Finished!

[maderr]

Much love to my betas, especially for putting up with my harassment <3

Originally written for Sammikinse for SMP - never quite made it to the mail. But she says that's okay ^^

And I love Dixie. I love all my characters, but Dixie I'm especially fond of, probably because his accent is so much fun to write.

Title sucks, because I could never come up with a good one. Lately, my titles just will not be notcrappy -_-; Title better now?

Drunk Butterflies

Dixie looked up as he heard a sound.

Sounds, strictly speaking, weren’t that unusual. His garage was generally full of them. So too the back alley.

Except not usually at – he looked up at the old, battery-operated clock on the wall. It was almost too scuffed to see the numbers clearly. 3:03. In the AM.

Another sound. Like some drunk couldn’t figure out where the hell he was.

Dixie rolled his eyes and set his wrench down, grabbed a rag to wipe some of the grease from his hands and strode through the side door out into the back yard.

Sure enough. Some drunk was leaning against the gate he was always forgetting to lock.

Wait a minute. He had locked it. He remembered doing it. And the gate was still closed and locked.

That couldn’t be good. Dixie paused in the doorway, deliberating. Something weird was going on.

Then the figure collapsed. That decided it. Dixie crossed the yard, boots crunching on dry grass, and crouched next to the man who, it turned out, had fallen unconscious. He didn’t smell like alcohol.

But, Dixie realized as it hit his nostrils, he did smell of blood. Muttering curses, oofing at how damn heavy the larger man was, Dixie dragged his unexpected – unwanted – guest as carefully as he could to the house.

Great. Now he’d have grease and blood everywhere. But his mama would have torn him a new one if she’d been around to see him almost leave a man lying in the yard like that.

‘Course, the next day she would have been swearing a blue streak of her own getting the blood out of her carpets, but as she had been fond of saying, ‘That’s neither here nor there, Dixie – now run and fetch your mama some more water.’

Half lowering, half dropping his charge on the leather couch, hiding a wince, Dixie went to fetch what he’d need to clean the man up. Hopefully he wouldn’t need stitches – he never was worth much with a needle. Luckily his mama had decided that was tolerable so long as he continued to fix up their old station wagon.

Sighing at himself, Dixie gathered supplies and set to work.




An hour later he sorely wished he’d just left the man outside. Really. He was a mechanic. The man on his couch was the very last thing he needed to have there.

Unless he was mistaken. Somehow he doubted it. There were only a handful of men in the city who went with the excessive amounts of black thing – and the Minder wasn’t likely to be found bleeding from what looked like a knife wound. And only one of the candidates was likely to be about at this hour and in such a condition, unless he wasn’t keeping up with the news as well as he thought.

Whisker. Dixie rolled his eyes at the absurd name. What sort of burglar allowed himself to be called Whisker of all things. If he was working himself up the ladder to being a true villain, his name was not going to get him up many rungs.

And why the hell was he even thinking about this? ‘Boy,’ his mama would say, ‘you as flighty as a drunk butterfly.’

He’d asked her once how a butterfly got drunk. Another time he’d asked how a drunk butterfly would even get off the ground. ‘Boy,’ she’d said, ‘you something else. Now go wash those dishes.’

So the infamous Whisker was on his couch. What in the world was he supposed to do with a wanted felon? Lord have mercy, he hoped the man didn’t have the stolen goods on him.

Stolen goods. Dixie snorted and rolled his eyes at himself. ‘Boy,’ his mama would have said, ‘no more TV for you.’

For once, he couldn’t have agreed more.

Dixie sat on the coffee table and stared at his unwanted guest. Exactly like his police description said – tall, thin but not skinny. His shirt was gone, as Dixie had taken it off to stitch up the wound. And the stitches were sloppy, uneven, but they would hold. Hair short, dark brown. Chocolate, he bet mama would have called it. And wasn’t that ironic? A light tan, so obviously he didn’t spend all his time slinking around in the dark stealing things. A silver hoop in one nipple.

He’d had a hard time taking his eyes off it at first. Weird thing for a burglar to have, really. Dixie realized he was staring again and wrenched his eyes away. Mud and blood and lord only knew what else all over his nice, new couch now. Lord above, he’d only had the thing three days!

And it was four-something in the morning. Screw it. He was making coffee. The good stuff, the twenty dollars a pound stuff. At least there would be one bright spot in this hideous morning.

Dixie pointedly ignored the fact that he’d already been wide awake and working when Whisker had decided to fall over in his back yard. He glared at the coffee maker, impatient for the coffee to finish brewing. Halfway through, he got fed up and exchanged the coffee pot with his mug. Made yet another mental note to get a coffee machine that was made in this century.

He drank it black, and after finishing half, topped it off and returned to his seat on the coffee table. But even as he sat, he could hear that nagging voice ordering him to fetch a blanket. And a pillow. And be quick about it boy, no lollygagging about!

Setting his mug down with a sharp clack, Dixie stood up again and dug around in the closet at the end of the hallway, getting out a blanket his mother had crocheted and one of about ten pillows he still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten. Never bought a pillow in his life, but he had ten in the closet and four on his bed. He’d never been brave enough to count the blankets.

Back in the living room, a sad affair except for the now ruined black leather couch, Dixie carefully arranged pillow and blanket under and over his guest.

A soft groan. Dixie froze, leaning over him to tuck in the blanket. ‘Whisker’ opened his eyes slowly, as if they were weighed down. Like his hair, they were brown. But nutty, rather than chocolate.

Lord, he was doing that drunk butterfly thing again.

“Where?” the man asked. His voice was rough, deep.

Dixie refused to be affected. “Southland Auto Repair.”

“Ah,” the man said. “Anyone behind me?” His eyes widened and he struggled to sit up, then cried out in pain and fell back down against the cushions. “Shit.”

“If you tear my stitches, I’ll add to your injuries.” Dixie finished tucking the blanket it and gave the man the frown he normally reserved for women who didn’t know their oil from their battery but thought they knew better than him what was wrong with their car. “I mean it. Keep still.”

The man laughed weakly. “Yes, sir.” He had a northern accent; bit too sharp to be local but then Whisker hadn’t been in town for long so it only made sense. “I dropped something. Outside. By the gate.”

“Keep your shirt on, I’ll go take a look.” When the injured man laughed again, Dixie realized what he’d said and barely kept from groaning. ‘That mouth, boy’ his mama had often said. ‘Your biggest enemy.’

