Unknown (2006): Triangle, Pt. 2

Fandom: Movie 'Unknown' 2006
Summary: Being a chronicle of the strange courtship of Mitch Wozniak and William Coles, Jr. after the events of the movie.
Pairing: Mitch Wozniak/Bill Coles, aka Jean Jacket/Racher Shirt. Bygone Woz/Bobby Kincade, aka Jean Jacket/Handcuffs
Rated: Mature
Word Count: 3360 (Part 2)
Disclaimer: Unknown and related characters do not belong to me, etc etc.
Warnings: Male/male sexytimes starting in part 2. Language. Spoilers for the movie. Un-beta'd.

 Side 2: Passion

The TV fills the room with flickering blue light, the cool color underscoring the draft that filters through poorly-insulated walls. The ever-present electronic whine is complimented by a whistle of wind past the window. Woz doesn't see or hear or feel any of it, just lets the signal rot his eyes out while his mind wanders.

She came to see him, today. Came all the way down to his dingy little apartment in San Diego, to tell him that Bill was filing for a divorce, and the pre-nup means she'll be out of luck, and can't he do something, anything, please, before everything falls apart?

He smiled an empty smile and told her, "Just take the divorce. You're getting away easy." At her look of shock, he said, "He knows all about it."

"He--? You--?" Her shock transformed into anger. "How could you? You-- does he know that you planned the kidnapping?"

Woz nodded. "Yeah." The wind dropped out of her sails. "I told him everything," Woz added, just to beat it into her head that you can't talk your way out of this one.

"Well... I... I'll just tell him that you... you forced..."

"Good luck with that."

She leaped at him, screaming, beating against his chest. "You son of a bitch! You ruined it! You ruined everything! Goddamn son of a bitch!" He managed to catch her wrists and hold her until her screams became sobs. "Son of a bitch," she repeated every so often.

"You should go," he said, when she finally began breathing evenly. "It's a long drive back to Rosales."

She wrenched her wrists away and slapped him, and slammed the door behind her.

There's a knock at that same door. Woz glances at the clock, reads 9:52. He sticks his sidearm into his waistband and turns on a lamp as he stands up. "Who's there?"

"It's Bill," comes from the other side of the door, and Woz falters, confused. It can't be Bill. There is no logical reason for it to be Bill. But he opens the door and it is, indeed, Bill, leaning against the frame and looking worse than he did back in the warehouse. His skin is ashen, face unshaved, and his shirt hangs off him like he's somehow managed to lose twenty pounds in the two days since Woz last saw him. A ghost of a smile flickers against his eyes. "Hey, man. Can I come in?"

Woz hesitates, and Bill holds up the six-pack in his hand, glass bottles rattling against each other. "I brought beer."

Woz lets him in, asks the first coherent question that forms. "How'd you know where I live?"

"Same place I got your phone number," Bill answers.

That doesn't clear up Woz's confusion at all. He picks a better question. "What are you doing here?"

Bill sighs. "I'm divorcing Eliza."

"I know," Woz says. "She came to see me."

Bill nods, doesn't seem particularly surprised. "She's staying at a hotel until everything's finalized. I didn't... I didn't want to stay in that house alone."

"So you thought you'd drive down to San Diego, instead?" Woz says, not quite following the train of thought.

"I can go, if it's a problem," Bill sighs as he turns toward the door.

"No, it's fine." Woz says, stopping the man with a hand on his shoulder. "It's fine." He relieves Bill of the six-pack, tells him to sit, to leave his jacket wherever.

The couch shifts as Bill sits down. "What are you watching?"

"I have no idea. Animal Planet, I think." Woz sticks the beer in the fridge, opens two of them.

"How's your memory doing?"

Woz shrugs, hands one of the bottles over. The couch groans as he settles onto it. "I've got a lot of it back, but I'm still missing a lot. It comes in bits and pieces. Lots of deja vu."

"Same," Bill says, takes a drink, doesn't say anything else. They watch a few minutes of footage of mice overrunning a town. Then Bill says, quietly, "Would you have gone through with it? If it weren't for the gas, I mean?"

Woz takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "Yes."

Bill nods. "Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

"For telling me the truth."

"Least I could do," Woz says. After a moment, he chuckles. "Nothing like a little amnesia to make you re-examine your life."

Bill chuckles in agreement.

--

They spend the night watching TV and drinking beer and not really talking any more, but the silence is comfortable, somehow. The clock reads 12:46 when Woz looks over to see Bill slumped against the arm of the couch, his breathing long and even. Sleep smoothes out his face, taking off ten years that didn't belong there in the first place. Woz stands up, turns off the TV, grabs the extra blanket out of his closet.

