Thanks: Thanks to Sage for beta, and Brynn for egging me on
Notes: For the Ray/Ray giving thanks festival
This is 3rd person omniscient crack based on a dinosaur comic. Specifically the panel below, but it'll make more sense if you read the whole comic first.
me: THIS IS WHAT MY BRAIN IS LIKE!!! It was the second to last panel that made me cackle loudly.
brynn: Heee! *hearts* That was awesome. It's a planet where interrogation is banned! *giggling*
me: *tries to imagine Ray/Ray on that planet*
brynn: They would be so sad!
me: They would have to interrogate each other IN SECRET to get their ya-yas out. They could buy really bright lightbulbs on the black market to shine in each other's faces.
brynn: *dies* There's totally crackfic in that.
me: They could have a concrete basement with an ominous dripping sound, and a wooden chair, and take turns tying each other up and forcing each other to spill the beans about Embarrassing Teenage Incidents and Illicit Feelings For Mounties and Breaches of Police Procedure and Gay Sex Fantasies. \o/
On a PLANET where INTERROGATION is BANNED
One COP CALLED RAY and another COP CALLED RAY have to TEAM UP to CATCH CRIMINALS
they eventually UNDERSTAND each other and FUCK
also, neither cop is A DINOSAUR we should have put that on the TOP of the POSTER
Vecchio knocks on Kowalski's apartment door at exactly 7:27pm. The secret knock. Kowalski lets him in without a word and locks the door behind him. He lowers the lights and together they pull the life-sized cut-out Kowalski and cut-out Vecchio from under the couch, and arrange them near the window so they can be seen from the street. Kowalski turns up the volume on the TV.
They work in silence, grimly. Anticipation fizzes in the air like electricity, but they barely look at each other. It's not safe to let it out yet. They've both been tense and on-edge since they caught Tommy Belafonte that morning.
Kowalski knew Tommy had dirt on some of the biggest names in town. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, squeeze him a little, make him spill, but Tommy's eyes lit up at the sight of Kowalski's in-breath and no way was Kowalski letting the slimebucket off on a technicality. And with the regs against interrogation the way they were, that meant there was no way to get the info they needed. Kowalski wheeled away and slammed his hand against the wall.
Tommy jumped and even Vecchio flinched, but when Kowalski met Vecchio's eye, there was understanding there. Understanding and promise.
So here they are. Vecchio waits in the hallway while Kowalski goes into the dark bedroom and closes the black-out curtains. Then Kowalski turns on the low-wattage lamp by the bed and beckons Vecchio in. Vecchio closes the bedroom door and Kowalski opens the closet, reaches up and pulls down a couple of empty suitcases from the shelf above the suits and jackets. At the back of the shelf is a plain wooden chair lying on its side. Kowalski stands on one of the suitcases so he can reach it and get it down.
He plants it solidly in the middle of the floor and turns to Vecchio.
Vecchio's shucked off his coat and jacket, and put them on the bed. He's rolling up his shirtsleeves. Still wearing his tie.
Kowalski walks up to him, doesn't touch him. He says, in a quiet voice thrumming with suppressed frustration, "Sit down."
Vecchio's chin jerks up involuntarily. He's going to do this, but there's still a moment's hesitation. A moment when he has to remind himself he trusts Kowalski. That they do this because they both need to, they're in it together.
Kowalski meets his gaze steadily, his pupils blown like he's on crack. He's so wired, he's almost trembling with it. Vecchio can feel him from here, like there are invisible sparks crackling from him, sizzling into Vecchio's bones, tingling his scalp. He nods sharply and steps around Kowalski to sit in the chair.
Kowalski goes to the dresser, covered in laundry and junk, and picks up a pair of handcuffs. "Okay?"
Vecchio nods again. He doesn't say anything. That's how he plays this. Don't talk until you have to. Don't make it easy. The first time they did this, last time, it was Kowalski tied up, and he was all taunts and aggression, but it's Vecchio's turn now and he knows once he starts talking he won't be able to stop. It'll be like a dam breaking. So he grits his teeth and puts his hands behind his back, outside the vertical wooden rungs.