Outside, Dixie stumbled around the perimeter of the yard looking for something that didn’t belong. Why he was doing it, he didn’t know. Anything that helped get the guest gone, he guessed. Something in the grass tripped him up and Dixie barely avoided eating grass, catching himself awkwardly against the gate.

He’d noticed the voices earlier and had studiously ignored them as he already had more guests than he wanted. But as he hit the high wooden gate that kept out neighbors and scum from the back alley, the voices abruptly died and then resumed in faint, barely audible hissing whispers.

A sharp knock at his gate. Dixie lifted his eyes to heaven and then unlocked the gate, swung it open like he had not a care in the world. In the dim light of the street lamps he could make out two men – one on the pudgy side of burly and the second more fit but just as big. Dressed in slacks and dark polos, but the logo over their chests may as well have been in neon and ringing bells. The leaf and vine symbol of the DeVine Corporation.

Maybe Whisker wasn’t all bad if he had DeVine out hunting for him – assuming he was right about his guest’s identity.

“Pardon us,” the pudgy man said. “We’re trying to find someone and we thought he might have come this way.”

“If I were you, I’d find me a bed.” Dixie said, letting his drawl get slower and thicker. Southern drawl meant stupid, and stupid meant they’d go away sooner. “If there’s a person in it, that might be a good thing or a bad thing. Up to you, I s’pose. ‘Bout to find my own bed, just thought I’d make sure it was all locked up tight.”

Yep. Sure enough. There went their faces. ‘Just a dumb hick, covered in grease’ That’s what those faces said, plain as day. Dixie stifled a sigh and kept it up. “Who you gents huntin’? Ain’t seen a soul ‘cept yourselves all night.”

“A skinny man. Tall. Probably wounded. Carrying something that doesn’t belong to him.”

“Nope, ain’t seen a thing.” Dixie blinked at them, doing his best impression of a drunk butterfly.

The men grit their teeth, growing rapidly annoyed with the idiot they’d been forced to talk to. Nevermind, Dixie thought sourly, that they had knocked on his gate. “Anything else I can help you gentlemen with?”

“No,” the more fit man said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.” His words were clipped, quick. Exactly opposite Dixie’s slow drawl. “Good night.”

“Y’all take care now,” Dixie said and shut the gate after they’d turned away. Stooping, he retrieved what had tripped him and strolled leisurely back to the house. Inside he locked the door, checked the front, the windows and then went to triple check the garages were all secure.

When he finally returned to the living room, mysterious black bag in hand, his guest had managed to pull himself into a sitting position. “I thought I told you not to tear those stitches,” Dixie said. “Moving will tear’em – so don’t move.”

“Sorry,” the man said, not looking sorry at all. “Can’t stand lying down if I don’t have to.”

“I just told you that you have to.”

“Yeah, but laying back down requires moving.” He grinned.

Dixie all but threw the bag at him and sat down on the coffee table again, picking up his mug. His coffee had gotten cold. “Damnation.” He set it down again, coffee nearly spilling over the sides. “So who the devil are you and how quickly can I get rid of you?”

“Soon as you say I can move.”

Biting back an angry retort, ignoring the shameless grin on the man’s face, Dixie stalked into the kitchen and refilled his mug, then took another minute to calm down. Lord in heaven, he had no patience tonight. And something about that grin just got his gander up.

He strode back into the living room and barely refrained from throwing his coffee at his guest’s head. “I told you to stay still.”

“You also said you wanted me gone,” the man said easily. “Can’t do both, so I figured I’d pick the most useful one.”

“Get your ass back on that couch!” Dixie snapped, setting his coffee down and manhandling the injured man as well as he could without upsetting his lousy stitches. “I drug your ass in here and my mama didn’t raise me to let an injured man walk out before he was well enough to do so.”

Brown eyes stared up at him, and Dixie could see how much it had cost him to move the small amount he had. He immediately felt contrite. Mama woulda skinned him alive for his lack of manners. “Stay here,” he said, striving to sound pleasant or at least less angry. “Hungry at all?”

Those brown eyes blinked, the man clearly surprised. “A bit, yeah. But I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Ain’t no bother.” Dixie caught himself and bit back a frustrated sigh. “It’s no bother. But I’m not so great a cook, so I hope heated up soup is okay.”

“Burnt toast would look like a five-star dinner to me right now.”

Dixie lifted a brow. “You’re awfully chipper for a man who looks like he was on the wrong end of a knife fight.” But Dixie could see the man was pushing himself. He changed the subject “Got a name?”

“Ah— Gregory. Gregory Raines. Call me Greg.” His eyes never left Dixie’s, but Dixie knew when something was being held back. He’d bet his shop and soul that he had Whisker on his couch.

“Dixon Montebank,” he said levelly. “Most folks call me Dixie. I hope you’re all right with chicken and noodle.”

Greg laughed. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to eat when you’re bed-ridden?”

“I suppose so,” Dixie said, and wandered out before his mouth decided it needed to turn stupid again. He managed to heat the soup without scorching it, and put it on a tray with some crackers. But when he returned, Greg was fast asleep on the couch, carefully stretched out so his wounds hurt as little as possible.

Without a word, Dixie put the soup in the fridge and left the rest on the table, then went upstairs to get clean so he could just get dirty all over again when the shop opened in three hours.

He scrubbed hard, trying to wash away his frustrations along with the grease and grime. Damnation what he wouldn’t give for one night of solid sleep. Now he had to go a whole ‘nother day with no sleep, he’d probably keel over on toward lunch and then there’d be no sleep that night.

Dixie washed his hair, nails scraping his scalp until he was certain his hair smelled only like aloe shampoo and nothing like the shop. The hot water was relaxing but not nearly relaxing enough. Maybe once Mr. Greg Raines was gone he’d take those days off he kept meaning to take.

Except what would he do all on his own? He was sick enough of his own company at work; he didn’t want to go on vacation with only himself for fun. Thanks but no. Turning off the water, he slicked his blonde hair back and stepped out. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then stopped as he remember who would be stopping by for the millionth time that month because her car kept making a ‘funny clunking noise’ that he knew very well was just a stupid attempt to give him more chocolate chip cookies.

