This was started some while back for @fedoranoir, and then it got misplaced only to turn up again the other day as I was transferring my fics from Google Docs over to Ellipsus. I look upon this as an act of serendipity, as it was her birthday.
So, happy birthday, online friend of many years and fandoms! :)
A Few Drinks in a Quiet Bar
"You bought a lot of me, Terry. For a smile and a nod and a wave of the hand and a few drinks in a quiet bar here and there. It was nice while it lasted. So long, amigo. I won't say goodbye. I said it to you when it meant something. I said it when it was sad and lonely and final." - The Long Goodbye, Raymond Chandler
Things between them had been sad and lonely right from the start. You don't rescue a falling down drunk from himself and expect a happy ending. Only a damn fool would think guys like he and Terry had any business chasing after one. It would never be more than a will-'o'-the-wisp that led straight to a patch of quicksand.
Marlowe's plan, if he'd had a plan, would have been to let any memory of Terry Lennox stay buried under dust and cobwebs, never to be excavated. The presence of Señor Maioranos in his office made that difficult.
Terry just dropping in had never meant anything but trouble, stirring up things better left alone. Terry — Señor Maioranos — did it now with a sigh and a shift in his chair as he said, "Looks like rain." He only said to make conversation because Marlowe had been silent too long. Señor Maioranos likely didn't even remember that night. Marlowe can't forget…
It had been one of those nights you never never get in Los Angeles, cold, and with rain coming down, and Marlowe had been ready to pack it in for the night and head home. He hadn't been glad to see Terry Lennox arrive; just saunter on into his office like he had every right to be there, and plunk a paper bag down the desk. "It's the good stuff," he said as Marlowe looked in the bag.
Did it matter? Marlowe wanted to say. Laphroaig Single Malt or Prohibition rotgut, it would take Terry to the same place. Marlowe wasn't much inclined to go along for the ride.
He got out glasses and poured, though, and sat nursing his drink while Terry took a look around the office like he was casing the Louvre. He wondered why Terry kept coming around. Wondered why he didn't just show Terry the door once and for all. It wouldn't take much. It wouldn't be hard. It would save a bucket load of grief down the road.
"You ever think about taking on a partner?" Terry asked when he'd poked around and fiddled enough and finally deposited himself in a chair. "Think I might have it in me to be a shamus?"
Marlowe couldn't see it. "Long hours when you've got a job and not much to show for it at the end of the day, and no one ever says thank you for finding the proof of what they suspected was true all along."
"Why do you do it, then, Philip?"
"I'm good at it."
"You like digging up secrets someone tried to bury and forget?"
Marlowe looked at him over the rim of his glass, thinking that had the ring of accusation. One threaded through with desperation. Marlowe wondered, really wondered, what secrets Terry Lennox had buried, and how far he'd go to keep them hidden. All he said, though, was, "I like knowing how things happened, and why."
"You get a sense of victory, though, right? You deal out a kind of justice?"
Marlowe shook his head. "Not much, not often. Mostly I'm just sad and disappointed." He sat up straight then, aware he'd said too much, and looked across the desk. "Terry, what do you want? Why are you here?"
Terry looked away, over at the window where rain sluiced down the glass. "Maybe I want to hire you."
"To get proof your wife's a tramp?"
Terry's bark of laughter was bitter, with a self-loathing chaser. For all that, there was a glimmer of something like hope in his eyes as he looked back at Marlowe. "Maybe to dig up some proof I'm not another disappointment." He spoke the words to the darkened room, quiet enough Marlowe could pretend he hadn't heard them.
Marlowe found he didn't want to play that game. "Hard to let someone down when they weren't expecting anything, Terry."
Terry looked at him and Marlowe could see him trying to puzzle that out. "I wonder how you mean that, Philip."
Since he wasn't sure himself, Marlowe replied with a shrug of studied indifference. He took another sip of the Scotch — Terry had barely touched his — and felt it warm its way down to his belly. It was good. "You don't owe me anything, Terry. If there was a slate, its wiped clean."
Terry's nod was slow and thoughtful and he lifted his glass for a drink.
Quiet settled in around them. Outside the wind picked up the rain and flung it against the window like a spatter of gravel hitting the glass. Down in the street someone leaned on a car horn. Natural enough in such a storm to imagine the atmosphere felt charged. Except whatever was going on here, it wasn't meteorological.
"I should go," Terry said after a while. He took his time moving, though, and when he finally did, he didn't head for the door.
Marlowe was too slow getting to his feet. He and Terry were nearly nose to nose and he couldn't put any space between them fast enough before Terry laid a hand against his face and let his fingers linger there, like the five o'clock stubble intrigued him. Marlowe felt his eyes drifting shut, like he wanted to slow everything down and savor it too. He snapped his eyes open on that thought, reminded himself to breathe. "Terry—"
"It's all right," Terry murmured, fingers investigating Marlowe's tie and collar now. Buttons were undone, the length of blue cloth was tugged loose, and Terry smiled with the good side of his face as he examined his handiwork. "I always like it when you look disheveled like this, Philip."