Kowalski cuffs him to the chair. His touch is efficient and professional. The cuffs are cold and hard. Vecchio shifts on the seat and widens his legs, gets his game face on, digs in till he's the perp who has everything to lose and everything to hide.
Kowalski won't care what Vecchio says. They're not in this for the secrets themselves. They're in it for the interrogation, the push that meets resistance. For the rising pressure and that sweet rush when defenses collapse. When the perp spills everything.
Kowalski paces the room, back and forth, building up to it. His gait is jerky and strung. He wraps his arms tight around himself. For a moment, Vecchio can't see his face and he lets himself fear this. Fear what he might say. He swallows hard.
Kowalski stops, facing the wall. His face is in shadow and he's motionless for a long moment, the silence stretching like the fall from a high cliff onto jagged rocks.
Vecchio licks his lips, determined to wait him out.
It takes a long time. Maybe Kowalski's teasing himself, savoring it, or maybe he's still working up the momentum. Finally — at last — he turns. In three steps, he's close, his face inches from Vecchio's. His breath hot. "Tell me what you know," he says in a low voice.
They have to keep it quiet. The neighbors mustn't suspect.
Vecchio's pulse picks up. He doesn't move. I'm a stupid perp, he thinks. I don't know anything.
Kowalski bares his teeth. "I know you know," he says. "I know you've seen things. Done things. What's the worst you've seen, tell me that. What scared you?"
Vecchio presses his lips together and tries to keep his breathing even. The cuffs bite into his wrists.
"It's okay. I'll make you a deal." Kowalski stands up and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He lights one, offers one to Vecchio, who shakes his head mutely. Kowalski shrugs, tosses the pack onto the unmade bed behind him, and takes a deep drag of smoke, feeling the rush. "You tell me what you know and I'll cut you loose. I'll tell everyone you put up a fight, didn't say a word. I'll make it easy for you to disappear."
Vecchio's mouth is pinched closed, and his shuttered eyes say No as clearly as his lips ever could.
Kowalski's temper snaps. "We're not going anywhere until you tell me, so you might as well spill, asshole. Come on. I ain't got all night."
He stands up suddenly and kicks Vecchio's knees further apart, and he rests his foot on the chair, pressing the toe of his boot against Vecchio's crotch — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to be deliberate. Subtle threat, working the power balance.
Jesus Christ. Maybe he knows. Vecchio's body tenses and his face heats up like a furnace, but he manages not to say anything. He can do this. He can bluff. It's tempting to spill something to distract Kowalski, a red herring that sounds big but doesn't matter. But if Vecchio breaks this soon, Kowalski will ditch him and find someone who can hold out longer than thirty seconds and change. Someone who doesn't get turned on by this fucked-up game. Vecchio has to do two things here: hide and make it last. When he spills, it has to be about Vegas or Fraser or his Pop. Dumb shit he did in high school or a time he skated close to corruption. It can't be about now or Kowalski or the daydreams that have started haunting Vecchio at his desk when he's supposed to be writing up reports. That would jeopardize everything, and Vecchio needs this.
Kowalski shoves the chair, sending it scraping a few inches across the floor. Vecchio glares at him. The cherry of the cigarette burns orange in the dim room.
Kowalski rests his forearm on his bent leg and leans in, smoke curling between his lips. "Talk to me." His voice is calm again, inviting. "Give me something. I'll put in a good word for you."
Vecchio smiles thinly. "Not in this lifetime." As soon as he says it, he clamps his lips together again. Fuck. He cracked too easy. He tries to think about something pure and distant, a long way away, but all he gets is Fraser up there in the snow, and that just makes it worse. What would Fraser say if he could see them now, breaking the law, twisted and wrong and desperate? He'd turn them in so fast they'd get whiplash.
Vecchio's folded in on himself, distant and unresponsive. Kowalski scowls and a wave of violence sweeps through him. "I'll kick you in the head." The words are like bullets from an automatic, and he's barely aware he's squeezing the trigger. "I'll make you sorry your mom ever opened her legs to your dad, I swear to God."
