Title:                     Poolside (5/?)

Author:                 Edzel2 (with heartfelt thanks to my Beta, Jinxed)

Genre:                  ‘Mad Dogs’

Rating:                  Adult

Summary:           Alvo’s back and Quinn and the boys are going to confront him about his bullying behaviour and ask for their phones back – they’ve had enough. But first Quinn wants to know what Baxter told Woody...

Previously....      ‘I know... I know...’ Woody murmurs soothingly as he holds Baxter tightly, one hand circling slowly on the other man’s back, slow soothing circles designed to reassure, calm.

The Jeep headlights startle them both, sweeping across the room and away as Alvo returns. Woody relaxes his hold and Baxter pulls back, his expression startled and embarrassed in equal measure. He takes the proffered spectacles and shoves them on, adjusts them, looks anywhere but at Woody...

 

Part Five:

 

Baxter grabs the towel and wipes water from his face as the knocking on his door - at first gentle - now becomes insistent. Go away, he thinks, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror. I’m not ready.

‘Baxter – are you in there? Alvo’s back. We should sort this out, now.’

‘Yeah, yeah – be with you in a minute. Go on down.’  Baxter peers at himself, curses failing eyesight. Does he look as though he’s been crying?  ‘Course he bloody does. He curses himself for a weak fool for breaking down like that in front of Woody. Of all of them, Woods is least likely to turn on him, he thinks. But then a few days ago he might have believed the same of Alvo, Rick – even Quinn seems different out here, more ready to bite at the least provocation. Baxter realises that no matter what explanation Alvo might come up with for his odd behaviour, he wants to go home. The holiday mood has turned irretrievably sour thanks to Alvo’s belligerent and bullying manner. Baxter tries to recall if he’d been the same at college – it’s so long ago now but he doesn’t think so. Truth to tell, he probably wouldn’t even have bothered to come if Rick hadn’t talked him into it, insisting it would do him good to get away from his domestic situation for a while; 

‘Do you good to get out in the sun, Bax, chill out a bit. They won’t miss you, not for a week, mate. When was the last time you ‘ad an ‘oliday, eh?  There you are, see – come on, it’ll be a laugh.’  Rick hadn’t ended the call until he’d elicited a promise from Baxter to consider it; had rung again a week later to make sure he hadn’t changed his mind.  And the girls and their mother had been all for it... the girls had wanted to tag along (at least he and Marcy had agreed on something for once, much to the girls’ bitter disappointment – quite where they thought he was actually going is unclear) and Marcy probably wants to be able to use the trip as a reason to up the maintenance, in spite of his assurance that it was all being paid for by Alvo.... And so here he is – grateful for the offer but wishing heartily he hadn’t come.  Things are – or could be- so much more complicated now... Supposing Quinn lets something slip about their little liaison?  Baxter has no real reason to think that the other man might be indiscreet; but he’s discovering all sorts of hitherto unknown things about his so-called friends and he doesn’t know if he can trust anyone, anymore.

‘Bax, open this bloody door!’ 

Baxter sighs and crosses the room, turns the old-fashioned key in the lock. He’s barely stepped out of the way when Quinn pushes the door open and comes in, shutting the door behind him.  He reaches behind him and locks it again, staring at a bemused Baxter.

‘What d’you think you’re doing, Quinn? We haven’t got time for a fu...’  

‘I didn’t come for a fuck, you little prick. I came for an explanation.’

Baxter does a double-take, shakes his head – a fresh shirt hangs in one hand, his broken glasses in the other. Why he takes them off to put on a shirt that isn’t going over his head, Quinn has no idea and doesn’t particularly care; it’s just another of Baxter’s strange little control rituals, no doubt. He remembers how they’d tease him at college; he’d taken it in good part back then, but the fact that he still seems to have rituals at all indicates to Quinn that maybe it had affected the other man more than they’d ever intended, or indeed realised at the time.

‘An explanation for what?’ Baxter asks, clearly having no idea what Quinn is talking about.  First the lecture about the use of vernacular, now this... he can’t wait to set foot on that bloody plane.

‘Your little liaison with Woody, that’s what!  I know he’s a bit of a girls’ blouse and all that, but snivelling into his bloody t-shirt for ten minutes straight is a bit much, don’t you think?’  He steps forward, fists bunched at his sides - and for one second Baxter thinks Quinn is going to lump him one. ‘What were you crying about, mm? How the big bad Quinster made you do it, eh?’

Baxter stares at Quinn as if he’s lost his mind. ‘What? Don’t be b-bloody s-stupid, Quinn! It was... it was...’ Baxter stumbles to a stop. What the fuck had it been? He isn’t sure himself, he realises; and now his hesitation is giving Quinn totally the wrong impression.

‘Look,’ he sighs, putting his glasses back on and throwing the shirt behind him where it lands untidily on the bed. He steps forward, lifts his hands in supplication. ‘It was nothing, alright? Whatever you think you saw... I went in there with lunch and a book, fell asleep. Woody came in to turn the light off, tidy up, I dunno... and I woke up. We talked, I got uptight about... about the divorce, he did his ‘it’s okay to cry’ thing and the next thing I know I’m fucking bawling like a baby. It was ...’ a relief, he wants to admit, but knows that it would be exactly the wrong thing to say right now. ‘It was humiliating, if you really want to know. Look, you’re the fucking psychoanalyst around here; surely you can work it out?’

