[ Yes, it was a good call. At the end of the day it wouldn't take the edge off the fact that this had been done to him, but it might pave some path toward absolution, at least of his own guilt. Vecchio wouldn't be so lucky; he'd carry this around with him like the bitemark on his hand, and if this assignment didn't kill him then who knew what kind of state he'd be left in by the end of it. Frankly, he'd already gotten to that point; the point where the things Armando did didn't get to him as much. He'd ordered more people dead in the last year than he'd shot in his entire career in the Chicago PD, murdered them with his own hands and clean gotten away with it - because the FBI allowed it - and it was getting to him.
But he also had a shrink, an FBI doctor he spoke to once a fortnight during his debriefing, and inevitably more psychotherapy than he could stand when he came out of it. Of course the fact that he'd no more talk to her about this incident than this stand-in Ray would talk to anyone was more or less irrelevant. He had it if he wanted it. The help was there.
No, they were both fucked. This assignment was going to ruin him, and there really was no getting out of it. Shrink or no, he was going to carry this shit around with him up until the day he died, even if that day wasn't this week or next month, and Ray was really getting off easy. Between getting fucked by a mobster or fucked by the FBI...
Get back in the game, Vecchio. Armando. You've still got a job to do. A job, right. This was a job. Fuck his life.
He was just readjusting his feet when Ray began to twist and scramble on the floor, the edge of the chair, and he felt the foot on his chest in the moment before Ray jammed himself backward using the resistance of his own body. He didn't resist for long; unbalanced, he toppled over on the rubber under Ray's feet, fell on his ass, and then sat there startled for a moment. And then he laughed--it might even have been a Vecchio laugh, it was really hard to tell - had been too long - and he was dragging himself back up, looking at Ray with his ass tucked in against the back corner of the chair and his chest puffed out like a Mountie on parade. Okay, that wasn't exactly a kick, but a moment later he's forcibly rubbing the laughter from his face, and he draws his fist back and slams it right into the side of Ray's face. ]
Alright, pretty boy. You feel that?
[ He wrapped his now aching hand around Ray's throat, closed it tight and leant in over him. ]
You do that again, or you speak a word about any of this when you leave this room, it won't be you I break. No, no, no, no, no. It'll be your sister, or your mother, or your stetson wearing friend, and I'll take half a dozen of my men with me, they like it when we go on road trips. We'll all have a go. We'll make a night of it, have a fucking party. He was real pretty your friend, prettier than you. I wonder what color Canadians bleed--do you know? A real bright red, maybe. It'll look real nice running down his thighs.
[ Always important to remind him what he was up against. Besides, Ray didn't know that he wouldn't do those things. He'd already seen what he would do to a guy who hadn't so much as hit him; just jumped him in a casino. Taking swipes at the Mountie was the way to go, though. If anyone had talked to him about Fraser that way he'd have ripped their head off with his bare hands. ]
Spread your legs. Don't you fucking make me wait. [ He squeezed his hand, then released, leaving a bruise on Ray's throat. ]
no subject
But he also had a shrink, an FBI doctor he spoke to once a fortnight during his debriefing, and inevitably more psychotherapy than he could stand when he came out of it. Of course the fact that he'd no more talk to her about this incident than this stand-in Ray would talk to anyone was more or less irrelevant. He had it if he wanted it. The help was there.
No, they were both fucked. This assignment was going to ruin him, and there really was no getting out of it. Shrink or no, he was going to carry this shit around with him up until the day he died, even if that day wasn't this week or next month, and Ray was really getting off easy. Between getting fucked by a mobster or fucked by the FBI...
Get back in the game, Vecchio. Armando. You've still got a job to do. A job, right. This was a job. Fuck his life.
He was just readjusting his feet when Ray began to twist and scramble on the floor, the edge of the chair, and he felt the foot on his chest in the moment before Ray jammed himself backward using the resistance of his own body. He didn't resist for long; unbalanced, he toppled over on the rubber under Ray's feet, fell on his ass, and then sat there startled for a moment. And then he laughed--it might even have been a Vecchio laugh, it was really hard to tell - had been too long - and he was dragging himself back up, looking at Ray with his ass tucked in against the back corner of the chair and his chest puffed out like a Mountie on parade. Okay, that wasn't exactly a kick, but a moment later he's forcibly rubbing the laughter from his face, and he draws his fist back and slams it right into the side of Ray's face. ]
Alright, pretty boy. You feel that?
[ He wrapped his now aching hand around Ray's throat, closed it tight and leant in over him. ]
You do that again, or you speak a word about any of this when you leave this room, it won't be you I break. No, no, no, no, no. It'll be your sister, or your mother, or your stetson wearing friend, and I'll take half a dozen of my men with me, they like it when we go on road trips. We'll all have a go. We'll make a night of it, have a fucking party. He was real pretty your friend, prettier than you. I wonder what color Canadians bleed--do you know? A real bright red, maybe. It'll look real nice running down his thighs.
[ Always important to remind him what he was up against. Besides, Ray didn't know that he wouldn't do those things. He'd already seen what he would do to a guy who hadn't so much as hit him; just jumped him in a casino. Taking swipes at the Mountie was the way to go, though. If anyone had talked to him about Fraser that way he'd have ripped their head off with his bare hands. ]
Spread your legs. Don't you fucking make me wait. [ He squeezed his hand, then released, leaving a bruise on Ray's throat. ]