Written for the Oz Magi

Pairing/Character(s): Ryan O’Reily/Chris Keller
Keyword/Phrase: “I hate to admit it, but you and me ain’t so different.”
Canon/AU/Either: Canon
Special Requests: The guys are drunk.

 

Fandango

By K9

 

‘You know what we got here, O’Reily?  A fandango, and we gotta do something about it.’

Keller: You Bet Your Life

 

 

“Beecher knows about Shemin?” O’Reily exclaimed.

 

Chris Keller smirked slightly, “Chill, O’Reily, Beecher won’t say dick.”

 

“Say’s you?”

 

“Say’s me,” Keller lifted the jar to his lips and took a gulp of the clear liquid inside. It made his eyes water, and his throat sting, but it did its part to deaden the pain inside.

“You two are so fucking twisted,” O’Reily sighed, taking a drink from his own jar.

 

The two men sat quietly in a corner, out of sight of the hacks, plotting their next phase of operations.

Adebisi had to be brought down, and removing Shemin was just the first step. The schmuck had just been unlucky, it wasn’t like he’d ever really done anything wrong, well, nothing since he arrived in Oz anyway, but he was in the right place at the right time for Keller’s needs, so he was a dead man walking from the minute Keller heard that he’d been fucking Beecher.

 

“If Beecher squeals on this, I’m hanging your ass out to dry,” O’Reily said at last.

 

“He won’t. He loves me.”

 

O’Reily pulled a face, and took another drink.

 

“Hey, O’Reily, I hate to admit it, but you and me ain’t so different,” Keller swilled the liquid around in the jar, “You got a boner for the doc, and lets face it, she’s so far out of your league, she’s on another planet. Me, I got a thing for Beecher. We’re both seriously fucked up individuals.”

 

“Yeah, but I don’t go spilling my guts to Gloria every time I’m a bad boy to someone.”

 

“You mean like leaving her a little gift,” Keller took a swallow of moonshine, “after you whacked that fucker that raped her?” O’Reily glared. Keller could see a fleeting moment of fear in his eyes.

 

“What the fuck you talking about?” O’Reily snarled, composing himself, and adding a cocky sneer.

 

“Hey, whatever,” Keller smiled. He knew he’d just scored a hit, and if O’Reily had any thoughts about whacking Beecher, he just un-thought them.

He sat back and smirked to himself. If he ever decided to write his memoirs, he thought he’d call them ‘Watch and Listen; The Secret Of My Success or How To Survive By Keeping Your Fucking Mouth Shut Sometimes.’

Oh, it’s not like he wasn’t a good talker, hell, he could talk a guy out of his last breath if he needed to, but sometimes it paid to stand around and just pay fucking attention.

 

Knowledge is power, and power is survival.

 

O’Reily was pretty talented when it came to keeping secrets, but on the subject of Gloria Nathan he was an open book. It’s not like it was a stretch of the imagination to work out that he’d killed Keenan. All it took was a fishing expedition and that stupid Mick would bare his soul in those eyes.

Keller gulped down another mouthful of moonshine; at least O’Reily still had a soul.

 

“What you do to your hand, man?” O’Reily asked suddenly.

 

Keller glanced down at the still red, scarred skin, a result of scalding it in the shower.  When Browne had ‘asked permission’ to fuck Beecher, and he’d shrugged, and said he didn’t care, he’d felt suffocated, and out of control. Pain helped him focus, and the scars acted as a reminder of everything that had happened. “You could say it’s a kind of stigmata,” he said a little drunkenly.

 

“God’s fault, huh?” O’Reily said, then giggled like a girl for a moment.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Keller replied, “It’s all his fault, he made us what we are, right? He made the actual decision to fashion me an’ you into two lying, scheming, cheating, low life fucks, right?” he hiccupped, “So I figure that the stuff we do, all the ponzi’s we run, all the people we hurt, it’s really his fault.”

 

O’Reily rubbed his face, “I don’t think it works that way, man,” he sighed, “I think the accepted line is that we got freewill, so when we fuck up, it’s our fault, our choice.”

 

Turning to look at O’Reily, Keller’s face became serious, “So you chose to hurt Cyril, to fuck up and get sent to Oz, to fall in love with Gloria Nathan, huh? ‘Cause I sure as fuckin’ hell didn’t choose all the shit that happened to me, and ‘specially not to fall in love with Toby. I fought like a bitch not to let him get under my skin, an’ in my head. Even when I fuckin’ hate him, I love him so much I’d die for him, that ain’t fucking free will, it ain’t natural is it?”

 

“Ain’t nothing about you that’s natural, man,” O’Reily laughed.

 

The two men fell into a drunken giggle, which began to draw unwanted attention from passing inmates. They ‘shhh-ed’ each other like naughty schoolboys, and drained the last of the illicit moonshine from the jar.

 

“D’y’ever wonder what woulda happened if y’hadn’t gotten caught, and this shit woulda happened on the outside?” O’Reily slurred slightly.

 

“You mean if I’d met Toby on the outside?” Keller asked.

 

O’Reily nodded.

 

Keller swallowed hard, oh yeah he’d thought about it. At night in his fantasies, he’d seen the hearts and flowers version, where he’d met Toby, and they’d fallen in love, and had a normal life together. Then the horrifying specter of reality had smothered the rosy scene with the truth; he’d probably never had taken the time to get to know him, he’d have had sex with him, and whacked him, just like all those other college boys, who echoed Toby’s fair, unblemished expression, and educated manner. He’d have felt the same desire, and the same loathing for Toby that he’d felt for them, and himself.

 

Why did God make him an animal? What could he possibly have done in his mother’s womb that caused the almighty to twist him and pervert him into the man he’d become?

 

“Nah,” he replied at last, “I don’t think about that shit.”

 

Suddenly, Keller’s head snapped around at the sound of a voice across the quad. Mondo Browne strutted into view laughing and shoving one of the few white inmates left in Em City to the floor.

 

“Out of my way, dog!” he snarled, kicking the man in the stomach.

 

Keller stopped breathing; his eyes drawn to Browne like a raptor spotting prey. He studied the man’s walk, the way he swaggered, the air of confidence he wore since Adebisi had taken control. He could use that, exploit that overconfidence, and manipulate it to his advantage. Oh yeah, Browne would be easy prey right now, because he thought he was a god, invincible, untouchable under Adebisi’s all seeing protection.

 

“I got a little job in mind, might need your help, you in?” Keller asked.

 

“Is it bad, wicked and evil?” O’Reily sniggered.

 

“Absofuckinlutely,” Keller smiled coldly.

 

O’Reily stretched, his muscles audibly popping, “I’m in.”

 

A feeling of power swelled within him, and Keller began to laugh, “I am a god,” he whispered, “I am a fucking god.”

 

The End

 

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