[ He should have seen it coming. So many years he'd spent doing this job now, so many things, people, babies, that had shown up on the backseat of the Riviera, he ought to have checked it instantly. He was out of practice. Being chauffeur driven around Vegas had made him soft around the edges, and he hadn't gotten back into even half of his meticulous professional habits. Sure, he had other ones, like sleeping with a gun under his pillow, but they didn't do him much good in Chicago, where there wasn't constantly some faceless villain about to machine gun up his bedroom like he was Michael Fucking Corleone. He was home, he was himself, he was safe--
Ha. Two of those things weren't true.
He'd tried not to let himself think about Stanley. In truth, back in that hotel room, he'd had a flash of the guy's face as he looked at Fraser, enough to prepare himself for his look of scornful disbelief as he turned to face him. Fraser's partner. It had never been meant to happen, and then there they were, face to face, their history like a churning bloodied no-man's land between them, and neither of them could say a word.
They weren't meant to ever be face to face. Ray had expected to be killed doing the job, because right at the time they'd met it had been more dangerous still than it had been for the long months before that. After Ray had left, he'd weathered two more assassination attempts, one very narrowly. An inch to the left and his prediction would have been correct.
With Ray's gun pressed firmly to his neck, there was no inch to the left. Ray didn't have enough time to react, to jolt up or reach into the passenger side for his gun - probably not there, though, and what would he do with it, shoot a fellow cop? - and his blood curdled. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of most. This--alone with Stanley Kowalski, with Fraser away in Canada, with nothing to protect him but his own wits.
He bristled. Fear was pouring off him in every possible direction (as it rightly should, Kowalski really could kill him here, and noone would suspect him of it) and fear because yes, that was a gun pressed into him, and if he fought it might very well go off even by accident--and then he was afraid because fuck, this wasn't happening, Stanley was really here, and what did he want? What could he possibly do? But he couldn't show it. He locked down into Armando like he was pulling on a suit of armor, because Armando didn't flinch when people pressed guns to his throat. Armando was tough. Armando bristled and spat insults back and never ever showed fear.
Funny. Ray Vecchio had done that once upon a time too. And fear? Well, it was a damn good response in a situation like this.
So he bristled, like growing up in Chicago had taught him, like being a cop in the city had hardened, and like being Armando had refined, and he bared his teeth at the mirror, raising his eyes toward it, then flicking them sidewards toward Stanley as he pressed his head between the two seats.
He was scared. He couldn't let Stanley see how much. ]
That right? My regards? I reckon I can do that myself. [ He lowered his voice. It slurred, picking up some of that Italian edge; Armando's edge. ] What're you gonna do? You wanna shoot me, Stanley? There's no point holding a gun to a guy's head if you're not prepared to use it.
[ He could fight back just as hard. He could growl and challenge with the best of them. ]
no subject
Ha. Two of those things weren't true.
He'd tried not to let himself think about Stanley. In truth, back in that hotel room, he'd had a flash of the guy's face as he looked at Fraser, enough to prepare himself for his look of scornful disbelief as he turned to face him. Fraser's partner. It had never been meant to happen, and then there they were, face to face, their history like a churning bloodied no-man's land between them, and neither of them could say a word.
They weren't meant to ever be face to face. Ray had expected to be killed doing the job, because right at the time they'd met it had been more dangerous still than it had been for the long months before that. After Ray had left, he'd weathered two more assassination attempts, one very narrowly. An inch to the left and his prediction would have been correct.
With Ray's gun pressed firmly to his neck, there was no inch to the left. Ray didn't have enough time to react, to jolt up or reach into the passenger side for his gun - probably not there, though, and what would he do with it, shoot a fellow cop? - and his blood curdled. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of most. This--alone with Stanley Kowalski, with Fraser away in Canada, with nothing to protect him but his own wits.
He bristled. Fear was pouring off him in every possible direction (as it rightly should, Kowalski really could kill him here, and noone would suspect him of it) and fear because yes, that was a gun pressed into him, and if he fought it might very well go off even by accident--and then he was afraid because fuck, this wasn't happening, Stanley was really here, and what did he want? What could he possibly do? But he couldn't show it. He locked down into Armando like he was pulling on a suit of armor, because Armando didn't flinch when people pressed guns to his throat. Armando was tough. Armando bristled and spat insults back and never ever showed fear.
Funny. Ray Vecchio had done that once upon a time too. And fear? Well, it was a damn good response in a situation like this.
So he bristled, like growing up in Chicago had taught him, like being a cop in the city had hardened, and like being Armando had refined, and he bared his teeth at the mirror, raising his eyes toward it, then flicking them sidewards toward Stanley as he pressed his head between the two seats.
He was scared. He couldn't let Stanley see how much. ]
That right? My regards? I reckon I can do that myself. [ He lowered his voice. It slurred, picking up some of that Italian edge; Armando's edge. ] What're you gonna do? You wanna shoot me, Stanley? There's no point holding a gun to a guy's head if you're not prepared to use it.
[ He could fight back just as hard. He could growl and challenge with the best of them. ]