Disclaimer: AA ownes 'em, though we'll neve see more of 'em, except in fanfic.

Author's Notes:

Story Notes: Set about 2.5 years after the series ends and kinda AU--not to mention an OC in a major role. Fraser and Ray K are in Canada and Vecchio is back in Chicago after a disastrous 2-year marriage to Stella. This is not connected to my 'Long Journey Home' series.

Taking Out the Trash

When I was twelve years old, I found out I had an uncle. I remembered that, 'cause no one talked about him and that was the story of my life too, so I was interested. We were visiting my granfolks and I was always good for that 'cause it was really a vacation. No smacking around. It was Christmas and my grandfolks were fighting--about this uncle and I eavesdropped because that was always the best way to figure stuff out. Didn't learn much except his name; Stanley. My grandmum wanted to call him--wherever he was-- and my grandpop didn't. I figured anyone who was on the outs with a Kowalski dad had to be an okay guy so I remembered it.

Found out a little stuff; my grandmum got mail from Canada, her and no one else. My uncle no one talked about had been--maybe still was--a cop. When I found that out, I knew why no one talked about him; all cops do is take out the garbage--that's what my dad said. Saw some pictures in the album; skinny and blond and wearing the stupidest glasses I've ever fucking seen. He looked kinda like me--except for the glasses--and I wondered if grandpop used to beat the shit out of him like dad did me.

When I was fourteen, my dad beat me so bad I thought I as gonna die. It was my fault, getting beat up like that, 'cause I pissed him off--more than usual. I knew I was gonna get a smacking; not hard to figure out when you're being dragged to the garage by your hair and dad's going on about how he's gonna take out the trash. That's what he said, when he was going to whale at me; gonna take out the trash. So, I go; "Yeah, well, garbage in, garbage out."

Nobody said I was smart.

When I woke up there was blood all over the sheets and I could hardly move and was seeing all kinds of shit that wasn't there. I didn't wanna run away, I was scrawny and young and knew what would happen on the streets if I did, plus, if I got caught and sent home--I wasn't going to just think I was gonna die when my dad got his hands on me. But I didn't wanna die either. So, one day, when everyone was at work or school, I ditched classes and came home. I stole every penny I could find; mom's, dad's, Julie's-- hell, I searched the couch. I stole my mom's jewelry ('cause my dad bought it for her and she never did shit to help me), I stole Julie's stuff, same reason, plus my dad never hit her. Hell, I took dad's laptop and the DVD player and sold it to a guy I knew. I packed my duffel and shook the dust of Arizona off my feet.

I ended up in Chicago.

"Oh yeah, oh yeah--" the guy pushed on the back of my head and I relaxed, letting him fuck my mouth. That's what he was paying me for. "You got one fine mouth, really hot--"

I hummed and sucked, 'cause I was tired and I'd been here most of the night already and-- too late--I figured this guy with the big house and the big car and the big bodyguards as a mob guy. I wanted to get the hell out of here. His hands pushed through my hair again, petting me, scratching his fingernails over the bite marks he'd left on my shoulders.

"You are one pretty bit of street trash." I flinched and he came, hands clamping on my head like a vise. I held it in my mouth, then spit it into a corner of the blanket while he was still catching his breath and couldn't notice me doing it. I didn't swallow my tricks, it was like a pride thing for me. When you're getting by on getting fucked, you gotta take your pride where you find it.

Leaning back on my knees, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and grinned at the guy. He smiled back but those eyes were cold, like they had been the whole time. He was an old guy, starting to go gray, little fat around the middle. He had a round scar on his shoulder and a fucked up knee and he looked at me like I wasn't even there--or like I wasn't going to be there real soon. I didn't know his name, he looked a little familiar, like someone you see on TV.

"I gotta take a leak," I said and slipped off the big bed with the satin sheets and the big bottle of lube and the sticky condom on the floor. Naked, I padded across the room to the big bathroom with it's Jacuzzi (wished we'd used that, it was fucking cold outside and it's be nice to get warmed up some way besides having some guy lying on you), it's gold faucets and cold, cold marble. I rinsed my mouth out and heard voices. Slinking to the door, I listened, holding my breath.

"... take out the trash, will ya?" My guy was talking, bedclothes rustling so I lost some of the words. "Quietly."

"Sure thing, sir." And that was his bodyguard.

My mouth went sour, I was so scared my fingers were tingling and my stomach cramped. They were gonna kill me. The guy I'd just blown was sitting there telling his guy to fucking kill me. Just like that. I looked wildly around; there was a window but it was small. The bathroom went right back to the bedroom where they were waiting. There wasn't anywhere for me to go and if I went out there, I'd be shot or strangled or cement shoes or something. My life was shit but I still didn't wanna die.

I peeked out from the door again, just in time to see the bedroom door get kicked open and then guns were going off and there was fucking blood everywere. I slammed the bathroom door and locked it and started yanking my clothes on as fast as I could; fuck the underwear, screw the socks. I shoved my feet into my ratty boots and climbed on the toilet to open the too small window. The shooting had stopped and there was just this creepy, scary, really scary bellowing and all I could think of was at least the guy had gotten his rocks off before he got killed. That and the fact his bodyguard hadn't done much guarding when the door went down.

I was skinny but the window was really small. I was looking at it and trying to figure how to get out when I heard someone try and open the door to the bathroom. I stopped figuring and started shoving, kicking my feet against the wall and holding my breath and pushing, pushing--someone was slamming against the door now--and my shoulders were out and the rest of me was sliding out and someone was shooting the door and I was falling out the window.

