Chapter Text
Internal security wasn’t exactly Quinn’s expertise. It wasn’t even in the top five of his preferred jobs. He’d rather be busting heads or chasing down some unlucky sap on someone’s shit list. Hell, a cleanup job was preferable. At least then you got to do something. Instead, he’d be standing around in a suit listening to self-important bigwigs pat themselves on the back and hoping to God the building would catch fire. Not exactly a memorable evening.
Still, Quinn had taken the job. He needed the money. At least, that’s what he’d say if he was ever asked. (He wouldn’t be, turns out it’s hard to keep friends when you’ve shot most of the people you know.) The lie would hold up: Damien Moreau liked parties. He liked being the center of attention, and he liked having the best and the most. Damien Moreau was also the target of half a dozen assassination attempts last year. So when he threw parties, security was as well-financed as the catering. So no one would doubt that the gig paid well.
But a sizeable amount of Quinn’s decision to take this particular job had been weighted on the fact that Damien Moreau had Eliot Spencer on his personal security team.
Eliot Spencer was a living legend. And you don’t turn down an opportunity to meet a legend. Especially when the only other chance Quinn would likely get was looking down the barrel of a gun. If Quinn was lucky, he’d be the one holding it.
So Quinn took the job. Also, he needed the money.
Day of, Quinn positioned himself near the open bar, adopting an unobtrusive security stance. In his experience, if there was going to be a scuffle, it’d probably be near the bar. And after listening to the unrelenting talk of mergers and trade of dubious legitimacy, Quinn was really hoping for a scuffle. The night had progressed from private negotiations into the rich people equivalent of socialization—mainly bragging. He should be getting a bonus for keeping the eye-rolling to a minimum.
At least no one was going to give him shit for skimming thoughts from the guests. Quinn figured that was why he’d gotten the job in the first place—Psychic security in these circles was essential. It’s hard to follow-through on an assassination plot or a double-cross if you can’t think about it. He wasn’t complaining, he’d probably gotten the job due to his mildly useless telepathy.
Even though all he’d probably catch a glimpse of is liquor-fueled desperation for a restroom and which of the waitstaff hadn’t washed their hands. Helpful when you wanted to avoid E. coli, but annoying when people kept breaking into your thoughts to remind you of the fullness of their bladder. Basically the same routine as an evening in a dive bar, but with less fighting and more condescension.
Quinn took in the people at the bar. A man swirling a glass of bourbon and droning on about his expensive racehorses was sweating about insurance policies just under the surface. The woman he had cornered—red dress, dirty martini—was doing the mental equivalent of rolling her eyes.
Her eyes slid to Quinn like she’d sensed his gaze—and maybe she had: in this crowd anybody could be psychic. She looked him over (Bourbon didn’t notice, still talking) and a more positive stream of thoughts floated his way. He grinned.
“I don’t believe we’re paying you to flirt.”
Quinn reluctantly took his eyes from Dirty Martini and found himself faced with the snooty English guy from the briefing earlier that day. Quinn hated him already. Not only was he a pain in the ass, his mind was locked down like fucking Fort Knox. From his expression, he didn’t seem angry. Amused, maybe. Smug, definitely.
“Of course, you were hardly listening to the schedule, so I imagine you may have gotten lost somewhere between ‘security’ and ‘detail’.” English continued, “And, yes, I’ll get my panties out of a knot once I’m sure you’re actually doing what you were hired for.”
Right. Psychics. Deliberately and in detail, Quinn thought about punching English in the face.
“Very mature, Mr. Quinn.” English sighed, longsuffering. “And I’m not English, you idiot.”
Quinn shrugged.
“Remind me why we hired you?”
“Limited applicant pool?” Quinn suggested with a smile. “Most of you psychic-types are delicate little flowers. Hard to imagine how you’d far in an actual fight.”
English cringed. “Fantastic. Another bloody cowboy.”
Quinn didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. “Look, either get out of my face and let me work. Or fire me, and I can go chat with Dirty Martini over there.”
He glanced over at the bar. Damn, she’d left. Bourbon was looking forlornly into his bourbon, mind flickering with distaste over melting ice cubes. People were mostly boring.
