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Atlas wasn't a stranger to the blasted things you'd see on Rapture. Hell, as Fontaine, he'd been the reason for most of them.
But this…
The boy's back was to the screen. It was too dark and too grainy to make out exactly what was happening, but Atlas thought he saw a table being pushed over into the empty space. He'd been at it for nearly an hour now. And what "it" was, Atlas had no clue. Whatever it bloody was, it wasn't bringing them closer to Ryan.
At first, Atlas thought it to be some kind of malfunction, a screw knocked loose or a mistake on Suchong's end. He's still not fully convinced those weren’t the case, but he'd made a big investment on the kid, and what use would he be if he couldn't handle a few blows to the head?
Several lamps and candles littered the ground at Jack's feet. He paced from one end of the room to the other, seemingly in a trance. Atlas heard the odd mutter from his venture's lips.
Atlas breathed a low sigh. He'd have to take this into his own hands. He leaned into the radio's receiver, preparing to don the familiar Irish accent.
"You alright there, boyo?"
There was no response. Instead, the figure on the screen simply continued his shuffling.
"Talk to me, what's going on?"
It was barely audible, whatever Jack had responded with.
"A bit louder, boy, I can hardly hear you." Atlas tried not to let his exasperation show in his voice.
Jack looked up. His eyes were shifty as all hell. He stared directly at the camera.
"Come here," he whispered, not too quiet that the mic couldn't pick it up. "I'll show you something, something good, nice and good, and it'll be nice and you'll like it. But it's 'right if you don't, I won't be mad, I swear."
Atlas recognised that absent, far reaching look on the boy's face. He'd seen it on the damned splicers loitering about. It only showed when they took a break from prowling the streets for ADAM, infrequent as that may be. They'd be trapped in their own heads, made to recount foggy details of lives gone by, before returning to cutting little girls open for sea slugs.
He didn't think the ADAM would affect the boy this badly. In truth, Atlas had been counting on Jack's synthetic brain to not melt like a wax stick under the chemical's genetic remodelling. Hit him with a lighter version, at the very least. Atlas'd been promised quality, and that meant a soldier on par with those serum-addled freaks. Without the nasty bits that came along.
He briefly considered decommissioning Jack. Send down a hacked bot to take him out, then utter the three magic words to make him forget. Then they could go on with their diddly-damn day.
Something in him fought the idea. For all Atlas knew, it could've been the frequent visits to the Vita-Chambers doing the damage. A ridiculous part of him wondered if the feeling extended deeper than that. As if he cared about the boy. He cared about his weapon, his one-man army against Ryan. As long as Atlas was able to use Jack, worrying about his most propitious asset was to be expected.
"You can't keep lollygagging like this. We've got a job to do, dammit!" The force of his words shook Jack for a millisecond, then it was back to whatever it was he was so intent on doing. Atlas sucked in through gritted teeth.
"I'm coming down there," he said, lower volume than before. "Make sure there ain't none of them splicers hanging around."
No reply from Jack. As usual. Atlas grabbed the radio and checked the revolver on his hip for ammo. He spared a glance at a first-aid kit lying on his desk. The boy would need it, he thought. Tucking the box under his arm, he set off to find wherever Jack was holed in.
It took Atlas a long while to get to him, but he eventually came across the old restaurant. The familiar statue was first to greet him and Atlas had to snort in derision. Kashmir, huh? Looked worse since the last time he'd been down here, which was saying hell of a lot, considering.
Glancing around, he could see that Jack has made progress on this mystery project of his. Though the room wasn't as gloomy as it had been on the feed, it was still a far cry from being comfortable. The candles were now emitting soft light, bathing the dark walls in orange and yellow. Potted plants were placed atop chairs facing loosely decorated tables. One or two splicer bodies were slumped beside them, and when Atlas looked closer, he noticed each had a white tablecloth draped over their arm.
Jack stood a few metres away, occupied and crouched over a leadhead.
Atlas had to clear his eyes, twice, to make sure the sight in front of him wasn't some second-hand ADAM hallucination. Sure enough, the boy was still at it; Jack was pulling at a splicer's corpse like a doll, positioning her as if she were extending her hand outwards. A deranged imitation of a maitre'd. He only stopped once the woman's bloated body was inches from his.
