mury's second junk drawer

Without so much as acknowledging Vander’s presence, he strides over to the desk, pulls out the other chair, and folds himself neatly into it. It’s sized a little better for him, and he sits on it like it’s a throne.

There’s something familiar about him, but Vander can’t place him. Maybe he’s imagining it.

The dynamic in the room shifts, subtly but decisively. The power’s suddenly on Vander’s side of the desk, and this man is holding it as easily as Vander would an apple.

Vander continues his lifelong bad habit of falling in love with strangers by doing just that.

“Hello, Marcus,” the regal newcomer says, as though they do this every week and he's bored of it. “Would you care to explain why you've arrested my daughter? Bearing in mind that I already have footage of the entire incident.”

Vander might as well not be in the room, for all the attention either of them pay to him as he sits up straighter. This is, all told, not the worst scenario.

“With all due respect, Councillor Silco,” the enforcer—Marcus, apparently, begins. Only to be stopped dead.

Not by a raised hand. Just two fingers, barely twitching away from the arm of Councillor Silco’s throne.

Vander is, if he’s being honest, a little turned on. Anyone who can shut an enforcer up like that is exactly his type.

Councillor Silco. That’ll explain the familiarity, then. He must’ve seen pictures. The man is councillor for the Lanes, after all.

He’s gotten out of politics, of late, is the thing. For the last sixteen years or so. He hasn’t been paying attention.

But he has noticed the way things have improved over the last handful of years. Cleaner streets. Better schooling. Less desperation, less misery. Things are getting better.

That’s thanks to the councillor, he suspects.

“You’re about to tell me she bit one of your men,” Councillor Silco says. “I am about to tell you that this was through the layers of his uniform and will not have left a mark, which will make it quite difficult to argue that any sort of meaningful assault occurred.”

Marcus, because he is apparently a bit thick—par for the course with enforcers, Vander supposes—opens his mouth again. Silco stops him, again.

“What I am about to tell you is that she did this in an attempt to prevent that venerable gentleman’s fellow officer from breaking the neck of her friend. A fellow officer who had said friend pinned in what is very clearly captured as an illegal hold. One your department has been in trouble for using before. Do you begin to see, Marcus, your position?”

Marcus, evidently not completely without critical thinking skills, swallows. Mouth shut.

“Additionally, as I’m sure you’re aware, the two young ladies you have chosen to arrest were not the aggressors in the fight your officers were called to intervene in. Those were allowed to escape,” Silco continues, still calm and even, examining his nails.

Vander’s never wanted to suck someone’s cock so badly in his entire life.

“This does not look good for you, Marcus. Leaving aside entirely the things I know about you, and the damage those might do to an otherwise promising career.”

Marcus slumps back in his chair like a man wounded. There is a brain somewhere inside that unbelievably square skull of his, then.

“Don’t worry, dear boy,” Silco says, glancing up at him again. “This can all go away. Provided there is an immediate release of both girls, to be followed by a formal apology from the officers involved. In writing.”

Marcus swallows again. He doesn’t so much nod as twitch, but the capitulation is as obvious as it is total.

“Smart boy,” Silco says.

Then he turns his attention to Vander. A quick up-and-down glance that turns Vander’s spine to molten slag. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance…?”

“Vander,” Vander says. That is, he thinks, his name.

He’s only not rock hard because he’s over forty and it takes a little more than a glance these days. It’s a close-run thing, though.

Silco’s lips twitch the barest fraction. He looks Vander up and down again, slower this time.

Vander’s nearly certain he’ll remember how to breathe when that stops.

“Vander,” Silco repeats, voice curling around the word. “Please convey my thanks to your daughter for defending mine. She has been raised well.”

Vander nods, since, unlike Marcus, he hasn’t just been skinned alive.

“Well,” Silco says, standing. “This has been productive. Thank you, gentlemen. Until next time, Marcus.”

And here they were. Alone, for once. Vander sitting with his knees barely tucked under the bar. Silco plastered to his back, chin hooked over his shoulder. Elegant hand guiding his clumsy one as he makes shaky shapes on the paper in front of him, pencil lines smudging under his unpracticed technique.

The fact that Silco’s presence is just as distracting as it is necessary to the process is simply one of the things Vander has to hold in the balance to get along in life. It’s probably the nicest one.

“Read it back to me,” Silco murmurs by his ear, free fingers toying with the hair at the nape of Vander’s neck.

“Vander,” he says, smiling. It’s nice to recognise his own name.

“You know why I keep making you write that?” Silco asks.

Vander shakes his head. He suspects because, under the current circumstances, it’s the thing he’s most likely to have to write. He’s been signing papers with an X. He’ll be able to do it with a name, now.

It’s one hell of a gift. He’s not sure he could ever give Silco anything worth this in return.

