come on and get your overdose Who: Chris, Taeja, Isobel, & Daniel What: Chris runs into a ghost from his past, and takes the info to his boyfriend. Meanwhile, Isobel welcomes a new tenant to the Bradbury. Where: The Bradbury. When: June-ish.
Chris sighed as he pushed open the doors to the Bradbury lobby. His thigh ached from showing rental property all afternoon; he winced slightly as he twisted it the wrong way, and not for the first time in recent memory thought about getting some real, serious physical therapy from a specialist. He shook his head as he made his way across the tiled floor toward the wrought iron mailboxes. In that moment, all he wanted was to get his expected package, and then disappear into his apartment, where he was hoping he'd be able to lure Daniel over for dinner and some couple TV time. His cane made a light tapping noise, softly announcing his presence, but it seemed he was alone for the moment.
Digging into his pocket, he leaned onto his left as his mail key slid home and turned smoothly; then he was divvying through mail, trying to decide what was trash and what was worth keeping, before reaching for a slender rectangle of cardboard.
A low, rough voice carried on the air behind him, coiling around his ear like a secret meant for him and him alone. Chris froze up, every hair on his body standing on end, which he knew to be the full intention of the speaker.
"Cristobal Rodriguez," the voice said, drawing out the surname, letting it roll, smug and satisfied, off his tongue. "I was beginning to think you'd dropped entirely off the face of the earth."
The newcomer was dressed in black, head to toe. His suit fit him as though it had been stitched around him, and in truth it likely had been. He ran a hand down the length of his thick black tie, needlessly smoothing it. Only his hair was out of place, and even that, rakishly so; its fall over one black eye seemed to match his cigarettes-and-whisky voice.
"Is this where you've been hiding, then?" He looked up to the skylight, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Not a bad choice, honestly."
"Taeja Kim," Chris replied, turning away from his still-open mailbox to take in the sight of one of the last people he ever wanted to see. The painful throbbing in his leg sped up, somehow tied to the double-timed beating of his heart; he worked hard to let neither show on his face, carefully fixing a frown over his mouth. The only truly visible sign of his discomfort and shocked fear was a suddenly too tight grip on his cane.
"Skulking around downtown? I didn't think you did your own dirty work."
"Dirty work? Skulking?" Taeja clicked his tongue and gave his head a subtle shake. "No, no. I'm here for the same reason as you, apparently. I've moved in."
He waited a beat, impassively searching Chris's face for any reaction. And it was there, plain as a fifty-foot wide billboard stretched over the L.A. highway — Chris's paled expression, wide eyes. The beating in his chest sped so fast, it seemed imperceptible. For a moment, he wondered if it had stopped.
"Wha.... what?!" Thankfully he kept his grip on the package in his hand, on his cane. Everything else was slowly becoming a blur: his sight, the ringing in his ears. The Bradbury was supposed to be a safe place, somewhere he could have a fucking fresh start. Why was his past continually dogging him?
"Mm." A tight smile appeared on Taeja's lips; it lingered in his eyes long after it had disappeared elsewhere. "The fourth floor. I'm having a little get-together in a couple of weeks. A housewarming, you might say. You should drop by. I hadn't thought to send you an invitation, but now that you're so close... we should catch up, don't you think?"
But not here, he did not add, and surely did not need to.
No, it would not be here; Chris hadn't completely heard the surely slightly sarcastic invitation due to the sudden ringing in his ears. He shook his head -- more a denial of Taeja's presence rather than an actual answer -- and immediately turned to head toward the elevators. He wished he could simply take the stairs, but he knew it would take longer and only be more embarrassing than what he was already doing: running away with his tail between his legs like a scared dog.
He jabbed the button for the elevator; mercifully, it was already on the lobby floor, so the doors opened quickly. Once he was inside, he jabbed the third floor button just as hard. He looked down to watch the mailroom disappear, but Tae was already gone; for a moment, Chris wondered if any of this had even happened, or if he was suddenly hallucinating again. It wouldn't have been the first time, but moving from Pax to the Bradbury was supposed to bring an end to all of that.