Settling onto a decaying seat, Jack spoke in his usual dazed rumble.
"My, the lobster sounds lovely!" He looked at a torn sheet, a menu perhaps, then set it down. "But we maybe should wait a tad, my date's arriving in a few. I told you about him, didn’t I?"
The kid was far gone. He could see it in his void eyes. Atlas itched faintly for a smoke. He cleared his throat.
"What'chu got there?" He gestured at the excuse of a dining table. Jack twitched and turned his head.
"You're here, thank god! That’s good. Good, good. I was just telling Marney here about how good of a bloke you are." He met the corpse's yellowing face. "Atlas's the best kind of fella, just a bucket-full of helpfulness, he is."
Atlas was no doctor, but the boy was clearly experiencing psychosis. From brain injury or the bowl of soup he called stem cells, Atlas wasn't sure, though it was becoming more likely to be the former. Even in the dark, he could see the red seeping down Jack's nape and collar. Fresher blood trickled out from beneath his bangs.
"Won't you sit down?" Jack petted the seat adjacent to his, and Atlas would be damned if he sat on one of those death traps. Its legs were barely holding its own weight, let alone an added two-ten pounds. He elected to walk toward the kid instead.
Somewhere in the room, a dated phonograph bellowed. One of the older songs played, and Atlas could've sworn it had just ended a second before.
”-- and repeats, repeats in my ear,
Don't you know, you fool, you never can win?”
How did it go, again? The song was something the radios couldn’t seem to unlatch themselves from. It was from a talkie, way back in ‘35. Or was it ‘36? Atlas vaguely recalled having seen a poster in one of those picture places, with all of its grandiose and gaudiness, and Virginia Bruce looking like a vision. Shame he couldn’t remember the words.
Jack's eyes traced Atlas’s figure as he neared, shifting uncomfortably whenever he moved. “I ain’t sitting. I’m here ‘cause you looked to be in a fair amount of trouble, shuffling here and there, bleeding from the head.” The small scrunch of a bruised nose told Atlas all he needed to know. He definitely felt it, the pain, but for god-knows-what reason, Jack didn’t think it necessary to fix himself up.
The melody jumped, and a horrid screech followed. The man in front of him nearly leapt from his blood-stained clothes.
Atlas forced himself to be gentler, kinder even, in his approach. “We’ll get you running, kid. You’ll be in tip-top shape in a snap of the whippin’ belt.”
He reached out to the kid -- barely a man and still so young -- and found little delight in seeing him recoil away.
”Sit still, would you kindly.” Soon as the command was uttered did the boy below him tense. His eyes were still that of a newborn roe, shaking and wide in distress. Atlas crouched to where Jack was perched on his chair. “Does this place have a bench or sum’n like that?”
Jack nodded, head bobbing with a slight whimper.
”Right. We’ll need to get you lying on it. Mind if you point ‘em out?” Again, Jack shuddered a confirmation. Atlas stood and held an arm out to the kid. Jack only stared at the upturned hand. Feeling progressively miffed, he took hold of Jack’s shoulder, vaguely noting his solid frame. “C’mon Jack. Let’s get you up.”
He squeezed softly, but no amount of coaxing got Jack out of his chair. Atlas exhaled, a high and nasal sound. He decided then that Jack must have some sort of attachment to the dining table. To the scene laid in a grotesque mimicry of life on the topside. The tending of a romance, perhaps, though Atlas couldn’t be sure. He had never pried about the boy’s life. He didn’t need to; any memories Jack had would have been falsified, at least to an extent.
”Now, would you kindly get up?” He staggered forward and onto his feet. As suddenly as he rose, Jack began swaying, unconcerned with steadying himself. His head and limbs lolled to his side. “Good boy. Now, hold on to me, a’right?”
He fell obediently into Atlas’s grasp. Not an embrace, no. It wasn’t intimate in that way. The worry, he had to remind himself, was purely that of an owner's. And Jack was an expensive toy. He ran a hand through his blood-matted hair, searching for any obvious wounds. Beneath him, the boy winced. Atlas had to fend off the urge to pull, rough and sadistic, at the brownish locks. Quietly, dirty fingers reached to hold his in place. A slight brush of hands, cold and clammy to the touch.