‘I lecture in Psychology, Bax – I don’t bloody analyse people like you.’  But Quinn seems slightly mollified; he turns away and runs his hand through his hair before turning back.

‘What do you mean by that?’ now Baxter is the one standing with fists clenched. ‘People like me – what does that mean, exactly?’  He takes a step forward, but all the fight has gone out of Quinn and he shakes his head.

‘It doesn’t matter, Bax. I’m sorry - I was out of order. Let’s just drop it. This bloody place...’ he turns to the door and reaches for the key, but Baxter snatches it from the lock, shoves it in one of the innumerable pockets in his ridiculous cargo pants. More pockets to carry more security blankets, Quinn thinks, and wants to laugh at the hopelessness of it all, at them. Four blokes – no five, because Alvo’s just as fucked up as the rest of them isn’t he – all of them trying to be something they’re not in some misplaced desire to show each other how well they’ve done for themselves. Yeah, right. Why did he ever come here?  

‘No - how about we don’t just ‘drop it’ Quinn? What gives you the right to question who I talk to and then call me names, eh? Eh?’ Baxter squares up to the taller man and pokes him in the chest.  That constitutes assault Bax, you bloody Prat, his lawyer-self tells him. He ignores him.

‘I didn’t call you names, Bax. I was just... I was trying to... oh fuck it. Look, I thought you’d run crying to Woody because you regretted what we... what happened, all right? And I thought, even after that, you still can’t admit to yourself that you fancy blokes, can you?  And it’s sad, because you only get one bloody crack at the whip, Bax.  So you played around and got caught and she screwed you for every penny she could. That’s tough, but that’s the time to move on, make the most of it. Then you come to me – you came to me, remember? And you admit that you fancy the arse off me and I start thinking, he’s over it; he’s realised and he’s moving on. And that made me glad, Bax, even if we don’t...  But then there you are, still obviously not over it and slobbering over Woody –who by the way wasn’t objecting I noticed – and I realise nothing’s really changed. What else can I say?’

Baxter looks at him, a half-smile playing around his lips. ‘You’re jealous! Oh my fucking God, you are, aren’t you? You thought Woody was making a move on me and...Oh, shit.’   Because he was, Baxter has just realised. He had to have been. Why else would Woody douse himself in body spray just to tidy the bloody place up?  He’d always been too touchy-feely, Baxter realises. In touch with his feminine side, they used to say to wind him up at college. But none of them really believed it – macho Woody, who worked out and could drink them all under the table, a shirt-lifter? Never.

‘I’m not jealous.’

‘Yeah, you are. Some bloody psychologist-analyst -whatever the ruddy hell you call yourself- you are. Actually, it’s fucking annoying but it’s kind of flattering too, you know?’  Baxter smiles shakily and heaves a sigh. He seems a little short of breath, Quinn notes. Didn’t he used to have an inhaler at college?  

‘Don’t get too excited, Bax,’ Quinn nods downwards at Baxter’s groin, where the bulge of his arousal is clearly visible. ‘We’ve got Alvo to deal with yet, and that’s not going to be a barrel of laughs.’

‘Fuck Alvo,’ Baxter says darkly, and yanks his zipper down. ‘As you said yourself, we’re on holiday...’

‘No.’  Quinn folds his arms protectively over his chest and stares grimly at Baxter. ‘If this is about proving to me that you don’t fancy Woody, then no.’

Baxter looks down at himself, at his hand as it grips his half-hard cock, and says nothing for a moment, his jaw working as he thinks it through. Finally he looks up, and Quinn realises for the first time since he’s set foot in the room that Baxter is still close to tears; had probably still been bawling in the bathroom when he knocked. He feels a stab of shame, followed by annoyance.

‘I’m not – I don’t want, d-don’t need, actually, to p-prove anything to anyone. Woody was just being Woody, you know what he’s like. And he caught me at a bad moment. If you don’t w-want to carry on with this, just b-bloody say so. But you were the one who started it, in the p-pool – remember? You could’ve, could’ve just left me...’  He blinks, furious at himself for showing weakness again.  God, he just wants to go home.  His arousal has dissipated and he tucks himself back into his pants. How much more embarrassing is this going to get?

‘Don’t be stupid, Bax. If I’d left you, you’d have drowned.’

Baxter sniffs, swallows and reaches up for his glasses, makes to wipe them on his shirt and remembers he’s not wearing it. ‘Maybe that would’ve been for the best,’ he says quietly, and turns towards the bed and his shirt.

‘Now you’re being pathetic. Stop it.’ Quinn’s eyebrows fly upwards in surprise as Baxter rounds on him.

 ‘Stupid and pathetic, am I? Well at least I’m not miserable and sniping at everyone...’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake Bax...’  Quinn steps forward and grabs Baxter by the arms and pulls him into a hug. The shorter man stiffens and tries to pull away but Quinn tightens his hold, speaks quietly, his voice muffled against the side of Baxter’s head.

‘Bax, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you. And you’re right; I’m a fucking lousy psychologist – those who can, do – those who can’t, teach.  I had no right to make judgements.  Now either throw me out or let’s have a quickie and then we’ll go and sort bloody Alvo out. I can’t think beyond that.’

TBC


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