Gaël Shaw, Jr. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
memorylost) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wickerpark2017-07-13 07:35 pm
memorylost) wrote in wickerpark2017-07-13 07:35 pm
Entry tags:
[Carlos/Gael/Patrick/Ollie] What goes around comes around....
Patrick Zeitlin had not been on the Deck in nearly 8 years, having first been sent to study and then to act as an ambassador within the British government. He had learned, many years ago, that certain people of rank knew a 'little' about their existence. It was a necessary evil to ensure that goods and trade existed- to ensure the safety of their peoples. All well and good and boring, yet his king had insisted. Patrick was too quick of mind, and sweet of tongue to be wasted on a trivial task within the deck.
But then he'd been called back, a 'mercy' no doubt as his grandmother was gravely ill and dying. He was, he imagined, supposed to be torn with grief and thus being given the time to mourn the woman who had raised him. When his parents had died, after all, she had taken him in. Given him everything. And been pathetically easy to manipulate as far as Spades went. Still- had it not been for her, Patrick never would have met the most wondrous of toys he had ever known.
Gael Shaw, his precious Gael Shaw. So fragile, so delicate- so deadly when pushed to the right corner. Gael had been but 14 when his father had died, so torn and broken by his death he had hardly noticed Patrick's claws as the then 19 year old wrapped his arms about him in comfort. By the time Gael did notice, though, it had been too late for him to fight back- he was ensnared. His. His alone. And Patrick had worked so very hard to keep it that way.
But then his king had ordered him away, and by then the 16 year old Gael had moved to the Hearts in a vaguely veiled attempt to put space between them. It had had the opposite effect, it had given Patrick the room to worm in closer, to guard him tightly and 'protect' what was his. It was his King that forced actual space between them. And if Patrick were ever given the chance, he might well make Jordan Novak regret that. Unfortunately, making his King pay for his slight would have to wait. First- he had to make Gael pay for his boldness, his...disgusting willingness to whore himself out to any man or woman who wished to touch that which was not theirs to touch.
He had seen Gael for the first time at the bar, Mooseknuckle. His arms wrapped tightly around a man, Oliver Byrd as he later learned, dressed as a harlot and in heels. There were bruises across his pale skin, and laughter bubbling out of him as he flirted and danced with so many that not. His lips had dared to touch with nearly half the bar's and he paid no notice to the simmering heat that had radiated off Patrick. Indeed, Gael had not even noticed the other man until right before he and Oliver Byrd were leaving.
The Heart seemed to diminish when his gaze crossed the bar, his smiled fade and his eyes for a brief moment grew wide- fear rolled off him in a brief, but potent way. It was that that gave Patrick grim satisfaction. And that which held his hand that night- Gael could suffering with wondering when his punishment would come, it was please him to know the Heart could not sleep for fear.
So he let the man worry at himself for a week, and then he struck.
Finding Gael's apartment was not difficult. Nor was climbing up the fire escape and prying the window into his kitchen. He found his way into the bedroom, and glowered at the scene- at the bed he could only imagine the likes of one of Gael's other lovers, Carlos Sanchez, forcefully taking his pleasure from the Heart. At the rope and whips, the sex toys, and the filth of another touching what was not theirs. It fueled his anger, his hate, his need to cleanse what was his. Had always been his.
Was it not him, after all, that had bred these desires in Gael? Taught him the pleasure of pain, the joy of being helpless, given him the need to be bound to find his release? Was he not the one who had taught Gael how to please his lover? To sharp in his softness?
The unlocking of the front door alerted him to Gael's return, and Patrick backed into the shadows as he waited for his prey. When Gael pushed into the bedroom, yawning from his 'hard day's work', Patrick watched observing the lithe frame of the smaller Heart. How easy it was going to be to break him. And he would need to be broken in order to be rebuilt and cleansed....oh yes.
Gael never saw the first hit, falling to the floor limply as he blow hit him solidly on the back of his head. Patrick, however, did wait for him to come back around- bound and gagged- before he began the process of 'cleansing' his object, his slave, his toy. His. The whip fell against the flesh of Gael's back and torso harshly over, and over. Patrick ignored the tears and the muffled pleas as his snapped his arm down harder, and then harder still. He ignored the blood that splattered the walls and floor as the leather cut through the fabric of Gael's shirt and skin.
When the pound of flesh wrought by the whip was no longer enough to satisfy his rage, he turned to his feet- kicking and stomping on the younger heart. It was only when the boy stopped moving, stopped crying that he stopped his assault. Chest heaving he glared down at the bloodied, beaten heap on the floor. He was not so beautiful now, was he? Bloodied, bruised and broken.