English might have retorted. But Quinn had stopped paying attention to him. Eliot Spencer was leaning on the bar, drumming his fingers and waiting for the bartender to turn in his direction. There was this haze of noise, like a radio turned down low, pulsing around Spencer.
Spencer wasn’t psychic. That much Quinn knew. There had been rumors, because no man should be able to do what he does. But everyone’s born with different talents, and Eliot Spencer was damn talented, just not with psychic abilities. So If Quinn wanted, he could turn volume up, peer inside.
But eavesdropping was rude, and damn it all Quinn wanted to make a good impression. And shit, shit, what if he listened in and Spencer thought he was a hack? Quinn didn’t like caring about what people thought. Usually he didn’t, courtesy of already knowing.
A streak of fire sliced through his head, like the world’s worst and fastest migraine. Quinn’s fingers had barely reached his temple before it was over.
“Now that I’ve got your attention.” English purred, “Try not to ogle any more of the guests.” He made a face, glancing between Quinn and the bar. “Or the help, for god’s sake man.”
Quinn wasn’t easily shamed. But when Eliot Spencer looked over at the sound of English’s voice, a shot of something amber at his lips, Quinn was probably embarrassed. At least, if embarrassment felt like wanting a second take at the last five minutes, then yes. He was incredibly embarrassed.
God, Quinn hoped he didn’t get fired in front of Eliot goddamn Spencer. Maybe he could kill English in the next twenty seconds before—nope. Spencer was on his way over.
“Is this guy giving you trouble?”
Spencer’s voice was work boots on gravel, his expression granite. If Quinn wasn’t a man hardened by gunpowder and bloodied knuckles, he might have been afraid of that expression. Of course, he might have been distracted by blue eyes and lips that—shit stop that. Quinn shut that down before it got out of hand.
English opened his mouth to speak, but Spencer cut him off.
“Shut up, Chapman, I ain’t talking to you.”
Just like that, Quinn liked him even more.
English Chapman glowered at Spencer, unamused. “Watch your tone, Spencer.”
But Eliot Spencer was still looking at Quinn, waiting for an answer. The noise was there, pervasive and buzzing, and Quinn was tempted to reach out and listen, just for a second. Instead, he shrugged.
“I’m not here to pick a fight.” Quinn said. It was only half true. He was supposed to be monitoring the evening’s events to keep a lid on unruly guests or the odd homicide attempt. But preventing trouble wasn’t really his forte.
Spencer’s eyes lit up at the sound of Quinn’s voice, a smile spreading slow across his face. “Long way from home, aren’t you, boy?”
Chapman made a sound of disgust. “Well, isn’t that just predictable.”
“If I hear your voice again, Chapman, I’m gonna punch you in the neck.” Spencer said, more of a promise than a threat.
“Go on,” Chapman said, sultry, “I’d like to see you try.”
Despite that, Chapman gave them a final smirk and strode off into the crowd. And Quinn was alone with the man who’d decimated the Spetznaz, outsmarted the Yakuza, the—
“You want a drink?”
Quinn blinked. Focus. He hoped he hadn’t been broadcasting any of that. He did that sometimes. Playing his thoughts for whoever was listening like some kind of fucking breaking news. Started when he was a kid and, as his mom had always said, guilty as sin. He’d tried to break the habit by removing guilt from the equation.
“I’m working. Security.”
“Yeah.” Spencer shrugged. “So am I. That’s why I need a drink.”
So, obviously, Quinn followed Eliot Spencer back to the bar, trying to believe his luck.
Spencer tapped two fingers on the bar, and the bartender busied himself with a bottle of whiskey and a couple of shot glasses.
“They never have beer at these things,” Spencer said, speaking like it was confidential. Like the two of them were the only people in the room. “Swear to god, if I have to drink another glass of champagne, I’m going to riot.”
Quinn accepted the drink, “Not that I mind, but—”
Spencer laughed, predicting the question. “Look, man, I’m in a foreign county, surrounded by pretentious pricks who’ve seen the insides of their own asses more often than a half-decent conversation.” A man close by looked affronted, and Spencer stared him down calmly until he went away. Spencer flipped the shot glass and leaned on the bar again. “Forgive me for being glad to hear a familiar voice.”
The words sounded harsh, but Spencer’s tone didn’t, warm like the whiskey they were drinking. Speaking of, two shot glasses were already upside down in front of him and a third was at his lips.