He hadn’t quite figured out how to tell her he was allergic to chocolate. Nor how to tell her he was allergic to women. Or might as well be. Dixie sighed and dressed in faded jeans and a wife-beater, laced up his heavy work boots and then went downstairs to the kitchen. Just now six o’clock – it was going to be a long day, no doubt about that.

Scrambled eggs, toast and microwave bacon – he could hear his mama clucking her tongue over that – and after making sure he’d turned off the stove, Dixie carried his plate into the living room. He was just checking up on Greg.

But even to himself he had to admit that checking up on didn’t require forgetting his breakfast in favor of staring. Buried in his deep couch, covered in one of mama’s blankets…he’d obviously been alone too long if he thought it looked like the man belonged.

Lord above, a drunk butterfly could function better than he was right now. Growling at himself, Dixie began to shovel breakfast into his mouth, grimacing at the cold eggs but eating them anyway. ‘Boy,’ he could hear her like she was looming over him. ‘Don’t you go wasting good food.’ Even dead, the woman nagged him.

And hadn’t that just sent him right into the thick of the gloom? Giving up on what was left of his breakfast, Dixie drank his cold coffee and snuck a few more glances at the sleeping Greg.

Finally he made himself get up and wash dishes, then emptied his coffee pot and made a fresh one before going to sneak more glances while he tidied the living room.

It was late fall so the sun wouldn’t be up for a bit yet. Sometimes it seemed like it was always dark. ‘Course, most of that was his own damn fault.

Lord above, what had gotten him so mopey? Dixie scrubbed his hands through his mostly-dry hair, disheveling the thick strands before sighing and attempting to reorder them some. He could go upstairs and comb it, but that seemed too much like work.

The smell of coffee wafted into the living room, telling him it was done, and Dixie helped himself and then settled in the beat up old armchair that still smelled like his mother’s cigarettes. ‘Boy,’ she’d said. ‘Ain’t nobody perfect. This here is my imperfection and you let me have it. Don’t want to hear no more about it. You hear?’

Dixie smiled faintly at the memory, missing his mother more than ever. Five years now she’d been gone, but times like this it seemed as though it were only a matter of days. His eyes flicked toward the newspaper on the edge of the coffee table. Another article about the Prince, the city’s most famous Super Hero. One of a baker’s dozen. None of them had stopped the men who’d killed her. None of them wasted their time on the petty criminals.

The Minder would have, but he hadn’t been around then. Dixie let slip a soft sigh, staring unseeing at the newspaper. Not that he was around now either – he wondered what had driven the man away. And his absence certainly explained why Whisker got away with so much. He was beneath the notice of the Super Heroes, and the one those same heroes had dubbed ‘The Babysitter’ seemed to have left.

Well, whatever. It was too early in the morning for this crap. Dixie sipped his coffee and began to go over in his head all he had to do that day, altering his schedule here and there to allow for looking in on his patient occasionally.

He was actually beginning to relax enough to doze when he abruptly sat up. Dixie set his mug down on the floor beside the chair and slowly stood. Something was wrong. Didn’t know how he knew. ‘Good instincts,’ mama had always said. ‘It almost makes up for the fact you got no sense.’

His mother, when they’d moved here, had bought land enough for three houses. One third went to their house. Most of the rest went over to the auto shop but there was plenty of room left over for a pool in the backyard and a fence to surround most of the property. To get to the shop, the easiest way was to go out the kitchen door, across the small side yard into the store.

Everything was quiet when he got inside. But Dixie always knew when someone was in his shop – and he didn’t know who or why, but they were about earn themselves a whoopin’ for it. Probably a bunch of punk kids.

Dixie treaded silently across the shop and into the garages. He paused in the doorway and reached out to flick on the lights – something bolted behind a car. Dixie swore silently and grabbed the first thing he saw from a nearby worktable. A large wrench, something he didn’t really use but kept by for times like this. “Don’t know who you are or what you’re thinking,” he told whoever was hiding behind the old pick up that needed a leak fixed. “But you’d best get out.”

Reaching the pick up, Dixie wasn’t surprised to find there was no one there. He turned around and barely dodged out of the way of the hammer coming at his head. “Fuck!” Dixie swung out, kicking hard at his assailant, sending the man reeling back, banging into the bay door. “You dent this truck, you’re gonna pay for it!” He grabbed the assailant’s arm as the hammer came at him again, threw the man off balance and then slammed the wrench down hard on his head.

He stood over the now-unconscious assailant. This one was dressed completely nondescript – jeans and t-shirt. Dixie rolled him over and looked for a wallet. Nothing.

The scuff of a shoe on cement was his only warning, and Dixie rolled out the way, clambering to his feet even as he was attacked again. “Damn it!” A fist missed his face but clipped his shoulder. Dixie fumbled for balance, collided with a bay door and barely ducked away from another fist. What in blue blazes?

Regaining his footing, Dixie bolted for the last, empty bay so he could move without hitting something other than the ass attacking him. He threw a quick punch, and dodging it forced the other man just enough off balance that Dixie got a kick in – straight to the back of the head, hard enough to knock him down and Dixie had him unconscious in the next minute.

“God damn.” He huffed, annoyed – then took off back to the house.

Sure enough, there was another one – and by the look of it they’d torn his damned stitches. Dixie didn’t bother to announce himself, merely grabbed the man trying to take Greg, tore him away and threw him into the nearest wall.

“We have to go,” Greg managed between gasps of pain. “Now.”

“I hear ya,” Dixie replied. “And the minute you’re better, Gregory Raines, I’m whoopin’ your ass just like I did those fellows.”

Greg managed a smile as he let Dixie take most of his weight, limping out of the living room and toward the back door. “Yes, sir.” His face fell. “I’m sorry—“

“Save it,” Dixie said.

“Go through it,” Greg said as they stopped at the door while Dixie fumbled to hold Greg up and get the bolt and chain undone.

“That’s what I’m fixin to do,” Dixie snapped. “I’ve gotta open it first.”

“Don’t open it,” Greg said. “Just go through it. Trust me.”

Dixie looked at him and didn’t move. Behind them, he could hear the man from the living room getting up. Cursing, he held tighter to Greg and walked toward and through the door. “Well I’ll be…”

“You’ll be dead if we don’t hurry up,” Greg said tightly. “And I’m sorry for this mess. Wasn’t my intent. Come on, through the gate. If Valentine isn’t slacking, my ride should be here and I think maybe you should tag along.”

