[...fearful reverence and a terrible, terrible hope...]

[whynot]

Boondock Saints/Gossip crossover intended for bds_drabble's crossover challenge, but then someone let the word count out of its cage and it pissed all over the furniture before running out the door and disappearing into the woods.

Travis of Gossip is an artsy geekboy and, through some mad twist of fate, the exact body double of Murphy MacManus. This story happens after Gossip, after Boondock Saints.

This story happens after a lot of things.

Title: A Guide to Modern Living
Fandom: Boondock Saints/Gossip
Pairing: Travis/Connor
Rating: R
Summary: Everybody's lost in New York.
Notes: Good vibes and dark chocolate in serialkarma's direction, 'cos she betaed. All remaining mistakes are mine.
ETA: missing scene


-
A Guide to Modern Living


"No, they don't care about anything here," said Travis, slowly turning his cup of coffee round and round on the table. A little caffeine carousel. "Nobody cares about anything in New York."

"You're just projecting," said Connor, and there was that look again. Or rather, the lack of a look. Connor's mind wasn't on the conversation. It hardly ever was.

Every Wednesday Connor and Travis met at Paulie's Delicatessen (est. 1988) on a SoHo street corner, and they'd order the same thing: turkey on rye for Travis, pastrami for Connor. Travis would talk and Connor's eyes would wander to the street, to a random pedestrian, to the sky. Sometimes, when Connor looked at Travis at all, sometimes there was this... thing. Something momentary and almost imperceptible, and always gone before Travis could draw any conclusions. He didn't know why Connor stuck around but since he always footed the bill, Travis wasn't going to complain. Travis was going through something of a financial dry spell. Every little bit helped.

"That's exactly it," said Connor. "Projection. That's what you're doing."

"What, you think I don't care about anything?"

"You're an artist," Connor shrugged. "You care about everything, so by comparison nothing ever seems to care for you. Or at least, not as much as you care about you."

"How does a serial killer know so much about being an artist?" asked Travis, tapping a cigarette out of its packet.

Connor took out his lighter and Travis nodded his thanks as he leaned over, huffed, puffed.

"It's the same thing, really," said Connor.

Travis held the packet out to him. "Bullshit."

And Connor smiled, which Travis appreciated. Connor's smiles were rare. Taking a cigarette, Connor said, "Pretty much."


+


The first time Travis met Connor MacManus, he nearly shat himself. One minute he was speed-walking down the street, minding his own business and trying not to be late, because although set design for B-movie equivalents of off-Broadway productions never paid much, work was scarce. One minute Travis was trying to justify his shitjob of a job to himself, and the next minute someone grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and gripped his biceps with uncommon strength.

He was used to weirdos, but even the weirdest didn't get this grabby. A terrified Travis found himself looking into the wide eyes as blue as his own. This man didn't look like any of the regular freakshows around town, though Travis did detect a similar fervency in his eyes. There was incredulity on the man's face, fearful reverence and a terrible, terrible hope.

In a voice that reminded Travis of dust and cracked concrete, the man said, "Murphy?"

"T... T-Travis," said Travis, and tried to remember his last name. "Sorry. Sorry, you got the wrong guy. I, um..."

It was a slow process, watching the light in the stranger's eyes flicker and flicker and break. A collection of muscle twitches and shallow breaths, realizing. The man let go and Travis stepped away reflexively, but didn't run. The man turned around to leave, faltered, looked back at Travis. Started to leave. Looked back again.

"Fucking hell," the man said softly. "Fuck... Fucking hell. You..."

Pedestrians passed them by, dutifully ignoring the scene. The man leaned against the building, rubbing his eyes, his face, and looked up at Travis as if maybe this time...

Something seemed to click, then. Something seemed to have been settled and resolved. With a heavy sigh, the man stepped forward, squaring his jaw, straightening his face, and offering his hand.

Hello. His name was Connor MacManus. Sorry about that.

Travis shook the hand. "Travis."

"You already said," said Connor MacManus. "You already..."

