Fighters

"Take me home," he suddenly said.

"No." My answer was immediate and without emotion. I wanted to - I really, really wanted to. All the thoughts that had been with me ever since I'd first laid eyes on him were still there, right beneath the surface, but this couldn't happen.

He rounded on me, actually confused. "Why not?"

I thought about what to tell him. That he was dangerous for me, that he was too close to all the things I used to be. That Bren had told me specifically not to, and I didn't really want to get on the wrong side of Bren. That I was worried that if I brought him home and he didn't react the way I wanted him to, or worse, if he did, I'd break my own goddamn heart.

But his pupils were huge, way bigger than they should be even in this low light, and so I had an out. "I don't take home people who aren't sober."

He frowned at that. "I dropped the speed."

"Yeah." I gave him that, even if I didn't understand it. Maybe it was a start, for him. Or for me? I didn't let myself think that for long. It's stupid, anyway, to get clean for anyone but yourself. "But you're still high."

"So fucking what?" I could see him starting to get pissed, saw the tension building in his fists, his thighs. "What the fuck difference does it -"

I didn't let him finish before I pulled him close to me, sinking my hand deep into that hair, fuck, his hair was so good, and dragging his ear to my lips. "I want to see you, not the drugs," I let myself whisper, watching him simultaneously go still and shiver all over, all through his core. "I want to watch you react when I do the things I want to do."

That was only half true at this point. Yeah, I wanted him beneath me, squirming, calling my name and begging and controlled but I also wanted him sober because I just wanted him sober, wanted him to exist in a way that if he took drugs it was for fun and not because he was trying to destroy himself, not because it was his baseline or his way of filling himself up with something, anything, wanted to see what he would look like when he smiled for real and shit, fuck, dammit I was not supposed to care but it was way, way late for that. That was the problem with knowing people, with being so damn good at understanding. That was the problem when you ran into someone so damn understandable.

When I let him go, he stumbled back, that half dazed, half afraid, half aroused look on his face. And yeah, the guy was operating at 150%. I narrowed my eyes, seeing how easily it had been to get him there. I bet I could get him to 200%. I bet I could get him to break the goddamn meter.

"Then why'd you buy me the drink?"

"Huh?" He'd caught me daydreaming again, and he didn't look pleased.

"If you want me sober, why the fuck did you buy me a drink?"

The bartender was back, looking more amused than anything else. I shrugged. "You asked for it."

"You could have said no."

"I could have." I leaned on my hand and watched him. Shit, I thought. This is gonna piss him off, if past experience is any guide. "But I'm not your keeper."

I was right. I watched his face gather up in a scowl. "You're sure fucking acting like it."

"No. I'm just telling you what you have to do if you want to come home with me." I tried to keep my voice calm and even, soft. Tried not to drop it low and smooth, tried not to command. This needed to be his decision. He needed to chose his path. I was just giving him the opportunity, I told myself. That's all. I can be an option for him, in a place that had anything but. "And I want you sober for that."

He shoved away from the bar, drink in hand. "You can't tell me what the fuck to do."

"No," I said quietly, and I wasn't sure if he'd hear me over the sounds of the club except that he was watching me so intently. "Not when you're like this, I can't."

He scowled even deeper and whirled away, those curls bouncing as he made his way towards the dance floor.

"Sober?" I heard the bartender remark behind me, and I immediately hated his smug, amused tone.

I shrugged, turning back to my beer.

"You'll never see it." His gaze was following John, I'm sure. Fuck, I hated that name for him. "I don't think I've ever seen that guy sober."

"And you don't think that might be an issue?"

He glanced at me at the bitterness in my tone, the accusation I'd been trying to keep in my chest. "Hey man." His hands went up in mock defeat. "I just serve the drinks."

"Yeah." I didn't look up from mine. "And that's kind of the problem."

He shook his head and walked away, and I let him go. Fuck, I thought as I took a sip of my shitty beer. I really fucking hate this bar.

***

CH 6

***

Sober?

Sober?

Who the fuck was this guy to demand that of me, who the fuck was he to judge my life, my choices, my actions? I'd dropped the speed, what more did he fucking want? What other concessions did I have to give to him, what other ways did he want me to destroy my freedom, my escape, my way of killing all the bits of me that needed to fucking die?