Not bothering to reply, though that name jolted him plenty, Dixie moved as quickly as he could across the back yard, not stopping as they reached the fence but trusting that Greg’s little trick would help them out a second time – which it did.

As they entered the alleyway a car pulled up alongside; sleek and black and fancy. Didn’t often see cars like that in his mom and pop place. A moment later a man climbed out.

“There you are,” Greg said in relief. They hazy morning light revealed an almost painfully-thin man with a thin, handsome face, shoulder-length black hair and sharp blue eyes. But he was so expressionless and still that what should have been quite attractive somehow came off as wholly unremarkable.

“Get going,” the stranger said. “I’ll keep them here until you’re well away.” His eyes flicked toward Dixie, but he said nothing.

“Come on,” Greg urged. “Time to go.”

Dixie frowned, but he could feel blood hot and sticky on his fingers. Quelling his protests for the time being, wishing he’d just stayed inside to begin with, he helped Greg into the car and then climbed in himself.

An older man was in the driver’s seat. “All ready, sirs?”

“Yes,” Greg said. “Thank you. Let’s go home.”

‘Home’ Dixie noticed, cringing, was exactly what he had feared it would be from the moment Greg dropped the name.

Valentine. Lord have mercy, what was going on?

As they reached the manor itself, everything became something of a blur. Greg was taken from him for treatment, and Dixie found himself being half escorted, half dragged along to what turned out to be a study straight out of a stupid late night movie in which the owner always turned out to be a vampire or something equally ridiculous.

And the man by the window was immediately recognizable. Mahogany curls, green eyes, wore wealth like everyone else wore skin. Byron Valentine. Damnation what had he gotten himself into?

“My apologies,” Byron said, moving away from the window. “I’m afraid you’ve rather neatly been dragged into our affairs.”

“Rather neatly, nothing,” Dixie replied, too irate to keep his accent to a minimum. “What the hell is going on here? I help a man and wind up being drug across the city to this fancy house? No, thank you, sir. If y’all don’t mind, I think I’ll just take my leave.”

Byron shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that, if you please.”

Dixie started to reply, but was interrupted by the opening of the door. He turned to see the man they had encountered in the alleyway – he was as expressionless…unremarkable as Dixie had first thought. He and Bryon exchanged a look, and Dixie wondered that they’d reveal so much to a stranger. Maybe they didn’t realize how obvious they were.

He started to speak again, but the unremarkable man beat him to it. “It was DeVine, all right. I don’t know what he did to slip up, but they’re on to him for sure now.”

Byron sighed. “We’ll have to pull back for a bit.” A faint smile. “Thank you, Leland.”

Though his expression never changed, Dixie could see that something in Leland’s blue eyes softened when he looked at Byron.

“Is somebody going to tell me why I’ve been taken from my house for trying to help that fool thief?”

Both men stared at him. “How did you know…”

“Mama may have been a fool to raise me,” Dixie said irritably. “But she didn’t raise no damn fool. Injured man being hunted by DeVine with something he don’t want them to find? That’s one plus one and even this redneck knows that equals two.”

Byron laughed. “When Greg called to tell us where he was, I did some brief research to make sure he hadn’t gotten himself in deeper. You’re Dixon Montebank, if I’ve done my job correctly. You and your mother moved here a little over ten years ago…”

“And now I live alone,” Dixie finished for him. “You ain’t gotta shy ‘round it.”

“I am sorry,” Leland said suddenly. “I wish I had been here then.”

Dixie blinked. “Pardon?”

Byron laughed. “Leland was once the Minder.”

“Oh.” Dixie let that sink in. “Oh.” He looked at Leland, who seemed genuinely upset. “Why would you tell me something like that?”

“You saved Greg, and we’ve caused you quite a bit of upheaval. Nor do I think we’re done upsetting you; trust seems the least we can offer.”

Dixie nodded. “Then why don’t you tell me what I’ve managed to fall into?”

Far off in the distance they could hear sirens – fire, ambulance. The cacophony shattered the early morning stillness. Leland moved to the window. He turned a moment later and looked at Dixie. “A fire.”

Something twisted in Dixie’s stomach. That face was expressionless, but he could read the truth easily enough in Leland’s blue eyes. “Why would they do that?”

“A warning,” Byron said coldly. He looked at Dixie, then looked away.

Dixie blinked, hands clenching into fists, eyes burning. “I save a man, and this is what I get? Three men attacking my home, dragged away to chat with some fancy man and now my home being burned to the ground?” He wanted to run, save what couldn’t be saved. Scream. Hurt them all. He buried his fingers in his hair, half-covering his face, wanting the world to go away. His home. Burning. Everything he and Mama’d turned into a home since they’d run away.

Everything felt unsteady. Dizzy. There was a brief flare of pain in his head, and then the world went mercifully black.

*~*~*~*

When he woke up, Dixie immediately wished he was back asleep. But he could tell he was awake, and would be for awhile. Biting back what was either a sob or a scream, he threw back the heavy blankets and stumbled out of a bed that was nearly the size of his now-gone bedroom.

He looked around. Sunlight spilled into the room through a slit in the dark gold drapes. The entire room was done in browns and golds; it reminded him of something out of the fancy catalogues his mother had loved to look at when she thought he was busy working.

Dixie closed his stinging eyes, forcing away thoughts of the table and kitchen at which she’d sat, and which were no longer there. He’d have to go see…and what about the shop?

It made him feel tired, but as appealing as the idea was he couldn’t sleep forever.

He was still dressed in his jeans and shirt, and after a moment he found his work boots. A quick look in a small mirror affirmed that he did look as bad as he felt, but Dixie couldn’t find a reason to care.

Out in the hallway, he pondered his options. What sort of people left a man all alone to find his way in a house the size of city hall? Sighing, Dixie flipped a mental coin and turned right. Two wrong turns later he found stairs he vaguely remembered passing the night before.

Downstairs everything was easier to manage. He briefly considered just heading for the front door and bolting, but that wouldn’t answer questions and he had nowhere to go anyway. Dixie bit back another frustrated cry.

‘Boy,’ his mama’s voice snuck up on him, and for once Dixie wished he knew how not to listen. ‘If you can sulk, you can do something ‘bout it instead. Don’t make me give you a whoopin’.

