Disclaimer: Children, get out of here! It features some sex, some violence, and some drug use, not to mention the possibility of incest. If you don’t like that sort of stuff, or know you are too young for it, please go away.
I make no claim to ownership of Peter Caine, Kwai Chang Caine, or any of the other recognizable characters; I’m just borrowing them for a little storytelling. They are all owned by Warner Bros. (As are the Animaniacs), and other Powers That Be, who can have them back when I’m done. I do however, own most of the other named characters. I promise not to do any permanent damage to the people I don’t own, but everyone else is fair game. I do, however, promise to abuse my overactive sexual imagination. Enjoy.
Joy®, the demonic drug, is a registered trademark of WWSD, Inc. (What would Satan do? Words to live by.)
Comments go to the address above.
Peter Caine had discovered many things about himself when he was sixteen. Still unsure of himself in his new home, he had ventured out into the streets that he knew so well, seeking answers, or at least excitement.
Peter had discovered that he could lie. Peter had discovered that he could steal. Peter had discovered that all the laws and morals he thought he had to live by could be ignored.
Peter had discovered that a long shower could get most of the grime away before anyone noticed.
Peter had discovered that once in a while, he could go out and get high on whatever he could find, and no one at his new home ever noticed.
But most importantly, Peter had discovered hat he could get off faster and harder with something or someone in his ass than he ever could by stroking his cock, or by fucking someone. A strange thing to discover at any age, at sixteen Peter had decided to keep that discovery entirely to himself - and the many faceless men he picked up in bars and nightclubs who wanted to fuck him in the ass, and were willing to pay for it.
My son is a creature of darkness. Like the night sky, he can be beautiful or terrifying. He can be comforting or foreboding. But, like the darkness, he is a part of me that I would not wish to deny. I love him. I do not want to lose him.
And so I wait.
Though it is day, my son is not home. He left two days ago, without telling his partner or any of his friends of his departure. Nor did he tell me. It is what they call ‘a long weekend,’ and my son has gone away. Alone. But not to be alone. He took almost nothing with him; this I know because the things he should have taken are still in his room. He did not drive. He did not take his badge or his gun. This is not the first time he has done so.
The only sign that he plans to return are his work clothes, laid out neatly on the bed, to be worn when he returns. I find the sight strangely saddening, as if he has shed himself and fled somewhere to be someone else, as if he were not happy here.
His room is still empty, so I leave, to sit in the lobby and watch the waves of humanity rise and recede. There is a young woman waiting there as well. She smiles shyly at me.
“Do you live here?”
“No, I do not.” My reply is soft, and it seems to comfort her.
“Oh. Well. I was looking for someone who lives here. I was just going to watch the mailboxes, but if I could find someone to point him out to me, it would be so much easier.”
“Who are you looking for?” I ask politely. My heart suspects that we search for the same thing.
She sits up, eager to talk and glad to find a friendly ear. “I can’t really give out the name. I’m a process server. My client is filing for divorce, and she wants to name this other guy in the action.”
I look blankly at her for a moment.
“Her husband’s having an affair with this guy, and she needs him to appear in court so they can be forced to admit it,” she explained.
“An affair?” I asked quietly. “Hiding from his wife for the weekends to be with this ... other man?”
She nodded. “That’s pretty much the size of it.” She shrugged. “I don’t pass judgement or anything, I just serve the papers.”
“I see. I must go now. Will you excuse me, please?” I do not want to lie to her; she seems like a nice enough woman, but I feel strongly the instinct to protect my son.
*.*
Peter leaned over to kiss his lover goodbye one more time before sliding out of the limo. “I’ll see you next weekend, Martin.”
“Only if you’re good, Peter.” His Boston accent was calm, belying the tight anger in the lines of his jaw.
Peter Caine put on his best pout. “I said I was sorry,” he whined contritely. “Please, Martin? Don’t be angry with me anymore.”
Dr. Martin McAeuley was a hard man. He was a retired surgeon, with a wife and two grown daughters, from an old Boston family of lawyers and doctors, who’d worked all his life to fulfill the expectations of everyone around him. Now, in his early sixties, he was a healthy man who had all the time in the world for the only person he’d neglected all his life: himself. He had money, and power, and desires that he could finally tend to. And the only person he had let into his self-centered world was an irritating young wastrel who called himself Peter Blaisdell.