Connor fell silent, swallowed, and looked away.

"Sorry, man," said Travis, feeling useless.

Connor shook his head, muttering, "It's not your fucking fault."

Connor was there the next day, and the next. He would be smoking a cigarette under some shop awning or flipping through the paper, and sometimes he and Travis would exchange a nod or a hello. Sometimes, when Travis was feeling bold, they'd have three-line exchanges about nothing important. The words are never important was what Connor's eyes communicated, looking at Travis, or into him, or beyond him. It should have creeped Travis out instead of intriguing him. Connor would look at him as he approached, and Travis would feel those eyes on him until he disappeared around the corner.

It was sometime during the end of the second week (the start of the third week?) that Travis asked Connor to lunch. He knew this place a few blocks down.

Connor frowned. "What is this? A pity date?"

"I'm hungry," said Travis. "That happens to people sometimes, when they haven't eaten."

The first time, Travis paid for the both of them with no remonstration from Connor. The second time, Connor paid. Travis made the pertinent sounds of protest, half-heartedly fumbling with his wallet, but Connor ignored him. Connor continued paying: the third, the fourth, the fifth day, so on and so forth. This was how the matter was settled.

These days Travis went straight to Paulie's and found Connor already waiting in the corner booth.

By the third week, the waitresses brought their sandwiches before the orders were out of their mouths.


+


"Okay, I was exaggerating," said Travis. "People care about things in New York, but it's... different. It's a different kind of love." He saw the corners of Connor's mouth twitch. Almost a smile. Progress, Travis thought wryly. He leaned forward on his elbows and tried to look conspiratorial. "See, everybody's lost in New York. Not the Camus-slash-Plath existential kind of lost. It's just that there are so many people that all you are is another face in the crowd. You become anonymous. You're another weirdo in a city of weirdos and Jesus, they're really fucking weird sometimes. So weird they have to build entire worlds within buildings, in theatre houses and museums, just to house their dysfunction."

Travis slipped in a pause, checking Connor's reaction. There was a contemplative look in Connor's eyes, but Travis couldn't tell if he was listening or tuning him out.

"New York," said Travis, "is where people run to escape from the rest of America. From the rest of the world. You hide in plain view. You stick with your own kind and hope the rest of the world is scared enough of you to stay away." Travis took a drag of his cigarette. "We hate each other because it's in our nature. We love each other because we have no choice."

The deli was at its noisiest at this time of day. There were orders, complaints, and a dozen conversations drifting through a confined space. The air smelled like smoked meats. Connor, leaning against the wall with one leg stretched out on the seat, asked, "You like it here?"

"It suits me."

"What are you trying to escape?"

"What are you trying to escape?"

"The past," said Connor. "What else?"

"Tell me about your past," said Travis, and the steadiness in his voice belied his nervousness. He never asked Connor about his past. Not that Connor forbade it. Travis just thought it was best not to ask, especially after the nature of their first encounter. The words were out of his mouth before he knew it.

Travis's smile faltered when he saw Connor narrow his eyes. With a sigh--of decision from Connor and, following that, of relief from Travis at not being rebuffed--Connor said, "My past."

"Aye," said Travis. Connor raised an eyebrow at him. Travis shrugged, and smiled.

When it seemed the conversational lull seemed about to hit its breaking point, Connor said, "I was a serial killer."

Travis nodded thoughtfully. "Mmmm."

A mirthless half-smile on Connor's face. "You don't believe me?"

Travis was still nodding. "You're not the only one who watched Big Fish."

"I was all over the fucking news four years ago," said Connor. "Me, my father, and brother. Shot every fucking thug between Boston and New York. We were celebrities."

"Between Boston and New York only?" Travis murmured. "Not nationwide? Geez, where's your vigilante spirit?"

There was that mirthless smile again.

"Hey, man," said Travis, "four years ago I was getting high in college. I didn't know what the shit was going on in the world, so, y'know, sorry I missed your family bonding sessions." He paused. "Four years ago I was..."