Bill's eyes open while Woz is putting the blanket on him, and a crease appears on his forehead. He starts to sit up. "M'sorry, I should--"

"Bill," Woz cuts him off. "It's almost one in the morning. Shut up and go back to sleep."

"No, I can't... need to..." Bill protests, but his eyes are already drifting shut, and he lays down obediently. "Thanks, man," he murmurs.

"Good night, Bill," Woz says, and he turns off the lamp.

--

In the morning, Bill is gone, with a note on the coffee table that he had to go to work, and thanks for letting him stay over. Woz goes out and gets groceries purely to keep himself occupied. When he gets home, there's a message on the machine saying he missed his appointment with the station psychiatrist, and could he please call back to reschedule. He deletes the message. Fuck the psychiatrist. He makes himself spaghetti for dinner and settles down to vegetate before the screen once again.

At a few minutes before ten, there's a knock at the door.

Woz becomes part of Bill's routine, and Bill a part of Woz's. Every night around ten, Bill arrives on the doorstep, always with a new six-pack, always offering to leave if he's imposing, always ending up spending the night on Woz's couch. Woz discovers that Bill wakes up at six in order to get into Rosales on time. Woz makes breakfast the day he discovers this, and every day after that just to make sure Bill eats something, because his tailored shirts still hang disturbingly off his frame.

They never discuss anything serious while they're together. They critique the shows and movies they happen to catch, and Bill occasionally talks about work, and Woz inquires politely after McCain's physical therapy, and they discover that they can both quote entirely too much of the Evil Dead series at the drop of a hat, but for the most part, they just sit and drink together.

One night, Bill breaks routine with a bottle of whiskey instead of the beer, a bottle that Woz realizes costs nearly a hundred and fifty dollars. He almost doesn't want to drink any of it, but Bill insists and it'd be rude to turn him down, and it tastes just as amazing as expensive eighteen-year-old scotch ought to taste. They drink most of the bottle and watch some show about heavily-tattooed bikers, and Woz comments that he never much saw the point of tattoos.

"Really?" Bill says. "You seem like the kind of guy to have one or two. Old girlfriends' names or 'mom' or something."

Woz scoffs. "Yeah, not so much."

Bill leans back, grinning with his eyes and his teeth. "I have a tattoo."

Woz looks at him, shakes his head. "No way."

"You don't believe me." Bill stands, with some difficulty, and starts to unbutton his pants. Woz shields his eyes.

"Whoa, whoa, no, I believe you."

"No, you don't," Bill insists.

"I believe you, just keep your pants on!"

"I am keeping my pants on -- just look, will you?"

Woz lowers his hand cautiously, to find that Bill's pants are, for the most part, still in place, just with the zipper undone so he can hold the hem down. There, along the curve where his legs meet his pelvis, a design of thick black tribal spikes curves down toward his groin, shaped vaguely like a skinning knife. Woz whistles and leans forward for a better look.

"See? I told you."

"Didn't that hurt?"

"Kind of. A lot. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Rebelling against daddy?"

"Something like that."

Woz isn't quite sure when his hand moved, but he's touching the tattoo, tracing one of the spikes with one finger. Bill doesn't seem to mind. "Damn," Woz says, in a breathless sort of voice that sounds wrong to his ears, though he can't really say why at the moment. He leans back and laughs. "Wouldn't have called that one."

Bill drops back onto the couch and picks up the bottle in the same motion. "Toldya," he repeats with a laugh, "surprises everybody." He swigs out of the bottle and hands it to Woz and tips his head back. His grin slips away. "Did you love your wife?" he asks, apparently of the ceiling.

Woz looks at him, attempts to figure out if he missed part of the conversation or if that was just as much of a non-sequitor as he thinks it was. He decides it doesn't matter. "Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, I loved her."

"Did you love my wife?"

"I thought I did."

"I loved her," Bill says. "I never did anything but love her, gave her everything. Trusted her. Trusted her more than anybody, and then..." he snorts. "Can't trust anybody." Bill shifts forward and leans his elbows on his knees, and Woz has the strange urge to reach out and rub his back between his shoulder blades, and hell, he was just poking the guy's pelvis, he thinks 'why not' and gives in to the urge. Bill's shoulders relax slightly under his touch.

"I can trust you," Bill says, softly. "You slept with my wife and kidnapped me and held a gun to my head, and still, it's like you're the only person I can trust. How completely fucking insane is that?"

Woz doesn't say anything, just keeps rubbing his back. Bill tips his head and looks up at Woz, and his expression is so desperate and heartbroken that Woz freezes. "I can trust you, right?" Bill practically pleads.

