Rating: R
Original Date of Completion: May 2008
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, but I wish I did. This is all fake, conjured in the confines of my demented little mind. So please, don't sue me.
***************
Marc didn't sleep well. As much as rooming with Jody on the road could be a chore, it would have been nice to have his mindless chatter to keep Marc's mind occupied. Instead, he had stared at the ceiling fan, the walls, the shadows of trees outside of his window, anything to keep from staring at his phone, willing it to vibrate to life.
It never did, and at four in the morning, he finally gave up hope that it would.
Sleep came in fits and starts, and he wished he had an explanation for the feeling of unease that kept waking him. It was illogical, really. He barely knew Johnson, only 36 hours ago they'd been nothing more than rivals. It made no sense to now worry so much about him. How was he to know if this wasn't just typical behavior for the other goaltender?
Marc rose before his alarm went off, unable to tolerate the constant tossing and turning any longer. He took a long shower, the water just hot enough to sting his skin, the warmth settling into his muscles and bones, easing the tension that had built up over the restless night. He couldn't get rid of the concern nagging at the back of his mind, though, and he made it a point that he would try to see Brent after his team took their morning skate.
He had to know Brent was okay. He couldn't explain why, but he needed it. Nothing in the last two days had been expected, or easily understood, and he was getting used to that. It was either fight against it and go crazy trying to figure it out, or go along and see where it led him.
He was a goalie, and therefore crazy enough on his own, so he went with the latter.
Marc dressed slowly, had breakfast, and stopped for coffee on his way to the rink long before any of his teammates. He was in need of some quality time on a stationary bike--he hoped that the exercise would clear his head.
He tried to convince himself he wasn't just hoping to bump into Brent.
***
Brent's hotel room was empty when he finally arose, the sound of the alarm Scott had set blaring angrily at him, an incessant beep from the clock on the bedside table, and Brent found himself cursing the existence of it. The table was several feet away from where Brent lay, curled on the ground next to the mini-bar, which he'd dragged himself to after Scott had left for the night.
He knew he looked terrible, he could sense it. His right eye was mostly swollen shut, and he could still taste blood in his mouth, and a quick swipe of his tongue over a split, puffy lip confirmed where it was coming from. Between last night and the one previous, there was nothing he could do to explain away the injuries, there was no way he could keep them hidden this time.
It was one of those days when he wished he had a regular job, he wished he could call in for a sick day. If he could even manage to get to the phone.
The alarm clock still buzzed at him, the sound echoing off of the walls and inside his head, until he was sure he'd go mad from it, and he slowly crawled towards the offending machine. Lifting his arm was agony--he wasn't sure what happened to his shoulder, just that it was disagreeing with any movement he tried to make--so he merely slapped the clock as hard as he could, slamming it on the wall behind and probably breaking it. He just didn't care. The team would pay for it, they had to.
He would probably end up punished for that too.
Now that he had a firm surface to grip, Brent pushed himself up from the ground and onto the bed, his shoulder going tight and locking in place, popping painfully as he levered himself up from the floor. He couldn't play like this, not even with a handful of anti-inflammatories and a cortisone injection. Even he had his limits--he could play through pain, he had for most of his career, but this time he feared the worst. That he really was hurt, that it was enough to miss time for.
It was probably exactly what Scott was hoping for.
Despite the pain, Brent made his way to the bathroom, slow and steady, limping along the way. Once in the harsh fluorescent light above the sink, he realized just how truly bad he looked. Blood stained his skin, his lip and eye were swollen and cut--he suspected the gash over his right eyebrow would need stitches. There was an ugly green-purple bruise that colored the skin surrounding his shoulder, and another on his thigh.
He shook his head in shame, turning away from the mirror. He couldn't stand to look any more. Ignoring his body's protests, he leaned down to turn the water on and stepped under the stream. Scrapes stung with the heat of the shower, the water running pink on the floor of the tub from the dried blood that was rinsing clean.
He had to get to the arena, and he had to tell them he couldn't play tonight. He hoped to get there before Scott, before any of his teammates. He hoped to get there before Marc. He didn't want anyone seeing him like this, especially not Denis.
***
Marc had grown accustomed to playing against his former lover. The first game as opponents was hard, and it had ruined Marc's concentration, and when Shjon had scored two goals against him, he was determined to never let it happen again. He was never going to give him a free pass again.