"You what?" Connor said sharply.

Travis laughed. "...Nothing. Back in college, my roommates and I, we..." Laughed again. "Nothing. It was such shit. Nothing so grand as going on a killing spree with the family, mind you. But still pretty fucking weird like you wouldn't believe."

"I'll believe you if you believe me," said Connor.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Connor put out his cigarette on a leftover piece of pastrami. "We'll believe each other and we'll swear never to tell."

"Why won't we tell?"

"'Cos if you do, they'll fucking put me away." Travis felt his blood go cold despite the joke, despite himself. Connor looked into his eyes and the hard ice-blue seemed to drill holes in him. "All I have now is my freedom, Trav. That's all I am. So anybody tries to fuck with that, I'll tell you now: it's not murder if it's self-defense."

Connor said, "You think I'm crazy?"

"No. No. Maybe." Travis smirked. "Look. Connor." Travis snorted and rolled his eyes with forced jollity. He laughed for a second or two. "So if you're afraid, if you don't trust me, then why tell me at all? Why trust me with such vital information?"

Connor's eyes were unreadable. There was either nothing to read or too many things to read that no one could make sense of them. Connor said, "Because you are who you are."


+


Connor reminded Travis of a tree in midwinter: gnarled, tough, a portrait of minimalism. Something transitory: the dark before the dawn. That was what Travis saw every time Connor sucked sallowly on a cigarette, every time his words came out sounding threadbare and worn, every time he looked at the sky with dull blue eyes. Every time Travis caught the flash of frustration on Connor’s face that pleaded for something more than this.

The first and final time he met Connor at a place that was not the deli, at a time that was not lunch, Travis asked, "Why is this not enough?"

Evening: light was fading from the sky. Travis couldn't see the expression on Connor's face when he said, "What?"

It was a test, the kiss. Travis just wanted to see what it was like, to see how cold Connor really was, how hard, how tough, how impenetrable. He held on tightly to the lapels of Connor's coat as if this alone would prevent him from drifting away with the changing of the seasons. Connor spent the past few weeks trying not to give a shit about anything and Travis wanted to know why.

Connor stiffened, then pushed Travis away and held him at arm's length, breathing hard and shaking. Travis didn't know how long they stayed like that. He only knew that they kissed again, finding a hunger they never knew needed to be sated. Each seeked a different salvation, and arrived at a compromise.

I'll believe you if you believe me.

The kiss was messy, a tangle of tongues and lips and heat interested only in their own pleasure. With one thumb hooked into Connor's jeans and a hand unconsciously trying to tug off Connor's shirt, Travis managed to say, "My... Stop, Connor. My place."

Connor discontinued trying to undo Travis's jeans and they hailed a taxi, Travis barely managing to give the driver his address in the Lower East Side before Connor kissed him again. On the way home, Travis gave him a blow job and the cab driver told them in a matter-of-fact sort of way not to get anything on the seat.

In the bedroom Travis said into Connor's kiss, "This." He pulled away and looked down at Connor's hand in his, the black letters marring the skin on the index finger and the back of the hand. "What's this?"

"It means truth," said Connor.

"Latin?"

"Aye."

Travis traced the letters with his finger. "So you're a big believer in truth?"

"I believe that truth is nothing without justice."

"I have some friends who'd argue with you for five hours about that," Travis said, smiling. "They get worked up about that shit."

"There's nothing to argue about," said Connor, pulling Travis towards him. He kissed Travis's neck, whispered in his ear: "It's true."

Travis didn't keep journals, only jotted down disjointed thoughts on whatever writing surface was available whenever it struck him to do so. Some time in the wee hours of the morning, Travis wrote in black marker on Connor's back along his spine: you don't know what you want until you have it.

Connor was sleeping when he did this and didn't notice, but the next morning, after Connor's shower, Travis saw that the words were gone from his back, erased, completely scrubbed off. The skin along his spine looked red and raw.


+


"Empire State Building," said Connor.