Then he was being let out onto the third floor, headed directly for Daniel's apartment. Chris tried to take a deep breath and calm himself, to not let the riotous emotions broiling in his stomach overwhelm him, but his knock on Daniel's door was less controlled than he would have liked. From the other side a faint murmuring could immediately be heard.
"I'm comin I'm comin…"
Then the door creaked open, only a sliver at first, before Daniel saw his partner and swung the door wide. He was barefoot, clad in tight, torn black jeans and a fitted white tank. He looked dishevelled, though in a carefully curated way, down to his permanently mussed hair. The light in his expression faded somewhat as he noted Chris's mood.
"What's that look for?" he asked. He leaned out to look into the hallway, as though concerned someone might have followed his beau. Seeing no-one, he moved back inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. "Everything OK? Want a beer or somethin?"
"No, I--" Chris had breezed past Daniel, his hand coming up to comb through his hair in his typical nervous gesture. He stopped in the entryway, circling back, and then turning once more in his shortened version of pacing. "Actually, yeah. I mean... just... I don't know." He gripped his cane, tapping it irritatedly on the floor.
"I shouldn't feel like this. I... Dios mio, I just don't know."
"Slow down," Daniel said, already padding back into the kitchen; Chris followed at his own slow pace. The smell of reheated pizza and a considerable amount of garlic lingered in the air. "What happened? I haven't seen you this shook… well, since I dunno when. Our last fight, maybe. Maybe longer." From deeper in the kitchen came the sound of two bottlecaps popped off, then clinking to the countertop. Daniel returned, one long-necked glass bottle in each hand, and passed one over to his guest. Chris set the thin, rectangular package he'd been able to retrieve from his mailbox before the unfortunate confrontation on the kitchen table before accepting the drink.
"Your abuela's OK, right? Kal? What?"
Chris took a deep breath, trying to let the smell of food and Daniel's presence soothe him. The beer rose toward his mouth, but only made it three quarters of the way. He glanced in his boyfriend's direction, and then away, suddenly unsure of how to phrase what had just happened.
"No, it's... it's nothing like that." He glanced toward a chair, but after a beat, decided to remain standing; his gaze landed next on his cane. The hand curved around its stem rose, lifting the appendage-extension into the air for a moment. "You... you remember how I told you how... how all of this... happened?" He motioned to his hip with the same hand holding his cane. A few steps to the side and he was leaning against a counter. Daniel nodded, silently sipping his Corona. "I just... I just ran into the guy who shot me. In our fucking lobby."
To his credit, Daniel managed to swallow the beer in his mouth before allowing his full concern to show on his face. When it did, it was an expression that carried from his eyes and brows all the way to his downturned mouth. He moved closer to Chris, beer still firmly in hand, and hovered close enough to touch him should it seem necessary or wanted.
"You what? What the fuck? Is he stalking you now?"
A dry laugh was Chris's initial response; that is, coupled by him leaving his cane to fall into the corner made by his hip meeting the counter so his hand could reach out and snag one of Daniel's belt loops, tugging him closer.
"I don't... No, I don't think so." He thought back over the encounter, trying to view it from a more objective standpoint. "No, it seemed more like it was a surprise. For him and me. He said..." His face went pale and he trailed off for a moment. Memory rose over his fear, though it only renewed it instead of washing it out. His gaze dragged up from the hardwood floors of Daniel's apartment to the man's face. "He said he's moving in. Which, which means I need you to leave this alone, all right? Just... I need you to stay away from him."
Chris winced, wondering if attempting to impose borders so quickly would receive the backlash he thought such an action might. As he might have anticipated, Daniel's lips drew into a tight, thin line. For a moment Daniel said nothing; it seemed he was actively and thoroughly considering his partner's demand.