It wasn't too far and I fell on some soggy bushes. My arm hurt but my legs worked and I was pushing myself out of the shrubbery when the big swath of yellow light from the window was blocked out. The guy--the guy with the gun--and I looked up and he was looking down and we saw each other. Then I saw the gun, flashing like a camera and I was knocked on my ass, screaming and hearing more shots.

"I didn't see anything! I didn't see anything!" I screamed and started running as fast as I could, straight out, praying for the dark to hide me. I must of flew over the wall, I didn't remember climbing it and I ran until I puked. I puked until I nearly passed out and then I walked until the sun came up. I didn't hitch hike, hell, I jumped into the ditch by the road every time a car came by; especially when the cops and the ambulance and the fire truck came by. I didn't want anyone seeing me out here, in the 'burbs.

I walked all the way back to Chicago; hurting like hell and hid in the nearest public library. The sun was up by then, I'd had to walk all night and the story was already in the papers. I got sick again, puking in the bathroom, when I saw the picture of the house and remembering how scared I was. There were names now and 'alleged criminal activity' and unknown assailants. I didn't usually read much but this thing--I sat down and read every word and when I was done, I knew I was in deep, deep shit.

The police were 'investigating the homicide' and that meant they didn't have the guy who'd done the shooting. And that guy had seen me. I watched enough TV, I knew I was some kinda witness and everyone was going to want my ass. There were going to be people looking to kill me.

I sat in the bathroom with a hank of paper-towels on my arm, trying to sop up the bleeding from the big cut there. I also had a gouge in my side, it felt like someone had dragged a hot poker over my ribs and I was pretty much black and blue all over. The paper was at my feet--I'd bled on it and was going to get kicked out if I wasn't careful-- and I didn't know what to do next. It was almost enough to make me wanna call home and I rubbed my face and rocked back and forth. I had to be crazy desperate, thinking my folks would care; dad would probably be glad I was dead. "I don't wanna die," I whispered to myself. "I don't wanna die."

All I could think was that I had to get out of Chicago.

Then all I could think was, where the hell would I go? I wasn't going to go home, I was more scared of my dad--I knew what he'd do to me--than I was of some mobster. I knew people in Chicago, sure and they were all like me, homeless, broke, hustlers and one of them was pretty likely to turn me over if there was money in the deal. I mean, I would, right? My grandfolks were the only relatives I knew and they'd never done shit for me. Then I remembered I had an uncle. Somewhere--somewhere in Canada and that was real far away from Chicago. I had an uncle that no one else in my family liked and that was a plus in my book.

I rested my head on my knees, sitting on the toilet in the library and tried to remember everything I could about this Stanley Kowalski, Canada and Christmas at my grandfolks.

I used to get the mail for them, I remembered that. I wanted them to like me so I'd get their mail whenever we visited and at Christmas time they'd get all kinds of mail. Cards and packages and cookies from somebody 'Vecchio' and they'd talk about all those people and it was kinda like I had friends too, listening to them. So, I'd get the mail and look at the packages and the pictures. Every year, grandmum would get a package from Canada and no one ever talked about that. I remembered that because it was a thing different from everything else.

I squeezed my eyes shut and remembered those packages. Always wrapped in brown paper and always stained from coming so far. Messy handwriting; "Mum Kowalski" from...from...it was always initials. "S.R.K" and there had to be a return address on it and who the hell was I kidding, thinking I could remember that. But I rocked in the dark and I didn't have anywhere to go and I was gonna die if I didn't get out of Chicago. Then--it wasn't a city it was a thing! A knife.

"Yellowknife!" I yelped and sat up and nearly fell off the john 'cause I was dizzy. I mopped everything up again and flushed the bloody towels and tried to look as neat and clean as I could. I needed the library and for more than just the dry and warm for once, I didn't wanna get kicked out.

It took me awhile and I yelled at the computer once--and promised, promised I wouldn't do it again when the librarian came around, I think she felt sorry for me--but there was a city called Yellowknife in Canada. I hadn't been wrong. I'd remembered something and I hadn't been wrong and that was kinda wow, 'cause brains weren't my thing. The thing I did know how to do on the computer was Greyhound but they didn't go to Yellowknife and I couldn't pay for a ride anyway. Yellowknife wasn't close to the border--it wasn't close to anything, I finally figured. It was the bumfuck of beyond and if there was somewhere farther from Chicago in the world, I didn't know what it was. I couldn't concentrate on the stuff on the computer; Northwest Territories, diamonds and stuff like that. I was thinking; it had been more than a year since I'd run away, this uncle of mine could've moved somewhere else and why would he wanna help me out anyway? He could be just as bad as my dad--they were brothers after all. He was probably whomping the snot out of his own kids while I was here waiting for the mob to find and kill me.

What I came back to, over and over, was that I had no where to go and I was scared shitless. My dad beat me up, and I figured he woulda killed me if I'd been stupid enough to hang around but there was somebody out there who wanted to fucking shoot me. That was different. I thought no one scared me as much as my dad butat least I knew what was up with him. Some stranger trying to kill me was different, I couldn't predict it, couldn't get an angle. And a gun was way different from fists and feet and a belt. So, I sat in that library chair and felt blood seeping down my arm and didn't know what to do.

End Taking out the Trash 1/? by XTricks: x_tricks2000@yahoo.com

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