Marlowe was one hundred percent certain Terry had never seen him disheveled like this. He wanted to ask questions, but wasn't sure he was ready for Terry's answers. He wished Terry would stop calling him Philip. It was too intimate. When did they get close enough for that?
"Philip," Terry said it — whispered it — again, and Marlowe felt it, warm, and whiskey-scented against his cheek.
He turned his head, felt Terry's lips touch his temple, brush against his ear, the corner of his mouth. "Terry…" Was that him, voice husky with a need he couldn't even name beyond more, and he couldn't bring that to his lips.
"Shh." Terry dipped his head lower, kissed the hollow of Marlowe's throat, darted the tip of his tongue against the spot — and Marlowe could have sworn he felt Terry's lips curve with a satisfied smile at the shiver that ran through Marlowe. "You don't have to do anything," he murmured as he tugged Marlowe's shirt open, enough to slip a hand beneath the cloth, palm cool against Marlowe's heated flesh. "Pretend it's all a dream," Terry breathed against his throat, tongue darting there, again and again, as if savoring the taste of him — soap and sweat and aftershave.
Just a dream… Maybe it was, Marlowe thought, biting his lip to hold back any sound as Terry's fingers rubbed and pulled at a nipple. Just a strange, crazy dream hitting out of nowhere, with an erotic charge to match the lightning sizzling beyond this room.
If it was just a dream, then he could do this, Marlowe decided as he threaded his fingers through Terry's bone white hair and drew him upwards. Drew him close enough to look at him, gaze not flinching from the scars — dropping to lips parted and waiting and twitching with a goddamn smile.
"Well," Terry drawled, "what are you going to do, Philip?"
"This," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I'm going to do this," he said and put his mouth to Terry's. The kiss was raw and clumsy, not an ounce of finesse on either side. Just hunger and desperation and liberation even though it could never exist outside these walls.
Breathing hard, desire burning him, he dragged his mouth from Terry's, pressed their foreheads together, trembling as Terry stroked his hair, ran a hand over his shoulders over and over to soothe him. "I want… I … I don't know…"
"I know. I know." Terry murmured it, offering comfort. "Remember, it's just a dream," he said, drawing back enough to press a kiss to Marlowe's forehead. It felt like a pledge. It felt like farewell. "I was never here," he whispered as he slipped from Marlowe's grasp.
And like a wraith, he was gone, only the ache in Marlowe's body to tell he'd ever been there.
Marlowe dropped into his chair, fumbled for the bottle, but put it down. Easy to chase it all away with the booze, and maybe he would. But not now. Not just yet.
The way he felt right then, he might never let it go.
He had, though. He thought he had. Right up to the moment Señor Maioranos stepped into the room.
"What the hell do you want?" He was too beat to be polite. Too tired of it all to give a damn.
Terry looked like he'd had a speech planned, and Marlowe bet it had even been a good one. Full of heartfelt apologies and regrets, and maybe they could start over. Marlowe was glad the words withered up and died before a single syllable ever made it out.
Because Terry couldn't help himself, though, and because Marlowe couldn't just get up and belt him one, a few words escaped anyway. "This was never what I wanted."
Marlowe nodded. "Guess that makes it all okay then."
"Phili—"
"Don't." Marlowe didn't raise his voice, but his tone made it clear enough. "Just don't."
For an instant, a mutinous look flared in Terry's eyes, but his shoulders slumped and he glanced away. "I came back too late."
Marlowe didn't disagree, but, "Were you ever here at all?" He didn't know why he said that. To rub salt in the wounds, his and Terry's? A blind man could see Terry was about as defeated as a man could get.
Contrarily, something close to resolve showed in Terry's face, his manner, as if a moment before he had been drowning but Marlowe had thrown him a lifeline. "I was here, Philip," he spoke the name with a hint of relish, as if he did have every right to. "I was here. Whatever lies you tell yourself, I was here."
He stood up then, started for the door, paused it with his hand on the doorknob. "There's a place around the corner," he said, as if just tossing off an insignificant detail, "does the best gimlets in town."
He went out then and Marlowe listened to his footsteps disappearing down the stairs.
Marlowe waited, let the minutes tick by, all while thunder rumbled and rain began to fall, and memories flickered through his mind.
He thought about that old story, The Lady, or the Tiger?, and how he'd always thought the most likely outcome was the guy got killed by the tiger. Besides, who knew if the dumb bastard would be any better off with the girl anyway? From what Marlowe knew of life, the odds weren't good any way you looked at it.
So which door was he picking? Marlowe asked himself as he stood up and reached for his hat. All he knew for certain was that this day had one more surprise to deliver.
Van Heflin with director Michael Cacoyannis, on the set of "The Wastrel" (1961). Van, 52, spent hours up to his neck in a water tank during the making of the movie.