He almost smiled, but it never quite made it. The babble of a TV caught his attention and Dixie paused outside a door that was open a crack. It was semi-dark inside; the lights no doubt dimmed to see the television screen more clearly. Taking a breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The man on the couch immediately looked up as he caught movement, then he dropped the remote and struggled to sit up. “Dixie!” Greg said, and though he was obviously in pain he finished standing, crossed the room and enveloped Dixie in a tight embrace. His voice was tight with pain, guilt. “I’m so sorry.” His deep voice was muffled; Dixie could feel it against his neck. “So sorry.”

Dixie stiffened, not sure what to do. Part of him wanted to take everything out on this man. But his mama would have killed him, and then been disappointed. ‘Boy,’ she’d have said in that tone that made him feel an inch tall. ‘I’m damn disappointed in you. Thought I raised you better than that.’

Slowly, as if his arms were half-frozen, Dixie returned the embrace. “What happened?” he asked after a moment. He looked at Greg’s face, the misery there a match for everything he felt.

Greg’s arms slowly slid from his shoulders, down his arms, lingering a moment before finally letting go. “I—I’m so sorry.”

“Sit down,” Dixie urged, grabbing him by the arm and guiding him back to the couch. It reminded him vaguely of his own; though this leather couch was brown, longer and deeper and probably three or four times more expensive than his was…had been. Dixie swallowed and reminded himself he should listen first. “Now tell me.”

“Of course. I—my name really is Gregory Raines.” Greg smiled weakly. “I—I was a friend of Byron’s for a bit, growing up. But I moved away, we fell out of touch. Ever since I was twelve, I’ve been traveling…training, most of the time. With my uncle. He died a year ago, and after a while I came back here…” He took a deep breath. “Which you don’t really need to know, but it seems easier to just tell you everything. I—“ he shook his head. “Anyway, I learned what had happened to Byron while I’d been gone. Blew me away.”

Dixie nodded. Byron Valentine’s parents and sister had been murdered more than a decade ago. Byron had stood trial but ultimately was found not guilty. And rumors said that ever since, he had been at odds with the people his parents had once considered valued friends – it had also come to light that his parents had been Super Heroes and part of the Grand Order.

“I sought him out; learned what really happened.” Another faint smile. “We picked up right where we’d left off; it’s like we’ve been friends forever. His boyfriend’s a nice guy too, once you get past the fact his telekinesis makes him all stone-faced.” Greg shook his head. “Anyway – I came just as Byron was having problems with something else.” Greg leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. “The people who were responsible for his family’s deaths…they had things they shouldn’t. That Byron didn’t want them to have.” He opened his eyes and looked at Dixie.

Who was more struck by them than he liked. An image of Greg buried in a blanket on his couch rose up, bringing with it all manner of pain. Dixie ignored the image, shoved it away. “What did they have?”

“It’s hard to explain…”

“If I may?” Byron said from the doorway. He flicked on the lights, flooding the room with bright light, revealing the maroon that accented the brown and cream furniture. Behind him stood Leland, as stoic as ever. “Wainscot noticed you were awake,” he said by way of explanation. “I hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

Greg gave a small shrug. “You can explain better than I.”

Byron nodded, and they sat down. “Long story short – my family was killed because DeVine wanted my sister. She was precognitive.”

Dixie nodded. “Don’t surprise me much, not if DeVine is involved.”

“Oh?” Byron’s brows went up. “I found no connection between you and DeVine.”

“And you never will.” The drawl rolled off his tongue, laced with a trace of smugness that was all he would allow himself. “But I’ll never call them friends, that’s for certain. Now why don’t you finish your story.”

Byron nodded. “My sister is dead now.” Dixie could see the pain in his eyes, and the way he leaned ever so slightly into Leland. “But a few months ago I discovered that they managed to create a sort of program based on the information they took from her. Greg arrived just as Leland and I were debating how best to address the problem.”

Greg grinned, some of the irreverent humor Dixie remembered returning to his face. It suited him far more than the misery he’d been wearing until then, and Dixie hated that he glad it was gone. These people, especially Greg, were the reason he was homeless. Why was he glad Greg didn’t look miserable?

Damnation.

“I didn’t stop by to visit my old hometown expecting to get my first real job.”

“Stealing is a real job now?” Dixie asked, half-joking, half-annoyed.

Greg grinned, unfazed. “A job is anything that pays. Some are just less legal than others.”

Dixie rolled his eyes. “So you’re huntin’ this program. Why not just hack it?”

“We’d like to do that, too. But none of us has that level of skill. Best we can do is what we are doing – destroying the individual computers as we find them.”

“My mama,” Dixie said. “Would have called y’all plumb stupid. You can’t go destroying that sort of thing the caveman way.”

Greg let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s the best we can do! As good as Byron is with computers, he’s not that good. And anyway, just hacking the system and destroying it doesn’t mean they’re not keeping it in other places. Part of my job has been determining exactly who has it or knows where it is. How close they are to bringing it up to full functionality.”

Byron was watching Dixie, expression pensive and also faintly amused. “Why do I get the feeling you know the right way to go about this?”

“Don’t know where you’d get that idea, Yankee.” Dixie drawled. “I fix cars. I ain’t hardly seen a computer since ‘cept for the one in my store.”

Greg suddenly burst out laughing. “You’re a liar! That accent is cute, but it doesn’t mean you’re as stupid as you obviously want us to think.”

Dixie glared at him, pissed that one) his trick wasn’t working, and two) Greg had just called it cute. ‘Boy,’ he could hear in his head. ‘You was askin’ for it.’ “I might know one or two tricks, at that. But I promised my daddy I wouldn’t go getting’ myself into this kind of trouble. See what happens when I rescue stupid cats? No thank you, sir.”

Byron chuckled to hear Greg called a cat, and even Leland seemed amused in his quiet way. He sobered, though, as he addressed Dixie. “What would you like me to do? I can’t undo the fire, obviously, and for that I am truly sorry. You helped us and thus far you’re the only one to suffer. Whatever I can do to help you, I will. No questions asked or stipulations made.”

“Right kind of you,” Dixie said somberly. “Folks mistreated your sister? And created a program from the research?” He turned the information over in his head, feeling a pang of guilt that wasn’t really his, except by default. How many years had it been since he’d had to think on stuff like this? Far too many, though he could feel his fingers twitching to do things they’d never forgotten; things being a grease monkey had never quite eased. And he knew his daddy would be howling something fierce to know how horribly wrong it had all gone.

