Thieves

Obligatory warnings and disclaimers:

1. If reading this is in any way illegal where you are or at your age, or you don't want to read about male/male relationships, go away. You shouldn't be here.

2. I don't know any of the celebrities in this story, and this story in no way is meant to imply anything about their sexualities, personalities, or anything else. This is a work of pure fiction.

Questions and commentary can be sent to "writerboy69@hotmail.com". I enjoy constructive criticism, praise, and rational discussion. I do not enjoy flames, and will not tolerate them.

Lance sat on the chairs in the waiting area, trying to figure out the medical forms. He knew it shouldn't be such a problem for him, as he handled business paperwork all the time for Freelance Productions, but his mind was still racing. He'd hit someone, run someone over, could have killed him. He would have been a murderer, even if it was an accident. A total stranger's life had collided with his own, and it was just blind luck that he hadn't ended it. Next to him, the man sighed, still holding his leg, and Lance looked up from the forms.

"Are you ok? Do you need something?" Lance asked.

They hadn't spoken since the van had dropped them off. Keith promised to come back after he got everyone else to the hotel, but it had only been about twenty minutes. Lance had expected them to be seen immediately, but he'd never been to the emergency room before, and was a little surprised when the clerk asked for basic information and handed him a clipboard, telling him to fill it out and that someone would be with them shortly. The young man glanced at Lance, conveying sullenness, although Lance hadn't seen his face clearly. His stringy hair hung down, his eyes flashing out every once in a while. Lance sighed, and went back to the forms, but looked up again.

"Look, I know you're in pain, but I can't fill some of this out without your help, ok?" Lance said, waiting.

"You don't have to fill any of that out," the young man said finally. It was the first time Lance had heard his voice since the man had been crying in front of the bumper, so it was the first time he had spoken to Lance without pain creeping in. His voice was low, a little husky, and carried just a hint of a Southern accent. "You've done your duty. You can go back to your friends now."

"Excuse me?" Lance asked. Why did he sound so hostile? Was it just because of his leg? Maybe Lance should go ask again at the desk when someone would see them. "I don't know what you mean."

"Look, I might have been hurt, but I wasn't deaf," the young man said. "I heard you and your friends arguing about what to do with me, like I wasn't even there. Now you already brought me to the hospital, so why don't you just go back to your friends and get on with your life."

"I'm sorry," Lance said, looking down. The man was right. They had talked about him like he wasn't there, arguing about the way to best protect themselves as they stood over him in the street. "I'm sorry, you're right. We, it wasn't the way it sounded."

The young man looked at him, pushing his long bangs back so that he could stare directly into Lance's eyes. Lance noticed his high cheekbones above the scruff of a few days worth of whiskers, and line of his jaw. He was a pretty good looking guy behind that hair, a little younger than Lance had first thought, but his face, like his hands and neck, was also a little dirty. He didn't smell extremely pleasant, and his clothes were rather scruffy and worn. He carried a medium sized green duffle bag, which he had refused to let go of, and Lance realized he wasn't just some young guy out in the street at the wrong time. He must have been homeless, living out there, and they had hit him and then treated him like trash, arguing about him like an inconvenience that had popped up in their schedule, not like a human being. Lance realized that he hadn't even asked him his name.

"I'm sorry for the way we acted," Lance said finally, frowning. "We were upset, and scared, but that doesn't make it right. I was the one driving, and you're my responsibility. I want to make this right, as much as I can. I, um, my name's Lance."

"Mitch," he answered, taking Lance's hand. His grip was firm, but at least he looked a little less angry. "I mean it, though. You don't have to stay. I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Look, Mitch, I can't just leave you," Lance said. "I'm not like that."

"I don't think your friends would have a problem with it," Mitch said bitterly, crossing his arms again, turning a little away from Lance. Lance realized with some surprise that Mitch actually seemed hurt, and then he mentally kicked himself. Just because he was homeless didn't mean he didn't have any pride, and it didn't mean that they had the right to treat him the way they had.

