First Time for Everything
A "First Time" fic, set post-"Out o' Time": New Year's Eve, 1999. 

Keller stands at the sink, his dark mind racing. No doubt about where this is going, he knew it right when Beecher faced him down across the railing, talking about new living arrangements. Knew then that the months of punishment and exile were over, that he'd finally paid his debt, his toll, his bill of goods -- whatever you wanna call it.

// And now you're mine. //

Even if he hadn't known then, there's no mistaking the look on Beecher's face right now. Lying there with that coy little cocktease smile, playing with his hair -- and ohh, yeah, Chris just has to chuckle, 'cause he knows that game. He's the one who *taught* it to Beecher, after all, way back when.

Back when Chris was working for Vern. Back when shit was simple, and everyone was playing by the rules.

He begins washing his face, using the ritual to give himself time to figure through the shit in his head. Damn, he should be feeling good. Smug, even. Only -- he's not. He's not feeling satisfied, or proud of himself, or any of the things he'd expected to feel when the time came. What he *is* feeling is something he hasn't let in for a long time - something he's not even sure he recognizes anymore, it's been so long.

He's scared.

And that makes no fucking sense. Hasn't he been waiting for this? Hasn't he begged, borrowed and -- confessed! -- to get back into Beecher's good graces? He'd known all along exactly what he was aiming for. Helping Toby destroy Schillinger's kid, that mess with Sister Pete -- all of it had been done with his eye on the prize: to Get Beecher Back. Yeah, he'd botched every one of the attempts, but that was no big surprise -- he'd never been any good at seeing the big picture or planning things all the way through. But he'd done what he had to do, just as he'd told Toby. And in some backwards, fucked-up kind of way, this whole thing was mostly Beecher's fault
anyway, for *believing*. Taking him down had been too simple; easy as swiping candy from a baby or a bank balance from some stupid overripe asshole who, when the truth came out, deserved to be fleeced because he should've known better.

Problem is, Beecher wasn't so easy the second time around. And now, somehow, Chris is the one who believes. He looks at Toby and he *believes.* He remembers the feel of Toby's hands on him, the hazy alcohol-induced light-spark of a kiss, and he thinks maybe this time it's for real. And that either makes him incredibly *right* -- which would be a first -- or it makes him incredibly stupid. A pawn in his own game, the victim of his own scam. Because it can't be about love. It's *never* been about love, not ever, and that was what made it so easy to say "no" back then, back when Beecher had been so hot and desperate for it. Even when a drunken, eager Toby was the sexiest goddamn thing Chris had ever laid his eyes on, sexier than any and all of the others he had mindlessly (and soullessly) fucked and been fucked by. All of that had just made it easier for Chris to shrug him off, to push him away, even to *laugh* -- because what the fuck does love have to do with it? How crazy would he have to be, to believe that love is here in Oz?

And there you go. Crazy. Because somehow, somewhere along the line, love did become a part of it. The love and the lust and the lies got all blended together like colored clumps of clay, impossible to separate them now. And for the first time in his whole miserable, god-really-has-forsaken life, Chris has no plan, no scheme, not a single fucking idea about what to do next.


Toby reaches first, laying a hand on Chris' chest, and Christ, it's too much. So Chris touches Toby right where Vern sliced him; testing the waters, reminding them both where they are and what brought them here. Schillinger, that fuck, the matchmaker from Hell -- he paved this road for them in more ways than one. And Chris knows that Beecher expects him to make it all better, to smooth it all out. 

Is he crazy to think they can pull this off? Are they both nuts to try?

Ahh, whatever. Somehow they'd ended up here, tonight, and judging by the way they're both breathing and the matching hard-ons they're sporting between them, nothing else matters right now except *this.*

Chris leans in. The first touch of mouth on mouth, and fuck, it finally hits him. This warm mouth, the body humming in his arms -- it's *Toby*, man, not just some nameless guy in a bar, or one of his college boys. Not even one of the faithful exes, who (whether they knew it or not, and most likely they didn't) had never got the best of him, never got everything he had, because to give 'em that he'd have to leave himself with nothing. And only Toby had ever asked for that. Only Toby ever made him want to give as much -- or more -- than he took.

