Ray's in the wrong neighborhood. Sure, there are a lot of dangerous places in Chicago, but this neighborhood is just plain *wrong*. Like maybe he turned the corner and into... The Twilight Zone.

Not that there's anything *noticeably* whacked about the area, or the bar he's in, or, for that matter, the stool he's sitting on and the whiskey he's nursing like a dirty little baby.

On the contrary: the whiskey is neat, the stool spins without a creak, the bar is quiet but not dead, the street was clean... And quiet.

Too quiet.

Ray laughs at his own scene-setting, to himself. But that's just it -- he's by himself. He knows full well what neighborhood he wandered into and, by rights, there should be all sorts of dark eyes watching him suspiciously.

Or at least conspicuously not watching him. As it is, he seems to be just another guy in this bar.

Maybe they think he's albino?

Nah, his eyes aren't that red yet. Basically, he's wandered into some extremely well-behaved territory. Which means someone is *keeping* it well-behaved.

Which means he's very much in the wrong neighborhood, as he doesn't have the foggiest clue who that might be.

Probably a good idea to get his scrawny white ass outta this bar.

Ray takes in the rest of the patrons with a quick glance into the mirror behind the bar. Talking, laughing, smiling. Confident looking people. *Canadian* looking people, 'cept that there's no way they're relaxed because they believe the police'll take care of any unforseen problems.

Not for the first time Ray curses himself for not doing more extra-curricular study about his new and improved precinct.

Sure he has the Vecchio-ness down as much as possible, but he could've maybe learned a little more about his surroundings. Maybe just a little.

Vecchio would pretend he had his shit down.

Whoops, that was true. Almost slipped out of character, there. He may not have any idea what he's doing, but he Knows What He's Doing. Yeah.

Ray knocks his shot back (what else does Vecchio drink? probably wine all Italians drink wine), turns his grimace into a smirk, and squares his shoulders a bit.

His own movement catches his eye and he looks into the mirror again.

And this time he's eye-to-glass-to-eye with the first person to look at him, really *look* at him all night.

Big, bad, and bald. Black? Puerto-Rican? Whatever, the closest thing to the guy's skin color he can come up with at the moment is Kahlua. (chick drink)

And the guy's still looking.

Vecchio would make a smart-ass remark here, but whether or not that's a bright move is up for question.

Ray decides to break eye contact first -- and is glad of it. Big boy came with an entourage. Glance down the bar and the on-his-best- behavior bartender is mixing something vaguely complicated and very specific.

A regular customer.

An *appreciated* customer.

A customer who doesn't have to pay one thin dime.

Well, here was the local tough, then. How local was still an unknown, but it wouldn't hurt to watch a bit.

Ray signaled for another drink. As expected, when the bartender turned Big Boy turned a little, too. Built a little like someone who maybe was a linebacker in high school. Still (overly) large, but a little soft around the edges.

Liquid brown (black) eyes. Nice mouth.

Whoops.

If there's one thing Ray knows about himself it's this: When the mind said the words 'nice mouth' to him, the body had already been broadcasting 'do me' in the possesor of the nice mouth's general direction for God knows how long.

Well, hell, it's not like the people looked particularly *afraid* of Big Boy...

It occurs to Ray that saying the words 'Big Boy' out loud is liable to get him severely bruised.

Whoops some more. Vecchio would... hmm. Vecchio would probably not flirt with Kahlua the Hard Guy.

Ray tries on another smirk. Kahlua has not paid one moment's attention to his drink or his entourage in quite a while, and now he practically snorts at Ray.

'Are you for real?' is what that look says.

Ray's reasonably sure that, if he were to look in a mirror, "smirk" would not be the first word that occurred to him.

Leer, maybe. Hunger was a possibility. Drool sounded pretty likely.

Vecchio would not drool at Kahlua the Hard Guy, no, but Vecchio was probably getting laid. By... someone. Heh. Ray had been Vecchio for about a week and no hidden girlfriends had crawled out of the woodwork... yet.

But see, Feds missed things. There was a woman *somewhere*, and Ray just knew he'd have to do some explaining and... Kahlua is talking.

"Y--"

Not to him. Ray shuts up.

Tries to make his ears work extra hard, but for some reason the music (music is playing?) is suddenly much too loud.

Ray catches himself squinting (and why did people do that when they were trying to hear quiet stuff anyway?), which only gets him a better view of those moving lips, a half smile...

Another look from Kahlua, and this time he doesn't even try to have a smirk in place. Man oh man he needs to get laid more often if this is his reaction just to a pair of shoulders, creamy skin, big, soft lips --

And Kahlua's smile this time is way too genuine for both of them. Ray checks the other man's goons himself but they have -- conveniently -- moved further back into the bar.

And Kahlua is moving, too. In his direction.