"Fine." His free hand came to rest on Chris's hip. He pressed himself against Chris, then gently kissed his forehead; Chris seemed relieved by the attention, tension fleeing his body. His eyes slipped closed for the bare moment Daniel's lips were against his skin. "Fine. But." He pulled back just enough to give him adequate room to point a finger in Chris's direction. "If he fucks with you again, he fucks with me. I mean it, Chris. He has no idea the shit I've been through to be with you. To set your ass straight. I will not let him come in here and fuck it, or you, up."
Chris had the good sense to blush even the barest amount at Daniel's admonishment; to cover it, he attempted one of his trademark smirks. It barely formed on his mouth. With one hand on Daniel's hip, the other reached out for the one attempting to chastise him. He caught it around the wrist, his fingers looping gently.
"For the record," he replied, trying to add some levity to his rollercoaster of emotions, "nothing about my ass is straight, and... that's what I'm afraid of. Him going through you." The smirk evaporated, his face tilting far too close to the grim expression he'd worn in the early months Daniel had known him. "That he's, he'll... that he'll do something to you to get to me. Just, please." Chris took a deep breath, trying to sound convincing rather than whining or, heaven forbid, demanding.
"I'm being honest with you, because I want to be, and because I want you to be safe. He's fucking dangerous. He put a hit out on me, and now... now he's in charge, so I can't imagine the resources he has at his disposal."
"But you're out," Daniel said. "You're out of that shit, and you're stayin' out of it. Right? So what've we got to worry about? You're no threat to him. And even stupid animals know not to shit where they eat. If he's livin' here now, he's gotta know he'll be the first one implicated if anything happens to you, even indirectly. Right?"
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Chris. But his thoughts were at least in part grounded in the reality of his work, in the lengths he'd seen his clients go to to ensure they flew under the radar once they were back in the civilian world. Daniel had to hope that this man, dangerous though he might be, would also have the sense to keep his crimes far away from his home.
"Thank you for bein' honest," he said, "and for tellin' me now instead of waiting till I saw the motherfucker in the lobby. But I'm not worried." He hooked a finger beneath Chris's jaw, gently sliding over the stubble of his beard as he tipped Chris's head up; his partner eagerly moved with the motion, though his eyes remained trained on Daniel's. "And you shouldn't be, either. Especially not with what, and who, we've got on our side now. Okay?"
Chris remained silent for a moment; then he shook his head, a disbelieving laugh breathing out of his mouth.
"Yeah, okay," he finally replied. "I'm not sure I wanna see what Ares's'd do to 'im. You're probably right, anyway. He's... he's not that stupid." Despite his attempt at bravado, Chris couldn't entirely smother the chill that snaked its way down his back, much similar to the one that had appeared with Taeja's voice. Being stupid wasn't the problem — being too smart was, and anything the other man did wouldn't necessarily have Chris running for the cops. He took a deep breath, exhaling carefully.
"I got us some movies. I wanted you to come over tonight, dinner, that kind of stuff. You ever seen Spartacus? Starz made a TV show out of it," he explained, nodding gently back at the table behind them. The motion was small and measured, carefully still within reach of Daniel's hand.
"Just a few of the good parts," Daniel said, a bright grin flashing over his face. "Some great gif sets. I don't think the movie's really like that, though." His voice turned hopeful. "Is it?"
He picked up his beer, took Chris's hand in his own, and pulled him close. "I'll watch whatever you want to, dirty parts or no. And you want dinner? I'll cook. Anything you want. Anything's better than more of that leftover pizza." He tipped his head back toward the fridge, where the last scraps of a meat lovers' deep dish lingered on a lower shelf. "I'll bring over the rest of this beer, you can be my sous chef in a skimpy little apron, and we can take your mind off this new asshole neighbor. Sound good?"
Chris felt any lingering effects of his earlier terror melting away in the easy light of Daniel's presence. It was almost as though the few moments in the lobby with a man from the past that he wanted to forget hadn't happened at all; it was too easy to pretend otherwise. He squeezed his boyfriend's hand, then tugged it around his own waist, twisting his own arm in the process.
