Victory

By Tiriel

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Ed/Bud

Warnings: language

Disclaimer: The characters of this story don't belong to me...they came from the mind of James Ellroy, then got some modifications for the film from the minds of Curtis Hanson and Brian Helgeland...I promise to take care of them and put them back when I'm done. Please don't sue me, all I have are student loans.

Spoilers: Post-film. Spoilers.

Summary: First in the long-awaited Victory Trilogy. Several months after the end of the film, Bud is back in L.A.

Special thanks to Zoe Rayne and Aithine, for their help with this.

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Victory

by Tiriel

Detective Lieutenant Edmund Exley knocked for a second time on the door of Room 6 of the Victory Motel. The place had been restored and reopened since the shootout and, in typical LA fashion, it had gained an odd sort of notoriety. He knocked yet again. There was still no answer. He reached into his suit pocket and touched the letter that Lynn Bracken had sent.

"His wounds healed, but he never quite seemed to become himself again. I think he's gone back to Los Angeles. Please find him, Ed, I know if anybody can, it's you. I'm afraid he'll hurt himself." Her words had echoed in his mind ever since he'd first read them earlier that evening.

Somehow, he had been certain that Bud White would come back here, to the Victory Motel. It was the place where it all ended, the place where they both could have died. Images flashed behind his eyes--Bud joking about dying, saving his life, lying on the floor after taking that last bullet from Dudley. He'd been so certain then that Bud was dead, but somehow, impossibly, they'd both made it through alive.

"I'm afraid he'll hurt himself."

He could almost hear her say it. Those words made the decision for him. He pulled the key from his pocket. The manager, a sweaty little man who probably had many things to hide, had caved quickly under the threat of a full inspection for code violations and handed over a spare room key. "Bud would've just kicked the door in," he thought with a wry half-smile, and stepped inside the darkened room.

He was greeted by the sound of a pistol cocking.

"It's me. It's Exley."

He had hardly finished speaking when he found himself slammed backwards into the door. The smell of alcohol was overpowering--Bud absolutely reeked of it. He tried to defend himself as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Fists made contact with his jaw, his side, his stomach. For just a moment, he felt transported back to the last time they'd fought. Words and a gun had been his best weapons then. But he didn't want to risk a gun in the darkness, especially not with Bud in his current state. He only had the words.

"Stop it, White! Lynn wrote and asked me to find you. She's worried sick."

Bud paused at the mention of Lynn's name and stepped back, breathing hard.

"What's going on?" Exley could feel blood trickling down his chin from a split lip. He figured he had a couple of broken ribs, too. "I thought we were on the same side these days." Suddenly, Bud's body was pressed against his again, but before he could think to defend himself, his mouth was being crushed in a kiss that tasted of booze and blood. He was being devoured. He was devouring. It was hunger, thirst, lust, every basic, instinctive urge he'd ever felt, magnified.

Even as they kissed, the rational part of Exley's mind that he could never seem to turn off was observing, making connections, drawing conclusions. He had felt this before. This was the kind of blind need that had washed over him the night he'd fucked Lynn Bracken. Afterwards, he'd felt empty, like something had been missing. Now Lynn's words to him that night took on new meaning and he realized what it was. "Fucking me and fucking Bud aren't the same thing, you know," she'd said. But at the time, he hadn't known. He hadn't understood until now. He hadn't wanted her. He'd wanted Bud. He'd been searching for some hint of him in her--his taste, his smell, what he felt when he fucked the gorgeous blonde. The clarity of the realization made him feel giddy, lightheaded. Or maybe that was the kiss.

Just like he had that night, he felt pulled in, out of control. He was drowning, and it felt good and terrifying all at once. "Apparently, he wants me too," he thought. Not a difficult conclusion to draw when he could feel Bud's hard-on pressing against his own. Then even the rational part of him finally shut up as he focused only on trying to remove the clothing that separated them without losing the connection of their mouths. Jacket, gun, glasses, and shirt were all tossed aside. He heard the rip of cotton and was vaguely aware that he had literally torn Bud's undershirt off. The second ripping sound was his own being torn. He felt Bud's grin against his bruised lips.

Then there was skin--hot to the touch and oh-so-good against his. He gasped into the kiss. The touch of skin on skin had never felt like this before, like every nerve ending he had was alive and jolted with electricity. He wanted more. Pants, shoes, socks, and underwear were hastily removed, scattered. And if the first touch of their skin had been electric, then this must be how it felt to fry in the chair and go to heaven. Falling, dizzy, landing on the bed, Exley knew that something was wrong with the metaphor, but didn't care. It could wait. It could all wait.

