No infringement of the following characters
and situations is intended.
Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. Contains adult themes
Title: Working Without A Net
Series: Jurassic Park III
E-mail address: email@example.com
Pairing: Alan Grant/Billy Brennan
Date: 18 July 2003
Disclaimers: The characters of Dr. Alan Grant, Billy Brennan, et al. are the property of Universal Pictures, Amblin Entertainment and (in Alan's case) Michael Crichton. No copyright infringement is intended or inferred.
Warnings: may contain slash, H/C, violence, m/m hanky panky, sex scenes, drug use, nudity, coarse language, horror, dodgy research, adult themes
Spoilers: Jurassic Park III
Summary: Dinosaurs aren't the deadliest creatures on the planet.
Previously: In this series Billy carries the scars of Isla Sorna, most noticeably in the loss of his left arm, but also emotionally. Now new horrors are about to be piled upon old and even if Billy survives, his relationship with Alan might not.
The track had been crudely mined with homemade explosives and when the train had hit, it had just gone up, destroying the first two cars utterly, and tipping the rest onto their sides and even upside down as they had sprawled down the hillside.
They'd been tossed around inside the carriage like washing and Billy had been banging on the window, trying to break it and escape when trucks full of wild eyed young soldiers brandishing all manner of weapons had roared up. They had swarmed over the wreck, stealing everything that wasn't nailed down and shooting those who resisted. All papers were checked and re-checked and anyone with an English or American passport were separated from the crowd at gunpoint. Ordinary Russians watched in silence as the hapless foreigners were herded away and loaded onto a truck, probably to be ransomed or never seen again, or both.
The truck rolled and bumped over the countryside and they sat huddled in the middle, banging against the sides on occasion. They kept quiet and they kept their eyes down, lest they be caught staring at the young hot heads guarding them in the back of the truck with the automatic weapons.
At a certain point the truck was stopped and more men with guns climbed onto the back. They all sat perfectly still, terrified as pillowcases were pulled down over each of their heads.
Billy waited, barely able to see through the cotton weave, breathing erratically, feeling terribly claustrophobic and waiting for the worst. Then the truck had simply lurched forward again and they bounded over more rough and uneven road.
The truck had stopped at last after several long hours of bouncing the hostages around in the back like so much produce. It felt like evening from the damp kiss of the air that seeped through their clothes and made them shiver. There was a lot of shouting and the occasional burst of gunfire which had them cringing and crouching down. After a long while more men climbed onto the back of the truck and they were yelled at and pulled up and thrown off the truck and dragged, still blindfolded, into some sort of old government building with long corridors.
Billy was thrown into a room under a bare bulb. His hood was torn off and he squinted at the sudden light, watching the bulb swing slightly, casting erratic shadows across the room. Under gunpoint he was made to strip, tossing his clothes onto the floor in front of him. Every time he paused or took too long fiddling with buttons one handed he was prodded sharply with the gun barrel and it was really starting to annoy him.
Billy glared at them darkly and pulled off his t-shirt over his head, and then they all stood staring at gaping at him. The reason why he'd only used one hand became clear, as they could see the arm strapped to him. He was made to turn around, and they muttered over his scars.
"What war?" he was asked at last.
"No war." Billy met their eyes.
He was prodded on the chest with the cold metal of the gun barrel.
"What war?" he was asked again.
The gunstock smacked hard across his ear and he went down, bleeding.
Billy rolled on his side, pressing his hand against his head.
"No war," he cried, trying to make them understand. "No war."
He was spat on and the gun came down again.
When he woke up he was in the room alone and his arm was gone. It had been wrenched from him and he felt the sting where the straps had been torn away. It had probably been sold on the blackmarket by now, even though it was a customised piece of equipment, it was also an expensive piece of equipment. He felt its loss keenly, suddenly feeling very crippled, helpless, unable to push himself up. He just lay there on the cold concrete, too tired and miserable to move.
Two men burst into the room, threw buckets of cold dirty water on him and dragged him out, bare feet dragging on the floor, carrying him down the dark corridor between them.
At the end of the corridor was a room lit with another bare bulb and painted many years ago with depressing institutionalised colours. He would be made to sit in a wooden chair and answer their questions, and when they didn't like his answers they would hurt him, and when he wept they would tell him that no one had asked for him and no one was willing to pay for his release.
Billy just glared at them, knowing Alan would move heaven and earth to get him out of here, surely. Billy still believed in his heart of hearts that Alan had sent the Marines to look for him on the island, that Alan had never given up or given Billy up for dead. Alan had never spoken of it, or ever given Billy a reason to think differently.
The questions went on, because they thought he was a soldier or a spy, and if there weren't any questions there was noise and quiet, light and dark, cold and wet. Billy could hear the screams of other people, and still Alan didn't come. No one came.