"World Trade Center, or what's left of it," Travis countered.

"Central Park."

"The Flatiron building."

"That art museum that's round and white... goes round in circles..."

"The Guggenheim."

"That's it."

"The Statue of Liberty."

"Liberty Island."

"You're cheating. The Statue of Liberty is on Liberty Island. You can't do that."

"The island isn't the fucking statue, is it? They're two entirely different things."

Travis rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll let you have that one. Don't think I'll let you get off so easy next time."

"You're boss. Fifth Avenue."

Travis took a break and a bite out of his sandwich. Connor waited patiently, smoking his cigarette. "Speaking of tourists," said Travis.

"Speaking of tourists..." Connor echoed.

"A friend of mine, she was visiting and I was showing her around Manhattan one morning. We were in Central Park and we passed by this one place, this bridge, and she said Travis, stop, wait. Look at this. I said, what? She was like, this is where they shot that scene from Twenty Fifth Hour. You know, where Barry Pepper was beating the shit out of Edward Norton? You watched that movie?"

"No."

"This friend of mine, she was just standing there. Like... touched by an angel, I don't know. You don't see real New Yorkers doing this. She was there, all 'I am where gods have been'. It's the cult of celebrity." He looked at Connor, smiling. "You ought to know about that. You were a celebrity once, right?"

"Right." Connor smiled a mirthless smile. "So. I should watch the movie?"

"Do whatever you want," said Travis. "You know, you never said what happened to the three of you."

Connor frowned. "The three of us?"

"I mean, if things were going as well as you said they were, then, y'know, where's your father and brother? There's just one of you, bro." Travis held up a finger. "One."

The way Connor looked at him, Travis felt like maybe he shouldn't have said that.

"Shit happened," said Connor, as if it explained everything.

"...Ah."

"Someone fucked up," said Connor. "Someone always does, right?" He looked to Travis as if for an answer, but Travis gave none. Connor chuckled softly. "Jesus Christ, we're only human. Humans fuck up, they fuck up a lot, they fuck up a fucking lot and it's not like... And it's..." Connor trailed off, and blew a trail of smoke into the air above him. "Not like we were set apart and above the rest, specially chosen by God. Not like we had any right thinking we were free and clear, that we were exempt from the rules because we were... saints, or... doing our fucking duty, Jesus Christ, what kind of a..."

Connor fell silent, and still, unmoving. Travis watched. Travis waited, pretending not to notice the defeat in the other man's voice when he continued.

"It's not like we had any excuse," said Connor. "When we fucked up, it wasn't like we had any excuse at all except that we were only fucking human." He tapped the cigarette ash onto the tabletop. "That was our downfall and our only salvation."

He looked at Travis. "My brother died in my arms. His blood was still on my hands when I grabbed the steering wheel and floored it the fuck out of there. What I was thinking was, as soon as I washed my hands, as soon as I cleaned the blood off, that was it. That would be the end of everything." Connor raised his hands, open-palmed, at Travis. "These hands."

Travis asked, "This is Murphy?"

Connor drew his hands back. "Aye," he said. "That was Murphy."


+


Travis wasn't surprised when he came into the deli the next day and found their booth empty. Disappointed maybe, but not surprised. He stood at the door, staring at the absence of Connor, and when he saw a waitresses approach him with an accomodating smile on her face, he turned around and left.

Connor wasn't there the next day or the next, and so on and so forth. This was how the matter was settled. These days Travis grabbed some Burger King for lunch like he used to, all those weeks ago.

On the back of his 7-11 receipt for cigarettes and milk, he wrote: you forgot to mention the broadway shows.

He rented The 25th Hour and watched it alone in his apartment. There it was: New York, outside his door and in his TV. The last line of defense against everything and everyone, where he was just another face.

There was Edward Norton going fuck you fuck you fuck you.

There was Central Park.

