Yeah. [ Murmured, mostly under his breath. ] Well considering the season they're having...
[ He hung close to the exit, his chin still raised with abject defiance, but his thoughts and instincts were wired in to the man behind him; the man with the gun in his hand and the quite legitimate beef with him. Ray had fucked him up, and that had to come back somehow. This was Chicago, Chicago rules, and there was no relying on karma to get the job done. Ray knew that. Ray had lived that, back with Frankie Zucko a million years ago. Sometimes what it took was a fist. Or a gun.
Finger on the trigger.
That shouldn't surprise him either. Good idea really, in a tight space like this. All it would take was a sudden movement, and instinct would have Stan shooting him without second thought. He got that. It also meant he didn't necessarily plan to do it, and that was fair and obvious: if Kowalski had wanted him dead he would have done it in the car. No witnesses, no evidence, and it could have been some sort of mugging gone wrong, the kind of murder they never solved because the motive could be as simple as a few quarters on the dashboard.
He wasn't going to get himself shot by accident. He hadn't come this far to do that. But he did turn his head very slightly, his shoulder, looking down his nose at Ray's left hand with the keys in it and raising his eyes again to clock Ray's expression out of the corner of them. Smug bastard. He tipped his head away, swallowed visibly, his nerves getting the better of him. ]
Aches like hell in the morning, and when it gets cold. Doc says I lost about fifty percent mobility in my thumb. Nerve damage. [ The doors opened in front of him, and he preempted Stanley's order by stepping out and leading the way down the hall, still keeping his hands up behind his neck where they could be seen at all times. ] How's your hip?
[ Sure, because this was legitimate. Trading war wounds they'd inflicted on each other when Vecchio had sexually assaulted him 'in the line of duty'. That was totally where he'd thought his life was leading two years ago. Fucking FBI, fucking mobsters. How was it he'd ended up here? He'd had a nice life, with a nice car, a nice ex-wife and a nice Mountie. Where had it all gone wrong?
Vecchio stepped obediently in against the door when they reached it, still wary of the gun. He wasn't going to try anything yet. Yet. That was the mantra he kept repeating in his head. Stanley would make some sort of mistake - after all he had - and when that happened he'd be all over it. But right now? With live ammunition involved? It wasn't likely. ]
You're gonna be disappointed. It's not nearly as nice as the old Vecchio house is. You know--before the fire damage. Thanks for that, by the way.
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[ He hung close to the exit, his chin still raised with abject defiance, but his thoughts and instincts were wired in to the man behind him; the man with the gun in his hand and the quite legitimate beef with him. Ray had fucked him up, and that had to come back somehow. This was Chicago, Chicago rules, and there was no relying on karma to get the job done. Ray knew that. Ray had lived that, back with Frankie Zucko a million years ago. Sometimes what it took was a fist. Or a gun.
Finger on the trigger.
That shouldn't surprise him either. Good idea really, in a tight space like this. All it would take was a sudden movement, and instinct would have Stan shooting him without second thought. He got that. It also meant he didn't necessarily plan to do it, and that was fair and obvious: if Kowalski had wanted him dead he would have done it in the car. No witnesses, no evidence, and it could have been some sort of mugging gone wrong, the kind of murder they never solved because the motive could be as simple as a few quarters on the dashboard.
He wasn't going to get himself shot by accident. He hadn't come this far to do that. But he did turn his head very slightly, his shoulder, looking down his nose at Ray's left hand with the keys in it and raising his eyes again to clock Ray's expression out of the corner of them. Smug bastard. He tipped his head away, swallowed visibly, his nerves getting the better of him. ]
Aches like hell in the morning, and when it gets cold. Doc says I lost about fifty percent mobility in my thumb. Nerve damage. [ The doors opened in front of him, and he preempted Stanley's order by stepping out and leading the way down the hall, still keeping his hands up behind his neck where they could be seen at all times. ] How's your hip?
[ Sure, because this was legitimate. Trading war wounds they'd inflicted on each other when Vecchio had sexually assaulted him 'in the line of duty'. That was totally where he'd thought his life was leading two years ago. Fucking FBI, fucking mobsters. How was it he'd ended up here? He'd had a nice life, with a nice car, a nice ex-wife and a nice Mountie. Where had it all gone wrong?
Vecchio stepped obediently in against the door when they reached it, still wary of the gun. He wasn't going to try anything yet. Yet. That was the mantra he kept repeating in his head. Stanley would make some sort of mistake - after all he had - and when that happened he'd be all over it. But right now? With live ammunition involved? It wasn't likely. ]
You're gonna be disappointed. It's not nearly as nice as the old Vecchio house is. You know--before the fire damage. Thanks for that, by the way.