”I don’t want to leave yet, Atlas,” he whispered. “You haven’t even ordered. And that would be a shame, since those chefs and sous-chefs worked all night to prepare the food. I wouldn’t want to upset them.”
Atlas sighed. “I know, love. I know.” He brushed away tangled strands before freezing to the spot.
He felt the weight of realisation drop to the bottom of his stomach. The word had slipped out like a dimwit’s legs on ice. And a dimwit he was. Atlas chastised himself. Those kinds of endearments were fine so long as there was nothing behind it. Manipulation, drawing the boy to trust him.
But then, going by that logic, why in the bloodiest circle of hell was he so broken up about this? Unwilling to unpack that can of worms, Atlas moved to usher the man in his arms to the closest bench, which was somewhere in the far back of the restaurant.
Laying him down on the cushioned stall was a graceless effort. Jack squirmed. He was constantly a step from falling sideways. It would have entertained Atlas if he weren’t tasked with keeping him healthy. Well -- as healthy as someone could be, here on Rapture.
”I’d hate to ask this of you, but would you please take your shirt off?” Atlas was met with a vacant, albeit minutely confused face. “It’s all pure and innocent, I assure you. We just need to get your head elevated, and unless you want to be lying on some splicer’s garments, there aren’t many other options.”
He tugged the pull-over from his shoulders and handed it to Atlas. He folded it, then set it onto the bench. Atlas, while bundling the cloth, snuck a look at Jack. His undershirt covered most of his beaten flesh, and what wasn’t was hidden by a thick shell of grime. His left arm was notably ruined, in the sense that it was hard to think it ever belonged to a human. Veins popped out in bright lines of river blue. They led down a ridge of sturdy muscle and stopped at the plateau, callous from survival. Atlas gently guided him on to the makeshift pillow.
"You called me 'love'." It was spoken in the candour of childish observation. Blunt but meek. His eyes were lidded and heavy.
"'s just a word, Jack. I used to say it all the time." Atlas brought the roll up to Jack's brutalised head. "Don't mean anything."
The seconds passed and Atlas busied himself with wrapping the man's head in bandages. He tucked it, neat as he could, once he was finished. The silence lasted a beat too long, and Atlas looked up.
The damn record continued for the twentieth time. “-- should I try to resist when, baby, I know down wel- l,” it skipped, and he nearly shot it off the pin.
Jack was staring at him with the most emotion he'd seen this evening. His watery eyes cast an unsure gaze into Atlas's. “Is it true?”
”What is?” Asking was useless. He’d heard it perfect.
”That you didn’t mean to call me ‘love’. Was what you said true?” Damp light fell on his soft, callow face. Though he was still young, scars have already etched themselves onto the crease of his skin. A strong, dog-like brow reflexively knitted itself in pain. Objectively, Atlas could see an appeal. But that mattered none; he was a businessman first. And businessmen didn’t involve themselves with their merchandise.
”I told you, didn’t I? Slip of the tongue, Jack,” Atlas all but crooned into his ear. He wiped the remaining blood onto Jack’s sweater, relishing the touch of its fuzzed cable. “How do you feel?”
”I --” Jack swallowed thickly, “I feel good.” Atlas hummed as he began packing the kit away.
He then pressed firmly onto his skull, recalling the basic steps to administering care to a head injury. Jack whimpered some more.
”You make me feel good,” Jack continued. His voice carried a fleecy timbre. In all his years, he -- Fontaine or otherwise -- had never seen vulnerability so brazenly shown. Not down here, where danger lurked in every water-logged cranny, and was about as inescapable as digging through your own veins. Jack’s lip quivered gently. “Whenever your voice comes on the radio, even if there’s a spider splicer right in front, I can’t help but let myself be consumed by you. With thoughts of you, Atlas, so many damn thoughts. You’ve helped me so much that it’s hard to believe I’d even be alive without you around.”
Atlas couldn’t face him. Call him a coward or a milksop. The man’s pout should have been laughable, but he found himself paralyzed. Something was affecting him. It shouldn’t have been.
”I’d never been much for God and all that, and though my mother was, I can’t exactly picture some big man out in the sky looking out for mankind. I mean, where does he get all that time to look at what Sally-Anne's daughter's done to their stove?” he rambled. This was the most Atlas had heard from him in one go. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I didn’t believe in things like guardian angels ‘til I knew you. Knew you were there on the other side doing your best to save Rapture.