"Can I sweeten the pot with a blow job, and get you to wear the skimpy little apron?" The growing smile on his face leaned to one side for his usual smirk, his head tilted up toward Daniel's in an inviting gesture. Just another, normal evening. At least, normal enough for two people who also happened to be vessels for reborn deities.
Yup.
Elsewhere in the building, Isobel squared her shoulders as she carried a carefully planted succulent in its little blue, square ceramic pot. It wasn't much in the way of a 'welcome to the building' gift, but she wasn't enough of a cook to pull together brownies, and her taste for alcohol was on the sad side... So she kept to what she knew best. It helped ease the worry that was not quite as carefully laid over the true reasoning behind her visit to 405.
Of course, she and Obed did live all but right across from these new neighbors on this floor, so it wasn't entirely out of the question that she should introduce herself. But the nerves that jangled through the fingers that wrapped themselves around the pot refused to abate, even as she stepped from foot to foot, calming herself long enough to rap her knuckles against the familiar door. Her loosed hand went right back to the planter pot, and she glanced down at her feet for too long of a moment—the door was opening, and she was forced to snap her head up and pull a smile out of somewhere as she laid eyes on Pax's newest resident.
"Hi!"
The man in the doorway paused only a beat. Then a careful, small smile crossed over his lips, rendering an already boyish face still more youthful. He straightened up to greet her properly, nodding down toward her and her plant.
"Hello," he said. His head tipped just slightly to one side, regarding her more closely; dark eyes narrowed. But his small smile did not abate, and his voice was warm and inviting. "I believe I've seen you before. You know, you're the first neighbor to actually welcome me. I'm Taeja Kim." He offered his hand, finely-boned and perfectly manicured.
Isobel leaned the blue pot into one hand, tilting it sideways long enough so that she could accept the proffered appendage with one of her own. Her smile turned more genuine; as her fingers brushed his, she waited for some sign, some feeling that was familiar.
None came.
Hm. Doing her best to keep her smile in place, Isobel struck the disappointment from any external expression.
"Isobel Brandt. You've probably seen me coming or going—we live on the same floor," she quickly explained. "I'm also one of the building's owners, so, I just wanted to make sure you're settling in all right!" She hefted the potted plant between two hands, holding it out to a midpoint between them. "I know it's not brownies, but just... a little something. I'm a botanist by trade, so I thought a little greenery in the home..."
"Oh, I see." Gingerly he took the plant from her, lifting it up to inspect it more closely. It was elegant in its simplicity, and easily cared-for; both qualities Taeja liked well enough to forgive its uselessness. "That's very kind of you. And from the owner of the building, no less. Thank you, Miss Brandt."
He shifted the pot to balance its weight on one palm, slender fingers curled upward to grasp it. With the other he gestured out toward the wider building. "This is a beautiful building. Have you owned it very long?"
"Well, my husband has owned it for a little while," she replied, her hands dropping to her sides for want of something to do. Isobel smiled wide briefly at the correction, as getting to mention Obed in anything brought out a warmth in her. Taeja subtly quirked a brow, and nodded at her response. "I think he had other plans for it, but it's made a very nice home for ourselves and our neighbors so far. We used to live a little ways away from the city before, but this is a nice change of pace.
"Are you a local? I'm a transplant myself," she asked, making the question more palatable by offering her own response first.
"Oh? Ah, yes. I was born in Los Angeles. I've never left, not for any real length of time. Where is—was—home for you?"
"Texas," she replied just as briefly as his own response. The man was cool, standoffish—nothing she wasn't used to in her own spouse, from time to time, but if there was any familiarity to be had with this man, it didn't seem that it was going to come of standing between the threshold of his unit.
"Anyway, I don't want to take up more of your time, Mr. Kim. But if you need anything, please let me know. Welcome." She smiled once more—the expression still warm enough to reach her eyes, even if there was something else there as well—raising a hand in farewell as she stepped back and made to move toward her own home on the same floor.
He waved back, though only briefly, and closed the door behind her. A series of locks were then thrown, bolting the door against the world outside.
