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Two days after the Billboard Incident, Jimmy is back at the courthouse. He's early, for once, with at least half an hour to spare before his meeting with the prosecutor about his newest client. Meeting—an actual meeting, not just arguing between urinals and frantic run-downs in crowded hallways. Granted, it's a five-minute sitdown just before lunch, but it makes Jimmy feel powerful. Like he's made it, like he can command the prosecutor to sit and listen to him.
He wipes his palms on the legs of his obscenely-expensive suit pants. He's wearing the billboard suit, too, for luck, even the damn tie with the fucking awful color. Jimmy can fake a lot of things. Gravitas has never really been one of them.
Also, he's going to burn the fucking suit the second he gets out of here, because clearly, it isn't helping his luck. Through the swarm of lawyers and criminals and over-caffeinated court personnel, he sees Hamlin— what the fuck is he doing in this shithole, all his clients have their hearings in the south wing— and his fight-or-flight response must have been smashed to bits over the last couple weeks because he can't move. Can't duck, can't run, can't smirk and swagger past, can't do anything but stand there like a complete imbecile.
Hamlin smiles at him.
“Just the man I was looking for!” Hamlin's smile widens, his teeth glinting in the harsh fluorescent-concrete-linoleum hallway. Jimmy crosses and uncrosses his fingers, keeps his chin held up, meets Hamlin's gaze.
“What can I do for you?” he asks. His voice doesn't tremble, but it's subdued and nearly cracks at the end and Jimmy yells at himself inside his head.
“Walk with me,” Hamlin says, and grabs Jimmy by the arm and steers him away. Jimmy trips a little in his over-polished shoes, barely managing to catch himself. Hamlin doesn't stop. Doesn't even look at him.
Jimmy gulps.
~ * ~
His skin feels hot and tight, his arms and legs twitching restlessly as he struggles to keep up with Hamlin's brisk pace, and fear burns through his veins. The last few weeks—not to mention his entire life— has been more adrenaline than he could stand, what with almost dying and almost dying again and dangling from a billboard and if Jimmy's completely honest with himself (when is he ever?) he almost enjoyed the rush. But this is different. It's always been different, with Hamlin. It's not fear, exactly. It's better.
Hamlin shoves him into the restroom and drags him into a stall. Pushes him against the door, fingers quickly undoing that fucking awful tie, and Jimmy nearly laughs because Hamlindigo, really, and then Hamlin's hand is around his throat. Not enough to choke him, just enough to threaten.
“Are you going to be quiet?” Hamlin's voice is barely a breath, and Jimmy can hardly hear it over the blood pounding in his ears and the whirring of the bathroom's dying ventilation system. He nods. “Good. I don't like having to gag you. I like seeing those pretty lips of yours--” he rubs a thumb across Jimmy's lower lip “--and I like seeing you struggle to stay quiet. For me.”
Jimmy nods again.
“Good boy,” Hamlin says, and laughs when Jimmy glares at him indignantly. Not for the first time, Jimmy wishes he could tell Hamlin to fuck off, to leave him alone, to stop with—with whatever this is. He hates that Hamlin's the only one who can quiet his mouth with a look and a word and barely even a fight.
He also hates that he doesn't even try to protest when Hamlin presses his wrists together and wraps the tie around them. Hamlin always ties him loosely, which Jimmy hates. It would be easier if he had no choice, if he could convince himself he had no choice, but he always does. Hamlin always makes sure of it.
“Hands above your head. Hold on to the top of the door. Let go, and I stop.”
Jimmy reaches up and grabs the door. The strain on his arms and shoulders is mildly uncomfortable and Jimmy wishes it were worse. He wishes Hamlin would tie him down— securely, none of these symbolic half-measures—make him struggle, make him hurt, make him--
Hamlin unfastens Jimmy's belt, pops open the top button, untucks his (way, way too expensive, about-to-be-ruined) shirt, and smirks. “Open up,” he says, pushing his thumb against Jimmy's lips. Jimmy obeys, flicking his tongue out and drawing Hamlin's finger in, sucking obscenely, gaze focused and defiant. Maybe this time, he'll get Hamlin to lose his composure. Get him to bury that awful blond head in Jimmy's neck and rut against him desperately, his cheeks turning red, tiny whimpers--
No, those are Jimmy's whimpers. Hamlin's other hand is under Jimmy's shirt now, hot and firm on his belly, fingers teasing down to Jimmy's waistband. His cock is almost fully hard now. He chances a glance at Hamlin's pants and—yeah, Hamlin's not remotely interested.
