F. S𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭 F𝐢𝐭𝐳𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐝 S𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧a𝐜𝐞 S𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 #2

# "You've got an awfully kissable mouth" - Flavio

You shoot out of the HQ like a rocket, hoping against hope that your workout-deficient legs can somehow outrun Esposito’s.

No such luck. For a guy who seems to live on canned beans and protein bars, he catches up to you within a second, laughing the whole way.

“What’s the rush, Speedy Gonzales? Neither of us can legally drive, remember?” he says, pointing his chin in the direction of his car that’s been parked by the building since the ‘incident’ last week.

“And whose fault it is, genius?” you snap, slowing down.

“Yours?” he asks, pulling his sunglasses off his face to better display his ‘honest’ surprise. “You grabbed the wheel—”

“Because you let it go!”

“Excuse you, I was maneuvering—”

“On a highway?! Even Alois wouldn’t pull a stunt like that, and he’s...” Well, Alois.

“Easy, we caught the perp, right? And there was not a scratch of your pouty little face.” He grins. “You’re welcome.”

Wow, the audacity. Is he paying people in the department to speak nicely about him? He has to be, right?

“Ugh, I swear, every time they have us ‘cooperate,’ I’m one step closer to untimely death.”

“Oh, honey, you’re doing a great job in that department without me. You came here on your own two legs, yeah?”

“Because I didn’t have a— Ah, fuck you. You don’t know anything.”

“What? Right here in the parking lot?” Flavio gasps, pressing a fist that holds his folded glasses in it to his chest. “I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist.”

“...I don’t know who told you that you’re funny, but they lied to you.”

“You just smiled, though.”

“It was a mocking smile,” you insist, speeding through the last few steps towards Nino’s car. She’s not inside. Damn it. The passenger door is locked, too.

Flavio hums and mhms for a while, plastering himself over the backseat side of the vehicle, right behind you. He props his head on the roof, and squints. “Nah, I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your problem,” you mumble, trying not to fidget. You can smell his stupid strawberry shampoo from this close. See his perpetually unbuttoned shirt splitting by the collar.

“Do you want to smooch me or smack me? I can never tell when you look at me like that.”

“Smack you,” you say, instantly, cheeks stinging when he gives you a look that says he knows you’re lying. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type. And even if you were, I’d rather smooch Fortin’s ass than—”

“Whoa!” He snickers. “I’ll be sure to tell her that.”

“Yeah, try it, jackass, and see who’ll have the last laugh.” Out of the two of you, it’s no secret that he has more to lose in the long run.

“You’ve got an awfully kissable mouth,” he scoffs, lips twisting into a derisive smirk, “it’s a shame your personality sucks.”

“...What?”

“Your personality sucks? You know it does. Your friends from the Siren’s can sing your praises all day, but you’re as prickly as a—”

“Earlier.”

Cut mid-insult, he blinks at you owlishly. Then, the widening smile freezes on his face in a very unnatural way. “I said punchable.” Yeah, that’s more like it. Prime material to tease him with, though.

“Oh? ‘Nah, I don’t believe you.’”

Flavio rolls his eyes, putting his sunglasses back on in the middle of the action. “I said what I said, I didn’t even—”

“Think? Yeah. You never do.”

“Listen here you little—”

“Get in,” Nino snaps, materializing right in front of you out of thin air. In her arms, there’s a huge load of documents. Uh-oh. “We have work to do.”

Joy of joys.

# “I once imagined you loved me a little bit, if you’ll excuse the presumption.” - Alan

The clamor of evening traffic is nearly painful. The incessant horns, the screech of the brakes, the conversations...

Alan, for once, seems deaf to the disturbance. His bottle-green suit is pristine, his hair, too, neatly brushed off his forehead. But he looks beat, dead tired, as if held together by a single tattered thread.

“Are you getting in or not?”

He extends his hand, and for the first time since you fell back into... whatever this is, you hesitate. He looks gutted, for lack of better words. A split second of anguish that fades into obscurity before you can so much as blink.

You’re in public, and you know he’s already shown you more of himself than he’d like, company or not.