"I'm not always like them," Lance said. He knew that Wade had been looking out for them, but he still decided that he needed to have a word with him when this was all over. He could protect Justin without being so rude. "It's, well, it's kind of complicated. We wanted to help you, we all did, but, well, it's hard to explain."

"I'm not sure how," Mitch said, shrugging. He didn't sound angry. His voice actually sounded flat, and kind of neutral. "I mean, you ran me over. You'd think getting help wouldn't be that big an issue, unless, you know, you decided to just back over me again and finish me off."

"We wouldn't ever have!" Lance began indignantly, but then realized that Mitch was smirking a little. "Oh. That was a joke."

"Sorry," Mitch said. "Just trying to lighten the moment a little. Lance, you don't have to explain yourself to me, ok?"

"Yeah, I do," Lance said. "The way we treated you, it, we did it without thinking, but that doesn't make it right. You, um, you don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?" Mitch asked, blinking.

"People usually do," Lance said, shrugging. "But, you know, don't feel bad if you don't. We, um, my friends and I work in the entertainment industry, and that's what my friend Wade was so worried about. If the press found out that we, you know, ran someone over on our way home from a bar, it wouldn't be good for us. Even though I wasn't drinking, there would still be talk, and, you know, bad press."

"So it would be really bad for you?" Mitch asked. "For you and your friends?"

"Yeah," Lance answered finally. "But not bad enough to justify the way we treated you. I'm sorry, Mitch."

Mitch looked at him carefully, watching his face. To Lance, they couldn't have been more of a study of opposites, although they appeared almost the same age. Lance sat there with his hair gelled up, in his expensive club clothes, tanned and happy, and next to him sat Mitch, dirty, tired, and in pain, his clothing tattered, carrying his whole life in a bag that wouldn't even hold the clothing that Lance had packed for this trip. Mitch knew that he had pushed it far enough, that he had used Lance's guilt as enough of a bludgeon for now, because he could read it in Lance's face. He reminded himself that this was something he had to do, the only thing he could do, and besides, Lance had more money than he would ever need anyway. He might be nice and friendly right now, but he was also sitting with a potential lawsuit, who was also a threat to his career. In his shoes, Mitch would have been friendly and overly nice, too.

"I, I guess I understand," Mitch said, sighing. The two of them sat there for a minute, and then Lance picked up the clipboard again.

"Do you want to help with this now?" Lance said, smiling.

"Sure," Mitch answered, turning toward Lance a little. When he did, not thinking, his leg twisted, and he cried out in pain, grabbing his shin with both hands. Lance took his arm, not sure what else to do, as Mitch drew in a hissing breath. Some of what he was doing might be acting, the talking and the attitude, but the pain was very real. "Ow, God, ow."

Lance held Mitch's arm, seeing tears standing in his eyes as he grimaced, and he felt anger surge up in him. What kind of a hospital kept people waiting this long? Especially people who were in pain, and obviously in need of help?

"Miss? Miss!" Lance said sharply. The girl behind the desk looked up from whatever she was doing as he stood and stepped toward her. "Can someone see my friend soon? Please? How can you keep him waiting like this? He's hurt! He could die!"

"A doctor will be with you shortly," she said again, shaking her head. "We see patients in the order that they need help, and there was a large multicar accident just before you came in. Someone will be with you as soon as we have someone available. Now please, be patient, and fill out your forms."

Lance turned back to Mitch, throwing up his hands in exasperation, but he felt the anger drain out of him as he saw Mitch still holding his leg, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. Lance walked back over to him, dropping back down into the chair beside him. He put a hand on Mitch's shoulder, feeling him tremble beneath his many layers of clothing. Mitch was still rocking back and forth, his face sheet white, but he smiled gratefully when he felt Lance touch him.

"She said soon," Lance said, "Can I do anything? Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm ok," Mitch lied. "Please, just, you know, go back to what we were doing. It'll go away soon. I'll be ok."

