Inferno
by Hth


It's just too fucking hot in here. I can't get completely comfortable, and
even though I'm pretty sure Toby's still awake, I'm trying to squirm around as
little as possible. But even still, it's like my shoulder's all sticky against
his chest, and there are little...heat spiders crawling up the back of my neck.
Fuckin' hot.

Actually, it's probably the exact same temperature it's been in here since I
came to Oz. But it's cooler at Benchley, and now my own - I don't know, like,
mental temperature is outta whack.

Or maybe it's the fires of Hell. Now there's a cheerful little thought. 
Fuckin great, Chris. Way to hold yourself together for Beech's sake. You kept
that little promise to yourself for all of, what, nine hours? What was that
Kitty used to call you  shifty and unreliable? Shift*less* and unreliable. 
Don't shifty and shiftless mean the same thing? What the fuck is up with that?

"Chris. Quit sticking your elbow in my kidney, okay?"

"Sorry. Hey, do shifty and shiftless mean the same thing?"

Must've caught him not-completely awake yet, or just by surprise. "No, not
really. Shifty means - ah - dishonest, and shiftless is more like lazy."

So pretty much six of one, half a dozen of the other in my case. "Thanks."

"Not a problem." He sighs so soft I almost can't hear it as I rub his nipple
through his t-shirt with my thumb. It's a falling-asleep kind of sigh, and I'm
surprised to hear his voice again tonight. "Keller?"

"What's up, baby?"

I can hear the reluctance in his voice...he's stalling. Whatever he wants to
say, I'm gonna have to wiggle it out of him or he's gonna chicken out. "It
was...it was me, you know. I stabbed you."

"Yeah, Toby. I know." I'd be a fucking dick to try forgiving him. Like I'm
in some high and mighty place. Like I can be going around *forgiving* anyone.

Real hot, setting my teeth on edge, making me want to push everything off -
blankets, Beecher, everything - and flatten myself up against the glass just to
cool off.

But then, pushing Beech off, that's part of how I got this close to the Big
Heat, huh? Pretty funny, when you think about it. I run my fingers through
that thick hair that looks like it's never gonna fall out if it hasn't started
to by now. It could be two hundred and ten degrees in here, I wouldn't care. 
Not now that he wants me to stay.

"I'm just...telling you because I need us to...because I want to be honest with
you. I want you to know the truth."

"Okay." Maybe he is waiting for me to forgive him; shit, is he waiting for
that? I'd do it if he came looking, but...I don't want to. I don't want to
act like Beech *owes* me for something. Fuck that. Fuck, he doesn't owe me
one damn thing. I let myself laugh a little. "Shit, baby, I deserved it, you
know?"

But I think he's off forgiveness and onto something new - or maybe that's never
what he wanted at all. Maybe that's just up my ass, all this absolution shit. 
He's not Catholic, after all. He's what now - Muslim? Weird. Man, wouldn't
my grandma go ape-shit? I think she'd care more that he's not Catholic than
about the fag thing. "And you would tell me - I mean, you would answer me
honestly if I asked you something, wouldn't you? Now?"

Danger, danger, danger. This is kind of like *Does this dress make me look
fat?* isn't it? And just like in that case, the right answer is to lie like a
dog. "Course I would, Toby. You and me, man, like I told you. All that lying
and shit, that's behind us." Because there's this crazy foreign language that
two people in love talk to each other, where questions don't always mean what
they mean. So when Bonnie used to ask, *does this dress make me look fat?* I
just answered the actual question, which was more like, *Chris, do you still
wanna fuck me? Do you think I'm pretty, do I keep on making you want me?* So
yeah, of course I said yes by saying no, and that's not a lie in the way that
matters. It's just like that. Right now I'm hearing Toby's voice in my ear,
asking me would I ever lie to him, and I know he's asking if he can trust me
with his life, if I would hurt myself to keep from hurting him. I'd never hurt
him again, never if I could help it, no matter what I had to do. So I answer
him with the best kind of truth.

"You got a question for me, Toby? Go ahead and ask me, baby. I'll tell you."

"I met with the FBI agents assigned to - to the case." He breaks off, weakened
by just talking around the topic, and I squeeze his side. "Chris...are
you...did you kill...some people?"

I'm not sure I get this one. "Well...yeah. 88 years' worth of people, Toby,
remember?"

"No, I mean...that you never got caught for."

Shit. Fuck, fuck, motherfucking shit. "Whaddaya been hearing, Toby? They
been telling you something about me?"

"They said you were a suspect. In some sex crimes."

Fuckers! When are they gonna leave me the *fuck* alone? I take a deep breath;
I don't want Toby to think I sound panicked. "I was a suspect because I knew
some of the victims, and I had a record. That's it. They didn't have anything
on me; I'm not some kind of serial killer, baby, you know that."

"No, I - I know that. That's what I told them."

