Fic, Fight Night, Part 3 of 7, Fiver, 18
Sep. 5th, 2017 08:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Fight Night, Part 3 of 7
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Fiver
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Fiver and other OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 15,100 in 7 parts.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.
A/N : 1) Written for Soldiers Week as part of 52 Weeks of Primeval on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primeval_denial 2) Part of my Stephen/Ryan series
“Ready for off?” Speight asked.
Fiver shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Speight slapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. The van’s outside.”
The van turned out to be a once-white transit that had definitely seen better days. Someone had scrawled Clean Me! in the muck on the rear doors and a wannabe artist had drawn a large cock and balls on one side. He grinned. It reminded him of the sort of thing he’d done as a kid, before the army had taken him in and straightened him out. Mind you, it wasn’t that long ago he’d drawn something similar on the Rupert’s Beemer. The same Rupert he’d decked. Bastard had been picking on a couple of the younger lads who’d just failed to make it through Selection. They’d only failed by a whisker, and both had been told to give it six months and try again. But the latest twat who’d been dropped on them by the Head Shed didn’t see it like that…
He shook off the thoughts and climbed into the back of the van. The inside was completely windowless, and even the ones at the rear had been painted over. There were a couple of seats fitted with seat belts, but that was the only luxury. Speight clearly didn’t want him to know where the action was going down. Tel boy talked a good game about trust, but that was all it was. Talk. The bloke acted like he’d caught himself a right fucking munter. Fiver snorted and fastened the seat belt. Provided Speight came good with the dosh he’d promised, things would turn out fine, even if he did have to take a couple of kickings in the early days, but that would soon change.
Out of habit, Fiver did his best to follow the van’s progress in his head, but after ten minutes, he knew Speight was wise to that game. They looped back on themselves umpteen times before Fiver gave up and stretched out in his seat, eyes closed. Might as well get some kip.
The van eventually came to a halt after bouncing for ten minutes down a rutted track.
When Speight threw open the doors, Fiver climbed out, blinking in the watery evening sunlight. A quick glance around told him he was in a farmyard. There were two large sheds. One had a pair of huge doors thrown open and inside he could see a few parked cars. Two Beemers, a Merc and what looked like a Ferrari. Someone had expensive tastes. He sniffed the air, seeing what clues he could pick up. Apart from the warm smell of the van’s engine and exhaust, there wasn’t much to go on. No smell – or sound – of animals and none of the muck he normally associated with them either.
The yard was surprisingly clean, and all he would see was a large pile of plastic-wrapped bales stacked against the wall of the building containing the cars. Poking out from behind the bales was something that looked like a bloody great big combine harvester. So, arable rather than animal. Somewhere in East Anglia, maybe Essex. By his reckoning, they’d been driving for nearly two hours, but he wasn’t sure how much of that had been Speight going around in fucking circles.
Trust? The bloke could take his fucking trust and stuff it where the sun didn’t shine.
Speight clapped him on the back. “Come on, mate, let’s get you ready.”
Getting ready consisted of stripping to the waist in a small room at the back of one of the huge sheds. He could hear the hum of voices in the man part of the building, and while he’d been alone with Speight, he’d heard cars arriving in the yard and being directed into the other building.
“Your bloke knows his brief?” he said, giving Speight a hard stare.
“He knows his stuff. Stop worrying, mate, it’ll all be fine. Just put up a good show for about five minutes then go down and stay down. Easiest monkey you’ll ever make. You’re just the warm-up act tonight. Get the punters in the right mood. You’re on in ten.”
The next ten minutes crawled by. Fiver could here shouts and laughter coming from the main part of the shed. Hard to pick out anything in specific, but the accents appeared to be mainly London and Essex, so he didn’t think his guess about the location had been too far adrift. There were even a few women’s voices. He spent the time doing stretching exercises and jogging on the spot to warm up his muscles. If he was going to take a beating, he needed to be relaxed, not tense. He’d thrown fights before, that was no big deal, but making it look convincing was a bit of an art, and he was going to be totally dependent on how good the other guy was at this sort of crap.