Today, though, Marc was distracted. It had nothing to do with Shjon, granted, but he was still unable to focus the way he wanted to on a game day. He ran the stairs in the lower bowl of Nationwide Arena, listening to just the sounds of his own breathing, of the arena staff setting things up, preparing for the five PM start. He had to get his mind off of Brent and onto the game at hand, or Johnson was going to embarrass him the way he'd been embarrassed in St. Louis. It was good in theory, but much harder in practice, because he couldn't stop wondering.
It didn't help when he saw Brent slip inside the arena. He wore a dark pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, his body hidden under a large sweatshirt and dark jeans. He seemed to be walking with a limp--and he hadn't had that limp the afternoon before.
Or maybe Marc just hadn't noticed.
Johnson left the arena shortly after arriving, and as Marc's teammates filed in, rumors that he wasn't starting the day's game started to build momentum. It wasn't fully unexpected--Johnson had not had a good game in his last outing, and it wasn't unusual for a coach to take a goalie out of a rematch game. It just didn't sit well in Marc's gut.
Something was wrong. The same urge that had pressed him to follow Brent out of the bar on Friday night, the same urge that told him to trust Brent and join him for a drink, the same urge that had him wanting to learn more about Johnson...it was telling him something wasn't right, and he couldn't bring himself to ignore it.
He just had no idea how he was going to figure out just what was wrong.
***
The game went by in a blur for Marc--he was used to losing, used to getting little support for most games, but it didn't take the sting away. For Brent, though, the game seemed to go on for ages, and he was thankful for the baseball cap he was wearing on the bench. He'd needed stitches and strong pain medication when the Blues' medical staff finally saw him, but it was explained away as an incident in practice. Someone lost an edge and ran into him.
It sounded fishy even to Brent, and he was certain no one else believed it either.
He just wanted to get out of that arena, that city, and back to his home in St. Louis, where he could nurse his wounds, both the visible and those that no one could see. He just had one more night to deal with, one last night in that hotel room where just the night before he'd gotten the worst beating of his life.
Scott had smirked when he came off the ice. He'd hooked a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at Reinhard Divis, who had earned the win in the rematch with Columbus. "That's how you play goal, Johnny."
Brent only imagined what waited for him when he got back to the hotel. He sighed as he stood, and for just the briefest moment, he caught Marc's eyes from across the ice. It was only the span of a heartbeat, and he wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Marc's eyebrow twitch upwards, nearly imperceptible--but then the look was gone, and Denis was skating off the ice with his teammates.
Brent didn't know why he bothered getting his hopes up.
***
Marc still wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but he had a feeling it was something bad. He had seen Brent the day before, and he hadn't had a split lip, nor had he had a black eye or stitches in his forehead. And Marc knew the "practice" excuse was untrue, he'd seen Brent leave without practicing.
All the signs pointed to something suspicious, and all too familiar. Marc knew he should stay out of it, it wasn't his team, it wasn't his life. But he couldn't stand by and let something like this happen to anyone.
He couldn't bear to think of Brent dealing with what he dealt with in Colorado.
He knew exactly what he had to do, even if he hated the idea of going to him for help. He waited just outside of the Blues dressing room, keeping an eye out, and when the familiar face of Shjon Podein stepped out, thankfully alone, Marc stepped forward.
It was time for Shjon to make up for everything he'd put Marc through.
***
"Thought you'd get away tonight, Johnny?" Scott's voice, though quiet, seemed to echo off the walls of the corridor around Brent. He had hoped to at least have a few minutes of peace before Scott joined him, but it wasn't looking to work out that way.
He didn't bother arguing, he didn't even try to stop Scott. It was pointless--he would just get hit more, punched harder, kicked more fiercely. It wasn't worth it to put up a fight, so he just held the door open for Scott once he came near.
"How did it feel watching a real goalie play out there tonight? Did you learn anything?" Scott asked, letting the door slam shut behind him. "I hope you were watching real fucking close, because it's about time we start getting a few performances like that out of you. Fucking worthless piece of shit."
I'm better than he is, a silent voice in Brent's mind screamed, though he didn't dare voice it. He wasn't even sure where it came from.
Actually, he knew exactly where. Marc's words from lunch the day before hadn't left him. The votes of confidence in Brent's ability. Marc was a goalie, he had to know more than Scott.
Not that Scott would care. If Brent protested, he would just be more bloodied and bruised to show for it.