Martin had never known anyone like Peter. He was sensual and mysterious. He never talked about himself, but he was more sexually adventurous than the good doctor had ever dreamed anyone could be.
More than anything, Martin wanted to set the boy up in a nice condo in the suburbs, and take care of him for as long as they could stand each other. He had made the offer, and a quite generous one. But Peter had refused, and the rest of the weekend had consequently gone quite badly.
Martin had lost his temper, and had hit Peter. Even more surprising than how good it had made him feel to give in to his frustration, was the fact that Peter had meekly accepted all the blame for their fight. He’d even refused to go to the hospital to have his bruises looked at, and had allowed Martin to take care of him all weekend. But he still insisted on going home.
Martin was determined not to lose his temper again, and he was beginning to realize that Peter was trying to make him blow up on purpose. “Just go, Peter. I’ll call you on Thursday.”
Peter smiled sweetly. “If I’m not home, just leave a message.”
Martin knew that was a deliberate attempt to make him angry. Peter constantly hinted that he was seeing someone else, and it made Martin crazy. What was wrong with the boy? he wondered. “Peter, just go.”
With a quick laugh, Peter shut the door and ran across the street to his apartment building. The maintenance crews had not yet cleaned the glass doors. Someone had drawn a character from the I Ching in the dust there. The symbol represented ‘danger’ and ‘alternatives.’ As in, someone warning against walking in through the front door.
Peter checked the lobby. There seemed to be the usual mix of people hanging out, and one that he didn’t recognize at all. Peter decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and walked around to the back entrance.
From there, he took the service elevator to his room. Nothing happened, and he wondered if the message had been left for someone else. But there was no way for him to confirm or deny it, so he decided to ignore it.
Peter locked his door behind him, and threw his keys on the bedside table. He stripped, wincing at the ugly bruises that were now turning vile shades of puce and chartreuse. “Love hurts,” he muttered to himself.
Peter decided to take a shower, since he’d come back earlier than he had planned. After that, he could get some sleep and wake up in the morning refreshed, and hopefully, sober enough to go to work.
Peter checked the pile of clothes that he had just taken off, making sure that he hadn’t brought back any of the vials with him. There were none, so he tossed his clothes into the laundry. He’d accidentally run a half-empty vial of Joy through the dryer once and had set his laundry on fire. While it was funny now, if he’d been caught with the stuff, he would have had a lot of explaining to do.
The rush from his last hit was fading. Peter jumped into the shower while the chemical euphoria was still with him. After sex, taking a shower was his favorite Joy-enhanced activity. Having sex in the shower was the top of the list.
By the time Peter was done with his shower, the rush was gone. He slid into bed naked. It was a warm night, and he had enough experience with Joy to know that he would be warm and feverish all night as the drug broke down in his system. The crash was hard, but in his opinion, worth it.
Peter collapsed into his bed as soon as his shower was over. His sleep was deep and dreamless, and he didn’t notice the silent presence that knelt in the dark just beyond his bed.
“No,” whispered Peter. He writhed in his sleep, hissing as one movement brought a wave of pain rippling down his side. “No, please stop.” He turned his head away, but the rest of his body was still. Only his chest heaved, in the tight rhythm of panicked breathing. “You’re hurting me,” he pleaded, and Caine could stand it no more. He reached out to his son, twining his fingers in the soft blonde hair, waking him with the gentle strokes.
With a choked scream, Peter sat up and met his father’s eyes. Caine let his hand drop and silently regarded his son for a moment.
“Pop! What are you doing here?”
“I wished to see you,” said Caine slowly. “To offer my aid, if required.”
For a moment, Peter considered lying. But his father had probably been standing there for a while. There was a lit candle on the windowsill, more than enough light for Kwai Chang Caine to have seen the bruises on Peter’s face. Peter lowered his eyes in defeat.
“May I see to your wounds, my son?”
Peter nodded dumbly.
Caine moved to pull away the sheet covering Peter, only to freeze when his son flinched in terror. “My son?”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean --” he let the words trail away uselessly, and slid out of bed to pull on a pair of pants. He turned his back so that he wouldn’t have to see his father’s expression as his horribly bruised midsection was revealed.