“You’re on!” Speight ushered him down a short corridor and out into the main shed.
Bright lights mounted up in the rafters almost blinded him as he walked out onto a large wooden stage, raised a couple of feet above ground level. It was hard to see past the lights, but the warehouse-sized shed looked to be packed with people. Some sitting, others standing. He heard the pop of a cork leaving a bottle at speed and high-pitched laughter, already verging on the pissed and giggly.
Forget the audience. He was more interested in the opposition.
The bloke was a couple of inches shorter than him but built like a brick shithouse. Tattoos covered every inch of his exposed torso, meaning Fiver had to look twice before he even realised the bloke was white under that mass of ink. His head was shaved and glistened with sweat under the bright lights.
The bloke grinned widely at him, displaying a mass of uneven teeth, with several missing. He thumped his arm on his chest on a gladiatorial-style salute.
Speight hadn’t briefed him on how to behave on the stage, so Fiver played it safe and returned the salute.
The crowd roared with laughter. Fiver wondered if he was meant to be there as some sort of comedy turn, but there was nothing funny about the way the bloke came at him, hard and fast, swinging a bare-knuckled punch that would have taken out a couple of teeth if the blow has connected with his face. He dodged and came back with a jab to the guy’s gut. It was early in the game so he pulled the punch enough that it just hurt, not disabled. The tattooed guy reeled away, coughing, but lashed out with a foot strike that caught Fiver on the hip.
Moments later they were at each other like two dogs scrapping in a yard. Some of the moves they remembered to tone down. Others slipped the net and fucking hurt. A few minutes in and Fiver was bleeding from a scrape across his abs and the other bloke had a split lip. The crowd were loving the blood, yelling every time one of them took a thump or a kick. He didn’t have a clue whether he had any supporters out there. The noise was indiscriminate and the glare of the lights stopped him seeing much beyond the wooden platform. He could smell booze in the air and had heard corks popping several times. One had gone off so close it had sounded like the noise of a silenced pistol. He’d reached automatically for a weapon he wasn’t carrying and the momentary distraction had earned him a glancing kick to his balls that had only narrowly avoided doing some serious damage. Playing up to the crowd, he yelled loudly and reeled away.
The tattooed guy was on him in an instant, knocking him to the floor. As they dropped onto the hard, wood, the bloke hissed in his ear, “Stay down. Time to finish.” The words were low and urgent.
Fiver fought his natural instinct to use all the tricks he’d ever been taught to flip the guy and get the upper hand. Instead, he felt his head being banged on the boards. The adrenaline flooding his system kept the pain at bay, which was fortunate. A fist to the solar plexus left him gasping for breath and then the bloke was on his feet and kicking. Fiver rolled into a ball to protect his kidneys, but not before a kick caught him squarely in the guts. His opponent made it look good, but there was no force behind it. Speight had been right, the bloke was a pro. Fiver just hoped his own performance was as convincing.
He stayed down like he’d been told, rolling away but not trying to get to his feet. A smack to his face had brought the blood flowing from his nose, and between them they’d smeared it around. A little bit of blood went a long way, and they milked it for all it was worth.
He took half a dozen more kicks, all pulled enough to do no more than bruise. When the last one glanced across his temple, Fiver decided it was time to play possum and forced himself to go limp.
Lying there totally vulnerable wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, but moments later, there was a roar of appreciation from the crowd and the pop of some more corks.
Fiver felt a pair of strong hands wrap around his ankles and then he was being dragged backwards off the platform with the jeers and cheers of the spectators ringing in his ears.
As soon as he heard a door slam, Fiver opened his eyes.
A gap-toothed grin greeted him and a meaty, tattooed hand gripped his wrist and hauled him to his feet.
“Good work, boys!” Speight, standing by the door, sounded genuinely pleased.
Fiver coughed and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. One of the last kicks had driven the inside of his cheek into his teeth. His cheek had come off worst.
His former opponent clapped him on the back. “Sorry about that. Name’s Gazza.”
“Fiver.”
