The Administration Series (115 page)

"Ahem," Warrick said pointedly, and the conversation stopped.

Cele looked up at Toreth, a question forming, and he shook his head as he dropped the notes on the table. "Nope. I don't have a tape measure and anyway, you've seen all you're seeing for the evening."

"I'm afraid the underwear is missing in action," Warrick said, holding out Toreth's clothes in a neatly folded stack. Then he lowered his voice and added, "Not that I have a problem with that."

Once dressed, Toreth sat down and drained Warrick's drink, then made a grab for Sara's. She snatched it out of his reach.

"Jesus, that pays well." Toreth looked at the colourful notes on the table in front of Warrick, separated into piles by denomination. Another stack seemed to be comm numbers written on scraps of paper and torn edges of scrip money. "I'm in the wrong fucking job."

Warrick collected the cash up. "I promised to distribute it amongst the dancers, in return for letting you use the facilities without a licence."

"What, now you're pimping for me as well? Nice one."

"Good God, if only. I could probably afford to retire." Warrick leaned down and kissed his neck. "Or at least to drop a sponsor or two at SimTech."

Speechless again, Toreth watched him go.

When he turned back to the table, Cele was grinning. Even Dillian was smirking, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the expression away when she caught his gaze.

So, now you've seen the goods, can I interest you in a fuck? "Is he often like this when he's out with you two?" he asked Dillian.

Dillian shook her head, still smiling. "Not very often, no. And hardly ever since — "

"Before SimTech," Cele said.

Dillian frowned. "Before Melissa."

Toreth wondered whether it was the thought of Melissa that annoyed her, or the idea that he might have had a positive influence on Warrick.

"Coincidence of timing," Cele said briskly. "We've all got to grow up sometime." Then she grinned. "Well, you hard-working professional types do.
I
plan to stay wild and reckless until I get to be old and crabby enough to shout at the young 'uns and hit people with my walking stick."

Sara raised her glass. "I'll drink to that."

Lacking a glass of his own to toast with, Toreth took advantage of the distraction to pocket the comm numbers that Warrick had left on the table. The money might be gone, but he was quite happy to take remuneration in kind. He'd paid a lot worse forfeits in his time.

It had started last night, as Toreth had stood over the bed in Warrick's flat. Warrick lay asleep, or maybe passed out, damp with sweat, his wrists bruised by the manacles. Quite suddenly, Toreth had been angry. Inexplicably, irrationally, bewilderingly furious. He'd left before Warrick woke, walking home through slushy city snow in the hope that the cold February air would clear his mind. By the time he reached his flat all he'd achieved was wet feet and a headache. He'd slept fitfully and spent the whole of the day in a tired, bad-tempered haze, with the anger spiking every time he thought about the night before.

Then Warrick had called him just before he left work and asked him — no, told him — to come round tonight. Not a mention of the fact that he'd not been there that morning. Shortly afterwards, Sara had asked him what on Earth was wrong with him, wasn't he getting enough? and his reply had been . . . well, flowers were at the top of his to-do list for tomorrow.

He almost hadn't made it to Warrick's. In the taxi over, watching the wintery night passing, he'd had the very strong feeling that he didn't want to see Warrick. He still didn't understand why he hadn't changed his mind right then and gone home. Or why he hadn't done so a little later, when Warrick had opened to door to the flat, looked right through him, and said, "You're late."

The argument had started approximately ten seconds after that, in the hallway, and they were still at it now, fifteen minutes later, in the bedroom, with no end in sight. A serious argument, eroding his self-control with every word. Any moment now, he was going to lose his temper, or at least his ability to put up with Warrick's '
I'm
being
perfectly
reasonable' tone of voice, which drove him mad at the best of times. This was rapidly heading towards being one of the worst times ever.

"So how often would you say we've done it in the last month?" Toreth asked.

"I have no idea. But it's hardly 'every time' you've been here."

You liar. You fucking
liar
. He made another, futile effort. "I'm not saying we can't do it ever again, I'm just saying you need to give your wrists a chance to heal up first."