Shit yeah, he's scared.

But here he is, with those barely-healed arms snaking around him and pulling him in, and fuck if Chris isn't starting to feel like some clumsy-assed teenager who's never done this before.

Hell. He never *has* done this before. Not this.


"Fuck." Chris pulls away slightly.

"What? What's the matter?"

He swipes at his face with slightly trembling hands. "You gotta give me a minute."

Toby narrows his eyes and makes that sound of his -- that bitchy, huffy little snort-thing, the one that could be anger or embarrassment, Chris really can't tell which. Or – humor? Yeah, it coulda been, because this *would* be funny, might even be fucking hilarious if it wasn't so… so fucked up.

"Don't laugh at me," Chris tells him. "Don't you fucking laugh at me."

Pale eyes flicker, a hint of irritation. "Sorry," Toby says quietly. "But I had expected this reaction from *me*, not from you."

"Oh, Christ…."

"Chris? Come on, what is it? Did I do something…?"

"No!" Chris says. "No, Toby, it's not you."

"Then what?" Toby is suspicious now, Chris can tell. And that actually hurts, a little. But what else can he do? He's been playing this game by Toby's rules for months, begging for scraps like a stray and settling for little more than short bursts of distracted attention whenever Toby forgot to shoo him away too hard. Following him around like some bitch in heat, and he'd just kept reminding himself that the payoff would be big. 

Well here it is, Keller, the moment you've been waiting for. So… what the hell are you *waiting* for? 

Bottom line is, they both know there's only one thing left for Chris to do at this point. To prove to Toby once and for all that he really does -- say it, Chris, say it, comeonandfuckingsayit -- *love* him. And confessing has nothing to do with it this time. Now Toby's eyes are kindling, little sparks of distrust just waiting to be lit, and Chris wonders if maybe Toby has been expecting all along to hear that this was just a part of the game. An extended play, Oz-style.

But it's not, is it? And that, right there, is the whole problem.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Toby asks accusingly.

Chris slants his gaze aside, shaking his head.

"Then what?" Toby demands. "You changed your mind? This is starting to feel really fucking familiar, Chris."

"Toby --" Chris says, almost desperate. And he can see, literally *see* Toby's face close up; sees the shutters fall down over those eyes,  the facial muscles freeze, solidify, molding back into the mask of a crazy ex-prag.  Ahhh, Toby, it's not what you think. Fight me, hate me, and I'll give you what we both want. But *love*?...

"You motherfucker," Toby whispers. "I could kill you."

Chris shrugs. He knows he probably deserves it, knows there are a dozen ways Toby could do it. But the one thing he can't accept, the one thing he just can't go back to, is death by Toby's indifference. No way, not after coming this close. 

He can't turn Toby away, not now -- but he can't make himself take him, either. And so he falters, frozen in his own prison, the kind that doesn't have any walls at all.

He fights to keep his voice neutral. "That what you want? You wanna take me down?"

"I'd thought that what I wanted was obvious," Toby says tightly. "For some reason, I thought you wanted it too."

"I do. You know I do, Toby."

That *snort* again. "Well, then….?"

Frustrated, Chris starts to turn away but Toby grips him hard by the shoulders. "Hey, come on. What's really going on here?" He touches Chris' face, gentler now, forcing Chris to meet his gaze. "Hey," he says again. "Chris, what is it?"

Chris removes Toby's hand. "You don't get it, do you?" His voice is flat. "All this has to be made right. And I gotta tell you, Toby, I'm not too sure I can do that."

At that, Toby just laughs. "You think *I* have a plan?"

"Be easier if you did," Chris mutters.