There was Brian Cox saying over a beautiful montage of could-have-beens, "Every man, woman and child alive should see the desert one time before they die. Nothing at all for miles around, nothing but sand and rocks and cactus and blue sky. Not a soul in sight. No sirens, no car alarms, nobody honking at you, no madman cursing or pissing on the streets. You find the silence out there. You find the peace. You can find God."

And Travis thought, City, not desert. Not silence or fucking peace or a slowly breeding agoraphobia. People need their other half. People need to not be alone. That's why man invented cities, so you'd never be alone, even when you are. If Connor knew what was good for him, he would come back.

He reached for the nearest piece of paper beside him, which was a final notice from the phone company. He wrote: i'll forget you and we'll call it even.

I'll believe you if you believe me.


[end.]

Comments

Still providin'.

[juniper-nyne.livejournal.com]

Rock and fuckin' roll, man.
I loved this.

Usually I don't get into crossover fics but I made an exception 'cos it was yours ;-) and it was worth it.

I liked your characterizations. I particularly loved the characterization of Travis even though I've yet to encounter canon Travis (haven't seen 'Gossip').

What I liked even more was the depiction of NY. Of living in NY.

I've never been to NY so I guess it's the whole city-living vibe generally that appealed to me. I spend a certain amount of time mind-grooving about how much I fucking love living in a capital city...the people, the busyness, the anonymity, the escape, streets of history etc. Not that Dublin is exactly on the same scale as NY...
Still plenty of tourists underfoot though.

And Murphy! Dead! I feel I should plead with you to allude to such things in the Notes/Summary next time 'cos I was getting all happy with the blow-job in the cab scene and then pow! Murphy gone!
*sniffle*

I love the writing style: your fics are always a great read, by which I mean I get more out of them than just the usual fast hit of R-rated angsty badness I usually expect from a fic.

Cool.

And a quick self-pimpage: remember that historic first BDS fic I yabbered on about? I smacked its bottom and sent it out into the world (http://www.livejournal.com/users/juniper_nyne/9257.html#cutid1)...
;-)

[twoskeletons.livejournal.com]

Crikey! I swear I read that and wrote a comment. Now that I think of it, I don't remember if the comment was ever posted or if it's just vegetating in a notepad file somewhere in my computer. I shall amend this situation.

I'm not a crossover person either usually. I think this is my first one.

even though I've yet to encounter canon Travis (haven't seen 'Gossip'
Heh. I'm on the same boat as you, except for The OC. I don't get The OC where I am, but the fics are so cute.

And hey, urban living. *lifts glass*

Totally thank you. :)

Nooooooo.......

[juniper-nyne.livejournal.com]

We've got 'The OC' on an Irish channel and a British channel over here and I am resisting it like a MOFO.
Wonder if dipping into the fic would change that.....?
;-)

[twoskeletons.livejournal.com]

Why are you resisting it? Why?
Eh, if you're ever in the mood, her OC fics (http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=serialkarma&keyword=O.C.+fic&filter=all) are pretty cool.

[juniper-nyne.livejournal.com]

Am resisting it 'cos I refuse to be drawn into watching glossy shite just to get a slash fix.
Again.
And you then you recced...and I looked......
Damnit!!!

[twoskeletons.livejournal.com]

Hey hey hey, don't underestimate the glossy. And the sparkly. And the shiny. 'Cos, dammit, sparkly and shiny!

Again.
Heh. Which glossy shite scarred you before?

Sparkly? Where?? *distracted*

[juniper-nyne.livejournal.com]

It's not so much a particular scarring experience -
...although if it weren't for Clark/Lex, I would never have gone near Smallville...
- it's just I like to kid myself that OK, I may be a movie junkie at times but at least I don't whore myself around TV fandom.
*cough*

You see, I've only recently owned up to my superiority complex regarding TV slash. (http://www.livejournal.com/users/juniper_nyne/9774.html)

Ah, the delicious complexities of the slash life......

[twoskeletons.livejournal.com]

I am totally a movieslash kind of person. Continuity is easier to manage, and canon is more contained. If I actively wrote in a TV fandom, god forbid I miss an episode...