His father said nothing, and began applying herbs and bandages to Peter’s body. Peter sat as still as he could, flinching only at the pain and not at the terror of letting another person touch him again. His nightmare was still with him.
“Thank you,” Peter said when his father finished the last bandage.
“You have more wounds,” said Caine. It was not a question.
Peter shook his head in denial. On this point, he would lie. No matter what it cost him.
“I would like to help you,” Caine offered. “If you would let me.”
“Please, Pop.” Peter’s voice was almost begging. “I’m fine.”
Caine shook his head slowly. He reached out a hand to his son, and Peter let himself be drawn into a hug. Caine held him until the trembling stopped. “I wish to help you, Peter. No matter what has happened, I will always be here for you.”
“I know,” said Peter shakily. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Not yet.”
“Always,” Caine repeated, still holding Peter close, trying to infuse his own strength into his son’s frightened and battered body.
He held him until Peter fell asleep again. Even then, Caine did not leave immediately. He continued to hold his son for as long as he dared, and finally slid away reluctantly when he sensed that Peter was completely and dreamlessly asleep. Caine watched his son, breathing gently and evenly now, and tried not to think about the pleasurable feel of his son’s body in his arms. Neither did he allow himself to think about the proper punishment for whatever monster had assaulted his son. There were rules for that sort of thing; a father’s hunger for justice would have to be satisfied by those means and no other.
Caine let himself out of Peter’s apartment as silently as he had entered. He would return in the morning. Perhaps Peter would be willing to talk in the sunlight.
Peter slept soundly through the rest of the night. His father always had that effect on him. What drove Peter to the Joy and to Martin was the fact that his father’s words were patently untrue. Peter woke up, still musing on what his father had said before leaving..
Caine would not always be there for him, he couldn’t be. His father had a life of his own. He had responsibilities, and friends. He couldn’t spend all his time watching over Peter. And if he ever found out that his beloved Peter, protector of the weak and innocent, was nothing more than a junkie and a rich man’s whore, he probably wouldn’t want to.
Peter let his head fall into his hands. It had all started as just a simple game. He’d gone out to the city one evening, dressed like a street punk. He’d left his gun, his I.D. and his badge at home, used the bus instead of driving, and had worked his way through all the sleazy nightclubs he could find. He’d been so drunk when Martin picked him up, he could barely stand.
He’d expected to be assaulted. That was what he’d been looking for really; some pain to let him know that he was still alive. But Martin had rented a fine hotel room, and let him sleep it off unmolested. And in the morning, the good doctor hadn’t even expected to be thanked.
But Peter had thanked him, and had gotten to know the man. Martin had let him try the new designer drug he and some ‘friends’ had introduced to the club scene. Now Peter was hooked on it, and Martin was hooked on Peter - the Peter he knew, anyway - and Peter’s life was a fucking mess.
Peter shoved his depression aside. The weekend was over, and Martin was gone; now he had to deal with this world and his father.
Kermit was chewing on a pen, watching his computer back up his essential files. Caine entered the precinct quietly, and glanced at Peter’s empty desk. “He’s pulling some files,” Kermit called out, without taking his eyes from the computer.
“Has Peter seemed... well to you?” asked Caine softly.
Kermit looked up at the tone of Caine’s voice. “Not really. He hasn’t said much to me lately. Is anything wrong?”
Caine shrugged. “I am not certain. I had hoped that you, or someone here, would know more.”
Kermit glanced at his watch. “Y’know, he’s been gone a while.” He rose from his desk, after briefly admonishing his computer, “Don’t crash.”
Caine and Kermit walked down to the records room, where the duty clerk reported that Peter had never arrived. Kermit swore under his breath, and they started back to the squad room. Suddenly, Caine stopped, and stared at the door to the men’s room.
Kermit didn’t see anything wrong, but Caine ran into the bathroom, heedless of the other people in the narrow hallway. Kermit followed him with only a slight hesitation.
Peter was collapsed on the floor, bleeding heavily from his nose and his lip. It looked like he’d hit his head on the sink on the way down. His skin was flushed and sweaty. Kermit flung open the door, and called for help while Caine rushed to kneel by his son.
“Peter?” he whispered desperately. His son made no response. Caine could feel him only faintly, as if his son’s spirit were asleep. “I am here, Peter. You are safe.”