What Would Vecchio Do? Ray nearly starts giggling, bites it back. One-night stands rarely react well to giggling.

One-night stand? Is he really gonna do this?

Kahlua brushes past him, warm and wearing some kind of cologne that smells way, way better than it had in the store. "Outside."

Well, he's gonna do this.

One, two, try to look subtle, three, finish your drink, four, would it be a bad idea to call him Kahlua or not, five and out the door and which way is he supposed to walk?

Left. Kahlua is clearly a leftward thinking individual, yes, left is a good idea, and if left isn't a good idea Ray will clearly turn around and walk the other way. Very fast, because as uncomfortable as it is to walk very fast, it's less comfortable to just *have* an erection he could beat suspects with.

And wham-bam, there's a warm hand curling into the back of his jacket and yanking him into an alley.

Gritty brick wall against his back then and the warm hand moving over his shoulder, knuckles brushing his cheek briefly, hand moving down to his chest. Pressing there, not so much still as *waiting*.

Ray realizes his eyes are closed and rectifies the situation.

And outside of the bar, under the autumn sky, Kahlua looks just as hungry as Ray feels. Eyes still look black, streetlight gleams mellowly on that elegantly rounded bald scalp and Ray wants -- more than anything else right now -- to lick it.

"Do you suck?"

"Fuck yeah."

Wicked smile with broad undertones of general good cheer and then that hand is back on his shoulder after too-brief a detour to Ray's nipple and Ray is

going

down.

And, all things considered, Vecchio shows a lot of aptitude for blow-jobs. Kind of surprising that he moans like that after the first four inches of thick heat disappear into his mouth, but Ray has always found that it just isn't a good idea to underestimate one's alter ego and --

"Jesus... fuck -- you do this a lot, white boy?"

Well, there's no reason to answer that question. And just to make sure Ray took another inch (Vecchio, you *slut*), and all further questions dissolve into groans from above. Hands settle in his hair, not gentle but not rough, either.

Ray is abruptly pleased he hadn't spiked it up today -- he has always liked this feeling, this warm needful kneading, and the fact is that gel isn't conducive to a whole lot of petting. Not like this.

He mmms his pleasure around the other man's length and earns his first thrust. Not entirely ready for it and it hurts a little, but the other man doesn't stop him from getting his hands settled on those hips and that... that's real nice. Yeah.

Stereotypical baggy jeans, denim scraping his palms mildly, and just below there are boxers and just below *there* are the vaguely padded bones of Kahlua's (doesn't taste like a chick drink at *all*) hips. Which settle real well into his grasp, still for him to get his breath and bearings and

oh, God, who knew Vecchio was a 'throater? Jesus, you just never knew what the feds were gonna leave out of a report.

Ray breathes through his nose and his eyes roll back at the warm -- that's the word he keeps coming back to -- musk of the other man, sweaty and dark and not sweet, but *sweet*. The feeling... the way the scent sort of winds around his brain and blankets him...

Nothing to do but suck and moan and drool a little, feel those big hands skipping over his forehead, his pumping cheek, around to the back of his head again where they settle and pull him in...

Ray groans again, much too loud and the other man thrusts once, twice, pulls almost all the way out and slams in and Ray won't be able to say more than six words without coughing tomorrow, one more breath, deep, deeper and the other man is coming.

Right down his throat.

Well, Vecchio has way too much class to spit.

And then he's being tugged back up to his feet, and he tries really hard to give some thought to what sort of muck he's gotten all over his jeans but, surprise surprise, Kahlua kisses him.

Kisses the hell out of him.

Hard, but a mouth like that makes everything easy... Ray takes the other man's tongue and sucks, moaning much more helplessly this time around. Vecchio seriously needs to get off and ohhh somehow those busy fucking hands made it right into his pants without his noticing.

Well, noticing specifics. Ray isn't quite sure how long he'd been humping in the other man's general direction, which rhymes with erection, which is exactly what's sliding into and out of the other man's rough, calloused grip --

"Give it up."

"Or what, you'll leave?"

Breathless dark chocolate chuckle against his mouth moving so damned smooth into another kiss, this one even more wrong than the last, just as soft and sweet as the fist around his cock isn't and Ray catches himself fisting the leather of the other man's jacket in a white-knuckled death grip but doesn't, can't stop --

And then Kahlua runs the tip of his tongue along the roof of Ray's mouth in one long, ticklish stroke and he shoots, grunting and shaking.

"Fffffuck."

A few moments to feel a smooth cheek against his own, the edges of an obsessively-trimmed goatee. A few moments to breathe and then:

"*Now* I'm leaving."

"Hokay."

And it is, really, though it's even better to feel that clever, evil hand slipping something that will undoubtedly turn out to be Kahlua's pager number into his right front pocket.

God, Vecchio is a lucky bastard.

End.

Back to Due South Fiction Archive