His fingers wanted to do it, heaven above knew he’d always missed it. But part of him had liked being just a grease monkey too. But mama would never have let it rest, not if she’d found out. Not much choice, really. Daddy wouldn’t expect him to keep old promises under circumstances like this. “They still using the Mason system?”

“Mason system?” Byron gave him a puzzled look.

Dixie sighed. “That’s the system DeVine uses to operate. Every last piece of it, no matter where their – pardon me – vines creep. Designed from scratch by a man named Mason. Ain’t no system like it. Every little gimmick from those dumb sci-fi flicks you can think up, this system has it. How else you think DeVine manages to be so damned slick? Even if you were of hacker caliber, you couldn’t crack that system. Ain’t no way, ‘less you the man that built it.”

“You’re not old enough to have designed that system.” Byron said.

“Got that right, sure enough,” Dixie agreed. “I was only thirteen when daddy died – he finished the system, and they got rid of him right nicely.”

It took a moment for the words to register, his casual tone at complete odds. “Isn’t it rather stupid, even for DeVine, to kill the only one who completely understood the system?”

“Sure it is,” Dixie said. “Except the system has an impressive AI. And they were also hoping to get me, ‘cept they couldn’t find me. I don’t plan on them ever doing so. Promised daddy and mama I’d stay away. Rottenness killed’em both; ain’t gonna kill me too.”

Byron grinned. “Hiding in DeVine’s backyard?”

“Mama knew how to do it right. Until tonight, everything was fine.” Dixie said. “Mama would also tan my hide if she knew I was letting those bastards get away with this. Even a dead girl shouldn’t be mistreated that way. I can hack the system; I know it as well as Daddy did. Mama always said our heads were too full of numbers for any sense to find space. But you need a special chip – as in micro – to tap into Mason. Any DeVine computer will have it. Get me that, I’ll help y’all out.”

Greg shook his head. “You really shouldn’t. We’ve caused you nothing but trouble – I’ve caused you nothing but trouble. And this will probably get you in more.”

Dixie snorted. “Ain’t nothing as difficult as driving those idiot women outta my garage, trust me. After that? Computers are easy as pie. And like I said – mama would give me a whoopin’ like you wouldn’t believe. She’d help y’all, even with the house in ashes, so I guess I’d better too.” He smiled, briefly. “Though right now I’m thinking I’d like food, if y’all don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Byron said. “I don’t think I could ever repay what you’re doing for us.”

“Good thing I don’t expect you to, then.” Dixie managed a laugh, running his hand restlessly through his hair. “Though I guess we could discuss getting me new lodgings.”

*~*~*~*

“Your fingers move so fast,” Greg said when Dixie relaxed in his chair, head falling to rest against the top of it. “Especially for someone who claims not to have been near a computer for more than a few years.”

Dixie laughed. “Oh, I tinkered a bit. You can’t really run a business without a computer, these days. I meant mostly serious stuff like this, but I might’ve played once or twice when Mama was out shopping.” A quick grin, gone almost before it was there.

“You and your mom must have been close.” Greg sounded wistful. “My uncle and I got along, but it was more like a business relationship most days. Parents died before I was born – never really knew why, except it was an accident.”

“We were,” Dixie said after a moment. “After they killed daddy, we were all we had. Even after years went by, we never felt comfortable letting our guard down enough to have more than a few good acquaintances.” He leaned forward again, fingers dancing as he typed at a dizzying pace. The screen reflected in his eyes, and Greg found it hard to look away.

“Why grease monkey?”

“I like the work, all the parts and pieces. Why the burglary?”

Greg laughed. “Family business. What else does one do when his only ability is going through solid objects? Not much of a super hero power, is it? But for what it’s worth, we only steal to help. Robin Hood like.”

Dixie nodded but said nothing more.

Sighing to himself, Greg tried to direct his attention elsewhere but found he couldn’t. They were on the upper floor of Byron’s massive library, something straight out of every dramatic novel ever written. Honestly, he loved the man but Byron was ridiculous sometimes.

He was all set to steal the chip tonight, having finally determined which house would be the easiest to hit. His side ached, though it was finally more or less healed – how stupid had he been to fall for that trap? – and he wished he could rest for a few more days. But tonight was his best chance and he wouldn’t waste it.

Especially given how much Dixie had and was doing – for no reason. Recalling the houses he’d been ‘visiting’ in the past several months, Greg recalled bitterly a few ‘Super Heroes’ who could stand to learn a lesson or six from the quiet, growly auto mechanic.

Despite his best efforts, his eyes were drawn helplessly back to the man at the table. And again, Greg wished he had not been so goddamn stupid.

He’d passed that gas station a hundred times, night and day. So many times he’d stopped really noticing it. And every single time he’d managed to miss completely the man who owned and operated it.

If only that knife had never happened – or at least been kind enough to kill him. Because how much did it suck to meet sexy with a southern drawl and not be able to have him because you’d not only nearly gotten him killed but caused his house to burn down?

Relationships just didn’t build from that sort of thing.

Though assuming there could have been a relationship was perhaps a bit on the presumptuous side. But it couldn’t hurt to pretend – especially as now that was all he was going to have. He was torn between wanting everything over and done with it, and wanting it to go on forever so he could at least keep looking.

Sighing, this time aloud, Greg pulled himself up out of the wickedly comfortable recliner stupid Byron had thought would make a good addition to his library and began to poke around the shelves.

But as soon as the keys stopped clacking a hundred miles a minute, he gave up the pretense. “So what exactly are you working on right now?”

“Just reacquainting myself,” Dixie said. “Ain’t done this seriously for years – it still comes way too easy.” A rare smile, again gone too quick. Those hazel eyes were somber. Greg wanted nothing more than to curl up with him in the evil leather recliner, run his fingers through that thick, messy blonde hair and kiss him until there wasn’t a trace of shadow left anywhere in those eyes. “Shouldn’t you be doing something? Or do thieves always laze about before stealing stuff? Then again, you are a cat. Whisker, if I recall.”

If he recalled. The smartass. “Believe me, I wanted nothing to do with that stupid name. I think Byron did it, though I don’t know how yet. Man is wily as a fox. Like every rich man I’ve ever met, really.”

