"We are talking about anger here, Fraser, a human emotion. Are you human? Because if you are, human beings feel things. Okay? They feel anger. They feel love. They feel lust and fear. And sometimes, I know you don't want to hear this, sometimes they even cry."
[Stanley had been through this before. Not just in Vegas, but every single time he'd had a gun pointed at him with no means of defence. It's the not knowing that gets you, the thought process that has you thinking through every scenario it can come up with while desperately trying to think rationally. He knew the effect it would have on Vecchio, knew that even if he tried to hide behind smart talking and over confidence that he'd still have that fear creeping up is spine like a slow shudder.
That's good. Let the fucker guess where this was going, let him wonder if Kowalski really was pissed enough to kill or whether he was just going to get the same treatment he gave in Vegas. Neither was good. Stanley wasn't a killer. He hadn't come here for that, but he'd still defend himself with this firearm if the need arose. He'd get away with it. No one would know.
He snatched for the keys and got out the back without too much fuss, unfolding as he straightened up, shoulders rolling back, chest out, gun hand relaxed but still locked on Vecchio. He kept the keys in his left hand, intertwined them with his fingers and clenched his hand around it to make an uneven knuckle duster. It's a back up for the gun, and even with a left hook those keys would hurt if Vecchio got close enough. Stan needs whatever close range protection he can get when there an elevator. Any advantage will get the other thinking twice.]
Chicago Blackhawks, huh? I'm sure they won't mind watchin'. Give 'em some excitement.
[He kept his distance, as much as the elevator would allow, lingering just slightly behind Vecchio in the hopes that the turn of his body would give Stan the warning he needed that an attack might be coming. The gun stayed steady, still pointed, and as a precaution Kowalski announces out loud:] Fingers on the trigger, Vecchio.
[It's a risky position to rest his finger on a live firearm, but it was that extra bit of protection. It spared him that extra split second of moving his finger and it meant the extra danger of an accidental shot at any sign of a struggle. Hopefully Vecchio wouldn't be stupid enough. He tried not to concern himself with it. Kept up the confident smugness as the elevator climbs.]
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.
[Neither of them particularly wanted to deal with Vecchio getting shot. It was more trouble than it was worth from Stanley's point of view, and if he killed the guy, well... he wasn't a killer, and he'd sure as hell feel the guilt from it, revenge or not. He didn't go in for all that killing for the sake of pride. It should be an eye for an eye, not a life for an eye. Gangs were fucking that one up often enough without Stanley having to add to it. It was better for all involved that this went smoothly, and Vecchio appears smart enough to realise that.
Still, he stays alert, even with the mild reassurance that the Italian won't be trying anything too stupid, offering up a growing smirk as he's glanced at. Smug indeed.
It's obvious enough that the second he lets his guard drop, the other will be on him. It's exactly what Kowalski did back in Vegas. take any chance you can get, even if it's a really bad idea. That's what he did with that bite, the bite that still seems to causing Vecchio some issues. Good.]
Yeah? Great to hear. Hip ain't so bad. Little scar. Nothin' more.
[They exit the elevator without fuss, glad to see initiative used and following in just behind, gun half tucked away against himself just in case anyway comes into the hallway. Stanley doesn't know this place. Doesn't really know the layout, and he briefly thinks that he should have found that out before he started all this, but fuck it, he didn't have time. Not when his travels back to Chicago were all last minute.
It's not worth him fumbling for the right key, so instead he tosses them back to Vecchio with minimal effort, gun still locked on it's target, unwavering. Keys still weren't a match for a bullet. Don't fucking dare, Vecchio.]
I'm sure it'll do. Probably won't wanna live here either after we're through, huh? What's with the move anyway? Mama Vecchio finally get fed up of yer whinin'?
[ It wasn't. If anything he was happy to hear it had healed well. He didn't hold any resentment toward Stanley; the guilt fell entirely on his own shoulders, and if anything it was a relief that he wasn't carrying around so severe a reminder of what Ray had done to him. Somehow it was comforting, like in some small way it might not hurt as badly for his victim - after all that was what Stanley was - as Ray had feared it would.
Not that well meaning meant anything. He'd done what he'd done. He didn't want to be forgiven, nor was he going to give Stanley any kind of self pitying heartache. He didn't think that was what was needed right now either. ]
Home is home [ he said. ] I did a lot of fucked up shit back in the desert, I could still sleep just fine at the end of the night.