But breathing- yes, for now his precious was still breathing.
Sniffing, Patrick excused himself from the bedroom to wash his hands, and clean the blood from his face. Now, he thought, he needed only remind his precious just who had control over life and death for him. Turning back in the bedroom, he pulled Gael's cracked and bloodied phone from his back pocket and unlocked it with the boy's finger print. Finding the two he wanted he sent a text with a place and a time, before also sending them both a picture of Gael's bloodied and broken face.
Yes, Gael would live. At least long enough to see him taken the two men he seemed to 'care' for away from him.
"The things I do, my dearest love, to prove just how much I love you." He said softly, brushing the boy's hair back before he hoisted the limp body up and carried him back out of the apartment.
But then he'd been called back, a 'mercy' no doubt as his grandmother was gravely ill and dying. He was, he imagined, supposed to be torn with grief and thus being given the time to mourn the woman who had raised him. When his parents had died, after all, she had taken him in. Given him everything. And been pathetically easy to manipulate as far as Spades went. Still- had it not been for her, Patrick never would have met the most wondrous of toys he had ever known.
Gael Shaw, his precious Gael Shaw. So fragile, so delicate- so deadly when pushed to the right corner. Gael had been but 14 when his father had died, so torn and broken by his death he had hardly noticed Patrick's claws as the then 19 year old wrapped his arms about him in comfort. By the time Gael did notice, though, it had been too late for him to fight back- he was ensnared. His. His alone. And Patrick had worked so very hard to keep it that way.
But then his king had ordered him away, and by then the 16 year old Gael had moved to the Hearts in a vaguely veiled attempt to put space between them. It had had the opposite effect, it had given Patrick the room to worm in closer, to guard him tightly and 'protect' what was his. It was his King that forced actual space between them. And if Patrick were ever given the chance, he might well make Jordan Novak regret that. Unfortunately, making his King pay for his slight would have to wait. First- he had to make Gael pay for his boldness, his...disgusting willingness to whore himself out to any man or woman who wished to touch that which was not theirs to touch.
He had seen Gael for the first time at the bar, Mooseknuckle. His arms wrapped tightly around a man, Oliver Byrd as he later learned, dressed as a harlot and in heels. There were bruises across his pale skin, and laughter bubbling out of him as he flirted and danced with so many that not. His lips had dared to touch with nearly half the bar's and he paid no notice to the simmering heat that had radiated off Patrick. Indeed, Gael had not even noticed the other man until right before he and Oliver Byrd were leaving.
The Heart seemed to diminish when his gaze crossed the bar, his smiled fade and his eyes for a brief moment grew wide- fear rolled off him in a brief, but potent way. It was that that gave Patrick grim satisfaction. And that which held his hand that night- Gael could suffering with wondering when his punishment would come, it was please him to know the Heart could not sleep for fear.
So he let the man worry at himself for a week, and then he struck.
Finding Gael's apartment was not difficult. Nor was climbing up the fire escape and prying the window into his kitchen. He found his way into the bedroom, and glowered at the scene- at the bed he could only imagine the likes of one of Gael's other lovers, Carlos Sanchez, forcefully taking his pleasure from the Heart. At the rope and whips, the sex toys, and the filth of another touching what was not theirs. It fueled his anger, his hate, his need to cleanse what was his. Had always been his.
Was it not him, after all, that had bred these desires in Gael? Taught him the pleasure of pain, the joy of being helpless, given him the need to be bound to find his release? Was he not the one who had taught Gael how to please his lover? To sharp in his softness?
The unlocking of the front door alerted him to Gael's return, and Patrick backed into the shadows as he waited for his prey. When Gael pushed into the bedroom, yawning from his 'hard day's work', Patrick watched observing the lithe frame of the smaller Heart. How easy it was going to be to break him. And he would need to be broken in order to be rebuilt and cleansed....oh yes.
Gael never saw the first hit, falling to the floor limply as he blow hit him solidly on the back of his head. Patrick, however, did wait for him to come back around- bound and gagged- before he began the process of 'cleansing' his object, his slave, his toy. His. The whip fell against the flesh of Gael's back and torso harshly over, and over. Patrick ignored the tears and the muffled pleas as his snapped his arm down harder, and then harder still. He ignored the blood that splattered the walls and floor as the leather cut through the fabric of Gael's shirt and skin.