I couldn't believe how fucking uncool I'd been, just talking to him. How he made me slip into angry, into frustrated and fighting and how easily I forgot to flirt, how fucking easy it was for him to get me - Shit. I had been about to think vulnerable, but I wasn't that. I wouldn't be that. Not for him, not for anyone.

Why should his hand in my hair make me feel any sort of way? Why should his breath on my cheek make me want to collapse? Why should the thought of him wanting me, me, not sex, not my mouth or my body or the things I did but me, why should that make my stomach hurt this fucking much?

No. He hadn't said that. He'd said he'd wanted to see my reactions, he'd said he wanted to see me react, that was it, he didn't want anything different than the rest of them, he wasn't any different, couldn't be. Wouldn't be.

Fuck.

I slammed the rest of my drink and headed right back to the bar.

***

Bren, happy and relaxed, found me probably two hours later. His bear had showed up with the same idea he'd had, and they were going to spend the night dancing and making up. Or something. Whatever. At least I wouldn't have to pull Bren out of any more bar fights.

I reminded Bren that he had a fight in two days, and needed to stay in shape, but he didn't really give a shit about things like weights. He made the lowest weight class by five pounds, easy. A few cocktails meant nothing to him.

Bren, man. Most guys in the lower weight classes were just skimming the limits, and doing it for a better chance at winning. Bren was different. He didn't fight to win. He fought because he had to.

I was anything but happy and relaxed. I'd lost track of my guy - shit, when had he become my guy, he wasn't anyone's guy, but I sure as hell wasn't going to call him John - about twenty minutes ago. I sighed and called the bartender over. I knew he'd know where he was. I knew he always knew where everyone was, with those quick eyes and quicker smiles. I also knew I'd been kind of a dick to him earlier. He wasn't a bad guy, not really, just had been here for too long maybe. Or operated by a different set of rules, bartender rules.

He'd been avoiding me, probably frustrated by my words earlier. "More beer?" he carefully asked, that smile in place.

"Where is he?"

"Where is who?" I shot him a look at his feigned ignorance and he gave up. "I'm not his keeper either, you know."

"I know," I said, trying to show that I was properly chagrined about my comments earlier. "So where is he?"

The bartender shrugged. "Never saw him come out of the bathroom after he went in with Henry. He's drunk as a skunk, you know." He smiled at me, and his expression was not amusement so much as it was vindictiveness. "Put all his drinks on your tab."

I got up and headed to the bathroom.

It looked empty when I first got in there, dingy and gross and everything I'd expected but worse. If he wasn't here, good for him. I made a quick scan and was about to leave when I heard a groan from one of the stalls.

At the suddenness of me ripping open the stall door, the man inside jumped. I looked down at him, at his cock hard and exposed and pointed at the clearly unconscious, half naked man draped over the toilet, his dark hair covering his eyes, the single braid falling across his lips.

"I hope," I said slowly, quietly, trying to hold tight to all the things in my chest that didn't want to stay, "for your sake, that you were not about to do what it looks like you were about to do."

"Shit, man." He was shoving his rapidly deflating cock away. "No big deal, right?"

No big deal. My chest was not a container meant to hold this much shit.

"I mean," he said, flashing me a nervous smile, "it's just John."

I had him up against the wall, my arm to his throat, before he knew what hit him. I was trying to decide exactly how much of what shit this fucker was going to go through when the door swung open behind me, letting in the noise of the club.

I turned to see Bren's bear making his way into the small space. He took me in, then peeked into the stall and saw the man's unconscious form. He crossed his arms.

"He's not worth it, love," he said, jerking his chin towards the stall. I felt my chest about to burst.

"Everyone," I stated clearly, slowly, in simple fucking terms because somehow these people weren't fucking getting this, "is worth more than being fucked like that."

I watched the bear's eyebrows go up as he suddenly put the pieces together. His eyes flicked from the stall to the man I was holding, shaking, back to the stall, to finally land back on the man in my hands, and I was glad to see that his eyes were dark and angry and holding some of the things I had been struggling with. He made his way towards me, and the man whimpered. I cut off his air before he could make any more noises.

"Leave him to me," the bear said quietly. "You go take care of Teddy."

Teddy, I thought as I let go of the man, hearing his body hit the tile and watching the bear grab him back up. From Theodore. I bet he used that nickname special for the bears. Fuck, I think I hated that even more than John.

I didn't listen to the sound of fist hitting flesh as I made my way over to the stall. That was old news to me; I was focused on the man slumped over the toilet.