"Yeah," Woz says, and he realizes that he means it. "Of course. Always."

Bill sits up without breaking eye contact, a question in his eyes that Woz has no idea how to answer. Suddenly there's no space between them, and there's pressure on his lips and stubble against his cheek and a citrusy scent in his nostrils, and Woz's lips part before his forebrain has a chance to register what that all means.

Bill is kissing him.

And for some reason, all that Woz can think is that he should smell chemicals, not oranges.

And feel thick curls between his fingers and strong hands gripping at his arms and a body moving under his, and see heavy-lidded dark eyes shutter as Bobby gasps--

Fingers brush against Woz's jaw, and he jerks like he's been electrocuted, stumbling to his feet. "What the hell?" he demands, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "What the hell?"

Bill backs up against the far arm of the couch, his eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I did that, I'm so sorry, man--"

"Get out," Woz says. "Get out of here. And take your god-damn Macallan with you!" He practically throws the bottle. "Out!"

--

Bill staggers out of the building, scrubs his hand over his face. "Stupid, stupid," he mutters. He raises the bottle, changes his mind and hurls it as far as he can. The glass makes a satisfying sound as it smashes into a thousand pieces in the middle of the street, but the motion throws him off-balance, and he stumbles and falls on his ass on the curb and stays there, burying his face in his hands. "God, so fucking stupid."

He isn't sure how long he sits there being miserable before he feels the hand on his shoulder. Bill flinches and looks up, finds Woz looking down at him, framed by the streetlight so his face is just shadows. "Woz," Bill mouths silently, then out loud, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Woz says. "I overreacted. Come on, you can't drive home like this."

Bill lets himself be pulled to his feet, Woz's hand on his side to steady him. "I was gonna get a cab," he says.

"That's good, but this way you won't get rolled."

They manage to make it back up the stairs, not a small feat considering that Woz is almost as drunk as Bill is. Bill collapses onto the couch and curls up facing the back, hiding his face under his arm. "I'm sorry," he murmurs one last time.

"Go to sleep, Bill," Woz says, pulling the blanket over him before heading to his room. He sits up and fidgets with his picture of Erin for an hour before he finally falls asleep.

--

Breakfast the next morning is tense. Bill wakes up late, eats quickly and in silence, thanks Woz mechanically and hurries out the door. Woz goes to one of the cop hangouts he used to frequent before he went undercover, ends up chatting with some old friends, tries not to think about Bill -- or Bobby. He throws a couple of hot pockets in the microwave for dinner and settles down in front of the TV. After nine, he catches himself glancing at the clock every few minutes and tensing at every sound from the hallway.

Ten o'clock rolls around.

By ten thirty, Woz wonders if he should feel relieved, but he doesn't. He feels anxious and jumpy.

Eleven. He tries to tell himself that he should be glad Bill decided not to come over. Things would just be awkward after the night before. Besides, Bill has more important things to do than drive two hours to San Diego every night. He is the CEO of his own company, after all.

Eleven-thirty, he worries that something's happened, has the number half-dialed before he puts the phone back down. Bill is a grown man, he can take care of himself, even when he can't remember who he is.

One. A disheveled hero kisses the female lead in a made-for-TV action movie. Woz touches his lips, finally lets himself try to remember Bobby. Bobby Kincade, the man in the handcuffs, the kid who looked up to him while they were growing up. Bobby, whom Woz apparently slept with at least once, possibly more, but he can't recall specifics -- a touch here, a look there, a gasp of his name. Bobby, who proves that Woz perhaps isn't as straight as he thought he was, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad, just trying it with Bill...

Woz falls into an uneasy sleep to the sound of some woman espousing the virtues of a ridiculous workout machine. He dreams about standing next to a soon-to-be grave and holding a gun to McCain's head, and goddamn Bill won't break eye contact, won't look away from the man that's going to kill them, just stares right through to Woz's soul and says, "This isn't who you have to be." In reality, Woz fired his last two shots into the ground and told Coles and McCain to run. In the dream, Bill stands up and throws the gun aside and kisses Woz, and Woz pulls those narrow hips against his own and rips open the last two buttons on the black rancher shirt and strokes Bill's hot bare skin, and he wakes up with the sunrise in his eyes and a raging erection in his jeans.

That afternoon, Woz makes the two-hour drive to Rosales. He parks outside Bill's house, just sits and gathers his wits for awhile until he sees Bill's car pull into the driveway. Woz waits ten minutes and gets out, walks up the driveway and leans on the doorbell.