When the pound of flesh wrought by the whip was no longer enough to satisfy his rage, he turned to his feet- kicking and stomping on the younger heart. It was only when the boy stopped moving, stopped crying that he stopped his assault. Chest heaving he glared down at the bloodied, beaten heap on the floor. He was not so beautiful now, was he? Bloodied, bruised and broken.
But breathing- yes, for now his precious was still breathing.
Sniffing, Patrick excused himself from the bedroom to wash his hands, and clean the blood from his face. Now, he thought, he needed only remind his precious just who had control over life and death for him. Turning back in the bedroom, he pulled Gael's cracked and bloodied phone from his back pocket and unlocked it with the boy's finger print. Finding the two he wanted he sent a text with a place and a time, before also sending them both a picture of Gael's bloodied and broken face.
Yes, Gael would live. At least long enough to see him taken the two men he seemed to 'care' for away from him.
"The things I do, my dearest love, to prove just how much I love you." He said softly, brushing the boy's hair back before he hoisted the limp body up and carried him back out of the apartment.
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He was armed, of course; he always was - at least three knives, as Jordan Novak had taught Ty and Ty had passed onto him. But it wasn't knives he went for as he ran into the theatre. It wasn't any weapon, actually. Instead he paused and stared at the bloodied heap at center stage and then ran forward, easily hoisting himself up. "Gael," he said as he went to his knees by Gael's side. "Gael." He smoothed his hair away from his face, his eyes glittering with sharp anger that Gael couldn't see. "Wake up. Talk to me." But Gael wasn't moving, and Carlos was about to grab his own phone from his pocket to call someone, he wasn't sure who, someone to help.
Then the door slammed open again, and Carlos' head snapped up to see Oliver Byrd running down the aisle the way Carlos had just done.
"What the fuck is this?" Ollie said, and it would almost be comical if there was anything funny about this; the way Ollie's reactions exactly mirrored Carlos', even down to the way he fell to his knees at Gael's other side. "What happened? Who the fuck happened?"
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"No," he managed to get out, his voice broken and hoarse as he shuddered, "no, no....go. You ha- t...go." His eyes shut again, the effort to keep his consciousness being too great for him to fight off the darkness.
Patrick watched the other two, scowling at how they gathered near what was his, anger in their voices as if they had claim to it. He wanted to rip out their throats, and cut out their hearts. But, no...that would have to wait. Instead it lifted his gun and took aim before he fired a single shot at the pair.
"What happened, you ask? You should know. You've both tried to take what wasn't your's to take." He called out from the gallery, moving down the aisle as he spoke in the darkness. "He belongs to me. But you've ruined him, and I have no use for whores who parade themselves about like little bitches in heat. If he survives, I'll be sure to chain him to the wall like the dog he is."
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"That's only one answer," he said as he saw Patrick come further down the aisle. His shot had been closer than Patrick's, but still had missed.
"He's Patrick Zeitlin," Carlos said as he came to his feet. That smooth shot from Ollie, and the cool demeanor - normally he'd be giving the Diamond a very considering look. But it was hardly the time for that; Carlos was just going to embrace that Oliver Byrd was more ready for this than he was, in a way. He only had blades. It made him wish for a moment that he carried a gun, like Elisha did. "He was Gael's boyfriend. Spade." And Jordan Novak had sent him away. Right now, based on this scene, Carlos wondered if Daniel Prochazka had had a hand in that one.
Ah, Ollie thought as he kept his eyes steady on Patrick. Well, that explained a thing or two that Gael never had. "I don't think he considers Gael a boyfriend Carlos, darling," he drawled out in a tone that was at odds with the even stare of an officer. "More like he thinks he owns him."
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Clearly someone else had thought about the benefits bringing a gun to a knife fight.
He pulled his gun out as he pushed into the theatre, seeing Gael and the other two on the stage first before he turned toward the mocking voice he heard on the other side of the gallery.
"Yes, yes...Boyfriend. He still is, little Club. He never stopped being it. And you, both of you, spoiled him in my absence. Dear me...the only thing left is to make him suffer. I was going to let him watch you both die, slowly....but well, heh. My anger got a little carried away." Hence the bloodied, probably dying, mess behind the two men on stage. He fired the gun at the two on stage again, laughing a little as he did. "Of course, he'll probably die before I get that chance. Oops." Ah well, it didn't matter as he fired again.
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Carlos or someone else. He heard the doors open, and he was almost as familiar with that footfall as his own. He didn't need to look, even if he could afford to give Patrick that kind of warning. Instead he slipped one of his throwing knives from the sheath at his back and hid it in his palm, retreating into that brooding silence that Gael had teased him about the night they'd finally spoken. Just a few steps more, he thought, before he let the knife fly with deadly accuracy.