I tried not to touch his skin too much as I pulled his pants up over his ass, hoping that they would stay. They didn't seem to have much support past just being tight. His body clothed, I propped him up against the stall wall and started to pay attention to just how far gone he was, lightly tapping on his cheek and calling to him. He was responsive enough that I didn't think he was dying, but not responsive enough that I wasn't worried.

Definitely, I thought as I heard another punch land, not responsive enough to consent.

It was probably the alcohol and not K that had done him in, at least, which had me on comfortable territory. I started in on a quick check for any damage.

"He okay?" I looked up to see Bren's bear hovering in the stall entryway, and shrugged.

"As okay as he can be." There had been nothing but a few bruises over the man's body, bruises that made me angry and hurt but they weren't my business, it wasn't my body, and it wasn't like I didn't beat my own flesh to shit for a living. And, they looked old. A few days at least. I noticed the blood on the big man's knuckles and let out some of the things I hadn't allowed from my body before. "Thanks."

"Orin," he offered, and put out his hand.

I shook it. "Coop."

"You're a friend of Adam's, right?"

Adam was Bren's first name. Adam Brendle. It always took me a minute to register him as an Adam. "Yeah," I finally said, my brain catching up to me. I looked down the the man splayed at my feet. "I'm gonna get him out of here. Can you watch him while I settle up?"

He nodded and I sighed in something that almost felt like relief, if I hadn't been so damn wound up.

The bartender met me at my half-drunk beer. "No luck?"

"The next time you see someone go into your bathroom so drunk they can't stand," I said, low and angry and so fucking over this place, "maybe send someone in to check to make sure they're not being raped."

But he just rolled his eyes. "Please. It's John. It's not like he'd care. Besides, what could I -"

I hissed and grabbed his shirt, dragging him across the bar, but even as I did it I realized that he was nothing to me, that I didn't give a shit about him and I released him, pushing him back against the bottles. "Jaded fuck," I spat. I threw down a few twenties and left.

He shouted something after me, I think, but I was already bursting into the bathroom, causing Orin to jump. "Tell Bren I'm headed home," I told him, not really giving a shit about how he would make his way back to the apartment.

Orin took in the lines of my body and frowned. "Chad give you trouble?"

"That the bartender?" He nodded. "No." Orin raised a brow at my curt tone, but I didn't want to talk about it. I hoisted the man over my shoulder, feeling again how light he was, how easy he was to carry, and really hated that I wasn't hating that I was doing this.

Orin walked me out, which helped some with the stares that were inevitable as I carried an unconscious man out of the bathroom. I was shocked when the bouncers outside the bar didn't make any attempt to stop me, but Orin just spat. "Statues," he said quietly. "Nothing but statues."

We got the guy - fuck, I was going to have to find a name for him if I was going to keep doing this, not, I reminded myself, that I had any plans whatsoever to keep doing this - into Bren's backseat. Orin frowned. "You gonna need any help getting him home?"

I shook my head. I knew from experience that I could handle that. "Thanks again, Orin." I glanced back at the bar. "You'd better get back inside before Bren starts getting antsy."

He smiled at me, a little sloppy and very pleased, and I knew he had it bad for my friend. Good. Bren deserved it.

The walk up to the apartment was uneventful, and I managed to get us both through my door with minimal banging of elbows. I didn't even drop my keys.

I had him on the couch, a fresh glass of water near his head, the bucket set up and was just laying the blanket over him when the door opened.

I didn't bother to look up to see Bren's disappointed face. He was just going to have to deal with this. "He was unconscious in the bathroom," I said. "And -"

"I know." Bren sighed. "Orin told me."

I looked up to find Orin there as well, his huge frame filling our doorway. I nodded, surprised at how relieved I was to see this perfect stranger. "Thank you," I told him, quietly. For being there to help. For telling Bren, and helping him to understand.

He nodded, slowly, his eyes on the mess of black hair arranged over the couch. I followed his gaze.

"I think he's doing okay," I ventured. "He hasn't woken up, but -"

"Coop," Bren said, his voice careful.

So maybe he didn't understand. I needed him to; needed him to get why I had to do this, if just this time. "No one cared." I pulled the blanket over him. "No one would have known."

"Coop," Bren said again, quieter. "You can't keep doing this."

"I know." My voice was just as quiet, and my eyes were on the still form before me.

"He isn't good for you."

"I know."

"This is like playing with fire."