For a moment they both stand there, watching each other silently. Then suddenly Toby is advancing, taking the one step that separates them and pressing his body fully against Chris. He wraps one hand firmly around Chris' neck and buries his fingers in the dark hair, purposely giving Chris no chance to think about it anymore, one way or another.

"Listen to me," Toby says firmly. "I'm not 'allowing' you. Okay?" His free hand slides under Chris' shirt, his fingers lightly teasing, drifting lazily over the taut muscles of Chris' abdomen. "I'm not 'letting' you do anything." 

"Oh no?"  He's braver than me, Chris thinks, surprised.

"No." Exploring fingers lightly graze Chris's nipple, a sly smile spreading when Chris reacts. "I'm going to *make* you do it."

Chris's mouth twitches, a ghost of a grin. "You're full of shit, Beecher."

"I won't argue with that," Toby counters. "We both are, aren't we? Just part of the attraction, I guess." His hand glides upward, caressing Chris's skin, and a small shudder seems to travel the length of Chris' body. "That, and other things." His  hands are greedy now, reaching around to roam Chris' back and then head downward. "Want me to elaborate?"

"How quickly they learn," Chris says, amused. The crazy bastard is *seducing* him, for chrissake, and Chris can't help but be intrigued – not to mention instantly and very noticeably aroused. "Why not?" he says with a lazy shrug. "Go ahead, Toby. It's your show."

"Mmm. I like that," Toby says, practically purring. "I'm calling the shots, huh? And you'll let me do whatever I want?"

Light bulb -- damn... ahh, damn. There's something else going on here, more behind this new game than just love or lust or forgiveness. Instinct tells Chris -- belatedly -- that for Toby, this is also about justice; about Chris being *rewarded*, in the only way Toby can think of, for saving his life in the gym. The knowledge lands on him like a bag of bricks. Beecher's not done suffering yet; he still thinks he needs to pay, he just has nothing left to use as currency. No more wife, no more career, no more money, no more pride. So by default, and proximity, and maybe even by the hand of fate, Beecher has decided on *this* as his payment of choice. 

Ah, fuck. The love is behind there, Chris knows that. And he can *feel* the lust, rock-hard against his thigh. But all of that is probably the smallest part, way less important to Beecher than the pain. And inwardly, Chris is relieved. Because *that* he can deal with -- that he can do, it's what he's always done. His arms tighten around Toby again as he considers his options and formulates a new plan.

Not gonna let you play the martyr, Toby. You want to sacrifice yourself? Want to use *me* as more penance for your sins? Well, I got a surprise for you, baby. 'Cause we both know you want it,  we both know why you *need* it -- but this time, for the FIRST time -- I'm gonna make you *like* it.

Aloud, his voice is deceptively casual. "Name it."

"Okay," Toby says slowly. His hands are back on Chris' shoulders, rubbing, measuring, before he winds his arms around Chris' neck. "I want your mouth on me," he whispers, angling his hips forward in a subtle motion that makes Chris' mouth go slack and dry. 

*Fuck*.  "And?"

"And I want --" Toby sets his mouth against Chris' throat, just below the ear. "-- to put *my* mouth…"  His tongue flicks out, a quick whip and lash against Chris's earlobe. "… on *you*."

Yeah. Christ. This whole plan could easily get out of hand -- but who knew Beecher'd be so fucking good at this? The simple words flowing on the sultry tone of Toby's voice are driving Chris up the goddamn wall, and he grits his teeth in an effort to keep his voice low. "Anything else?"

Toby lifts his head, facing Chris straight-on. "Just one more thing."

Chest to chest now, thigh to thigh, with Toby's mouth only inches from his own. The tension between them crackles in the air, sending power jolts of pure energy straight to Chris' gut. He groans, heedless now of any plan, helpless to avoid Toby's seeking mouth. And as they wrap around each other, just as the current flowing between them threatens to take fire, Toby whispers one last slightly breathless request, directly into Chris's mouth.

"I want you to fuck me."

continued in part two


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