"Are you going to fucking just sit there and stare at the wall or are you going to answer me? Or did I really beat your fucking brains out last time?"
Brent took a deep breath and shook his head, keeping his eyes on a spot on the carpet. He had no idea what the spot was, but it was something to focus his eyes on. With a complete lack of emotion, he finally responded.
"Can we just get on with this?"
***
"I swear to God, Shjon, if you don't get me into that fucking room," Marc muttered, shoving him off of the elevator on the floor where Brent's room at the hotel supposedly was.
It had taken quite a bit of coercion, and a few threats, but finally, Shjon had agreed to take him to the hotel. Marc knew that Shjon wanted to call Scott, saw him toying with his cell phone, that he wanted to tell Mellanby that they were coming--but Marc didn't want Scott to have any warning. Whatever was going on, he intended to interrupt it, and stop it.
Everything seemed to add up, the only thing this whole weekend that had made sense. Brent had mysterious bruises and a suspicious explanation. He was inordinately negative about his own worth. His teammates seemed to be hiding something. Marc didn't want to believe it could be true, he hated the idea of Brent dealing with it, but all the warning signs were there.
As they got close to the hotel room, and Marc heard Scott's angry voice inside--he wasn't sure what was being said, but the tone was unmistakably cold and harsh. One way or another, something was going on in that room, and if Shjon's unease was any sign, it was just what Marc had suspected.
It hit too close to home, and it made Marc irate. Whether that was because he'd been there before, in a way, or because it was Brent who was being hurt, Marc would never know--and he didn't care. He just knew he had to stop it. Some way or another, he had to stop it.
"You're on your own now," Shjon said as he stopped in front of a room with the numbers 1406 on the door. "I'm getting the fuck out of here."
"No," Marc said forcefully, pushing him against the wall next to the door. "Knock and tell him that you need to see him. He won't let me in, and you know it. Get me in there."
Shjon started to protest, but Marc shot him a glare as fierce as he could muster, and Podein stepped forward and knocked on the door. "Scott, it's Shjon...I need to talk to you a minute."
A grunt came from the other side of the door, and then muted footsteps.
Shjon took off then, "Good fucking luck," he muttered back at Marc just as he slipped into the stairwell.
Momentarily, Marc questioned what the hell he was doing here. He wondered why he'd gotten involved. He wondered just how he planned to stop Scott from...from doing whatever it was he was doing in there. Marc still didn't have any concrete evidence of anything unsavory.
The door opened, and Scott smirked angrily, and Marc decided to stop worrying so much. This wasn't the time for thought, this was a time to do something.
***
Brent had been glad for the knock, it had made Scott pause, it had given him a chance to catch his breath, to dab the blood leaking into his eye from the cut above his eye that Scott had reopened with a vicious punch just a few minutes before.
He just wanted Scott to stop for a moment, and the knock, even if it was a teammate--a teammate who was sure to see him in this pathetic state, shirt torn and stained with blood, cowering on the floor like an abused dog...it was humiliating to be seen like this, but at least it was a few moments when Scott wasn't hurting him.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
It didn't seem like a question that Scott would ask Shjon--Shjon had seen this several times, most of their teammates had. It wasn't kept much of a secret.
He just wasn't expecting the voice that he heard responding.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," a familiar, but not quite, tone came in response. And then whoever was at the door stormed in, past Scott, disregarding the way Mellanby was trying to block his view, and Brent gasped.
Just as Marc did the same, upon seeing Brent on the ground.
"Christ," Marc said softly, just a moment before spinning on his heel to look back at Scott. "You sick son of a bitch. What in the hell did you do to him?"
Scott smirked and shut the door again, flipping the latch over this time. "What difference does it make to you, Denis? Are you his keeper now?"
Much to Brent's surprise, Marc didn't back down. Marc instead stepped closer, leveling a glare right back at Mellanby. "I asked the question, now you're going to answer. What the fuck did you do to him?"
"What the fuck does it look like? This isn't your team, Denis, and it's not your business. So why don't you run off back to your pathetic expansion team before you end up just like he is."
Brent watched the scene with dread--he didn't want to see Marc to get hurt like he was. He didn't want Scott to hurt him. "Scott, leave him alone."
Brent surprised even himself when he said that. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry, and his head throbbing, but he managed that weak protest, and it was enough to get Scott to look his way. "What in the hell is this? Sticking up for the enemy?"