Though he wasn't aiming for a kill strike, and if someone asked him why, he'd say that for what he'd done today - Patrick Zeitlin deserved to feel pain. He deserved a slow death at the hands of someone who he'd underestimated. "A shame about the lack of self-control there," he commented as his knife pierced Patrick's side. "You could be listening to Gael begging you not to kill his best friend now. Instead..." Well, Patrick was outnumbered.
Not that he'd consider himself to be. Patrick Zeitlin, had, he recalled, always been extremely sure of himself.
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"If I die," Patrick hissed suddenly as Carlos' dagger flew out of the darkness and sank into his side. Somehow the man held on to his gun, lifting it as he aimed not at either one of the standing men, but the one lying helpless on the stage. "I die, he dies....tik tok."
Ty was fairly certain Patrick was mad, as a fucking hatter. Reaching the other man from behind, his hands and arms were quick to yank the aim and the gun down, squinting as wood flew back at them both as a shot buried itself in the arm of a chair. Patrick growled, trying to toss an elbow back at Ty before moving to swing his gun around and fire at the other club. "Who the fuck invited you, princeling?"
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He flinched as Ty ducked Patrick's shot and his lips thinned as suddenly the same rage he'd seen in Carlos' eyes darkened his own. He didn't connect the same dots he'd connected with Gael and Carlos, though, as he lifted his gun. "Tyler," he said with deadly calm. "Move." Then he fired, his gun aimed for Patrick's temple as the Spade turned again to spit venom at him.
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"He needs a doctor," he said, moving closer to Ollie and the stage before he looked at Gael. The other's eyes flickered open, and Ty winced. Gael was a bloody mess- his arms and legs...back and torso covered in bloody slashes. Gael's hands were shaking, and Ty suspected the other man was going into shock. "Are you okay?" He asked Ollie, moving to the stage and pulling himself up before reaching out to put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Come on...."
Moving toward Gael and Carlos, he looked at the other man with a less than hopeful expression. "Carlos, we need to get him out of here."
Gael groaned as he looked up at the two clubs, eyes blinking slowly as he considered just willing himself back into an unconscious state.
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"We can take him to Clubs," Carlos said, finally seeming to snap back to himself as Ty laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'll call your father on the way, Ty." If Elisha Kagan couldn't handle this situation he thought as he picked up Gael, it couldn't be fixed, and that wasn't something Carlos was willing to contemplate. "He can have a doctor waiting for us, and keep this quiet." Gael wasn't going to want this widely known, he thought.
But then he blinked as Ollie came back - he hadn't even noticed him slip backstage - with a blanket and the keys.
"Wrap him in this when you get to the van," Ollie told the Seven of Clubs, before looking at Gael, whose eyes were barely open. "And darling, I expect you looking better when I bring you flowers." He wanted to go with them, but...
Someone needed to deal with this mess here, and he'd made the one in the aisle. Though he wasn't sure how they'd clean it all, just them. It wasn't, he thought, something he had any experience with.
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When they got out to the Van, Ty covered Gael with a blanket as Carlos sat him down. "I'll call my father," he said, looking at Carlos. "He'll be waiting for you, I promise. You worry about driving back to the Castle. I'm...going to go back and try to help him." He had never wanted to split himself into to two so much so in his life. How was he supposed to look after both of these people he didn't know, and he wished he did.
"Go, I'll call. We need to call Hadyn too, anyway. It is his theatre, he should know." And get a chance to see for himself what sort of chaos and mess had taken over his theatre tonight. He clapped Carlos on the back and then turned to jog back into the theatre, pulling his phone out to make the call to his father before he reappeared next to Ollie.
"Well, where to start."
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Ollie looked up from where he was stared a little fixedly at Patrick's body in the aisle when he heard footsteps, and he raised a brow when he saw Ty come back in from backstage. "Well, offhand, I'd say probably the dead body. It's not exactly an expected prop in any production of Cats." Of course, what they were going to do with Patrick?
Well, that wasn't his usual area, he thought as he stood up and pushed his fingers through his hair.
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Hadyn was going to probably take only about ten to fifteen minutes to get to them. It wouldn't be completely clean, but they could at least have the body wrapped and start with scrubbing down the stage.
"Come on, lets get started...." he said, looking at Ollie for another moment before he reached out and took the other man's arm in his. "Hey, you sure....You know you didn't have to shoot him. I could have taken him down."