Dixie laughed before he could catch himself. Greg wished he’d do it more often – then remembered why he probably wasn’t in a laughing mood and felt miserable all over again.

Uncle Dave would have his friggin’ head for that assignment. On a spit, basted with homemade barbeque sauce.

“Ah, well. I’d better go get ready.”

Dixie frowned at him; the expression was far cuter than Greg thought Dixie realized – he’d tell the man, but then he’d probably stop. Honestly, he wished he’d known sooner that there was a cute, available grease monkey slash hacker around. “You certain you’re healed enough?”

“Yes, mom.” Greg couldn’t help it. “And I promise not to come back requiring stitches this time.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Dixie said, clearly unconvinced. He went back to his computer.

In his room, Greg changed from blue jeans to black, and from his old green t-shirt to a black long-sleeve and a leather jacket with lots of hidden pockets. Nothing more was really needed – his ability to pass through solid objects, what his uncle had called ‘becoming insubstantial’ meant he didn’t have to worry much about the security measures that bothered most would-be thieves. And the fancier stuff could be dealt with by Bryon – or now Dixie – from afar.

So he was a bit old-fashioned, avoiding all the fancy gadgets. It worked when he wasn’t falling for stupid traps and getting knifed.

Boots laced, Greg stood up – and winced. He held his side for a moment, then moved to his nightstand and grabbed a bottle of painkillers, downing three of them with what remained of his water from the night before.

Whatever happened to the glamorous days of stealing precious jewels and secret papers, maybe a kiss from a pretty victim? Though only if they were grease monkeys with cute southern accents.

Though, most of his victims weren’t the kind to stand still and let themselves be robbed. Even grease monkeys threw unwelcome visitors into walls, Greg recalled with a soft laugh. That had been a sight. Growly little southern boy knew how to fix cars, hack into elite systems, and kick ass. Greg turned his thoughts elsewhere before he got distracted imagining what else Dixie might be good at.

Striding through the maze of hallways – Byron really was out of control with his house, manor, whatever it was called – Greg eventually wound his way back to the library, where the others had joined Dixie.

Greg shared a look with Leland, who in his quiet way was clearly amused by the other two. “It’s like they’re speaking a foreign language.”

“Aren’t they?” Greg said, shaking his head as the technical lingo flew between Byron and Dixie as they argued over the security system they would be interrupting while Greg worked.

“Ready to go?” Leland asked.

Greg nodded “Yep. Going to give me a ride?”

“Of course. Sure you don’t want assistance?”

Byron looked up at Leland’s words. “You’re still too recognizable – well, your powers. You know they’re just waiting for you to make an appearance, Lee.”

Leland nodded. “It just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“I know,” Byron said softly, and moved to Leland, leaning up to kiss him softly. “You won’t be stuck inside forever, I promise.”

Greg rolled his eyes in amusement at Dixie, and bit back the urge to jest about a kiss of his own. “Hurry it up, Leland. We’re going to be late.”

“Yes, Lord Whisker.”

“Shut up. The minute I can pin that on you, Byron, I’m going to kick your ass.”

Byron made a show of innocence. “How would I do a thing like that?”

Greg ignored him and followed Leland from the library. He hid a wince, and his fingers ghosted over his mostly-healed wound before he let his hand drop.

*~*~*~*

Byron might be an idiot, Greg thought, but at least he was an idiot who bought big, comfy couches and put them next to over-sized fireplaces. He’d have to ask Leland sometime if Byron was compensating for something.

The thought of asking such a question made him laugh, but that hurt so he was quick to stop.

Clicking and clacking filled the library, interspersed with snippets from Dixie and quiet conversation between Leland and Byron. Thankfully they’d believed it when he said he was tired and crashed on the couch. He hoped they left him here when they finally went to bed, because whether or not he could move right now was entirely debatable.

At least it was just a lot of bruising. Bleeding would have been loads harder to hide. Later he’d go find Wainscot and get him to help – but right now he didn’t want anyone to know he was hurt.

Not after what happened the last time he’d shown up hurt. Honestly, he fucking sucked at this whole burglar thing. All he’d managed to succeed at was a few valuables, computer pieces, and a stupid microchip. Why didn’t anyone want diamonds and ancient artifacts anymore?

Stupid technology.

Greg could feel his eyelids turning into lead, and didn’t bother to fight. When he woke up, he’d either feel better or be dead. And while he healed or died, he could pretend there was a grease monkey curled up on the couch with him, kissing away every last ache and pain.

“—Greg. Hey, Greg…”

“Hmm…Dixie…” Greg opened his eyes, to find himself staring into a pair of green eyes that looked entirely too smug. “Shut up,” he told Byron before he could speak. “If you say one goddamn word, I’ll wreck that pretty face of yours.”

“So violent,” Byron said with a grin. “Feeling a bit…restless perhaps?”

Greg sat up, biting back cries of pain. Christ, what had their fists been made of? Steel? “To hell with you. Where’s your boyfriend? Go bother him and leave me alone.” He blinked, yawned, and sank back into the couch. “Why did you wake me up anyway?”

“Leland’s still in bed. I woke you up because those injuries you’ve been hiding would probably heal better if you went to bed.”

“Have I mentioned I really hate you? Can I blame everything on you? I think I will.”

Byron chuckled, then gave up kneeling and just sat on the floor. “Are you ever going to say anything to him?”

“We don’t see each other for years, and you can read me this easily? And no, I’m not. How exactly do you think I would? ‘Hey, I know I almost got you beaten up, caused them to burn your house down, and that by dragging you here have put you in danger, but would you like to go for coffee sometime?” Greg laughed miserably. “I don’t think it’s going to work. Now leave me alone.”

“At least go to bed.”

Greg managed to smack Byron’s hand away when he reached out to help Greg up. “That requires moving, which I don’t think I can do right now.” He blinked. “Wait – how did it all go?”

“Working on it,” Byron said, frowning over Greg’s words and not to be distracted. “It’s going to take time, Dixie says – the system isn’t hacked in something as easy as a few hours.” He stood up and moved to help Greg again, glaring when his hands were smacked again. “Get up, or I’ll tell Dixie.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Tell me what?” A slow, way too sexy drawl interjected.

“Nothing!” Greg snapped, growing desperate. “Byron’s being an ass. Make him go away.”

Byron laughed, curls rioting as he threw his head back. “And where is he supposed to make me go in my own house?”