But Scott didn't get an answer. He didn't get a chance to hear one, anyway, because the minute his head was turned, Marc shoved him backwards against the wall, knocking the breath from him. Scott's gaze immediately snapped back to Marc, and Brent panicked.
He didn't have a chance to speak up again, though. "You are never going to touch him again, Mellanby. You hear that? This is not how you deal with shit in the NHL. I'll get your ass thrown out of the league faster than you can come up with an excuse."
Scott came at Marc again, but Marc stopped him with a quick punch to the stomach. As Scott doubled over in pain, cursing and leaning back against the wall, Brent pushed himself up--agonizingly slowly--using the bed for leverage.
"Jesus Christ, are you two going to try to gang up on me now?" Scott said with a smirk when he saw Brent move. "Just wait until we get back to St. Louis, Johnny..."
The thought was cut short by another punch, this time a right hook to the cheek. Marc shoved him against the wall again, and Brent was surprised at the venom in his voice. "You aren't going to do anything to him back in St. Louis, Mellanby. You're going to fucking apologize, and if you do it again, you're going to answer to me."
Marc wasn't sure what he was thinking. He wasn't really thinking at all. He just reacted; once he saw Brent laying on the ground, bruised and bloodied, he knew he had to step in. He had to stop it. Logic hadn't once given him pause, never did he think about the fact that Mellanby was bigger than him, that Mellanby had been able to beat up Brent, who was taller and stockier than Marc himself.
He had just been so angry when he saw Brent like that, he had to make Scott feel some of the same. Now he had Scott against the wall, his hands fisted in the unbuttoned collar of Scott's shirt, and he was trying to figure what to do next.
"Get out."
The command was quiet, hoarse, but it was unmistakable.
"Do you think you're a big man now that you've got someone else to fight your battles for you?" Scott asked, an evil grin on his lips, watching Brent walking limply toward him.
"I said get out, Scott. I want you out, and I don't want you coming back in here again."
Marc nearly smiled at Brent's courage, but he kept his face neutral, as menacing as he could manage. He shoved Scott hard against the wall again, startling him, and he glared into Mellanby's eyes.
"He said to get out, asshole. I suggest you listen."
Scott looked like he was going to argue, and he started to push Marc away, but before he was able, Brent pulled his right arm back and landed a fist directly to the side of Scott's head, knocking him to his knees.
"I said to get out," Brent said again, quietly but forcefully, without a hint of a tremor in his voice. "Now."
Scott glared up at the two of them and then let his lips fall into a smirk. "Fucking faggots," he muttered before pushing himself up from the ground.
The minute he stood up, Marc grabbed his arm, squeezing it painfully hard, and shoved him outside into the hall with all the force he could muster, and he heard the satisfying thump of Scott bumping into the wall on the opposite side of the corridor.
Brent shoved the door closed and flipped the latch, then slumped against it. Gone was the determination, the power he'd had just moments before. With Scott gone, he was now weak, exhausted, and in incredible pain. "Fuck," he muttered, raising a hand to dab at the blood from the cut over his eye.
Marc wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't exactly a friend of Brent's, but he wanted to show Brent that he was there for him. That he was proud of him for standing up to Scott. "Brent...go sit down, let me help you clean up."
Brent sighed and limped toward the bed, slumping down on it. "You don't have to do all of this...you don't need to deal with me."
Marc didn't respond while he was in the bathroom, getting a washcloth wet, staring into the mirror at himself. He still wasn't sure why, but he did need to help him. He couldn't leave him alone. He couldn't bear the idea of it before, and now, knowing what he knew, he certainly couldn't walk away.
Maybe not ever.
"I want to be here for you," Marc said when he came back into the room, sitting next to Brent on the bed. He hesitantly lifted the cloth to Brent's face, wiping off the blood as carefully as he could manage.
Brent watched Marc, the way he touched him, with such care. He couldn't quite mesh this Marc, so gentle and kind-hearted, with the Marc he'd assumed he was getting to know. This wasn't a man only out for sex, only out for superficial things. Could this really be it? Did he really find someone who could be right for him?
Brent couldn't quite bring himself to hope that much. "I'm so sorry you had to see all of this," Brent said sheepishly while Marc helped clean him up. "I never meant to get anyone else involved..."