Billy was thrown back into his cell again. This time there was somebody in the little room with him. It was Iain.
Billy coughed, painfully, feeling his broken ribs. He wanted to retch, but he had nothing left, and he was glad, knowing his ribs wouldn't take it. He was content to just lie on the freezing cold floor and shiver and hopefully pass out in the not too distant future.
"Don't," whispered Iain, coming close. "You won't make the morning if you do that."
Iain dragged him painfully into his corner with him, somehow mistaking the fact that it had been Billy's actual intention to give in to the elements.
Billy just wanted to lie there on the floor, bleeding and freezing to death, but Iain wouldn't let him, picking him up and holding him. Billy struggled a little but Iain held him tight, rubbing warmth back into his skin. He whispered quiet words of reassurance into his ear, explaining that rescuing hostages was a complicated business and that it took time, like a poker game. They were just cards in a poker game.
Billy turned into Iain's comfort, needing it, taking as much of it as he could.
Iain held Billy a little tighter, and the shivering eased, just a bit.
Hazel eyes met blue in the semi-darkness.
"I'm straight," Iain murmured after a long moment.
"I'm with someone," Billy answered in a whisper.
Still they kept holding each other in the darkness.
Alan ran a hand down the guitar strings. There was a thin layer of dust on the guitar, and he regretted his stupid, clumsy words. Billy's guitar had been a staple of every dig right up until the last one, the one before the island. Billy would strum it quietly, in the trailer, when he was bored, or thinking, or both. In the evenings, when everyone was dusty and tired and more than a little bit drunk, Billy could often be persuaded to play. He'd been good, too. Really good. Everyone would watch Billy and want Billy and Alan would glow from a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire, a warmth that came from knowing that Billy was his and his alone.
God, he missed that. He knew what had been missing now from last summer - there hadn't been any music.
He ran his hands across the strings but it echoed back out of tune. He carefully dusted off the guitar and placed it back carefully where it belonged, hidden in the back of Billy's closet.
The door opened and Iain was thrown in, coming to a stumbling halt. Their near daily interrogations had become so much the stuff of routine that Billy only nodded to acknowledge his return.
In his own corner of their little cell Iain straightened up and started jigging around.
Billy sat up properly, watching him.
Iain struggled and writhed about, and he either had a nasty critter roaming about his nether regions, or an uncomfortable looking way of pleasuring himself. Finally he came up with what he'd been searching for, the mobile phone he'd secured in his underwear. Billy didn't want to know where.
Nor did he want to see the phone or Iain taking stupid risks.
"Jesus - Iain, if they find out you took that-"
"We need to make contact, to tell them we're still alive, otherwise they'll work on the assumption we're not," Iain cut off his protests sternly, already dialling.
Billy scrambled in closer, leaning over Iain to hide the telltale glow of the phone and the murmurs as he spoke to someone at the other end, quickly and briefly updating their situation.
He glanced at Billy. "Anything you want to say to your people?"
"Yeah, get me the fuck out of here. Now."
Iain shot him a wry grin, and then quoted him verbatim.
The phone rang and Alan leapt on it, but it was only one of his grad students, trying to book a time to discuss their paper with him. Alan tried his best to listen, but the words bounced off him. He tried his best to take notes but only doodled. He made small listening noises in the gaps from habit and when the call ended he had no idea what had been said by either party and strangely, he couldn't muster up the energy to care.
There had been no word from Ellie and he returned to gazing out his office window with that look of quiet despair settling onto his face once more.
They burst in, screaming, waving and firing their guns wildly into the ceiling. Billy and Iain were dragged into separate corners, thrown up against the wall and punched and slapped about.
When both men were sagging in their captor's arms the man they recognised as, if not the leader then the most dangerous, walked in.
"You have a phone. Give it back, now." There was no opening for discussion.
Iain raised his head, nose bleeding profusely. "What phone? We have no phone." He insisted, while Billy kept his head down. "If we had a phone, we would have phoned out for pizza."
This earned him a chorus of laughter from the guards who spoke English, and another thumping for his cheek.
"We have no phone." Iain insisted. Both he and Billy were thrown together in a corner as their tiny cell of a room was searched again.
Iain watched carefully, from the corner of his eye, but they failed to find the carefully hidden phone. As the search ground to a halt Iain felt Billy start to breathe again. Billy had been giving his best impression of caring more about his beating and the inconvenience, but Iain could feel the small thrums of panic that spiked in him occasionally as the searchers had grown warmer before they'd grown colder again. Fortunately their keeper had missed it, as Iain's antagonism had kept all eyes on him.
The man stalked over to Iain now, getting right in his face.
"One of you made contact. One of you is a spy." He signalled to
his men. "Take them outside."