He's lean and angry like a starving dog. Vecchio breaks out in a sweat. He doesn't know what he'd say if he started talking, but Christ, words are bubbling up in him, desperate to get out. He shakes his head stubbornly.
Kowalski holds his gaze for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. Then he jerks his chin sideways and steps back. He stubs out his half-smoked cigarette on the metal ashtray on the dresser and sticks his hands in his pockets, rolls his shoulders. Takes the heat off for a moment, giving Vecchio a chance to relax.
Vecchio tells himself not to relax. It's putting the barriers in place that's the hard part. Keeping them there, that's human nature, but erecting them — putting yourself out of reach and pushing the other person away, far far away — that's work. That only comes natural if you're a Mountie.
Kowalski strolls back to the dresser and pokes the pile of loose change. Then he goes to the closet, behind Vecchio, out of his field of vision, and stands on the suitcase again. He reaches to the very back of the top shelf, behind the flimsy false wall.
Vecchio hears metal rattling behind him, Kowalski's thick footsteps. He searches for something to say, something he can give that won't matter, but it's hot in here and Kowalski's giving off a gravitational field like you wouldn't believe. All Vecchio's got is I want you and he can't say that. If he says that, he loses. They both lose.
And then there's heat behind him, a firm body pressing against his shoulder blades and his arms. Kowalski's hands on his shoulders, gripping firmly. Kowalski's voice low in his ear. "I already know everything. I just need you to say it." He sounds so sure, Vecchio actually thinks about throwing in the towel.
"You don't know," says Vecchio, dry-mouthed. "You don't know shit." He snaps his mouth shut again.
In answer, Kowalski clamps his hand over Vecchio's eyes. Steel-strong fingers, slightly sweaty. Vecchio goes from halfway turned on to one hundred percent all the way ready to go. He pulls his head back, trying to get away, but Kowalski's hand follows, and Kowalski's standing close behind. There's nowhere to get away to. Nowhere to hide.
Vecchio swallows painfully.
"Tell me," says Kowalski.
"I want my lawyer," Vecchio lies. "You got no right to hold me here."
"You can talk to your lawyer after you tell me what I want to know."
Kowalski bumps up against the chair, against Vecchio, shoving him bodily forward. Vecchio's arms twist and press against Kowalski's thighs, and Kowalski has to struggle to stay on track. To let this play out the way it's supposed to. The way they agreed. Not the other way — the way Kowalski dreams about at night, with his hand wrapped 'round his dick, images of sex all jumbled up with memories of blinding lights and bound hands and Vecchio's harsh voice demanding information.
"Tell me," says Kowalski, again, into the shell of Vecchio's ear. Vecchio's neck is elegant and taut, and Kowalski wants to suck on it. Wonders if that would still constitute interrogation technique. He shakes himself back on track and infuses his voice with threat. "Spill, or I'll make you spill."
"You can't make me." Vecchio sounds angry. "I have the right to remain silent."
"You want to play hardball?" Kowalski shoves the chair hard and raises his voice. "You wanna play hardball with me? Because I can play hardball, Vecchio. I can twist your arm so tight they'll call you the human pretzel. So tight your shoulder will pop out of its socket, and you'll be telling me secrets your grandma told you on her deathbed. Things you've never told anyone."
"Try me." Vecchio's bravado is cracking, but he's trying. He's trying hard, holding out, and Kowalski appreciates that. Tough nut. Time to get cracking.
"Oh, I'll try you," Kowalski promises, and plugs in the angle-poise lamp from the closet. Class A Restricted Interrogation Item. Banned in all fifty-two states. Two hundred watt bulb.
He angles it towards Vecchio's face and presses the switch.
Light sears his eyeballs. It takes a long time — maybe a whole minute, maybe longer — for it to stop hurting, for him to see Vecchio, his face scrunched and sweaty, eyes screwed shut.
Vecchio's feet scuff the floor restlessly, his arms strain against the cuffs. It's obvious he's struggling to stay in character. Kowalski can see curses forming behind his face — Goddamn it, Kowalski, turn off that fucking light or I'll bust your ass — and Kowalski tenses, wondering if the whole charade will tumble down around them. But Vecchio squints at him through the glare and all he says is, "So you've got lights. So what? I'm supposed to trust you because of some fancy hardware?"