"Prija," he called. His voice, though soft, carried easily through the cavernous rooms. Barefoot, he padded over to a wide window, white curtains thrown open to let bright sunlight in. He set the succulent down, perfectly centered, atop a long table set in front of the window. He took a step back, taking in the whole of the scene. Then he leaned forward, adjusting the succulent so slightly, none but Taeja would have noticed at all.
"Prija, what do you know about Isobel Brandt?"
The woman who'd been sitting stone silent on the couch throughout the entire exchange between the man who was her charge and the owner of their new living quarters flipped a page in the martial arts magazine she was reading. As named, Prija didn't look up to watch Taeja fiddle with the plant he'd been gifted; instead, she duly answered his question.
"Former business owner, newly christened wife of Obed Brandt, the original owner of this building. Came to Los Angeles a little under a decade ago. Some police reports and a restraining order filed against a Bryan Stations. Currently employed at the Environmental Nature Center." The blonde flipped another page, and then turned her cat-like gaze toward Taeja's back.
"Worried?"
"Should I be?" He turned to face the woman who had become his right hand. "Obed Brandt. I assume he's no threat, or you'd not have approved of my move here." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I've already run into Cristobal Rodriguez since our arrival. What else have you failed to warn me of?"
Prija's eyes narrowed; the accusation rankled. She took pride in her work, doing it to the best possible extent that she was able, every time. To anyone else, she might have seemed unshaken by Taeja's casual snipe, but the slow roll of her shoulders revealed her annoyance.
"I can only offer my recommendations, Taeja; how you choose to implement them is no fault of mine." The magazine lay flat across her lap; the image of a woman roundhouse kicking a man in the face was spread across both pages. The fingers that held the magazine open were light, careful with the delicate, glossy paper. "But Brandt seems the more worrisome figure in this situation.
"Remind me, again, why we moved out of your father's perfectly useable home?" She had not been a fan of removing themselves from the family estate, but assumed Taeja needed time and space to establish himself without the overwhelming burden of his late parent's shadow. Neither of them enjoyed surprises, and she felt her anger at his remark melt a little; still, she refused to wholly take blame that was not hers to own.
"You know very well," Taeja answered, his voice somehow colder than before. If it softened afterward, only Prija would have noticed. "It's a new era. We have to start anew. Perhaps in another five, ten years I can return there. But not now. This has to be a fresh beginning. A clean break." His nose wrinkled; his lip curled in a subtle sneer. "Or so it should have been. Instead I'll clearly have to begin my tenure here by making an example of someone."
Prija allowed a look of surprise to roll across her features, brought about by the invocation of example.
"Or perhaps it's best," she tactfully replied, closing the magazine and crossing her legs in the same motion, "to take the lay of the land before attempting to intimidate the other children on the playground."
He shot her a look; but he could not argue with her counsel, and both of them knew it. Instead, sighing softly as he moved, he sat down beside her, a careful distance left between them. For a long time Taeja was silent. By his gaze it seemed he was considering nothing more than the unexpected housewarming gift. The only sound in the room was the steady ticking of the ornate clock hung on the living room wall. When at last it seemed as if he may never answer, he spoke with soft certainty.
"Be mindful of Mr. Rodriguez," he said. "The others… I will give them a chance to prove themselves, or not."
"Wise." Prija sat for a moment longer, before rising from the couch with her magazine neatly in hand. "I suppose I'll make myself useful then by digging a little deeper into our new neighbors. Attempt to prevent any further new obstacles." Her hands came together, rolling the magazine further into its tight spiral. She glanced over to the newly ensconced decoration as though it might have some hidden message.
"If that's all?"
Taeja looked up from where he sat, studying the intention written in the hard lines of her posture. The tight ball of her fist spoke to a mind and body already at work; he could not say he did not appreciate the image she made. This appreciation did not, however, show on his face.
"Take care. And if you need further resources, don't hesitate to ask."
And then his attention turned to the slim phone produced from one deep pocket, at once a clear but polite dismissal and a reassurance that he trusted her to do what had to be done.