Speight handed them each a bottle of cold water. Fiver drained his in three long swallows.
On the other side of the internal wall, he heard another roar from the crowd. It sounded like the next bout had started.
“Get yourself cleaned up, lads. Gazza will show you the showers and where you can hang around until we’re done.”
Fiver followed Gazza out of the barn to a low, brick building on the other side of the yard. It looked like the sort of toilet and shower block you got on upmarket campsites. The inside was spotlessly clean. A tracksuit, towels and toiletries were waiting for them.
“All mod cons,” Gazza said, grinning widely again. He promptly stripped off, proving that the rest of his body was as tattooed as his torso. The only part of him that wasn’t covered in ink appeared to be his cock. He caught the direction of Fiver’s gaze and laughed. “Gotta draw the line somewhere, mate. Not letting any bloke near my cock.”
“Knew a girl once who did tats.”
“No way!” Gazza sounded impressed as he stepped into one of the shower stalls and turned on the water.
Fiver followed suit. The water was hot and stung the abrasions on his chest and a few other scrapes. He stayed under until the water in the shower tray ran clean, then stepped out and towelled himself dry. By the time he finished, Gazza was already dressed and had acquired a couple of cold beers from somewhere. He handed one to Fiver along with two white tablets.
Fiver took the beer but shook his head at the tablets. “No offence, mate but I don’t pop pills unless I’ve taken ‘em out of the foil myself.”
“Terry said you were a trusting soul.” Gazza popped the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a long swig of beer. “Paracetemol.”
“As I said, no offence intended. So how long have you been in this game?”
“Six months, give or take.”
“And before that?”
“In the nick. Four years. Aggravated assault.” Gazza’s stare was truculent, and Fiver knew he shouldn’t have asked.
“Sorry, my bad.”
Gazza’s expression mellowed. “You?”
“Army. Twatted an officer.”
Gazza burst out laughing. “Nice one. Come on, get some clothes on. Tel’s got a fucking stellar porn stash and we’ve got a few hours to kill.”
It looked to Fiver like he’d passed another test.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Fiver
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Fiver and other OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 15,100 in 7 parts.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.
A/N : 1) Written for Soldiers Week as part of 52 Weeks of Primeval on
primeval_denial 2) Part of my Stephen/Ryan series“Ready for off?” Speight asked.
Fiver shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Speight slapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. The van’s outside.”
The van turned out to be a once-white transit that had definitely seen better days. Someone had scrawled Clean Me! in the muck on the rear doors and a wannabe artist had drawn a large cock and balls on one side. He grinned. It reminded him of the sort of thing he’d done as a kid, before the army had taken him in and straightened him out. Mind you, it wasn’t that long ago he’d drawn something similar on the Rupert’s Beemer. The same Rupert he’d decked. Bastard had been picking on a couple of the younger lads who’d just failed to make it through Selection. They’d only failed by a whisker, and both had been told to give it six months and try again. But the latest twat who’d been dropped on them by the Head Shed didn’t see it like that…
He shook off the thoughts and climbed into the back of the van. The inside was completely windowless, and even the ones at the rear had been painted over. There were a couple of seats fitted with seat belts, but that was the only luxury. Speight clearly didn’t want him to know where the action was going down. Tel boy talked a good game about trust, but that was all it was. Talk. The bloke acted like he’d caught himself a right fucking munter. Fiver snorted and fastened the seat belt. Provided Speight came good with the dosh he’d promised, things would turn out fine, even if he did have to take a couple of kickings in the early days, but that would soon change.
Out of habit, Fiver did his best to follow the van’s progress in his head, but after ten minutes, he knew Speight was wise to that game. They looped back on themselves umpteen times before Fiver gave up and stretched out in his seat, eyes closed. Might as well get some kip.
The van eventually came to a halt after bouncing for ten minutes down a rutted track.