"I'd like to do it tonight," Warrick said, "and I still fail to see the problem."

Finally, his temper slipped away from him and he shouted, "That's because you don't bloody well want to see it!"

Grabbing Warrick's hands, he held them up in front of his face.

"Look at them! No, don't fucking glaze over at me,
look
at them."

Warrick tugged sharply, trying to pull away, but Toreth held him fast. Probably wouldn't do much for Warrick's concentration, but he didn't want him turning away, which would make it that much easier for him not to hear what he didn't want to.

"Pretend they're mine," Toreth said. "Pretend they're Dillian's and I did it to her."

That suggestion finally had the desired effect. Warrick blinked, focusing, hopefully seeing the livid bruises with some degree of objectivity. For a moment, Toreth thought that might be enough, but then Warrick shook his head.

"They're only bruises. If we do it again tonight, they'll be slightly worse bruises tomorrow, that's all."

He should go. He should turn round and walk out right now before he did something unforgivable. He tried bleeding off a little of the anger into an exasperated sigh. "Okay. Were your fingers numb this morning?"

"Toreth, I don't need a medical lecture." Warrick had stopped resisting his hold, apparently deciding to try ignoring the situation instead.

"I think you do. Now answer the fucking question."

That phrase drew a sharp look. "Yes. A little. They're perfectly all right now."

"Warrick, I do this for a living. No, keep looking at me. You don't want to hear it the rest of the time, fine. But you're going to hear it now. I do this for a living. If you keep overdoing this, the repeated pressure from the cuffs and the chronic inflammation are going to damage the nerves.
Permanently
."

"I took the anti-inflammatories as soon as I got up."

"It makes no fucking difference in the long run. If we do it tonight, you might be okay tomorrow, but that's not the point. I know it's going to happen in the end, because I've seen it before. There's only so much that can be done with nerve regeneration to repair that kind of damage. At worst you could lose the use of your hands, and at best you'll be in pain for the rest of your life. Even if they re-graft the whole fucking arm, it might not cure it. Do you know what phantom nerve pain is?"

"Of course," Warrick said. "It's come up in several sim projects. But in any case, they are my hands. Not that I'm not touched by your concern."

"Christ, are you even fucking listening to me?" The idea of hitting Warrick was becoming so damn tempting. Not to hurt him, but to make him
see
past this infuriating, uncharacteristic fixation. "Right. Fine. You want another reason? When I interrogate a prisoner — before I start — I get something called a damage waiver. It tells me exactly what I can do to them, how much they can be injured. Whether they can die."

"Toreth — "

"Shut up and
listen
. If I exceed the terms of the waiver, I'm breaking the law. I could be dismissed from I&I. If I went far enough I could get re-education, or restrictive detention. Do you have any idea of the life expectancy of paras in prison? Let's just say I wouldn't need to bother packing a fucking toothbrush."

He shook Warrick's hands sharply. "This doesn't
have
a waiver. It's assault with intent to occasion actual bodily harm. It doesn't matter whether you consented or not, or even if you got on your knees and begged me to do it. The bastards at Justice wouldn't give a shit about any of that, if some officious medic reported it. They'd just get all wet and sticky about the chance to screw over someone from I&I."

Warrick seemed to be listening now, at least if he wasn't simply waiting until Toreth ran out of things to say.

"The time when we broke your wrist, pratting about with that chair, do you know what I was thinking in Casualty? 'If anyone calls this in, if Justice finds out, I'm fucked'. You were there in fucking
handcuffs
, Warrick — handcuffs that I took from work. It was a miracle nothing happened. Okay, in the end I might not have gone to prison, or even been sacked, but it would've done my career no fucking good at all. I easily could've been bounced back down to junior for something like that. Bringing the division into disrepute, or whatever the hell they call it. Do you at least understand
that
?"

Warrick nodded, his expression closed.

Was he finally getting somewhere? Already knowing the answer, Toreth asked, "Did you go home for New Year?"