”Tha’s -- that's why I did it. This, see the nice dinner we could be having right about now?” the young man slurred. He made a sluggish gesture to the rest of the room. “I thought it could be a nice break. It would be perfect. Why aren’t we doing that?”
Atlas didn’t answer. He was about certain that Jack wasn’t looking for an answer. Instead he sat on the ground beside the leather-covered seat, giving Jack a view of the back of his head. Quiet stretched for what felt like a lifetime.
He took to fiddling with his lighter and smokes. Atlas knew it was a bad idea; the splicers were attracted to the scent of tobacco like moths to a lamp, and the last thing they needed was an assault. But the static around him needed to be silenced and a cig was the only thing close enough that would help. He clicked at the mechanic box until a fire appeared. Atlas plucked one from the pack and held it to the flickering wisp. Drawing a lungful of pleasant smoke, he felt his nerves begin to settle.
”I’d like some, if you don’t mind.”
Atlas breathed out a laugh with the smoke. ”Not sure a cigarette’s what you’d want right now. I don’t think I’m even allowed smoking so close to you.”
”I’m fine with it.” Atlas felt the murmur of syllables brush his neck. Jack was close. “Besides, you still need to make up for this evening. A cigarette and I won’t bug you about tonight’s lack of unwinding. What do you say?
”Still not convinced, lad. Do a few cartwheelies and I’ll consider tossing one to ‘ya.”
A huff of what Atlas thought was indignance came from behind him. Maybe he could get a genuine laugh out of him, one day. He tried to imagine Jack’s mouth bent into a frown. He tried to stop imagining Jack’s mouth.
"If you won't give me one, we can always share yours. That way, I won't have to finish it all by myself." Atlas heard the sound of a tongue swiping over dry lips. Made it harder not to think about catching them into his own.
Was it intimacy? Was that what he wanted? Loneliness here was a given. Everyone you knew was either dead, hopped up, or morally fucked beyond help. Atlas -- Fontaine, what the hell did it matter -- belonged to the latter. Even this, whatever it was, was admittedly dubious at the very least. Bloody deplorable, for him to ever want Jack in such a way. “Closest thing”, huh?
"I, uh," Atlas cursed his sudden ineptitude.
An unsteady hand reached to paw at Atlas's bicep, lightly prodding him. A lulling voice spoke into his ear.
"A taste is all I'm asking for." Then his jaw was roughly twisted, quick enough that Atlas was still reeling when he was met with a lazed smile. God damn him and all he’s known.
Months of resolve broke in a swift “crack”, a fragmented dam, and Jack was the son-of-a-bitch wielding the hammer. He took a long, dirty drag. He held it in his mouth, long enough that the smoke began to settle to the roof. He turned to face him. Still the prettiest damn thing in the room, Jack slowly came to realisation. His grin, battered and wobbly, made another tentative appearance.
Atlas raised a palm to the side of a sore cheek. Soft and sweet-like, he swept his thumb across the chapped skin. It didn't matter to him that it was still bleeding, didn't matter that he practically owned the man.
He was filthy, tasted of nothing good, but Atlas, the bastard, felt greed surge from the beating lump of coal in his chest. He was the forbidden fruit and Atlas was in need of a meal. Their mouths moved together, hurried and clumsy on one side, and slow with languid appreciation on the other. He inhaled the scent of smoke, choking on its grey fingers. Jack's tongue slid over his teeth and Atlas was left wondering if the man liked the sting on his sensitive mouth.
He wanted to press him against the seat, wanted to shove his hand down the front of his pants, wanted to feel him sob in relief. He spread his fingers across the softer plane of Jack's stomach. Atlas felt him shudder at the warm touch.
He'd done more wicked things than there were leaves on a sycamore tree. He knew an evil deed when it looked him in the eye. Atlas ached at the sight of the man beneath him, yearned to feel more. But a taut thread used the last of his restraint to pull him away. "Not like this," he murmured into Jack's collar.
A light, keening noise drew from a bleary Jack. "Wh-- why not?"
"You're bleeding, darling. And I know you aren't really meaning to do this."
"Wrong! You're wrong. I want this, Atlas, I want you here with me, and holding me, and -- and," Jack stuttered out. "I'd like you to fuck me."