A medical unit appeared quickly, and bundled Peter’s unconscious body away. Caine followed, and held tightly onto Peter’s hand, speaking quietly all the while. At one point, Peter turned his head as if listening, but his eyes never opened. Caine didn’t let himself be pulled away until they arrived at the hospital, and Peter was wheeled off to the emergency room to be examined.
After all the papers had been filled out, Caine sat down to wait. More than anything else, his body spoke of his despair. His shoulders were slumped, and he looked up whenever someone entered the room, hoping for news of Peter.
Peter’s mind unconsciously registered his father’s absence, and slowly struggled back to awareness. He could dimly hear voices discussing something, and for a moment one or two of the words made no sense. Then, a memory was triggered, and another, until he realized what had happened. He’d had a bad reaction to the Joy, and was in the hospital. He had to tell the doctors what had happened, before they treated him with something that would make the reaction even worse. “MD,” he tried to say.
One of the doctors turned. “What?”
“MD..K...CMA.”
“Empty? I don’t understand,” said the first doctor, but one of the other doctors must have had more experience with the night shift.
“Oh, god, a Joy junkie,” she said disdainfully. “Back up on the meds, we need to recheck that list. Get him rehydrated, and move him down to detox.”
Peter winced at her scornful tone, but he couldn’t do anything as he was wheeled away. A needle was inserted into his arm, and someone scribbled notes on a clipboard. Peter let himself drift away again. When he came to again, it was dark outside. He was in a private room. He thought he was alone at first. Then he sensed, without seeing, his father.
Peter felt like a damp sponge that someone had just wrung viciously to get all the water from it. All of his muscles were sore, and he was terribly thirsty. His father rose, and in the almost perfect darkness, brought Peter a small cup of water.
“The doctors say that we should leave the lights off. Your eyes will be very sensitive for a few days.”
Peter drank the water gratefully. He didn’t say anything. His mind was busy searching for an excuse or some explanation of his current condition.
“You must rest. Tomorrow, you will come to my home to get well again.” Caine’s statement was not a request. It was a command, in the voice of a priest to a disobedient novice.
Peter almost nodded, but then he remembered that it was dark. And that his father would expect to hear verbal acquiescence. “Yes, father.” Peter turned away and closed his eyes. His father would never ask to know what had happened to him. He would wait until Peter was ready to tell him the truth.
Caine reached out to stroke his son’s hair as Peter lay quietly in the dark, as if to reassure himself that Peter was really there. Peter relaxed instantly under his touch, so Caine continued touching him gently, moving his hands down to stroke Peter’s arms and back as well, until Peter fell asleep again. Caine pulled his chair closer to Peter’s bed, and linked his hand with his son’s.
Sleep came easily to Caine, following the rhythm of Peter’s heartbeat.
Morning was harder. Caine was roused by Peter’s hand, clutching his tightly enough to cause pain.
“Where am I?” Peter sat up, his voice tight with panic. “What happened to me? Why am I ... in the hospital?”
Caine moved to calm Peter quickly. “You are ill. There was a substance... in your system. A drug.”
Peter paled as the memory of the day before returned to him. “Oh. I remember. I passed out at the station.”
Caine nodded. “You are awake. The doctors will come, and decide whether you are well enough to go home.”
“Home?”
“With me, to my home,” Caine corrected himself. “I will take care of you until you are well.”
Peter looked at his father, but said nothing.
Lacking any respected therapies for a new drug like Joy, the doctors were perfectly happy to let Caine take Peter away. “There’s nothing we can do here that you couldn’t do at home,” shrugged the morning shift doctor. “But if he goes into shock again, bring him back here. That we can deal with.”
“I will,” promised Caine.
Someone had brought a change of clothes from Peter’s apartment to him. As soon as the doctor finished examining him and discharged him, he dressed himself and hurried out to find his father.
“Come,” said Caine, and led Peter out of the hospital.
“Are we going to walk all the way to your place, Pop?”
“Yes. The exercise will do you good.”
Peter sighed. “Are we going to pass my apartment? I wanna grab some stuff, if I’m going to be stuck at your place.”
Caine resisted the urge to smack some sense into Peter. “What do you need from your apartment, my son?”
“Y’know, clothes, music. Some food.”
“This?” Caine held out his hand, showing Peter the three small vials of faintly purple liquid. Peter turned away without answering. “You need nothing at your apartment. Come.”