“The fireplace sounds like a good start.”

Dixie looked at them both as if they were crazy.

Byron grinned in a way that Greg knew boded only ill for him. “Why not push me in the fireplace yourself, Raines? Oh, wait – you’re in too much pain to move, aren’t you?”

“BYRON.”

Whatever Byron’s reply, Greg didn’t hear it as his world was filled quite suddenly and loudly with curses and sniping, every other word given three extra syllables as anger brought out the full force of Dixie’s drawl.

“Dixie—“

“Shut up, you damn Yankee.” Dixie’s scowl would have been cute – honestly, he thought everything Dixie did was cute – if it hadn’t been directed at him. “What the hell did you do this time?” He knelt beside the couch and immediately began to search out injuries, scowl deepening with every hiss of pain Greg couldn’t keep back. “What you’d do, piss off a two-by-four?”

“Something like that,” Greg muttered. “It’s not a big deal; I’ll be fine in the morning.” He caught Byron slinking away and silently vowed revenge before returning his attention to Dixie.

“Dumb ass Yank,” Dixie replied, knocking away the hands that were trying to block his. “It is morning – nearly seven o’clock. Starting to think you were dead. Guess I was rather close to the truth.”

Greg winced. “I’m hardly near death – just really really sore. I didn’t want to trouble anyone.”

“Oughta leave you to your own foolishness, that’s sure enough. Never met a man in such a hurry to die, and painfully. You’re the worst damn sneak thief I ever met, Gregory Raines.”

He was already in trouble, may as well go all the way. He could think of worse ways to die than at Dixie’s hands. “I would have been fine if they hadn’t hit the original wound. That sort of took the wind out of me. But I succeeded! So all is well.”

Dixie had his shirt up before he’d finished talking, going immediately to the scar at his side, which was covered now with a large, livid bruise. “I oughta give you more bruises.”

“Go ahead,” Greg said cheerfully. “I think there’s some skin left unmarked you can have.”

Those hazel eyes were murderous. “Either you’re one of those types that likes injury—”

Greg laughed.

“Hurtin’ for attention, or don’t much care about anyone but yourself.”

“I resent that last one,” Greg said, no longer amused. “Well, the second one too but I do care about you—guys.” He hoped the stumble went unnoticed. So didn’t need emotional bruises on top of the physical ones. “That’s why I kept my mouth shut. They’re just bruises; I’ll be fine in the morning.”

Dixie snorted in contempt, hands sliding off Greg’s stomach and torso as he stood up. “Dumb ass. What if something was seriously wrong? Fracture? Ever heard of those? Or internal bleeding, like.” He crossed his arms and glared down.

Greg also noticed that Byron had managed to slink off. After Dixie killed him, Greg was going after Byron.

“Do you really think, you fool Yank, that we’d be happy if we’d woke up to find you dead? How’s that for consideration? I tried that shit with mama, she beat me where I couldn’t sit down for a week straight – and then she sent me to clean the yard twice over.”

Ignoring how much his body hated him for it, Greg sat up. He should have put the painkillers in his jacket before he left. “See? I’m fine. No reason to beat me or even worry.”

Dixie just started scowling again, and Greg remembered how put out he’d been the first time they’d been arguing over his injuries. Like a grouchy old hermit, except he looked, sounded and smelled wonderful. “I’m thinking, Yankee, that there’s always going to be a reason to beat you. ‘Bout the only way to knock sense into that fool head. Mama always said I had all the sense of a drunk butterfly, but I’m thinking that was only ‘cause she never met you.”

“I would’ve liked to,” Greg said. “You obviously adore her; it would have been cool to meet the woman that raised you.” He smiled, but it fell into a frown, and he looked down at his hands, scratched and torn from his recent fight. “Maybe then I wouldn’t have wound up ruining everything. Amazing what one slip up and a stupid knife wound can do, isn’t it?” He laughed shakily, and suddenly bed sounded like a really good idea.

Anything was better than the shadows he’d see in hazel eyes. That he’d put there. Gritting his teeth, denying the pain, Greg stood up and tried to walk past Dixie.

“You are the dumbest Yankee I ever met,” Dixie said, blocking him with an arm at his waist. A long suffering sigh as he manhandled Greg back to the couch. “Honestly, drunk butterflies got nothing on you at all. What’s got you so knotted up ‘sides the beating you took?”

“I gave as good as I got,” Greg said defensively. He scooted away as Dixie sat down next to him. “Ah, hell. Why not? One more bruise can’t hurt, can it?”

“Dunno ‘bout that,” Dixie drawled, exaggeratedly slow. “You look near done in to me.”

“Thanks,” Greg said sourly. “I was wondering – if I’d met you during the day, and not got you almost beat up and your house burned down, and got you back into hacking and stuck here…if I hadn’t ruined your life but had met you normally and asked you out, would you have said yes?”

It was somewhat gratifying to see the complete astonishment that replaced the scowl on Dixie’s face. “What?”

But then he wondered why Dixie would be so astonished and suddenly didn’t feel so hot. “So that’s a no?” It should have been a relief to know he hadn’t lost a good chance after all. He wished he hadn’t asked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You mean I wasn’t the only one lookin’?” Dixie blurted out, then clamped his mouth shut – but he didn’t look away.

Greg felt something ease in his chest, even if it did hurt to know he’d lost a chance he would’ve had. “Who wouldn’t look at you, Dixie? Even your scowl is cute.” A grin. “And I liked the way you just threw that one guy into the wall.”

“I think even the good Lord would say you the one that need to be thrown into a wall.” Dixie’s scowl returned. “And you call me cute again, I will. So far as dating goes, why do you think I’d say no? You ain’t exactly hard on the eyes yourself, for all you got less brains that a rock.”

“But what about—“

“Ain’t no one come along that’s given me a whoopin’ yet, ‘cept mama.” Dixie grinned briefly, no small amount of smugness in it. Then he shrugged. “When mama and I ran, we didn’t take a thing but what we wore and daddy’s money. We started over once and did just fine; I think I’ll manage to do it again.” He reached out and buried his fingers in Greg’s hair, tugged him across the gap and kissed him.

Dixie tasted like coffee, and a bit like pancakes, and for all that he talked snarly, Dixie kissed sweetly, and Greg thought he was already addicted. “And this seems like a right fine start to me, even if you are a Yankee.”