“Because it’s one of my favourite words,” Silco says, nuzzling his ear.

Vander squirms on the bar stool. Silco laughs. Not cruel. Soft, light.

“Relax your hand,” he encourages. “You’re holding it too tight.”

Vander eases his vice grip on the pencil to a firm hold. His fingers already ache, but he’s seen Silco write without pause for twenty minutes at a time. Practice, he supposes.

“Let me move your hand,” Silco says. “To get it used to the motions.”

Vander relaxes as much as he can, letting Silco guide him without resistance. Letters form on the page in front of him, one at a time. It’s not quite Silco’s flowing, elegant script—Vander’s probably never going to manage that—but it’s much neater and more even.

“You’ll get there,” Silco says, still writing with Vander’s hand. “Look at the progress you’ve already made.”

Vander huffs. It feels so slow.

“You’ll be reading me to sleep soon enough,” Silco promises, light, easy. As though he really does have perfect confidence that Vander can learn. That he’s worth teaching. That he’s worth something.

“Read it back to me,” Silco adds, when he’s done with the line.

“You,” Vander reads. “Are. Be—um…” he squints at the last few letters. “Beautiful,” he remembers with a grin.

“Thank you,” Silco says. Vander doesn’t need to see him to know the way his eyes glint as he says it. “One more? I know you’re tired.”

He is. He’s exhausted. Nothing else is going to filter through his thick skull tonight.

All the same. Silco’s still pressed to him, warm and solid, so close Vander fancies he can feel a heartbeat against his back. Being able to read and write is obviously a good thing in its own right, but he’ll be disappointed when he’s done learning.

“One more,” he agrees. All good things must come to an end.

The words appear again, as though by magic, under his hand.

“Read them to me,” Silco says.

These ones are a little easier. Vander smiles.

“Come to bed?”

Silco plucks the pencil from his hand, and closes the notebook they’ve been working in before linking their fingers together.

And here they were. Alone, for once. Vander sitting with his knees barely tucked under the bar. Silco plastered to his back, chin hooked over his shoulder. Elegant hand guiding his clumsy one as he makes shaky shapes on the paper in front of him, pencil lines smudging under his unpracticed technique.

The fact that Silco’s presence is just as distracting as it is necessary to the process is simply one of the things Vander has to hold in the balance to get along in life. It’s probably the nicest one.

“Read it back to me,” Silco murmurs by his ear, free fingers toying with the hair at the nape of Vander’s neck.

“Vander,” he says, smiling. It’s nice to recognise his own name.

“You know why I keep making you write that?” Silco asks.

Vander shakes his head. He suspects because, under the current circumstances, it’s the thing he’s most likely to have to write. He’s been signing papers with an X. He’ll be able to do it with a name, now.

It’s one hell of a gift. He’s not sure he could ever give Silco anything worth this in return.

“Because it’s one of my favourite words,” Silco says, nuzzling his ear.

Vander squirms on the bar stool. Silco laughs. Not cruel. Soft, light.

“Relax your hand,” he encourages. “You’re holding it too tight.”

Vander eases his vice grip on the pencil to a firm hold. His fingers already ache, but he’s seen Silco write without pause for twenty minutes at a time. Practice, he supposes.

“Let me move your hand,” Silco says. “To get it used to the motions.”

Vander relaxes as much as he can, letting Silco guide him without resistance. Letters form on the page in front of him, one at a time. It’s not quite Silco’s flowing, elegant script—Vander’s probably never going to manage that—but it’s much neater and more even.

“You’ll get there,” Silco says, still writing with Vander’s hand. “Look at the progress you’ve already made.”

Vander huffs. It feels so slow.

“You’ll be reading me to sleep soon enough,” Silco promises, light, easy. As though he really does have perfect confidence that Vander can learn. That he’s worth teaching. That he’s worth something.

“Read it back to me,” Silco adds, when he’s done with the line.

“You,” Vander reads. “Are. Be—um…” he squints at the last few letters. “Beautiful,” he remembers with a grin.

“Thank you,” Silco says. Vander doesn’t need to see him to know the way his eyes glint as he says it. “One more? I know you’re tired.”

He is. He’s exhausted. Nothing else is going to filter through his thick skull tonight.

All the same. Silco’s still pressed to him, warm and solid, so close Vander fancies he can feel a heartbeat against his back. Being able to read and write is obviously a good thing in its own right, but he’ll be disappointed when he’s done learning.

“One more,” he agrees. All good things must come to an end.

The words appear again, as though by magic, under his hand.

“Read them to me,” Silco says.

These ones are a little easier. Vander smiles.

“Come to bed?”

Silco plucks the pencil from his hand, and closes the notebook they’ve been working in before linking their fingers together.