They rubbed against each other, grunts and groans of pain and pleasure mixing with the harsh sound of their breathing. And just when Exley thought that every secret desire he had was out in the open, he discovered one more. Aching, consumed by a need he'd never before felt, he pushed Bud off and turned over. He heard the sound of Bud spitting into his hand. The pain was a shock at first, but then it just faded into the background with his lip and his ribs as he rocked back to meet Bud's pounding thrusts.

He didn't know how long that went on before he came, for what felt like forever, and his arms gave out underneath him. Bud groaned, a deep, ragged sound of primal pleasure, and fell forward on top of him.

A few moments later, he could feel Bud shaking, and when he felt a warm wetness trickle down his neck, he realized that Bud White was crying. "Bud?" He spoke tentatively, his many and varied aches and pains returning as his post-orgasmic buzz wore off.

Bud responded only by rolling off of him, leaving a new ache behind.

"Bud? Whatever it is that brought you here, we can fix it. We took down Dudley and his men together. We made a good team."

There was still no response. Listening carefully, he could tell that Bud had fallen asleep. "At least he'll be sober in the morning," he thought. He didn't mean to drift off, he meant to stay awake and watch, but pain and release and exhaustion and confusion conspired to drag him into oblivion.

When Exley woke up, he was briefly disoriented. Then his nakedness and the pains in his body, one in particular, reminded him of what had happened. Words he had spoken to the Nite Owl suspects came back to him. "...took it up the ass..." "...get yourself a sissy..." He exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, and was pleased to note that his ribs probably weren't broken after all. That, at least, was good. As for the rest, he knew what had happened, but not why.

He considered all that had occurred since he'd once again walked into Room 6 of the Victory Motel. There was no denying that he'd wanted it to happen--the fuck, not the fight, that is. But why? How could it be that Bud White, the man he'd first hated and then trusted more than anyone else, had made him want that? And what had Lynn seen in him all those months ago that had revealed to her a desire he hadn't even been aware of? For there was no denying that, either. He'd wanted it--he'd wanted Bud--from the beginning.

So what did that make him? He felt like he had the first time he'd taken the bandage off of his bullet wound. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. The word reminded him of the sensation of Bud's tears running down his neck. "He was drunk and wasn't thinking clearly. Obviously whatever brought him back to LA is serious," he thought. They'd fix it, Bud would go back to Arizona, and he would go back to his normal life. Just because a man wants something, doesn't mean he has to have it. Nothing had to change. Bud had been drunk, and he had been taken by surprise. That was all. The rational part of him, the part that was a cop, knew that it was a lie. The part that was just a man knew that he simply couldn't believe anything else. Where was Bud? He sat up quickly, then shifted to put his weight somewhere other than on his tender ass. Bud had pulled on his pants and was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, looking away. There was a gun next to him on the table.

"White, are you going to tell me what's going on? Why are you in LA? Why here?"

"Always the interrogator, Exley. Are you even human?"

With a start, he realized that it was the first time Bud had spoken the entire time he'd been there.

"Of course I am. You know damn well that I bleed." He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Although I still haven't managed to die in the line of duty. Maybe you can try to help me out with that one again."

Bud didn't react. After a long silence, finally he said, "I didn't want you here."

"Why? Whatever it is, let me help."

"Goddamn it, don't you see?" Bud stood, his voice rising in rage, and knocked over his chair. "There's nothing like that. Nothing for you to help me fix. I'm not in any trouble, and I don't want your help. I just needed some time to clear my head. Alone. And you were the last fuckin' person I wanted to see."

"Fine, then. I'll go." He stood and began to gather his scattered and damaged clothing.

Bud charged toward him, and Exley stood up straight to face him. "What are you going to do, White? Hit me again or fuck me again?"

Bud stopped, a look that Exley couldn't read crossing his features. His eyes narrowed. "Which did you come here for?"

"Neither. I came because Lynn asked me to. I told you that last night, but you were probably too drunk to remember. I came because I didn't want to see you in the morgue."

"Really? That's all?"

"Don't put this on me, White. You kissed me."

"And you were so goddamn bothered by it." He gestured to the scattered clothing, the rumpled sheets. "You wanted it all along, didn't you? Didn't you?" Their faces were inches apart, Bud's red with rage, their eyes locked together.

Exley just stood there, unable to deny the truth of the statement, unable to admit that it was true. His jaw clenched. His hands formed fists by his sides. Finally, he summoned his calm interrogator's voice and gave a response. "So why was I the last person you wanted to see? Why are you here?"

"Answer the question. What was all that about?"

"Like I said. You kissed me. You fucked me."