A handsome older woman answers the door after the second ring and looks him over. "Yes, can I help you?" she says.

"Hello, ma'am," he says. "Is Mr. Coles in?"

"Who do I say is calling?"

"Who is it, Martha?" he hears from somewhere behind the woman, and Bill strides into sight. He stops. "Woz?" He's in a suit again, slightly rumpled, and the haunted look is back in his eyes.

"Hey," Woz says, smiling. "Can I come in?"

Bill visibly swallows and looks at the woman. "Th-thank you, Martha, that's all for today." She looks between the two of them and then nods and walks away, her heels clicking on the hardwood as she disappears into the kitchen.

Bill finds something fascinating to study on the floor until she's gone, then clears his throat. Woz recognizes the look of shields going up, professional composure being pulled into place. He proffers the sixer he stopped to pick up. "I brought beer," he says.

The shielding process is successfully derailed. Bill's gaze flickers to the six-pack, to Woz, then to the door that's still ajar. "H-have a seat, Woz."

"I'll just put these in the fridge," Woz says. Bill nods and closes the door behind him and goes to sit on the white patent-leather couch. Woz nods to Martha as she leaves through the kitchen door, brings out two beers and hands Bill one.

Bill takes the bottle but doesn't drink, fidgets with a loose corner on the label. "Listen," he says, "About the other night..."

"Bill," Woz says, but Bill doesn't seem to hear.

"I really am sorry, I had--"

"Bill."

"--a little too much, and I didn't--"

Woz sets down his drink. "Bill," he says, a little louder.

"--mean to offend--"

Woz reaches out, plucks the bottle out of Bill's hand and sets it on the table, startling the other man. Before Bill has a chance to react, Woz takes hold of his lapels and pulls him close enough that their noses touch. "Bill, shut the fuck up," Woz says, and kisses him.

The kiss is innocent and quick, just their lips pressing against each other's. Woz pulls away and Bill's eyes open wide, hazel flecked with hope. They're breathing the same air; Bill smells of citrus and sweat. His body is tense under Woz's hands. After a moment, Woz's tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he pulls Bill close again and their mouths crash together and their tongues tangle.

Work-roughened hands cup Woz's cheeks, and Woz slides his hands around Bill's waist under the suit jacket, feeling lean unyielding muscle and blazing heat through the fabric. He uses his weight to push Bill down onto the couch, shifts over him and presses their hips together, hears Bill's breath hitch as the hard length of his erection slides against Woz's thigh. His own jeans are almost painfully tight, and he groans into Bill's mouth.

Bill draws back, breathing hard, his thumbs caressing Woz's cheekbones. There's a question in his eyes again, and Woz answers this time by grinding their hips, making sure Bill feels just how much he wants this.

The hands on his face still, and then they're fumbling at his belt, all but ripping his fly open, and his hand is warm when it slides into Woz's boxers and wraps around his shaft. Woz gasps, thrusts into the grip, catches Bill's earlobe in his teeth and tongues the outer curve. He unbuttons Bill's trousers and takes his cock in hand, stroking hard and fast.

Bill is a quiet lover, not a screamer or a moaner, but his body speaks for him. He tenses and quivers and thrusts his hips and arches his back, and he either gasps or forgets to breath at all, and his free hand grips spasmodically at Woz's arm. When he comes, it's with a near-silent gasp, his head thrown back and his mouth open, and his entire body goes rigid and still for a minute. Woz watches in fascination as he shudders and falls slack against the leather, struggling for breath.

Woz is anything but quiet. Once Bill's recovered, he resumes stroking Woz's cock, and Woz gasps and groans and plunges into his fist. "God, yes," he moans, "Bill, fuck, Bill, just like that," and he wrests Bill's collar open and sinks his teeth into the smooth stretch of neck beneath it and sucks a bruise into the skin, Bill gasping into his ear. Tremors wrack his body and he comes with a curse and a cry, and collapses against Bill.

Sated and groggy, Bill's hands caress Woz's back, and Woz buries his nose in Bill's neck, and they drift off into a light doze.

Some time passes, however much Woz isn't sure. When they finally move, they're both sticky and damp, and their shirts stick together. Bill shifts under him. "The cook'll be here soon," he says. "She'll have a heart attack if she finds us like this."

Woz mutters in protest, but he peels himself off Bill and stands up shakily.

"There's a shower in the guest bedroom," Bill says. "Leave your clothes outside the door, I'll run 'em through the wash."

"You can do laundry?" Woz says in some disbelief.

"I can do a lot of things," Bill says, and he stops in the doorframe and runs a hand over his hair and grins.

Woz grins back. "I'll say."