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Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, they belong to Fontana/Levinson, Rysher, HBO and some other people.
Summary: This is what *I* think happened between Beecher and O'Reilly in those early days.
Comments: This is dedicated to the lovely Amy who continues to support me, even when I think I suck. Thanks also to ShugRee and Alexa for encouragement. Beta by Amy and Orithian.
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Palm of God's Hand - by Nicole S.
(5/99)
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Ryan O'Reilly flipped the page of the colourful travel brochure on Barcelona, coming to a page of men standing atop one another making a human pyramid. Another page revealed a strange building, windows rounded and distorted, looking like a huge acid trip. He turned the page again and stared at the unusual sculptures and glowing pillars of the Olympic esplanade.
//Oh yeah, I'm definitely going to this place.//
Ryan placed the glossy brochure aside, before wiping himself and flushing the toilet. He had gotten five new brochures today; Barcelona, Athens, Rome, Nice and Monaco. He started with Barcelona, mainly for the smiling, half naked woman on the cover. As with most of the brochures he received, he used them for a dual purpose. One to amuse him while sitting on the head, the other to amuse him while still youthful amounts of testosterone ran through his veins and straight down to his cock almost every night.
He looked out the glass wall of the pod, just in time to see Beecher walk by in lipstick and eyeliner. Ryan shook his head and flopped down on his bunk, thinking of Spain and the beautiful woman on the cover of the brochure. Soon, his mind wandered back to the ex-lawyer as it frequently did. Why the fuck did Beecher allow himself to be treated this way? Why did he let that nazi fuck walk all over him, let him be his prag? Why didn't Ryan help Beecher stop it?
//Yeah, what the fuck am I gonna do? I help him and I'm prag by association. No thanks.//
In the beginning, when he first got to Oz, O'Reilly had seen Beecher sitting with those Aryan shitheads, knowing he didn't belong with them. He watched as Beecher did that fuck Schillinger's laundry, among other things, and knew just what was going on. He observed him for a couple of weeks, watching him from around corners and through the windows of his pod. He likened him to a squirrel trying to dodge traffic, darting back and forth, trying not to get his ass squished into the pavement. Unfortunately, for Beecher, Schillinger had not only run him over, but backed up a couple of times for good measure.
Ryan went to Beecher in the library that day for his own benefit; he wanted his case appealed - that's what he told himself, anyway. In reality, Tobias Beecher, former lawyer and upstanding citizen, intrigued him. Deep down he knew his appeal was a lost cause, but wanted Beecher to give it a shot anyway. When he looked at him, something tugged at a feeling deep down in Ryan O'Reilly that had remained hidden from everyone, even himself. He had pushed it deep down again to rest in the pit of his stomach as he walked away from the library, confident Beecher would do everything to help him. O'Reilly could tell, that's just the kind of guy Beecher was.
When O'Reilly saw Beecher licking that nazi shit's boots off with his tongue, he nearly gagged himself. That asshole sure knew how to humiliate people. He watched Beecher, down on his hands and knees licking old Vern's boots, fuming on the inside. Was this any way for a lawyer, his new lawyer to act?
Later, in Beecher's pod, O'Reilly felt that twinge from deep down again. He pushed it aside, but it came right back again. He looked at Beecher, face swollen from crying, eyes puffy, even after being splashed with cold water. He actually felt sorry for the poor bastard. Sorry like when you look at someone who had been crippled or maimed in an accident. Like it was tough luck what happened to them, but it was partially their fault anyway. Ryan immediately saw a friend in the making, someone that wouldn't challenge him, someone who wouldn't fuck with him. Someone just dying to get high.
And Beecher didn't fuck with him or challenge him. Except for with Keane. He didn't listen to a word he said when it came to that. He just *had* to go into PC to find out about Keane. When O'Reilly told him not to get involved, or he'd be next, he wasn't only telling him the truth, he was trying to warn him as a friend, although he'd never admit that fact.
Beecher told him his case really sucked; something O'Reilly already knew. He did admire that Beecher had looked at it and did try to help him. Now there was only one thing to do - get high. That first time he offered Beecher heroin, he felt like a virgin on his wedding night. He swung in behind Beecher on the bottom bunk, his knee touching Beecher's thigh. Then he put his arm on Beecher's and leaned forward as the ex-lawyer sniffed the powder off of his hand. Ryan then licked the residue off, the drug turning his tongue numb. He snorted some himself, pressing his hand to his face as the sensations overwhelmed him.
Suddenly, Beecher leaned back into him, surprising O'Reilly more than anything. Ryan leaned forward and placed his head against Beecher's shoulder for just a minute. Beecher was shaking, laughing, making Ryan laugh with him. Together, they fell into a mass of laughing limbs on the cot, until Beecher rolled off onto the floor. Ryan thought this was hysterical. He leaned over the side of the cot, looking down at Beecher sprawled on the concrete floor, his chest heaving with his gasping breath.