"No," says Kowalski, walking behind him and kicking the leg of his chair. "You're going to trust me 'cause you don't have a fucking choice, jerkwad."
Vecchio twists his head to the side, trying to escape the burn of the lamp. He doesn't say anything. He's close to giving in. His arms ache. He craves water and darkness.
Kowalski kicks the chair again. "What do you want? Tell me what I need to know, and I'll give it to you." Kick. "You want protection? You want to do a deal?" Kick, kick. "Whatever you've got your eye on in this big fine world of ours, name it." He's sneering, mocking. There's no promise in his words.
"Suck my dick," says Vecchio defiantly into the dizzying heat.
The whole room hesitates. Vecchio's vision blurs at the edges. He lifts his chin, refusing to back down. Refusing to admit that was a mistake. He learned lessons from Fraser — how to make a lie sound like the truth and how to tell the truth so no one in their right mind would believe it. He clings to that.
"You calling me a cocksucker?" Kowalski sounds dangerous.
Vecchio's lips twist, then he thinks better of it and shakes his head.
"So maybe I'm not hearing you right, because I thought for sure you just told me to—" Kowalski breaks off, and stares at Vecchio, sees right through him. "That's what you want?" he asks cruelly. "You want me to blow you?"
Vecchio closes his eyes against the sting of sweat and defeat. His chest heaves.
Kowalski's thrown. What the fuck? But Vecchio looks like he's going to pass out, so he moves in and loosens Vecchio's tie. His shirt collar's damp. There are beads of moisture on his upper lip and he's radiating heat. Kowalski looks down. Vecchio's cock is hard. Jesus, he meant it.
"That's what you want?" Kowalski asks again, only this time the question's neutral. Vecchio can't tell if he's furious, disgusted or just surprised. Vecchio brings his legs closer together, an automatic defensive gesture.
Kowalski turns off the light. Vecchio's eyes itch. He needs to rub them, but he can't. He needs to dredge up some attitude, some cover, keep his slip ambiguous. He can still play it like a kneejerk insult. It's not too late. But the dark feels safe, and even though Vecchio knows that's a trap, knowing it doesn't change the feeling.
"That's what you want?" asks Kowalski for the third time, and all Vecchio can see are the dim circle of the bedside lamp and the pale lines of Kowalski's silhouette, blending with the black spots and bright squiggles on his own retinas.
"Talk to me, Vecchio." Kowalski seems both close and distant. Vecchio can't tell what he's thinking. "What scares you?"
"I'm not scared."
He's lying. Kowalski tries to get his head around this. Is it part of the game, or has Vecchio been having the same kind of thoughts Kowalski's been having. Maybe they've been picking up on each other's signals without realizing it. Or maybe Vecchio's toying with him, testing him.
But Vecchio's turned on. Can't fake that. Kowalski nudges Vecchio's legs apart and rests his boot back on the seat of the chair, right up against Vecchio's cock. Vecchio freezes, then slowly lifts his gaze to meet Kowalski's. Vecchio's trying for sullen, Kowalski thinks, but he can't hide his need.
Kowalski shifts gears. It's not a game anymore, not just the rough scratch of an illicit itch. Now there's something real to dig for. The thrill of that shocks Kowalski awake. "Tell me you want it." He swipes the back of his wrist across his forehead and dries the sweat off on his pants. "Say the word, you got it."
The silence is deafening, like an airplane overhead. Down the block a car alarm sounds. In the living room, people on TV are shouting at each other.
"Yeah," breathes Vecchio. "I want it."
Kowalski still isn't completely sure Vecchio's serious. Maybe he's playing this, playing him. But maybe not. Vecchio's eyes are unflinching, and he's breathing harsh and fast. He wants what Kowalski's got. Kowalski tilts his foot forward, an echo of before, and feels answering pressure. His lips are dry. He licks them.