He was taken aback by such crassness from the young man. You’d think a fellow like him would've used a phrase like 'making love', or skirted away from the topic of sex entirely. Shaking his head, Atlas carefully extracted himself from his grip.
"I can't. You aren't in the right state, and I don't want our first time meeting each other to end in anything you'd regret."
"Please, Atlas." Jack sat up, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. "I don't know what to do. To, to convince you that I'm fine. That I want this."
Getting his rocks off with the lab boy, eh? The goddamn voice wouldn’t let up. Not too much like a son anymore, I take it? Stupid motherfucking Brooklynite couldn’t keep his trap shut and Atlas was nearing the end of the wick.
He should have stopped while he was ahead. He should have let the man go, given him time to recover before they went any further. Atlas was slipping down a rope and the friction burned his hands. The cigarette fell in beat with the song.
In his haste to feel Jack once more, the claws that came to wrap themselves on his nape snagged and caught his bandages. Blood dripped in small streams, smudging the tip of Jack's ear red. Atlas leaned in and dragged a stripe with his tongue.
"We'll have it your way," he growled. "But love, be warned, we won't go all the way. Least not tonight."
Nodding, Jack parted his lips, leaned back and let Atlas crowd his vision. His arms, sculpted by years of supposed labour, bracketed a softly heaving chest. Warm tobacco snaked its deadly path around the two. It was heady and intoxicating and terrible. It was everything they had.
A kiss here, a bite there. ”I’ll suck you off. Right ’ere in the open where anyone can see what a naughty pair we make, with your cock rammed into my fucking face and your breathy lil’ sighs. And I won’t let you come, no. Not ‘til your throat’s as sore as mine,” Atlas dug a smidge harder, pushing the thumbnail deep enough that it would jolt a bit of pain. Slick scarlet ran like religious water.
“How does that sound, babe?” Jack shivered in his hold. Eager thing.
”Like music.”
The smile was a devil, crooked and lusty. His pretty blue eyes were clouded with an ocean fog, and Atlas was a mere sailor who couldn’t resist. The rasp of a forming beard met Atlas’s kissed-raw flesh. He hungered. Was starving for more of Jack. The sweet, the salty, the bitterness; Atlas wanted it all. He wasted nary second in ridding the man of his clothing, tearing out a button from the hem of his pants. Growling like a beast in summer, he blazed a path over Jack’s still-clothed thighs, thought it a problem and was quick to fix it.
Unsurprisingly, Jack caught on quick and lifted his hips. Atlas was reminded of a sheep when fisted hands came to demurely cover the now-bare expanse of skin. Gone was the passionate stare, replaced as it was by an unsure glance.
"This is all for you, sweetheart." His tone had on a milder edge, simple so Jack wouldn’t shake so violently. He took a second to press a kiss to his bloodied forehead. "Don’t be shy now."
The breath-stealing kiss was enough confirmation for Atlas. Not to disregard the endless chants of “yes, please, more”. He hummed and slithered downward until he was fondling Jack's undergarments, pulled tight at the middle. Atlas tore it off, rather unceremoniously. But what did good manners matter when there was a brightened dick in front of him, stuck out like a poppy, weeping softly at its end? Drool fell out of his reddened mouth as he imagined the possibility of holding Jack’s weight in his maw, slathering his prick with appreciation and spit.
Jack was trembling, begging, and they weren’t even at the best part. He cried out, loud for the fuckin’ splicers and daddies to hear, as Atlas dropped his head onto the ardent little cock. Wanton whimpers and whines filled the dour restaurant.
The skin was still too dry, too scraping for it to be pleasing. Atlas was also fast in amending that. He came off him with a "pop", then brought three of the younger man’s fingers into his mouth, swirling them until they were covered in a shine.
”Tug ‘fer me.”
Jack, pathetic and teary, obeyed. He pulled at his cock, first hesitantly, then gradually became hurried. Precome dribbled out in slow rivulets, making for slicker movements. He was breathing too heavily, cock stiff as a board, and Atlas wasn't content to just watch.
"Hands off, would you kindly."
The expression that greeted him was equal parts craving, betrayed and sinful. It morphed, leaning to the last one when Atlas went down, once more, to keep himself from going insane. It was better, now that Jack had done most of the work for him. Which, he wasn’t complaining; it made it all the more sweeter when he felt him turn to putty beneath his searching grip. Palming himself, he littered kisses, ones that turned red and bloody, onto the bark of his skin. Left them on his hips, on the tender flesh on the side of his thighs, everywhere he could find.