But you had to ask anyway, didn't you, baby? Yeah, well...I guess I don't
blame you. My heart's going like a semiauto, and it's hard to keep from
digging my fingers into Toby. Hanging on to him.

"Chris, I think you should know.... You're a suspect in the kidnaping, too."

I sit up so fast that I barely remember in time to get my arm up over my head
and stop myself before I break my skull open on the bars under Beecher's
mattress. "They think *I* - *your kids*?"

"You're a suspect, Chris, that's all. Relax, relax." His fingers stroke over
and over down my back, skating fast because of that little glaze of sweat all
over my body. "You and I both know who it really is."

"Of course we do. A child for a child, that's how he thinks. It's so fuckin
obvious." If these Fibbie bastards would just *interview* Vern, just fucking
meet him *once,* they'd know that too. What is it about me? Do I just have
some sign taped to my back that says *Hey, G-man, your mama dresses you funny*?
Is that why these federal fuckwads are always so keen to ass-rape me whenever
they get the chance?

Man, they're all gunning for me, aren't they? God and the U.S. Government, the
Devil and Vern Schillinger. Everybody wants a piece of Chris Keller.

Mmm, and Toby, too - although the piece he wants is a little different. He's
kissing the back of my neck, those feather-fast hands circling my shoulders.

My heart is billowing out, feeling so huge inside my chest that it squeezes out
my breath. This guy, this man - how did he...happen? How was there ever
somebody like Toby, somebody who can be so good to me, who can love me like
this and believe me like this, even though I'm a shiftless fucking shifty liar?
I never did anything to...deserve this.... Even God doesn't fucking want me
back, but Tobias Beecher does.

I'm burning. I'm going to burn. It's so fucking hot in here, and where do I
get off being not dead anyway? I got plugged in the chest, it killed me not
once but twice, and I don't even belong here. I sure as hell don't belong in
Toby Beecher's arms. Much as I wanna be here.

Very fucking *much* as I want to be here.

But that's my problem, right? I always gotta have what I want, when I want it.
And that's bad. I mean, I used to have to go to church (God rest your soul,
Grandma). I know about temptation, about wanting things too much and how God
puts shit like this in your life so you can show him you got a soul, that you
can want something and decide to obey Him instead.

Is Toby my...temptation? Is he something I'm supposed to see and want and not
take, because it's wrong - wrong to fuck him, wrong to make him more like me?

I reach down and pat Toby's leg, curl my fingers for just as second around his
knee. Jesus in the desert had it easy. Food and power and all that shit,
that's nothing next to the total warm trust that Toby lets me get lost in, the
way he makes me sure for the first time ever that there's a bottom limit to my
dark heart - things I *can't* do, *won't* do, ever, for anything. I always
sort of wondered about that. There's something about being with Toby that
makes you just see yourself more clearly. It's probably because he's so fuckin
smart.

"Beech...I think we should split for the night, huh? The hacks are on a tear
about us, you notice?"

He laughs blackly. "Pretty hard to miss."

"Yeah, they're all heart. I mean, I didn't expect they'd be sending us roses
or anything, but Jesus. They don't have to fuckin stalk us."

"Fuck the hacks."

"Hey, I just got here. Lemme get a few more days of you before you get our
asses shipped to the hole, all right?"

He starts moving; I guess he's getting his shorts back on before he climbs back
up top. "Love you," he mumbles, kissing my cheek before he bails.

"Love you, too," I answer automatically. Funny how it's already automatic. 
Must be all those years of wedded practice.

I lie back down. My chest is throbbing, the memory of the - of the torment -
which I'm not gonna think about, I'm gonna keep it together like I said I would
- but all that pain is concentrated tight and sharp in that bullet hole. I'm
carrying it around like my own mini Hell, and it sends this itching, aching
heat through me. I roll over, wrap my fingers around the edge of the mattress,
imagine that I still got the solid weight of Beech under that arm.

I want him to hold me so bad - but I know he's a trick, he's my sin. Not being
with him - I don't think. Just the way I always make him..think about me,
worry about me, the way I always pay him back for loving me by starting shit
and causing trouble, instead of being there and strong and clean for him when
he needs someone, anyone, real bad. He should be getting some fucking sleep
tonight, taking care of himself. Shutting off the fear in his head for a
while, not sucking in my fears, too.

Damn, I want a fucking cigarette. I never smoke in the pod, not where it might
get Beech in trouble, too, but I need something, something, I don't care what. 
I can't just lie here and do nothing.

But I'm gonna have to. Lie here, be quiet, let him sleep.

For as long as I can keep the heat from getting to me. 



Author's Note:
No, there's no good reason that the timeline is all fucked up in this story.  Obviously, Beecher doesn't meet with the FBI until after the night of Keller's breakdown in the pod.  I know that and you know that.  I have no excuse except that I was never all that bright.