I know what you’re looking for.”

“Yeah, the guy you sold me is going through withdrawals, so I need to know what he was taking.”

There was some muttering on the other end, muffled like a hand was held over the microphone. 

“Mostly opioids, some SSRI’s, and then some stimulants and depressants to keep the yoyo going. Give him some methadone to wean him off, he’ll be fine. How bad off is he?”

“Shaking, passing out, throwing up, running a fever,” Fletcher rattled off the symptoms. “You said he was on SSRI’s?”

Caius said something unintelligible, and they both giggled. 

“Uh, yeah, just to keep him from, you know. Kermiting-the-frog suicide. You might want to watch out for that.”

Fletcher blew out a long breath. “Okay. Methadone. Anything else I should know? How often was he taking stimulants - are those going to be a concern?”

“Eh, probably not. Towards the end there, we were kinda just keeping him in storage, so he’s just been doped down.”

“Right. Well. If there’s anything else I should know, you should tell me now. You don’t want me to have to call you again.”

Fletcher balanced their tone between civil and threatening. There was a long pause on the other end.

“...Like, about drugs?”

“About anything! If I need to know something, tell me now.”

“Ehh….not really? If you ever want some more though, I know all of Tommy’s favorites.”

“Did Tommy ask about me?” Caius spoke up, his voice carefully dry. He could play casual all he wanted, Fletcher wasn’t fooled.

“Why, did you want him to?”

Whatever Caius might have said, Sam interrupted. “We don’t care. Did you need anything else?” 

“That’s all.” In the interest of being diplomatic, they forced out a, “Thanks,” before ending the call. 

They called Estrada back.

“Do you have any methadone?”

~

Fletcher slipped back into Tommy’s room, looking something akin to apologetic. It set off alarm bells in Tommy’s head. If his heart wasn’t already racing from the withdrawals, it would be now.

“So… here’s the thing,” Fletcher began. “I can’t get you methadone until tomorrow at the earliest. So we’re just gonna have to tough this out together.”

It took a moment for Tommy to process what they were telling him, trying to think through a haze. 

“Can I have something else? Just, a tiny bit to get me through, until then? Please?”

“Thing is, I don’t know what exactly you were taking, so I don’t really want to give you anything else. I don’t know what’s in your system right now - it’d be better to just flush everything and get a clean start.”

There was a terrible dread in Tommy’s expression for just a moment, before he reflexively masked himself with a poker face. He curled up on his side, looking up at the window, his throat too thick to reply.

“Alright, well, I’ll check up on you. Drink water, try to sleep it off for now. I’ll be back around for the thick of it.”

Before Fletcher could head for the door, Tommy pushed himself to sit up.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Fletcher hesitated.

“What do I have to do?”

“You’re gonna just have to let it run its course-”

“No, no - to get the drugs,” Tommy stammered out. “What do you want me to do?”

Fletcher stared at him. “What did I just say?”

Tommy looked down at his hands, fidgeting. 

“I know,” his voice broke. “But… you could get them. If you wanted. So… just tell me what you want and I’ll-” he swallowed uncomfortably. “-I won’t fight.”

Fletcher looked down at him. “You would do anything?”

“Yes,” Tommy breathed.

“That’s why you need to detox.”

Before Tommy could beg, bargain, or argue, Fletcher left the room.

~

~

~

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