"Um, OK," Lance said, picking up the clipboard again. Maybe working on this would give Mitch something else to focus on, and it might distract him from the pain in his leg. "So, um, your name?"

"Mitchell," he answered. "Mitchell Hawk."

Lance filled in the blank and looked up again, asking for Mitch's date of birth. Mitch gave it and Lance smiled, writing it down.

"You're 21?" he asked, looking Mitch over again. "You don't look like it. You look younger."

"I get that a lot," Mitch said, smiling a little. He had nice, white teeth behind the scruff of beard, and his mouth actually seemed kind of cute, at least the part that Lance could see clearly. "Why? How old are you?"

"Twenty three," Lance answered, shrugging. He glanced down at the form again. "Address? Oh, God, Mitch, I'm sorry."

Mitch sighed, and looked at his feet, as Lance tried to figure out how he could have been so stupid.

"Mitch?" Lance asked, not sure of how bad he had hurt him. He'd never really talked to a homeless guy before, and didn't know what, exactly, to say.

"Lance, it's ok to say it out loud," Mitch said finally. His voice was low, the tone hard to read. "I'm homeless, Lance. I don't have an address, or a phone number, or any health insurance, or any of those other blanks on that form, ok? I don't have, I don't have anything, Lance. I don't have anything."

"No medical allergies, then?" Lance asked lightly, breathing a sigh of relief when Mitch looked up with a slight smile. Lance saw a little wetness glistening around his eyes.

"No, no medical allergies, either," Mitch said, smiling a little wider. "I'm sorry, Lance. I didn't mean to just, you know, blurt that out like that."

"It's not true, you know," Lance said, looking to see if there were any other blanks he could fill in. "You do have something. Right now, you have a friend."

"Lance, you don't even know me," Mitch sighed, knowing he had to tread this lightly. "It's nice that you're being so kind to me, but we don't know anything about each other, really. We're friendly acquaintances, Lance, but friends?"

"Maybe not close friends," Lance agreed, wondering why Mitch kept pushing him away. "But Mitch, I want to help. It's not just because, you know, it's my fault you're here. I want to help you. Will you let me?"

"I, Lance," Mitch said, inwardly gleeful at how well this was going.

"Just trust me, please," Lance said. "I want to help you."

"I'll try," Mitch said, looking down again. He didn't want to see Lance's eyes, because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to control the emotions in his own.

"OK," Lance said, patting his shoulder, seeing the way he flinched a little from a touch. Living on the street, fighting for your survival, for all the things Lance took for granted, must be very hard on a person. It must make it difficult to reach out to anyone, to trust anyone, and Lance wanted to break through that, suddenly, wanted to show Mitch that not everyone was bad, and unkind. "And I do know something about you. I know your name, I know how old you are, and I know you're not allergic to anything. It's a start."

Mitch answered Lance's smile with his own.

"Yes," he agreed. "It's a start."

Eventually they were taken into the back to be seen, and the doctor began to look Mitch over as Mitch explained that he had been tapped by a car, and had taken most of the blow on his leg. Lance stood by, holding Mitch's bag.

"Are you a family member?" the doctor asked Lance skeptically, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

"No, I, uh," Lance began, but Mitch cut him off.

"He found me, and brought me here," Mitch said. "I want him to stay."

"OK," the doctor said, looking over the clipboard again. "There are several blanks on here."

"Mitch is, um, he's homeless, ok?" Lance said, wanting to snap at the doctor for being so callous. He realized that some of his anger was at himself, too. They were both marginalizing him, treating him like a lower class, like a nonperson.

"I gathered that, but that's not what I'm talking about," the doctor said, turning back to Mitch. "Were you on any drugs tonight?"

"I don't use drugs," Mitch said firmly.

"Are you sure?" the doctor asked. "If you are, it could affect your treatment, so if you've done anything, please tell me what it was."

"I don't do drugs," Mitch said again, glaring at the doctor.

