[ Before Vegas, this wouldn't have been his life. Oh, he was cool under a certain amount of pressure, but he could freak out with the best of them, scream and beat his hands against steel doors and hate on his best friend utterly shamelessly. He was still doing that, but it was all inside now; all his terror compartmentalized until he could process and control it. He screamed internally, but on the outside he did his best not to show it, and as a result - right now - inadvertently bled real, genuine fear; fear that only Stanley, who knew the feeling intimately, could see. The tightening of his hands, the sudden clenching of the muscle in his jaw, his forehead knotting in the center as he frowned.
Shut up, Kowalski said. And don't call me Stanley. The threat held more weight here; he had to believe that Ray meant it.
Still, Vecchio considered every option before he moved. The idea of trying to get his gun, the thought of getting out of the car and slamming the door in Stan's face, then making a run for it. But he'd been here before, knew full well that all it would take was one bullet and it would be game over.
When Stanley had been under his thumb in Vegas, most of his own power had come from being on the other side of the gun. There was a pureness to the understanding that guns equaled death; that if you made one wrong move then it might come even by accident, without warning, and regret would do him no good when he was dead. Like Stanley had surmised back in the dungeon, cooperation was the fastest route to survival, and survival was the key here. Only survival mattered: whether it was surviving until a suitable moment for resistance arrived, or surviving until the ordeal was over. Whichever came first.
There was no real judgement to make. The only thing he needed to do was batter his already beaten pride back, convince any hint of instinct for self preservation that he had left that he ought to cooperate. The decision was already made. He reached forward slowly and took out the keys, dropping them onto the passenger seat. Stanley would need them to get the door to his apartment open, but Vecchio was well aware that letting him having a handful of keys he might try to use as weapons was unlikely to be the top of the other man's to-do list. He preempted that one with the efficiency of a man who was used to the variables himself.
Nice and slowly, he opened the door of the Riviera and pushed it wide on the hinge, then he put his hands behind his neck, folding them in place with his elbows up in the air, and climbed out without placing a hand for balance, exhaling slowly as he found his feet. Slowly, cooperate, let Stanley get out behind him. Let him have his control. He couldn't hold onto that gun forever.
The elevator door was still open. At this time of night that wasn't surprising. Nobody was going in or out, the entire building was quiet and still. He tapped for the eighth floor, then waited anxiously. If he was going to try and wrestle the gun from Kowalski this would be the moment. He had to be aware of that too. He had to be aware because Kowalski would be jumpier, ready to snap at the first wrong move Vecchio made so long as his tenuous connection to control was the trigger of the gun and nothing else. ]
Sure [ He murmured in answer, keeping his voice as neutral as he could but ending up slightly growly despite himself. His aggression was pinned down and pent up with nowhere to go. Being in this position didn't suit him anymore, the way he once might have been able to stand being pushed around. And impatience made a bad cop. ] I got the whole of the Chicago Blackhawks in there watching the game with me.
[ Still a wise ass, but he was trying just too hard to be now, and it gave a poor impression of confidence. ]
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Shut up, Kowalski said. And don't call me Stanley. The threat held more weight here; he had to believe that Ray meant it.
Still, Vecchio considered every option before he moved. The idea of trying to get his gun, the thought of getting out of the car and slamming the door in Stan's face, then making a run for it. But he'd been here before, knew full well that all it would take was one bullet and it would be game over.
When Stanley had been under his thumb in Vegas, most of his own power had come from being on the other side of the gun. There was a pureness to the understanding that guns equaled death; that if you made one wrong move then it might come even by accident, without warning, and regret would do him no good when he was dead. Like Stanley had surmised back in the dungeon, cooperation was the fastest route to survival, and survival was the key here. Only survival mattered: whether it was surviving until a suitable moment for resistance arrived, or surviving until the ordeal was over. Whichever came first.
There was no real judgement to make. The only thing he needed to do was batter his already beaten pride back, convince any hint of instinct for self preservation that he had left that he ought to cooperate. The decision was already made. He reached forward slowly and took out the keys, dropping them onto the passenger seat. Stanley would need them to get the door to his apartment open, but Vecchio was well aware that letting him having a handful of keys he might try to use as weapons was unlikely to be the top of the other man's to-do list. He preempted that one with the efficiency of a man who was used to the variables himself.
Nice and slowly, he opened the door of the Riviera and pushed it wide on the hinge, then he put his hands behind his neck, folding them in place with his elbows up in the air, and climbed out without placing a hand for balance, exhaling slowly as he found his feet. Slowly, cooperate, let Stanley get out behind him. Let him have his control. He couldn't hold onto that gun forever.
The elevator door was still open. At this time of night that wasn't surprising. Nobody was going in or out, the entire building was quiet and still. He tapped for the eighth floor, then waited anxiously. If he was going to try and wrestle the gun from Kowalski this would be the moment. He had to be aware of that too. He had to be aware because Kowalski would be jumpier, ready to snap at the first wrong move Vecchio made so long as his tenuous connection to control was the trigger of the gun and nothing else. ]
Sure [ He murmured in answer, keeping his voice as neutral as he could but ending up slightly growly despite himself. His aggression was pinned down and pent up with nowhere to go. Being in this position didn't suit him anymore, the way he once might have been able to stand being pushed around. And impatience made a bad cop. ] I got the whole of the Chicago Blackhawks in there watching the game with me.
[ Still a wise ass, but he was trying just too hard to be now, and it gave a poor impression of confidence. ]