Ryan reached over to help him up, grabbing onto his t-shirt, but was unable to pull him up due to the laughter that still consumed him. He pulled on the shirt, hearing it rip, before he fell out of the cot on top of Beecher. Both men were hysterical by now, roars coming out of their mouths, until one of the guards banged on the window. Ryan looked over at him and waved him off, as he tried to stand up. It wasn't easy, Beecher was holding onto him. The guard walks away, leaving Ryan, half kneeling over Beecher whose arm is still snaked around his waist. He looked down into the eyes looking up at him, a sea of blue, meeting his own. He stumbled up again, this time successful as he used the bed to pull himself to his feet. He stuck his hand out to Beecher, who grabbed it and pulled himself up, to lean against Ryan. He stumbled a bit, bringing them face to face, within milimetres of each other. Ryan could smell Beecher, a mixture of freshly laundered clothes and talcum powder, with a little bit of mint mouthwash thrown in. Ryan licked his lower lip and leaned forward, just slightly. Their lips pressed together for the briefest of seconds, before they are consumed with laughter again. Then count was called and it was over, just like that.
While O'Reilly was in the hole, he thought about what had happened, dismissing it as an effect of being totally fucked up on tits. He knew it should have bothered him more than it did, that he wasn't a fucking fag, he was married for Christ sakes. There was just something about Beecher that made him not really care about it.
When he got out of the hole, he went right back to hanging with him and snorting tits. Snorting with Beecher, hugging Beecher, spinning around in circles with Beecher. There was always contact, that arm around him, "Hey man, wanna get high?" Elation when he said yes, disappointment when he said no.
This particular time, he said yes. They held on to each other tight, mostly to keep from falling over, but somehow it was more than that. Beecher's hand came up to caress Ryan's back, his thumb rubbing against his shoulderblade. Ryan's arm was around Beecher's shoulder's squeezing the one under his hand.
Ryan moved away slightly, not wanting to encourage any further contact, then slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Beecher followed to sit beside him, their thighs rubbing together as they snorted another hit. Suddenly the whole length of their legs were pressing together. Ryan could feel his cock harden between his legs and shifted slightly to accommodate the growing member. It didn't help. He moved his knees up to his chest and spread his legs, which gave him some relief.
He noticed Beecher was giggling again, then his forehead was digging into his shoulder. Ryan moved his hand up to move his head away; but found himself stroking Beecher's hair instead, marveling at the softness of it. Beecher leaned into his touch; his eyes closed as Ryan moved his hand down to the nape of his neck. Beecher then sat up and looked him in the eye, a silly grin on his face.
Ryan looked back at him, his eyes heavy lidded, his mouth sporting his familiar grin. He leaned his head back against the sole concrete wall in his pod, grateful for its coolness against his back, it was getting way too hot in here. Suddenly, there was a hand on his thigh, squeezing, and another hand on his face, thumb stroking his lower lip. Ryan's eyes snapped open to reveal Beecher's face in front of his. He licked his lips, brushing Beecher's in the process. Beecher's lips came around the tip of his tongue, sucking it inside his mouth; then he was gone, standing, stumbling outside for count. Ryan could just barely drag himself up and out the door for count, the hard-on in his chinos and the drugs making it almost impossible for him to stand upright. After count, he flopped onto his bunk, moaning into his pillow softly, until he took care of himself, swiftly and with practice.
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Ryan was organizing his travel brochures, undecided if he wanted to read about Barcelona or Thailand, when Beecher came into his pod, his hands under his armpits, looking paranoid. He showed Ryan the ridiculous confederate flag Schillinger had made him wear. Ryan wanted to rip it off of his body and burn the fucking thing, but didn't want to get involved. The last thing he needed was those Nazi motherfuckers mad at him; he might need them later. Instead, he remained cool.
"Well, if you gotta go, you gotta go high."
Beecher nodded at him, licking his lips.
"You ever try PCP?"
"No. What's it like?"
Ryan put his arm around Beecher's shoulders, "With this angel dust, you'll be sitting in the palm of god's hand in no time."
Beecher smiled and took the small vial from O'Reilly, his mouth twisted into that silly little grin again. He snorted a healthy amount of the powder, then gave it back to O'Reilly, who also snorted a large dose.
Beecher got this funny look on his face, then his mouth opened and closed like a fish, before he rubbed the side of his head. "O'Reilly, this is good shit."
"'Course it is." Ryan's voice huskier than usual.
"It feels…feels fucking good."
Ryan rubbed up and down Beecher's arm, "Feel that? The delay you get?"
Beecher looked down at his arm, convinced Ryan's hand was still there. He looked up at Ryan, emotions fluttering over his face, before it set on a confused look.