"I also hit you, but you fought back then. Tell me you didn't want it. Come on, Ed, say it. It only happened because I fucked you? Fine then." He dropped his pants and sprawled out on the bed, naked. He looked up at Exley defiantly. "Tell me you don't want to do the same to me. Tell me you don't want me." Bud lay there, his only movement the rise and fall of his broad chest as he waited for the response to his challenge.

Again Exley just stood there. It felt to him like their roles had suddenly reversed. Bud was the interrogator, the man whose weapons were words, and all he could do was stand there, suddenly and painfully aware that he was still naked, trying to will away the erection that the sight of Bud spread before him had brought on.

"You can't, can you? Because it's true."

Just then, he realized that Bud was hard, too. He'd noticed it, of course, but at that moment it sank in that it meant something. They both wanted the same thing. And if Bud could take on his style of communicating, he could do the same. He admitted defeat--not with words, but with actions. When he moved closer, what he meant was "you were right." When their lips met, it was his way of saying, "I do want you." Losing had never felt so good.

This time, in the cold light of morning, it seemed much more real, less like some half-remembered wet dream. They both wanted this, and they were going to do it deliberately, not in a haze of alcohol or adrenaline. And they did, taking more care this time, looking into each other's eyes as Ed slowly pushed into Bud. He couldn't recall ever feeling this way. This wasn't a game or a blind seeking of release. He knew now that it was something else. He also knew that it was like the shrapnel from the bullet he'd taken. It would always be with him, just under the skin. And now that he carried the image of Bud White, spread before him, eyes squeezed shut with pleasure, he wondered if he'd ever be able to use the queer angle in an interrogation again. Afterwards, lying next to each other on the bed, Bud spoke again.

"That's why you were the last person I wanted to see. I've been having dreams about that. About you and me. Ever since that day when we fought and then suddenly we were partners, working together in a way I never did with Stens or anybody. It was like we were two halves of the same man. We didn't even need words. I didn't tell Lynn about the dreams, what I was feeling. How the hell could I? I thought that maybe it was just because of what we went through together here at the Victory. I thought if I came here and faced this place, maybe it would go away."

"So did it?"

Bud took Exley's hand and placed it on his cock, which stirred again at the touch. "You're a detective, you tell me." There was a tease in his voice.

Exley pulled his hand away. "I think Lynn already knows." He repeated what she'd said that night. "I didn't know. She was right. You were right. I did always want this, but I just didn't know."

They lay there, staring at the ceiling. "So, now what?"

"I don't know, Bud, I don't know." Then an uncomfortable thought came back to him. "Your gun--you weren't really going to--"

"Shoot myself? No, probably not. Thought about it some before you showed up, but I wouldn't do that to her."

Lynn's name hung, unspoken, between them. Exley stood and began to dress. "I'd better go. I have to be at the station soon."

"Bullshit. Don't fuckin' lie to me, Exley. You just want to get away from this and back to your orderly little world where you can control everything."

"What do you want from me, White? I thought I already gave you my confession. I always wanted you." He spat the words and turned away. "Take that and go back to Lynn. Men like us don't get happy endings very often. Go back to Arizona and enjoy yours." He yanked his jacket on and walked towards the door.

"Has it occurred to you, Detective Lieutenant," and this time the title was a sneer rather than a tease, "that if I'd been happy I'd still be there?"

Exley stood there, his back to the bed, his hand on the doorknob. "So what do you want from me?"

"I think--" Bud said quietly, then stopped. His voice was strong and clear when he spoke again. "Men like us don't get happy endings very often."

His own words, turned against him. A hope he hadn't dared to feel came alive in his chest. He smiled quickly, almost turned, but paused. "Lynn?"

"I think you're right. I think she already knows. Hell, I don't know, maybe that's even why she wrote to you. But I'll tell her. She'll be hurt, but that would have happened anyway, whether you'd found me or not."

"Do you really think it's possible? Men like us?"

"I don't know, Ed, but we can sure as hell try." Bud had always been relentless about going after what he wanted.

Exley did turn then. He'd built his whole life on unexpected opportunities. The right opportunities. "The men at the station say I'll never find a woman because I'm a heartless bastard who only cares about his career."

"Well, they're half right," Bud said, that wolfish grin of his spreading across his face as he answered the unasked question. "I'll get my own place. If we're careful, no one will ever suspect."

"And if we end up hating each other again?"

"At least it won't be boring."

Ed laughed. "That," he said, "is the last word I'd use to describe it." He walked back to the bed, leaving a trail of clothing behind him.

"I'll take that as a yes," Bud said, and smiled.

The End.

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