Marc wasn't sure how he could convince Brent that he wanted to help. "You need some ice for your eye, it's getting really swollen."
Brent nodded weakly and looked down, shame evident on his face. Marc sighed and stood up, "Just wait here a minute. I'll go get some ice. You might want to change clothes, something more comfortable."
And then Marc slipped out the door, and for a moment, Brent worried he wouldn't come back. But some part of him couldn't believe that. Deep down, he was sure Marc would return. Blind optimism or concussion symptoms, Brent wasn't sure--regardless, he stood up weakly and grabbed a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt and went into the bathroom to change into them.
That's when he caught his reflection in the mirror. Marc had cleaned him up, but he still looked like hell. He was swollen and blood-stained and bruised, his hair stuck up all over from sweat and blood, his clothes torn and soiled. He wouldn't blame Marc if he ran out and never came back.
The idea of Marc leaving him was just enough to put Brent over the edge. All the stress of the last few days washed over him at once and he slunk to the floor of the bathroom, tears slipping from his eyes and stinging in his wounds, but he couldn't stop. He pulled his knees up to his chest and curled in on himself, sobbing quietly. He couldn't have done this, he couldn't have stood up for himself, without Marc.
He couldn't imagine recovering from all of this without him.
Marc didn't hear him right away when he came back from getting the ice, and it wasn't until he noticed the bathroom door--cracked open just slightly--that he realized where Brent was. He nudged the door open slowly, not wanting to catch Brent in the midst of undressing, but what he found wasn't embarrassing, but it did break his heart.
Brent was crying, looking small and weak and intensely lost, curled up against the wall of the bathroom. "Brent..." Marc said quietly and knelt next to him, and Brent didn't put up a fight when Marc's arm slid around his shoulders.
"I'm sorry," Brent whispered weakly, hiding his face against Denis' shoulder, and Marc gave up all hope of resisting him. He couldn't imagine walking away now, and all he wanted was to prove to Brent that he wasn't going to leave him alone.
"Veuillez ne pas pleurer, sil vous plait, mon ange" Marc whispered, after pressing a soft kiss to Brent's temple. He wasn't sure why he defaulted to French, he was almost positive Brent wouldn't understand--maybe that's part of why he did it.
It did, for a moment, stop Brent's tears, and instead Johnson looked up at him, blue eyes wet and confused, "What?"
"Don't cry, please," Marc hesitated on the last bit of the translation, but then he smiled shyly and added it. "My angel."
Through his tears, Brent smiled, and shook his head. From anyone else, it would seem like a line, it would seem disingenuous, but from Marc, it seemed to fit. The shy smile as he gave Brent the description told him all he needed to know.
This was something special. All the feelings he'd had all weekend, that inexplicable something urging him towards Marc had all been for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, Brent had finally found what he was meant to find.
Both in finding Marc, and in finding his own courage again.
Marc was dying for Brent to say something, anything. He shouldn't have told him the "angel" part of that. It was overkill. Dammit, Marc cursed himself internally. He started to apologize, but then Brent did something unexpected. Brent leaned up and for just the briefest instant, pressed his lips to Marc's.
Marc let out a gasp after Brent sat back, drawing another smile from Johnson. Marc hadn't been expecting the kiss, not that he hadn't thought of doing it himself, but he certainly wasn't thinking Brent would make the first move. It was a pleasant shock, however, and he let his arms tighten around the other goalie's still trembling shoulders.
Brent was surprised at himself for what had just transpired, but he realized in that moment that maybe Marc had done more for him than he first thought. It was just a kiss, it was a small step, but for Brent, it was a victory. Just as much a victory as making Scott leave.
Brent was still bruised, he was still very deeply hurt and it would take a lot of time to heal him--inside and out--but Marc was up for the challenge. And Brent was glad to have him there for the journey.
"Thank you," Brent said after a few long minutes.
It was simple, and Brent knew that those two small words could never encompass all that Marc had done for him in this one short weekend, but it was the best way he could think to say it.
Marc didn't respond, he simply smiled and kissed Johnson's forehead. He didn't need to say anything else. All the confusion and the questions that he'd been trying to figure out all weekend disappeared with that one little kiss. He wasn't sure where this was going, but so far the fates had led him right where he needed to be, so he planned to trust them for a while longer.
They seemed to have a good plan going, and Marc and Brent were both happy to be pawns in their game.
THE END
© 2008 Triple X