They're crossing a line. This was about mutual release, about working all those skills that got drummed into them at the Academy that they're not allowed to use anymore. All those stupid lines from cop shows set on other planets, where interrogation's a regular tool like any other. This, though. This is twisted.
Behind Kowalski is his bed, the covers pushed back and the sheets still creased from the morning, circumstantial evidence of Kowalski's normal life, his sprawled relaxed body. The same body that's leaning over Vecchio now, offering—
Vecchio nods, and Kowalski pushes forward some more, steadies himself with a hand on Vecchio's shoulder, and bends down to — what? Lick Vecchio's neck. His mouth is hot, dark and stinging, and Vecchio closes his eyes to see flashes of light on his eyelids — maybe after-images from the lamp. He starts panting.
"Yeah," he says one more time. There's a blur, the loss of that wet heat, and then Kowalski's on his knees in front of him, unzipping Vecchio's pants, moving with the same ferocity he's been broadcasting for the last ten, fifteen minutes.
His fingers are on Vecchio's dick, freeing it from the constrictions of pants and briefs, and Vecchio gasps. It's been too long since anyone but him touched his dick.
And then Kowalski takes Vecchio into his mouth, and straight away it's obvious this isn't the first dick Kowalski's tasted. He's confident and fearless. He knows what he's doing, and that turns Vecchio's heart inside out. Vecchio bites his lip, trying to contain secrets, feelings, history, dreams. It's all beating against the inside of his ribs, demanding release.
Kowalski jacks Vecchio firmly while he sucks him, translating all the frustration and rebellion and skill of interrogating into this, the simple truth of Vecchio's cock sliding between his lips, heavy on his tongue. Tell me, he demands, silently, working Vecchio faster. Give it up.
And then Vecchio spills. He spills everything, everything he has. Everything he is. And Kowalski swallows it down greedily, until he has it all.
* * *
Afterwards it's awkward. Vecchio's cock shrinks and softens. Kowalski tucks him away and zips him up, then hauls himself to his feet and stands over him, looks down at him. Vecchio's shoulders are tense. But Vecchio meets his eye and doesn't say What the Jesus fuck was that, Kowalski? or ask to have the cuffs removed. He doesn't say anything. His shirt's blotched with sweat. He looks dazed.
Kowalski dries his mouth on his hand, clears his throat. "That—" he starts, but he has to stop there so he can figure out what to say.
Vecchio feels warm and dizzy. He holds his breath. The edges of the chair back dig into his arms and he hardly notices.
"Was that, uh— Are you—" Kowalski takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Vecchio?"
"Yeah." Vecchio looks away. Looks at the unmade bed, the piles of junk on the dresser, the comfortable way the room fits Kowalski.
Kowalski nudges Vecchio's foot with his own. "You want to maybe help me out here?"
Vecchio's gaze drops to Kowalski's pants and stays there. "Yeah," he says, hoarsely. "Okay."
"No, no, no, that's not what I—" Kowalski holds up both hands, trying to balance the situation, though the thought of Vecchio sucking him off is distracting as hell.
Vecchio flushes dark red and he looks away again.
"I mean." Kowalski goes behind Vecchio and releases the cuffs, rubs his thumbs over the red lines left by the metal to help get the circulation going. "I mean, it's cool. I just need to know, was that part of the whole— the, uh, interrogation? Or— Because, you know, I could go either way. I don't want to—"
"Shut up, Kowalski." Vecchio comes to life. He gets to his feet, kicks the chair aside, and he grabs Kowalski and kisses him. Slides his tongue into Kowalski's mouth, catching him off-guard. Kowalski kisses back before he realizes that's what he's doing. When he gets with the program, he breaks free and shoves Vecchio hard against the closed bedroom door.
"Look, I didn't—" Vecchio has his hands up, apologizing already, but Kowalski cuts him off with his mouth, with his body. He leans in, pushes in, grinds his cock against Vecchio's thigh and kisses him blindly, hot and wired and starving.
Vecchio holds his hips and pulls him close, opens up to him instinctively, and maybe they don't need the chair anymore, the stupid light. Maybe they've finally found what they were looking for all along.