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F: Easy Mark
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG13
Summary: Tracey sells himself. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
over_look.
He doesn't look at them. That makes it harder to surrender his morals each time again, harder to swallow the protest that he's better than all this. He just stands up, world weary, and goes with them, to the variety of hotel rooms that all have the same kinds of ceilings and the same kinds of sheets on the bed: cracked ceilings with damp plaster and thin cotton sheets, always white unless they're stained some other colour by age or use.
Tracey is earning money, trying to get home. That's his whole goal. That's all that matters and when he's sat in his corner, waiting for them to come to him with the promise of a pretty boy who'll do anythin' ringing in their ears, he comforts himself with that. He'll be out of this, soon. He'll be back with his family. And hopefully he'll have enough money, treasured and skimped and saved, to take them away. Find them somewhere new. Untouched by cold or ice or exile or Reavers or war.
"You don't want to be doing this," the man says, quietly. He's standing in front of him as they always do, and wearily Tracey gets to his feet, not looking up. The man takes his hand and makes him open it, dumping some change into his palm. Tracey looks up, startled.
"What -- ?"
"I don't want you for your body," the man starts, and then bites his lip, shaking his head. "Well, I do. But I don't want to fuck you. Can you sell your body to a better cause, do you think?"
Tracey's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"
The man tells him. The money is good. The money is too good to resist and Tracey is an easy mark when it comes to money. Transporting organs, travelling, all paid for by them -- that will be more interesting, anyway, than laying on his back or kneeling on hands and knees.
So he says yes.
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG13
Summary: Tracey sells himself. For
over_look.He doesn't look at them. That makes it harder to surrender his morals each time again, harder to swallow the protest that he's better than all this. He just stands up, world weary, and goes with them, to the variety of hotel rooms that all have the same kinds of ceilings and the same kinds of sheets on the bed: cracked ceilings with damp plaster and thin cotton sheets, always white unless they're stained some other colour by age or use.
Tracey is earning money, trying to get home. That's his whole goal. That's all that matters and when he's sat in his corner, waiting for them to come to him with the promise of a pretty boy who'll do anythin' ringing in their ears, he comforts himself with that. He'll be out of this, soon. He'll be back with his family. And hopefully he'll have enough money, treasured and skimped and saved, to take them away. Find them somewhere new. Untouched by cold or ice or exile or Reavers or war.
"You don't want to be doing this," the man says, quietly. He's standing in front of him as they always do, and wearily Tracey gets to his feet, not looking up. The man takes his hand and makes him open it, dumping some change into his palm. Tracey looks up, startled.
"What -- ?"
"I don't want you for your body," the man starts, and then bites his lip, shaking his head. "Well, I do. But I don't want to fuck you. Can you sell your body to a better cause, do you think?"
Tracey's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"
The man tells him. The money is good. The money is too good to resist and Tracey is an easy mark when it comes to money. Transporting organs, travelling, all paid for by them -- that will be more interesting, anyway, than laying on his back or kneeling on hands and knees.
So he says yes.