"OK," he said, shrugging. "Just needed to be sure. I'm going to send you up to get the leg x-rayed, ok? Your friend can stay down here in chairs until you get back."

An orderly appeared at the end of Mitch's gurney, and Mitch grabbed Lance's arm for a second.

"Lance, you don't have to stay," he said quietly. "If you want to go, you can, and I won't hold it against you. Just leave my bag with the desk lady, ok?"

"I'm not leaving," Lance said firmly, and realized that, more than ever, he meant it. Mitch allowed himself to be rolled away, throwing Lance one last pained, anguished glance. As the elevator doors closed, he thought about how well this was going, and was willing to bet that Lance was pretty close to hooked. He seemed like a really nice guy, but that was his own weakness. Nice guys got chewed up when they went out into the world. Nice guys finished last, believed things that people told them, and let bad things happen to them. Mitch was sure that Lance, a nice guy, would be waiting when he got back from being x-rayed, and, sure enough, he was right.

"You stayed?" Mitch asked quietly, swallowing, looking appropriately surprised.

"Yeah, I stayed," Lance said, smiling. He could see how surprised and grateful Mitch was, and it made him feel a little better.

If he could just get through Mitch's shell, get some of those walls down, he'd be able to help him. Lance had been playing the whole night through his mind while Mitch was upstairs, thinking about how Mitch had come bursting out of that alley. He kept thinking of the awful sound the car had made, that harsh thump, and the feeling of the jolt that had raced through the steering wheel. The more he thought about it, the more he thought about coming around the bumper and seeing Mitch, scared and hurt, curled up on the street in front of him, the more he thought maybe this had happened for a reason. Lance had always known he was lucky, and that being able to do what he did, and live the life he did, was a blessing. He and the other guys tried to give back through their charity work, and by helping other people get a start of their own, but maybe this was his chance to do something personally. Maybe this was his chance to change someone's life, to really make a difference.

He wasn't going to let Mitch push him away, and he followed his gurney as the orderly returned him to the room, and the doctor came back in, holding the x-rays up to the light.

"Well, Mr. Hawk, it would appear that you have a crack in your tibia," the doctor said. "We'll get you some crutches, so you can keep your weight off of it, and I'll have someone cast it up for you. In a few weeks, you'll be good as new. I'm a little concerned about that knock to the head, though."

"The what?" Lance asked. He must have been talking to the nurse for a second, and missed that.

"I, um, I hit my head on the road, or the car, or something," Mitch said. It was, of course, a lie. He had hit his head on the road himself before anyone got out of the car, because he needed a mark, just in case his leg wasn't actually broken.

"You're not showing any signs of concussion, but I still think someone should keep a close eye on you for at least twenty four hours," the doctor said, looking gravely at Mitch. "Is that possible, under your circumstances? Do you have a friend you stay with, or maybe someone at a shelter who can keep an eye on you?"

"I'll watch him," Lance said quickly, before Mitch could say anything.

"Lance," Mitch began, grabbing his arm. "Lance, you don't have to."

"I'll take care of him, doctor," Lance said firmly, ignoring Mitch's protest. The doctor looked at Lance with a raised eyebrow, wondering exactly what was going on here, but decided it wasn't really his business.

"I'll send someone in to cast that up, and then we can release you," the doctor said, walking off again.

"Lance, you don't have to take care of me," Mitch said again. "I'll be ok. I can go sleep at the shelter, and someone there will keep an eye on me. You've really done enough, more than enough."

"And then what happens?" Lance asked. Mitch blinked at him. "Can you sleep at the shelter every night? Mitch, I've read about them. I know that usually it's first come, first serve. You can't hobble around the street on crutches, Mitch. I can't leave you like that, knowing I put you there."

"Lance, I can't let you do this for me," Mitch said, shaking his head. "I can't take advantage of you like that."

"You're not," Lance said, shaking his head. He sighed. "Look, why don't we take this day by day. Tonight, you're coming back to the hotel with me. You can sleep in a warm bed, and take a shower, and we can order some room service or something."