When Speight threw open the doors, Fiver climbed out, blinking in the watery evening sunlight. A quick glance around told him he was in a farmyard. There were two large sheds. One had a pair of huge doors thrown open and inside he could see a few parked cars. Two Beemers, a Merc and what looked like a Ferrari. Someone had expensive tastes. He sniffed the air, seeing what clues he could pick up. Apart from the warm smell of the van’s engine and exhaust, there wasn’t much to go on. No smell – or sound – of animals and none of the muck he normally associated with them either.
The yard was surprisingly clean, and all he would see was a large pile of plastic-wrapped bales stacked against the wall of the building containing the cars. Poking out from behind the bales was something that looked like a bloody great big combine harvester. So, arable rather than animal. Somewhere in East Anglia, maybe Essex. By his reckoning, they’d been driving for nearly two hours, but he wasn’t sure how much of that had been Speight going around in fucking circles.
Trust? The bloke could take his fucking trust and stuff it where the sun didn’t shine.
Speight clapped him on the back. “Come on, mate, let’s get you ready.”
Getting ready consisted of stripping to the waist in a small room at the back of one of the huge sheds. He could hear the hum of voices in the man part of the building, and while he’d been alone with Speight, he’d heard cars arriving in the yard and being directed into the other building.
“Your bloke knows his brief?” he said, giving Speight a hard stare.
“He knows his stuff. Stop worrying, mate, it’ll all be fine. Just put up a good show for about five minutes then go down and stay down. Easiest monkey you’ll ever make. You’re just the warm-up act tonight. Get the punters in the right mood. You’re on in ten.”
The next ten minutes crawled by. Fiver could here shouts and laughter coming from the main part of the shed. Hard to pick out anything in specific, but the accents appeared to be mainly London and Essex, so he didn’t think his guess about the location had been too far adrift. There were even a few women’s voices. He spent the time doing stretching exercises and jogging on the spot to warm up his muscles. If he was going to take a beating, he needed to be relaxed, not tense. He’d thrown fights before, that was no big deal, but making it look convincing was a bit of an art, and he was going to be totally dependent on how good the other guy was at this sort of crap.
“You’re on!” Speight ushered him down a short corridor and out into the main shed.
Bright lights mounted up in the rafters almost blinded him as he walked out onto a large wooden stage, raised a couple of feet above ground level. It was hard to see past the lights, but the warehouse-sized shed looked to be packed with people. Some sitting, others standing. He heard the pop of a cork leaving a bottle at speed and high-pitched laughter, already verging on the pissed and giggly.
Forget the audience. He was more interested in the opposition.
The bloke was a couple of inches shorter than him but built like a brick shithouse. Tattoos covered every inch of his exposed torso, meaning Fiver had to look twice before he even realised the bloke was white under that mass of ink. His head was shaved and glistened with sweat under the bright lights.
The bloke grinned widely at him, displaying a mass of uneven teeth, with several missing. He thumped his arm on his chest on a gladiatorial-style salute.
Speight hadn’t briefed him on how to behave on the stage, so Fiver played it safe and returned the salute.
The crowd roared with laughter. Fiver wondered if he was meant to be there as some sort of comedy turn, but there was nothing funny about the way the bloke came at him, hard and fast, swinging a bare-knuckled punch that would have taken out a couple of teeth if the blow has connected with his face. He dodged and came back with a jab to the guy’s gut. It was early in the game so he pulled the punch enough that it just hurt, not disabled. The tattooed guy reeled away, coughing, but lashed out with a foot strike that caught Fiver on the hip.
Moments later they were at each other like two dogs scrapping in a yard. Some of the moves they remembered to tone down. Others slipped the net and fucking hurt. A few minutes in and Fiver was bleeding from a scrape across his abs and the other bloke had a split lip. The crowd were loving the blood, yelling every time one of them took a thump or a kick. He didn’t have a clue whether he had any supporters out there. The noise was indiscriminate and the glare of the lights stopped him seeing much beyond the wooden platform. He could smell booze in the air and had heard corks popping several times. One had gone off so close it had sounded like the noise of a silenced pistol. He’d reached automatically for a weapon he wasn’t carrying and the momentary distraction had earned him a glancing kick to his balls that had only narrowly avoided doing some serious damage. Playing up to the crowd, he yelled loudly and reeled away.