It’s not difficult to grab onto his retreating arm, really, you don’t even think before you do it, but you have your own feelings to account for too, and right now, you’re uncertain.

“Do you—”

“I’ll get you a taxi.”

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s bored by you. Or maybe he really wants to live in that fucked-up telenovela of his. The understandings are all checked, now if only either of you could get hit by a car and lose your memory, that’d make it a fine episode indeed.

If he just quickly shook you off, though, it’d be easier. Easier to believe he doesn’t care. Easier to leave him here, and never look back. But he unwraps your fingers lightly, thumb brushing against your knuckles slowly, savoring, as if it’s the last touch he’s ever going to get.

He looks at you with that sort of understanding that makes you want to scream.

“Have a good night.”

Turning from you and towards the entrance, he pushes the door stopper off the way with the tip of his shoe, then continues inside without a glance backwards. You can see his back becoming more and more distorted by the decorative glass.

You’re pretty sure Alois is wrong about it. But you sound like a broken record when you say, ‘you don’t know him like I do.’ What if you don’t, though?

It’s not that the fight is between you and Alan, it’s between you and your heart, and that meaty bastard is winning with unfair advantage. The taxi comes. And goes. On such a busy street, the drivers can’t complain about the lack of clients. You stay by the awning for a minute longer before you say, ‘fuck it,’ and enter the building.

Alan’s in his office, standing by the window, smoking what looks like his second cigarette. If he dares to look so relieved to see you, he shouldn’t have pushed you away earlier. He’s also surprised, like he really didn’t expect you to come.

“Stop it,” you say, when you see him open his mouth. It’s best to interrupt him before he can fall back into the ‘did you forget something,’ game. “You’ll smell like an ass.”

“I didn’t know you were a connoisseur,” he chuckles, but lets you pluck the cigarette out of his grasp, dispose of it in the overfilling ashtray.

You don’t take the bait. “I don’t know what you heard, but you should know Alois enough—”

“It’s not about Alois.”

“Then what is it about?”

Without the cigarette to occupy his mouth, his teeth bite into the meat of his lip. Anything to avoid the answer.

“‘Do you want me to stay?’ That’s what I was going to ask.” And he’d know if he let you finish.

“Do you want to stay?” Of course, it wouldn’t be like him if he didn’t turn the question around.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you snap.

“I invited you, didn’t I?” he retorts, just as quickly, then sighs. “I feel like...”

“What?”

He shakes his head. He’s silent for a long while, weighing his thoughts. “I once imagined you loved me a little bit, if you’ll excuse the presumption,” he starts, and you finally understand where this is going.

It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? While you beat yourself over whether he cares for you or not, he does just the same to himself. What a pair you are, huh?

“‘A little bit,’” you snort. His flinch doesn’t escape your notice. “I’m sorry to interrupt your... emotional confession, but you should know that if I loved you just ‘a little bit,’ I would have listened to Alois and dumped your ass ages ago. Twice over.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he grins, recovering the shreds of his self-assurance.

“No, I wouldn’t,” you agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Why are we even having this conversation? Everything was going so well. Do you always have to, I don’t know, focus on the worst of things? ”

“You remember what happened the last time I got too comfortable,” he says, glancing towards the streets outside. His voice turns hoarse like well-used sandpaper.  “I guess I can’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop.”

It’s your time to wince, though you do it more covertly. There’s something similar in you. No amount of words can ease your anxieties. For both of you, actions speak louder.

So you move to the couch, kick off your boots, and make yourself comfortable.  “Well, both shoes are off now,” you announce, bringing Alan’s attention back to you. “Do with it what you will.”

He does a double take, then snorts. “Only you...” he mutters. His hand moves to the pocket of his pants, absentmindedly searching for his pack of menthols. He stops himself when you send him a halfhearted glare, then walks over, flopping on the seat on your right.

You press your arm to his, and he takes the silent invitation to rest his head against your shoulder.

“I’m so fucking tired.”

“I know, I can tell.”

It doesn’t take long for him to drift off.