Laughter sprang from Ryan's mouth in loud, slow waves, feeling like some slow motion movie. Everything was magnified, the arm around Beecher's shoulders felt like it was 100 yards long; the laughter coming out of his mouth sounded too loud, too low; the sight of Beecher, his eyes looking all the more blue, his skin all the more pale; the smell of him, that talcy-man/boy smell that Ryan would always associate with this man. He could feel Beecher's muscles ripple under his arm as he started to laugh, his voice sounding loud and tinny. Ryan licked his lips, he could still taste that last cigarette he snuck half an hour ago.
Together they laughed, hysterical laughter, until a hack came by to bang on the window and tell them to shut up. They separated for a minute, stoic expressions replacing the full out grins before the hack gave them a disapproving grimace and left.
They stood, not speaking or moving for a seconds, feeling like hours, before a tear fell down to land on Ryan's cheek from the emotions held inside. He couldn't hold back and silent laughter came from within, his body shaking, head leaning forward to land on Beecher's shoulder. Only then the roar filled the air.
He clutched at the front of Toby's shirt, that stupid confederate flag shirt, the stars dancing before his eyes. He could feel the drug work through his body, every breath, every constriction of his vocal cords sending bolts of lightening through his nerve endings. He could almost feel the neurons in his brain talking to each other as Beecher's arms came around him.
They stood there, Beecher holding them both up, his back braced against the wall, his arms around Ryan. Ryan's head came down to land on Beecher's shoulder, his forehead moving back and forth across the new-smelling black fabric of his t-shirt.
Ryan started nuzzling Beecher's neck, eyes closed, his laughter down to mere giggles. He breathed in deep and tried to move his head, but couldn't. His lips were right on Beecher's neck, right at the jugular; he could feel the pulse beating under the fragile skin at them. Before he knew it, his lips were lightly kissing that point. His tongue flicked out for a second to lick at the salty skin.
A laugh caught in the back of Beecher's throat as Ryan's kisses were finally felt. He held Ryan tighter, a soft moan replacing the giggles that were heard mere seconds ago.
Together they held each other, Ryan's hands still on Beecher's arms, Beecher's arms around him. Ryan's now consciously aware that his hips are moving, grinding into the man before him. He could feel a sudden erection press against the fabric of his underwear, and Beecher's erection pressed up against his.
He forced himself to lift his head, to look into the sky blue gaze of the man that he had now pinned against the wall. Beecher's eyes were practically spinning in his head, the look on his face was half way between pleasure and pain, unsure if he should be enjoying himself. Ryan shifted slightly to move away, but Toby held him fast.
Ryan brought the vial up to his nose again and snorted before offering it to Beecher, who took another hit.
"F-f-feels good, Ryan."
"Yeah, feels good."
"Better…"
"He's a motherfucker, Beecher."
"Motherfucker."
Ryan was still grinding his crotch into Beecher's, every thrust now magnified a thousand times from the drugs. His balls felt ten feet wide, his dick felt like it filled the entire front of his pants. The feel of his cock bumped up against the other sent jolts of energy up his spine, screaming into his brain.
"Motherfucker," Beecher whispers.
Ryan's lips smothered the word, fusing to the man's mouth before him. He could still smell him, the clean smell now mixed with the musk of male arousal. His hand came up to caress the soft dirty blonde hairs at the nape of Beecher's neck. His tongue probed delicately past soft lips as his kisses deepen, a moan is heard by both men, not really sure whom it came from.
He sighed, the feelings overcoming him as he thrust his aching cock against the bulge in Beecher's pants, wishing it were something more. He pulled his mouth off of Beecher's as he came with a grunt into his underwear, Beecher was still moving his hips back and forth.
"Motherfucker," Beecher whispered again. "Mother-FUCKER," as he crushed himself against Ryan's hip. He banged into him, screaming *Motherfucker* until he stopped, shuddering, eyes closed, sweat on his upper lip.
Ryan backed away to sit on the lower bunk, the orgasm he'd just had sending his brain into overload. He flopped onto his back, his arms over his head, relishing the tingling feeling zapping through every nerve ending. His heart felt like it's going to explode, and his brain, he swore, feels like it's going to pop out of his skull any second.
Beecher's leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, breathing deep. He slowly wiped the sweat from his lip and brow with his t-shirt, realizing again, what's emblazoned on the front. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he looked right into Ryan's eyes. "I've got something to do." He put his hands under his armpits to hide the rebel flag and walked out of O'Reilly's pod.
Ryan lay there for what could have been minutes or hours. He knew he had a sticky mess in his crotch, but couldn't deal with it right now. A commotion goes unnoticed outside his pod, yelling, screaming is heard. Right now, Ryan is content to lie on his bunk in a boneless sprawl until the drug wears off, dreaming of Barcelona.
The End.