The tattooed guy was on him in an instant, knocking him to the floor. As they dropped onto the hard, wood, the bloke hissed in his ear, “Stay down. Time to finish.” The words were low and urgent.
Fiver fought his natural instinct to use all the tricks he’d ever been taught to flip the guy and get the upper hand. Instead, he felt his head being banged on the boards. The adrenaline flooding his system kept the pain at bay, which was fortunate. A fist to the solar plexus left him gasping for breath and then the bloke was on his feet and kicking. Fiver rolled into a ball to protect his kidneys, but not before a kick caught him squarely in the guts. His opponent made it look good, but there was no force behind it. Speight had been right, the bloke was a pro. Fiver just hoped his own performance was as convincing.
He stayed down like he’d been told, rolling away but not trying to get to his feet. A smack to his face had brought the blood flowing from his nose, and between them they’d smeared it around. A little bit of blood went a long way, and they milked it for all it was worth.
He took half a dozen more kicks, all pulled enough to do no more than bruise. When the last one glanced across his temple, Fiver decided it was time to play possum and forced himself to go limp.
Lying there totally vulnerable wasn’t exactly his idea of fun, but moments later, there was a roar of appreciation from the crowd and the pop of some more corks.
Fiver felt a pair of strong hands wrap around his ankles and then he was being dragged backwards off the platform with the jeers and cheers of the spectators ringing in his ears.
As soon as he heard a door slam, Fiver opened his eyes.
A gap-toothed grin greeted him and a meaty, tattooed hand gripped his wrist and hauled him to his feet.
“Good work, boys!” Speight, standing by the door, sounded genuinely pleased.
Fiver coughed and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. One of the last kicks had driven the inside of his cheek into his teeth. His cheek had come off worst.
His former opponent clapped him on the back. “Sorry about that. Name’s Gazza.”
“Fiver.”
Speight handed them each a bottle of cold water. Fiver drained his in three long swallows.
On the other side of the internal wall, he heard another roar from the crowd. It sounded like the next bout had started.
“Get yourself cleaned up, lads. Gazza will show you the showers and where you can hang around until we’re done.”
Fiver followed Gazza out of the barn to a low, brick building on the other side of the yard. It looked like the sort of toilet and shower block you got on upmarket campsites. The inside was spotlessly clean. A tracksuit, towels and toiletries were waiting for them.
“All mod cons,” Gazza said, grinning widely again. He promptly stripped off, proving that the rest of his body was as tattooed as his torso. The only part of him that wasn’t covered in ink appeared to be his cock. He caught the direction of Fiver’s gaze and laughed. “Gotta draw the line somewhere, mate. Not letting any bloke near my cock.”
“Knew a girl once who did tats.”
“No way!” Gazza sounded impressed as he stepped into one of the shower stalls and turned on the water.
Fiver followed suit. The water was hot and stung the abrasions on his chest and a few other scrapes. He stayed under until the water in the shower tray ran clean, then stepped out and towelled himself dry. By the time he finished, Gazza was already dressed and had acquired a couple of cold beers from somewhere. He handed one to Fiver along with two white tablets.
Fiver took the beer but shook his head at the tablets. “No offence, mate but I don’t pop pills unless I’ve taken ‘em out of the foil myself.”
“Terry said you were a trusting soul.” Gazza popped the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a long swig of beer. “Paracetemol.”
“As I said, no offence intended. So how long have you been in this game?”
“Six months, give or take.”
“And before that?”
“In the nick. Four years. Aggravated assault.” Gazza’s stare was truculent, and Fiver knew he shouldn’t have asked.
“Sorry, my bad.”
Gazza’s expression mellowed. “You?”
“Army. Twatted an officer.”
Gazza burst out laughing. “Nice one. Come on, get some clothes on. Tel’s got a fucking stellar porn stash and we’ve got a few hours to kill.”
It looked to Fiver like he’d passed another test.
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Date: 2017-09-05 08:14 pm (UTC)I'm actually liking Gazza.
Love how you're building this up.
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