”Ah, Atlas-- please, oh chrissake,” drawled out from Jack’s bitten mouth. He yelped, sharp as a whistle, as Atlas left a bruising set of teeth marks on his leg.
The older man purred mockingly, “This’ll be the pace. Be a good boy and wait for your turn, eh?”
He looked pained but he agreed, nonetheless. Atlas snaked a hand to unfasten his own clasps. His dick was hard, though not enough for full-on penetration. And he wasn't aiming for it. Atlas knew oil to be a major necessity for this sort of thing. He had witnessed it, though never with a man. He wouldn’t admit, but he’d read up on such acts, and no lubrication seemed to be a no-no in many and all cases.
A voice wondered vaguely why Atlas was so damn focused on the man’s -- no, the experiment’s -- pleasure. Why he was so averse to taking what he wanted, what he was owed, when all it would take was a “would you kindly” for Jack to bend to his will. Morality’s fucked down here, and nothing was off-limits.
So he thought.
He wet his palm in spit and went to work. Grunts carried through the musty air, making for a stark contrast to the dreariness of their surroundings. He huffed heavily as sweat cooled on his skin. Above him, Jack seemed to be most affected, what with his clouded gaze and dripping prick. Atlas’s last command had him pinned to the stall’s wooden panels, looking desperate and aching for relief.
Before he could reach climax, Atlas slowly, slow enough to be painful for both of them, lowered his mouth onto Jack’s dick. He wanted to savour him. Every inch, every bit of skin, it was his to ravage and devour. He imagined what it was like; the warmth like a furnace, slicker than a fist. Must have been heaven to the poor fellow.
Jack, unwilling to let Atlas fully control their time together, rammed into his throat, bumping the end. Atlas nearly gagged. Instead of admitting defeat in this twisted game, he held onto him, onto his thighs, fucking himself on the prettyboy’s dick. He jerked himself to the rhythm of their staccato breaths. It didn’t take long before warm fluid filled his mouth. Drops of Jack came out of Atlas’s pursed lips. He spat it out on the ground.
Flushed and rheumy, Jack let out a deep, fluttering sigh. He locked eyes with Atlas. Bluish-green, ones he’d never seen so close, pierced his. That was when he knew he was gone. He came in a few, shuddering gasps, with Jack rubbing absent circles through his hair.
In the silence:
“-- the sake of havin' y -ou near,
In spite of a warnin' voice that comes in the night,
And repeats, how it yells in my ear,”
They let the glow wash over themselves. Arms hung limply at their sides as they sluggishly tucked themselves away. Sore mouth, sore thighs; what a pair they made.
What would happen next? Was it only for release? Years of lonely walls and plain posters made any face a pretty one. Even if it was attached to what he used to think of as the closest thing he had to a son.
Atlas found himself caring an unusual amount, much too intensely for a simple investment. It was a quick jerk to reality when he heard rumbling noises from beside him. Sometime during his contemplation, Jack had rested his head onto Atlas’s shoulder, propped up by the sturdy frame of the other man. He was snoring, so clearly exhausted. And Atlas knew it went further than their recent coupling.
Not the first time, he thought about the non-life Jack had. Far be it for him to offer condolences; he was the reason Jack was down in this hell-in-high water after all. But the constant battles, the genetic house of cards, those things must have affected a man deeply.
”Makes me s- stop just before I begin,
Cause I've got you under my sk--"
"And I like you under my skin,” It crackled the last melody just as he could finally remember the words.
Empathy had tried to claw its way out from Atlas’s heart. Fontaine killed it with an inferno.
Beneath the ashes of all he’d destroyed, those feelings of anxiousness, guilt, sympathy, that kind of soft-stomached bullshit, were the things he could never face. Beneath it all, burnt-like-a-biscuit and running twice as hot, it had created itself a new body. One made out of heaps of repressed emotion and loneliness. He doesn’t ever speak its name, in fear of realising it to be true.
Jack Wynand slept near him, looking like a dream, looking nothing like his bastard father, looking like everything Atlas didn't know he wanted.
And by dear god, did he want.