“Look at me,” Hamlin says. “Eyes on mine. Don't make me tell you again.” He looks up, almost automatically, and hates what he sees. Hamlin is almost laughing. Jimmy bites down on the thumb in his mouth.
A sharp burst of pain sends him reeling, his fingers slipping on the fake wood of the stall door, but he doesn't let go. He can feel the outline of a hand where Hamlin slapped him, each finger radiating out from the bright center, and he bites his lip to keep from crying out.
Hamlin grabs his hair and forces his head back. “I thought you might have forgotten your place. Felt good, didn't it, pretending to be me? Getting to beat me, for once in your pathetic life?” Hamlin's free hand grabs Jimmy's cock through his pants and squeezes,
hard.
This time, he does yelp.
“I said,
quiet,
” Hamlin snaps, then takes a deep breath and calms himself, his blue eyes flat and emotionless, his voice bored. “You think you won,
Jimmy,
but remember—your little scam may have worked for now, but pretty soon all your fancy new clients will realize exactly what kind of useless, sad, sub-public-defender lawyer you are, and you'll be back to begging for D.U.I.'s and petty theft.”
Jimmy chokes back a moan, the deep, burning humiliation going right to his cock, tangles his fingers in his tie and pushes his hips towards Hamlin's hand. He's fucking
close,
so close he could come with one more cruel word and the lightest touch--
And then the door opens.
He lets go of the stall for a split second. Hamlin doesn't seem to notice. He wonders if whoever came in can see someone grabbing the top of the stall. He wonders if they can see two pairs of feet, and if so, if they're going to do anything about it.
Hamlin presses closer to him, so his mouth is right by the curve of Jimmy's ear, and his hand finds its way inside Jimmy's boxers. “He knows we're here,” Hamlin whispers. His hand tightens around Jimmy's cock, and Jimmy fails to keep from thrusting into his fist. “Well, he knows you are, anyway. I'm not the only one to have you against this wall, am I?” Jimmy squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head up. Hamlin grabs at his throat and digs his nails into Jimmy's soft skin. “
Am I,
you filthy fucking
slut?
”
He is. He's the only one who has him like this. Oh, he's not the only— he's right, Jimmy is a slut—but he's the only one who has him in the courthouse bathroom. And the only one who doesn't fuck him at all.
Still, this is part of the game, and he wants Hamlin to call him a slut again—wants him to make it
hurt,
make Jimmy
scream,
so he shakes his head and chews on his lip and turns his face into Hamlin's. He shoves Jimmy away, disgusted.
“You're going to come now,” Hamlin says. “Right now. While he's still outside. You're going to come, and you're going to scream, and he's going to hear every. Second.”
Hamlin pushes Jimmy's pants and boxers down, so they hang precariously off his hips, and pulls out his cock. It's red and leaking and Hamlin looks at it like it's disgusting, and another drop of precome beads on the tip. Hamlin spits on his hand and grabs him, moving so fast over his shaft it's painful, the thin layer of spit not nearly enough lubricant, and Jimmy can't breathe. He's so close, so fucking
close,
but it's not enough, he needs--
“Please,” Jimmy breathes.
Hamlin slaps a hand over Jimmy's mouth, hisses “pathetic” into his ear, and Jimmy comes, blood roaring in his ears, and he can hear his screaming muffled by Hamlin's palm.
~ * ~
Hamlin tears off a length of toilet paper. He folds it carefully, evenly, before handing it to Jimmy. Then he tears off a bit for himself and wipes Jimmy's come from his hand.
“Thanks,” Jimmy mutters awkwardly. He cleans off his cock, then dabs at the stains on his shirt and pants (luckily, his suit jacket will hide them, but he's not looking forward to the dry-cleaning bill). He slips his tie over his neck and fumbles with the knot.
“You're late for your meeting,” Hamlin says.
Jimmy shrugs. “It's your fault,” he says, and absolutely doesn't flee. He walks calmly out of the stall, runs his hands under the sink, and walks out of the bathroom.
Then he runs all the way to the prosecutor's office.