"I know."

"Shit." I could hear Bren crossing his arms. "You gonna say something besides 'I know'?"

"I know," I joked feebly. Bren's silence didn't sound amused, so I sighed and started again. "The whole fucking bar, Bren. Everyone there, they all see him, they all know. And no one's checking in on him, everyone just uses him for what they want. And he doesn't care. He can't, not when he needs that place like he does, not when he sees himself." I took a deep breath. "He doesn't have anyone. He's alone."

"Cooper." I could hear the understanding in Bren's voice, in the way he pushed my name towards me. "He isn't you."

"No." I knew that was true, I knew it, but still... "But I was almost him."

Orin gave a look, but my eyes never left the back of the man before me as I watched him breathe.

"That doesn't make him your responsibility."

I passed my hands over my eyes and stood. "I know." I made my way into the kitchen for a glass of water of my own.

Orin followed me, a little bit behind. I knew what was coming and steeled myself, settling truths on my shoulders and making the words ready.

"Adam is really worried about this."

I nodded. "He just doesn't want me fucking up a good thing."

"Can I ask..." he started, then shook his head, unsure how to continue.

"Drugs," I just said, hoping that would be enough. I didn't want to get into specifics, didn't want to talk about sleeping in my car after I lost the last apartment I could afford, didn't want to talk about the bar fights, didn't want to remember burning through job after job. How my friends disappeared, how I turned on my family. "Alcohol too, I guess, but." I shrugged.

"What made you stop?"

"I got a wake up call." I'd had a lot of wake up calls, but I finally got one that I answered.

"You got hurt," he guessed, but I shook my head.

"I got hurt all the time. I had shit that could numb that, and the more dumb shit you do the more you think you deserve it." I saw Orin nod, slow and easy, but knew he didn't understand. Not really. "But hurting someone else? That's a whole different ball game."

I watched Orin pause, his eyes taking me in.

"Bar fight," I explained quietly before his imagination could run wild. "I was trashed. He was trashed. I was high. I donno, I don't really remember it." I did; I remembered it real well, remembered it in nightmares and the way my body never let me really let loose anymore, not outside the ring, or around Bren, or anywhere where there weren't people I trusted to stop me. I breathed; you did this, you can talk about it. "I put the guy in a coma."

"Jesus," I heard Orin breathe.

"Yeah." My voice was just as quiet. I drank a bit of water and waited, knowing he'd have questions.

I was right. I could feel him shifting in front of me. "It's alright," I told him, even though it wasn't. "You can ask."

"You still drink."

"Yeah." The glass felt cool in my hand. "Alcohol was never really my trigger, you know? I had an unhealthy relationship with it, sure. So I quit it for a while. When I came back I just had to be careful, really, really careful." I didn't get drunk; not anymore. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to, all the fucking time. But I didn't. I could control that.

Orin moved on to harder questions. "I thought you couldn't fight if you had a record."

"That isn't true. Lots of guys come to MMA to get clean, in one way or another." I tapped my finger against the glass. "But I don't have a record."

He frowned and I shrugged, feeling sick. "He didn't have anyone, not really. He was just some old drunk, the bar's bastard, you know? No one liked him. No one really knew him. No family, no friends, just the drink. So when it came time to act as witness, there wasn't anyone willing to go on record and say it was me involved. Fuck, there wasn't anyone willing to say they'd even seen him at the damn bar that night. So the case got dropped." Not even the police were there for him, in the end.

"Fuck," Orin summed up.

"Yeah." I sat there, remembered how I'd curled up in the alley, blood on my hands and seeping into my soul. So drunk I could barely see. My dealer had cut me off the morning before because I'd told him - it didn't matter. I was drunk to deal with the withdrawal. I was fighting because I was pissed at what I'd become. Or maybe it was the other way around; I was drunk to deal with what I'd become, and I was pissed at the withdrawal. Or maybe both were true. "It's sick, but it wasn't really that I'd hurt the guy that got me clean. It was that I was becoming him, you know? I was him. No friends, check. No one to come visit me in the hospital, check. It was like, I looked at him there in that hospital bed, knew I was his only visitor, ever, in the entirety of his stay, and thought. You know. The only reason that's not me is because I won." I rubbed my hands, feeling the aches that multiple stress fractures had put there. I'd gone to the guy's funeral three years later when his kidney had given out. I'd been one of three attendees. "No one wants to end up there."