Mitch put a hand on Lance's arm. His grip was firm, and his face determined.

"Lance, please, I won't be your charity," Mitch said quietly, looking down. "I know what you're trying to do, but I, I can't take from you like that."

"You're not my charity," Lance said, swallowing. "You're my responsibility. If I hadn't been driving like that, hadn't hit you, you'd be able to take care of yourself. It's my fault you can't, and I have to make up for that. It's not charity. It's, I don't know, it's my duty. We're not arguing this again, ok? After you have a clean bill of health, we'll decide then what's going to happen, but for now, you stay with me."

"I'll, I'll pay you back, Lance," Mitch said, wiping at his eyes. "I'll pay you back for everything."

"We'll talk about that later, too," Lance said.

The orderly cut the bottom off of Mitch's pant leg because they didn't want to jostle the leg, and run the risk of making the crack wider. Mitch protested, finally admitting as he looked away that he only had one other pair of pants, in his bag. Lance told him not to worry about it, that they would work that out, too, and Mitch wiped at his eyes again. When the orderly finished, gathering up all of his trash, he left them alone in the room, explaining that it would take a few minutes for the cast to dry, and everything to set. While they waited, Mitch looked at his hands, seemingly unsure of what to say or how to say it, and Lance broke the silence finally.

"Mitch, how did it happen?" he asked softly. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to, but how did you, you know, how did you end up where you are?"

Mitch sighed, wondering at the last second if he really should tell Lance this. He and his partner had decided that they would keep Mitch's story as close to the truth as possible. After all, the easiest lies to keep track of were the ones close to the truth, and they would also be the most believable. The truth itself might even be the best lie of all, and Mitch went ahead with his story. He was in too deep now to back out, and he was already in pain. A little more would be worth getting Lance even closer to him, giving Mitch room to sink in a few more of his hooks.

"Well, you know, I didn't exactly plan on my life turning out like this," Mitch said, looking down at the plastic cast on his leg. "I've been on the streets for five years, Lance, since I left home. I had a, um, I had a falling out with my parents. I told them something that they didn't agree with, and they threw me out of their house. Told me to leave, to never come back."

"Mitch, why?" Lance asked, feeling his eyes water a little. "Why would they do that?"

"I don't want to talk about that," Mitch said, looking away. It was true. Remembering that day hurt too much, made him feel too much. He wouldn't use that for this. It was his own pain, not his partner's, and not Lance's. "I'm sorry, Lance, but that's private. I can't, I can't talk about that. Not here, not like this."

"That's ok," Lance said, patting his arm, wondering what else he should do. "You don't have to tell me anything, not if you don't want to."

"I know," Mitch said, smiling suddenly at him, and Lance was struck again by the thought of how handsome Mitch's face was when he smiled. The whole thing seemed to light up, almost like he was a different person. "But I want to tell you the rest, just so you know. You have a right to, for helping me."

Lance let that go, even though he wanted to argue again. Maybe it would be best if they let this particular argument drop for a while. He had the feeling that Mitch, despite his circumstances, still had a lot of pride, and maybe it wounded him to have to accept help. If he wanted to look at it as a loan, Lance could accommodate that.

"I had some money, in the bank, so I crashed at a friend's house, and then the next morning I went and closed out my account," Mitch said. "I thought that I would come here, and get a job, so I bought a bus ticket, and got a hotel room. I mean, everyone comes to New York, and I was just a kid. I didn't know any better. I started looking for work, but it's hard to get a job when you don't have an address. The money, it didn't go as far as I thought it would, not when I had to pay for somewhere to live, and to buy meals every day. I moved to a cheaper hotel, and then a cheaper one, and then I just didn't have anywhere else to go. I had met some kids my age, just, you know, here and there, and they had told me about shelters, or sleeping in the bus stations and the subways."