“Bar’s open all night, you know.”
Eliot threw back the shot and cocked his head to look around at Quinn. He spared Quinn a quick smile, and tapped the bar for another drink.
“These fucking parties give me a headache.” Eliot said in explanation, “Can’t wait for all these freaks to clear out so I can get some peace.”
Quinn didn’t take it personally. He’d heard worse. “Freaks.”
“Y’know. Psychics. Handsy motherfuckers.” Eliot tapped his temple. “Feel like pretty lady in a shitty bar, all the grab-ass goes on at these things.”
“My ma, she—” Quinn stopped. Don’t tell Eliot Spencer about your ma. But Spencer waited, patient, for Quinn to continue. Yeah, this is probably what embarrassment felt like.
“It’s rude.” Quinn said, abrupt. “Listening in without permission. I’d catch hell if she found out I’d been eavesdropping.” He snorted. “She always found out, and the woman ain’t even psychic.”
Spencer didn’t scoff at him. He didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he broke into a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Damn right. Just bad manners.” Spencer chuckled. “See, you and me, our mommas raised us right.”
Quinn couldn’t believe it. Eliot Spencer was just inches away—no guns in sight—and smiling at him. Quinn had to turn away to keep from losing his cool. He signaled the bartender for a drink to give himself a chance to recover. Say something good.
“So, what’s a guy like you doing here?” Fuck.
“Guy like me?” Spencer sounded amused. “You mean, because I’m not psychic? Or,” he played up his accent, sounding just like home: “‘cause I ain’t fancy?”
“I meant—” Quinn was sure he was going to die. “You’re—you know, you’re Eliot Spencer, why would you take a security gig?”
“Easy, kiddo.” Spencer laughed. “I know what you meant.”
Quinn swallowed half his drink in one go. He’d never been this uncool in his life. What was happening to him? He was intensely aware of Spencer’s eyes on him. Quinn had changed his mind; he’d rather be getting shot than floundering like this.
“I’ve been doing work for Moreau on the regular.” Spencer shrugged. “After all that, this is practically a night off.”
“You don’t think somebody’s going to try anything?”
“Nah.” Spencer scanned the guests. “Most of them don’t have the guts, and the ones that do aren’t stupid enough to try at an event like this.” Spencer turned back to Quinn. “Moreau isn’t all that forgiving. You ruin his party, he’ll take it personally.”
“What if they—”
“They won’t get to Moreau.” For someone who wasn’t psychic, Spencer was damn good at anticipating what Quinn was going to say. “Between me and Chapman, no one’s getting within half a block of Moreau if they’re even considering spilling something on his suit.”
Quinn didn’t doubt it. Eliot Spencer was a legend, after all.
“What about you?” Spencer’s tone lightened. “Shouldn’t you be embarrassing the Bratva or something?”
“You know about that?” Though that job had been a rather complicated hit, it hadn’t been all that high-profile.
“Of course. I keep an eye out for impressive plays. Good to know who I might come up against someday.”
Spencer grinned. It was contagious; Quinn found himself replicating it.
“Fair enough.”
Spencer lifted his glass. “Here’s to being on the same side.”
“Fucking hell, Spencer.”
Quinn tried not to choke on his drink as Chapman practically materialized out of nowhere, looking like someone shat on his bed.
“You’re supposed to be in Moreau’s office.”
“Shit, now?” Spencer just knocked back another shot.
“Yes, now.” Chapman gestured at the line of empty glasses. “And you’re not supposed to—”
“Go ahead, Chapman. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” Spencer snapped, the buzz surrounding him increasing in volume enough that Quinn brushed into the bartender’s head to keep from eavesdropping.
—open bar doesn’t mean you don’t have to tip—
“Keller’s already up there, and—”
“I’m coming, alright?”
“I don’t know what Moreau’s going to do if you don’t show, soon.” Chapman warned, his mind eerily quiet next to Spencer’s, and was gone again.
“Well, he’s not wrong.” Spencer wasn’t smiling anymore, an unsettled look taking its place. “Tell you what, once this meeting’s through, you want to catch a beer down the road? American pub—at least, they claim it is. Halfway decent, I guess.”