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"I'll get the drop cloths, sweetheart," Ollie said before he paused and looked over at Ty with a steady look that held just a faint trace of tired amusement. "Is it that you could have taken care of him or is it that I shot him so you didn't have to?" He asked. "Patrick isn't the first man I've shot in the head."
Of course, the others had been soldiers in the Zagros mountains, men who might have been hunting down a crashed American pilot but who, largely, weren't complete fucking nutcases about to go on a killing spree.
"Which isn't to say that I don't want a shot of vodka as soon as we're done here," he said as he disappeared backstage. "Because Jesus Fucking Christ, if any night deserves that, it's this one."
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"I don't care about trying to beat you in a body count," Ty continued to mutter as he moved toward the back to the cleaning closet. He found the bleach and some water to mix it in and a bucket to mix it all. When he got back, though, he found Hadyn standing on the stage looking pensively at the blood pulled there before turning toward the body on the floor.
"Well," he said, turning to look at Ty. "You've had an eventful night." He said in a sardonic voice, looking over at Ty and then giving him a good once over. It was in that moment that Ty realized his father must have been worried, or else he would not have arrived so quickly. The older man's features relaxed as he seemed to realize Ty was fine, and he looked back at the body on the floor. "I'll call Jordan. Let him know he has an errant child on his hands no longer."
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He shouldn't be surprised, Ollie thought as he came out with drop cloths, that Ty had called his fathers. Both of them, because Elisha might be making sure that Gael made it through this hell, but Hadyn was the one who ran the theatre. Still - not the face he particularly wanted to see. "One way to put it," he said, glancing at Ty, who was giving him a look like he expected him to have a sarcasm-off with Hadyn. To be fair, that would be in character for him of late, but mostly he wanted to get this done, as cleaned up as it could, and have a very large drink. Maybe two.
He waited until Hadyn was out in the hall to call the King of Spades before he looked back over at Ty, and waited until the door closed before he spoke. "I'm not trying to make it a contest," he said. "In the Navy we always thought the ones who did were a little bit psycho."
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"I just...Oliver," he said, "I was just wanted to be sure you were fine. You have a look about you that....I don't know how to explain, and frankly it worries me. For your sake. You didn't have to shoot him, not because I wanted to kill him or anything- but because I could have protected myself."
And then maybe Oliver wouldn't have that look in his face, in his eyes. Maybe he shouldn't even be pushing it he thought as he helped Ollie wrap the body in the plastic. "Is it against the rules for me to care?"
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"Is it against the rules to want to protect you, even if you can take care of yourself?" He asked. "Jesus Christ, Ty, he was in your face. Even he might not have missed at that close of range. Even you might have had some trouble disarming him. I knew I could make the shot, so I took it. I wasn't really thinking about afterwards right that second."
He took a glance towards the door but Hadyn was evidentially still speaking to his brother, meaning he had time.
"Look," he said. "I know what it's like to have to wrestle a gun from a man determined to kill you. Zeitlin was determined to kill all of us. Not just the two of us who touched Gael." Though he and Gael - well, they didn't happen much that way the last few weeks. Not since Gael first had gone home with Carlos Sánchez. Even the night they'd left together after their little Kesha performance, Gael had been too on edge to do anything.
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"Are you both done with your heart to heart?" Hadyn asked suddenly, waving his hand about in the air in a general sort of manner before he looked about. "Go on, I'll see it is cleaned up. You've both done enough for the night." He said, finally looking at Ollie for the first time. "Get that drink you want so badly. Go see your friend."
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"Thank you," he said, and when he looked back at Ty, at least his eyes were losing the annoyed glitter that Ty's father had so easily invoked. "Someone needs to call Dr. Prochazka," he said. "I should do that before we do anything else. I didn't even think about it until now." And he wasn't sure Carlos would think about it. Of course, Ty's parents might have done it. Either one. Hadyn had been in the hall for a while, and Elisha Kagan arranged everything in and out of sight while seeming not to do much more than throw catnip mice for his cat.
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"He has been notified." He said, suddenly, looking up at Oliver. "Mr. Byrd....Please. Go with Tyler. See to your friend. I shall see to the details. I th-...believe it is for the best." He looked to Tyler, smiling softly just a bit as he looked at the two of them. "Go..."
Tyler nodded, slowly. Then he turned to Oliver and reached out to take his arm and tug him slowly. "Come on...."
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"You know the worst part is that Patrick texted me because he thinks I'm sleeping with him. But I haven't slept with Gael since we got back from the outposts."
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And right now, Ty thought, he needed to get Ollie someplace where he could drink, forget and maybe sleep the night into a memory. "Come on, I've got whiskey at home and no where to be in the morning."