Warrick stayed silent for a moment, then said, "No."

"And why not?"

"Because . . . "

"
Say
it."

"Because I didn't want Dilly to see the bruises."

"And I was fucking glad you didn't go, because if she had she would've been down at Justice in five fucking seconds flat and I'd have got an arrest warrant for New Year. I still might, because you know damn well you can't hide from her forever. And if it isn't Dillian, it'll be someone else. It's going to happen."

Toreth stopped and took a deep breath; he was almost scaring himself now. "I'm only going to say this once more. Pull yourself together and get a grip on it, or I'm taking that fucking cabinet back to the Shop and getting a credit note that'll keep you supplied with gags and belts for the rest of your life. You can fuck up your hands if you want to. Do you know what? — I don't care. But I'm not going to risk screwing up my life because you're so obsessed with suspension fucks that you don't even notice that — "

He stopped dead, understanding sweeping over him like vertigo and leaving him dumb with the shock of revelation.

You don't even notice any more that it's
me
there with you.

Eventually, he realised that he'd tightened his grip on Warrick's hands — he must be hurting him. Letting go, he stepped back. Warrick lowered his hands slowly, and rubbed them together, kneading his palms with his thumbs. His expression hadn't changed, and Toreth couldn't tell whether he was thinking about what he'd said, or had noticed the sudden halt, or was still being stubborn.

Again, he wanted to hit him, shake him, anything to get a reaction from him, but now the impulse was distant and easily ignored.

He finally found his voice. "Warrick, you know it's not that I don't want to do it. Just the opposite. But give it a rest. A month. Six weeks would be better. And then we can do it again. Think how good it'll be when we do, when it's been so long since the last time." That was beginning to sound dangerously like pleading, so he shut up.

Warrick looked at him for a moment, still unreadable, then walked away to the window and stood staring out at the falling snow, his reflection hidden. The snowflakes framed him, each one briefly picked out by the light from the window. Toreth sat down on the bed, wondering if anything he'd said had actually made an impression. He hated the idea of issuing an ultimatum. In fact, he'd never done it before, because it meant acknowledging that either of them might have the right.

This time it mattered enough that he didn't care.

A minute passed, then two, and he tried to decide what he was going to do if Warrick still insisted on going on with it. Walk out if he had any sense, but he doubted it. Adrenaline from the anger and frustration still pumped through him and whatever his mind was saying, his body wanted Warrick. Wanted him desperately, even like that, if that was all he could have. Thinking with his dick, Sara would say.

"I'm sorry," Warrick said.

The last of the anger vanished, replaced by relief so intense that he felt sick, and glad that he was already sitting down. At least he could manage to sound steady. "Don't be sorry, just be sensible about it."

Warrick turned round to face him, and leaned against the window, his hands on the sill.

"Yes. I will be. Or at least I'll try to be, in future. You're quite correct about the situation. Even if I haven't been obsessed, precisely, then I've certainly been thinking about it far too much. Not only with you, but at work, the rest of the time, and — " He shrugged. "All right, obsessed probably
is
the word. I should've noticed it myself. It's no different to overdoing it in the sim, and I've warned enough people about that over the years."

"And?"

"And yes, like the sim, a break is a very good idea. I need to . . . regain some perspective. We'll stop, for however long you think is best. I'll give you the key, if you like, and you can take it home with you."

He nodded. "Thanks."

"No, thank you. For . . . "

Toreth waited through the silence of Warrick trying to paraphrase something he thought was going to panic him. These days they both knew what the pauses meant, and sometimes he felt like telling Warrick that he might as well go ahead and say whatever it was. Not today, though.

"Thank you for making me see the situation more clearly."

Christ, that was bland. It must have had started out life as something good. Well, it didn't matter, as long as Warrick meant what he'd said, and he usually did.

"No problem. Any time." He kicked off his shoes and moved further up the bed. "Now, come to bed and we can fuck. If you still want to." Then he found himself hesitating, looking for the right words. Must be contagious.