He sighed, and looked ruefully at Lance again. It didn't sound so bad when he told it this fast, when he glossed over the nights when he couldn't sleep, or when he shivered with fear and cold because all the beds at the places he knew were full. He didn't talk about the times he'd been stolen from, the fights he'd been in, or the nights when he'd woken up to find rats on him, sniffing at him. He was still terrified of them, and knew people who told stories about being bitten, losing pieces of their ears, or worse. He didn't tell Lance about what it was like to have to stand in line and wait for someone to give you soup, someone who would go home to a house and a family. He didn't tell Lance about the things he'd done sometimes, just to have a little extra money, to save up enough to get a hotel room, take a shower, have a locked door between him and the world, just for a night.

He didn't tell Lance any of it, but it was there in his eyes, and Lance could see it.

"Things just ran together," Mitch said, glossing it over, or trying to. "It was a week, and then a couple weeks, and then, you know, here I am."

"Mitch, I'm sorry," Lance said, not sure, again, of what else to say.

"Hey, look at the plus side," Mitch said, smiling, wanting to clear this, even though he knew it was just gaining him more sympathy. Lance looked at him quizzically. "Tonight I get to sleep at a hotel."

"True," Lance said, amazed that Mitch could still make jokes after what he'd been through. He had no way of knowing that Mitch had stayed in a hotel the past several nights in a row. "Very true. Mitch, can I ask you something else?"

"Sure," Mitch answered, shrugging. He didn't want to be difficult now. He'd lose ground.

"Why did you lie before?" Lance asked. Mitch blinked at him in surprise.

"What?" he asked. Where had he slipped? What had he let out?

"Before, the doctor asked who I was and you told him I found you," Lance explained. "Why did you lie for me? Why didn't you tell him I hit you?"

"Because it would hurt you," Mitch answered, relieved. "If you said you hit me, he'd have to tell the police, to report the accident. You'd get into all that trouble your friends wanted you to avoid, and I didn't want that to happen to you. You helped me, so I helped you. Even trade."

"Thank you," Lance said. "I know you weren't, you know, that you didn't really appreciate the reasons why we did that, but thank you."

"Least I could do," Mitch said, shrugging. "Hey, the orderly's coming back."

They presented Mitch with a packet of release forms that he had to sign, and as he was filling them out Keith, the bodyguard and driver, arrived looking for Lance. Lance hurriedly explained to Keith that he would be driving both of them back to the hotel, and then went to go pay for the visit, the treatment, and the painkillers the doctor prescribed.

"Meet us right outside this door, ok?" Keith said, pointing. "I'm going to get your friend."

"Mitch," Lance supplied, as Keith paused.

"Mitch, right," Keith said, nodding. "I'm going to get your friend Mitch into the van, and then you need some sleep."

"OK," Lance said, nodding. "Thanks Keith. Mitch, I'll be right back."

"OK," Mitch nodded. Lance started to walk away, but paused when he heard Mitch's voice behind him. "Lance? Thank you."

"Thank me in the morning," Lance said, smiling. He walked away, feeling oddly lighthearted under the circumstances, wondering why Mitch's smile kept dancing behind his eyes.

Keith, following hospital procedure, wheeled Mitch to the doors, and then helped him get his crutches under his arms before he went to the parking lot to get the van. Pulling it around, they threw Mitch's bag in the back, and got him situated on the back seat before closing the doors to wait for Lance to come out. Mitch watched the doors, thinking about how odd the cast felt, and how his leg already seemed itchy, and Keith watched him in the rearview mirror. Finally, Keith spoke.

"Mitchell?" he asked.

"Yeah?" Mitch answered, his eyes ticking over to the mirror.

"Sorry about your leg," Keith said. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," Mitch answered. "It hurts, but once Lance is sure I don't have a concussion I'll be able to take the painkillers."

"I'm glad you're ok, buddy," Keith said, turning around to grin at him. He ran a hand quickly up Mitch's arm, patting his shoulder. "How's the plan?"

"Perfect," Mitch said, smiling, glowing under his partner's approval. "I think I'm in."

To be continued.