“Sure.” Quinn agreed, the disappointment that had swelled in his chest lessening. “I’d like that.”
Chapman was back. “Spencer. For the love of god. Get a move on.”
“The work never ends, huh?” Eliot clapped Quinn on the back good-naturedly.
—over before you know it—
It was unexpected and too much, like touching a hot stove that was loud, and Quinn did his best to keep his face even. To his relief, Spencer didn’t seem to notice, ushered on his way by Chapman, the restless haze of noise following him. And Quinn could breathe without tasting thoughts he hadn’t meant to know.
He had no excuse for being late; he’d known about this meeting for a week. Moreau needed Eliot to be there. And even though being Moreau’s intermediary left Eliot unsteady and with a headache like no hangover he’d ever had, he’d be there for Moreau, no question.
But the worst was that the meeting was with John Douglas Keller. That was why he’d been drinking in the first place. Eliot hated Keller. Hated. Just seeing him sitting, calm, in Moreau’s office pissed him off. But he was friends with Moreau, so Eliot tolerated him.
Moreau was visibly angry, and Eliot crossed the room to accept the scolding he expected and truthfully deserved.
“Where have you been?” Moreau demanded, catching Eliot’s chin to force eye contact. “You’re late and you’re drunk?”
Guilt hit Eliot in the pit of his stomach. He’d snapped at Chapman, but that bastard was right; he wasn’t supposed to drink before Moreau’s meetings.
“I wanted to take the edge—”
“No self-control.” Moreau snapped. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”
Moreau released him, and Eliot dropped his gaze, unable to look him in the eye.
“No. Of course not.”
“When I ask you to do something, Spencer, I expect you to do it.”
“I’m sorry.” Eliot really was, remorse welling up in his throat and threatening to choke him. Protecting Moreau was his job. Didn’t matter whether it was his body or his reputation, Eliot was supposed to keep him safe.
“You’re only sorry because I’m angry.”
“Damien—”
“This won’t happen again, Spencer.”
“No.” Eliot wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“Apologize to Mr. Keller for wasting his time.”
Eliot turned to Moreau’s business partner. “I—“
“Don’t be stupid.” Moreau said, and Keller chuckled.
“Oh.” Eliot realized. Moreau couldn’t forgive him yet. Words didn’t mean anything; they were empty, you could say anything and mean nothing. Actions were real.
Eliot sank to his knees in front of where Keller sat, expectant. Eliot looked up to see if this was right, but Moreau’s face was still dark. Keller’s hand slipped around the back of his neck, his touch sending shivers of disgust down Eliot’s spine. The grip was practiced, as Keller immediately pushed his way into Eliot’s head and Eliot recoiled from the force.
“Stop it.” Moreau’s voice cut through the confusion. “Don’t make this difficult.”
Focusing on Moreau, Eliot breathed out slowly, making an effort to relax. And then Keller was in control, and Eliot was drowning in him. Keller was everything at once, furious and demanding and it didn’t matter because Eliot was content.
But Eliot couldn’t feel Damien, and it wasn’t right. He opened his eyes, seeking out Moreau’s gaze. It was hard and unforgiving, and Eliot’s heart sank. Desperate, Eliot tried to invite Damien in, opening his mind and offering it up. At the same time, Keller’s fingers clenched tight in Eliot’s hair.
Eliot shuddered, Keller’s pleasure sparking painfully against Eliot’s desolation. He wasn’t supposed to, but Eliot moved to pull away, break the connection. It was too much, and Keller was pushing harder, and Eliot thought he was going to split into pieces.
Instead, Keller grasped at him with both hands, holding him in his place. And Eliot was lost in a whirlwind of bliss that scorched through his veins.
”I said, that’s enough.”
Keller was gone, and Damien was there, cool and reassuring. Eliot wasn’t sure if he’d pulled Keller out or just extricated Eliot from Keller’s hands, but Damien had a hand on his cheek and the agony was gone. Eliot was beyond speech, but he knew Damien could feel his relief and gratitude.
Damien spared Eliot a smile, just for him, before he ushered a flustered Keller to the door.
“Sorry about that, Damien.” Keller was saying. “You know how he is.”
“That I do.”
They shook hands and Eliot was still on his knees, leaning into the chair and trying to remember how his legs worked. It would come back to him, it always did.