[ But Stanley was probably right. He'd probably have to move again. He'd have to explain that to his sister when she came over to help him move his furniture. Again.
But hell like he was going to tell Stanley about his night terrors, his paranoia, his flightiness, the need he had to have a secure private environment. Not this cat. ]
I like the quiet.
[ The keys had hit him in the side and fallen on the floor, and Ray ducked down to pick them up, gathering them and straightening up. He undid the lock, took the keys out the door and threw them on the tray inside the door. Ray lead the way inside, scoping the room like he'd never been in there before, even though he knew exactly where all the weapons were, all the vantage points, all the places he might move to dodge a close range gunshot. He knew his apartment intimately, because the mob had left him paranoid, but now he made all of those judgements again like a good cop. Like a good gangster. Like a guy who was being held at gunpoint.
There wasn't much to the place, really. The couch was flat back against the wall, and there was open space between it and the television. The kitchenette was sparse and unlived in, and nothing faced away from the door. No seating was in the direct line of sight from the window, which had big black curtains set to hung over it at night, and the lighting was spartan. It was elegant but it was also plain. And dark. There were three doors: bathroom, walk in closet and bedroom.
He put his hands back behind his head, stepped into the center of the room, then slowly swiveled to face Stanley. ]
See what I mean? There's a remote on the coffee table works the CD player.
[He waits for Vecchio to sort the keys out, watching like a hawk to make sure that bend forward never resulted in reaching for a possible ankle holster. Steady and calm, collected despite the constant jitter of nerves that were settled just under the surface. Scared? No, he was in control, this was his time, but he had to keep the adrenaline up and his senses ready just in case he needed to jump into action. Stanley's nerves never stopped, but that's exactly what made him so quick on his feet and so ready to jump from one emotion to the next with a split second decision. He was good, he could do this. If they both just played their parts then it'd all go just fine, no consequences, no deaths.
The door swings open and he trails inside after Ray, assessing the surroundings just as much as the other, all while keeping him in his peripherals. Every bit of the room he could see was considered, just like he'd learnt to do from an early stage in his career. Door placement, furniture, objects, windows. They'd already established no one else was in the house, unless Vecchio was lying, unlikely though considering he's allowing an armed male into his home.]
Ain't so bad. It'll do.
[The gun's out of hiding again, happy to keep it as a visual aid as it remains locked on Vecchio even as Stan side steps towards the coffee table and blindly reaches for the one remote that doesn't look like it controls the TV.]
Twitch and I shoot. I dare ya. [Enough warning that he can drop his gaze for the few seconds it takes for him to establish how to work the thing, power on and set to CD. Appropriate really that it sounds like some sort of classical, a music selection he seems satisfied with as he cranks the volume up; loud enough to drown out the sounds to listening ears, but not enough to get the neighbours complaining.
With the remote tossed aside carelessly (not his property so he doesn't give a shit), he's left standing, staring straight back at the male in the centre of the room. And for a few silent, dragged out seconds he just keeps on staring, fingers on his free hand twitching restlessly while he takes it all in. That face is one he never forgot. A face that had his instincts cringing away in anger and disgust the second Fraser had dragged him up to that hotel room. A face that he'd seen night after night for months after Vegas. A face that, right now, was enough to get his blood boiling hot, flushing red as it dragged a molten trail up his neck and ears.
Fucker.
It's a lightning fast shift that has him lunging forward, one swift step into Vecchio's space and the gun, still pointed determinately forwards, finally raising at the last minute, swinging the butt of it upwards to try and strike a solid, metal aided upper-cut for the Italian's jaw. His whole body ducks down minutely for one split second before propelling up to get more force into the blow. It's as vicious and speedy as a snake bite, and there's plenty of venom behind it too.]
[ Ray knows he's balanced on a knife edge, and frankly he knows he's going to end up thrown over it one way or another. The real question is when and how. He keeps his eyes on the muzzle of the gun as Stanley trains it on him, circling around to the coffee table with enough care that Ray doesn't remotely consider going for the door behind him.
Knife edge.
Classical music. Made sense, really. Of course it did so happen that Ray left those sorts of things queued up in the machine. He'd grown to like them--he had Armando to blame for that. Still, he licked his lips nervously as Kowalski ramped the music up louder. Louder and louder. It wasn't good. He knew where it led. Then again he'd known it was leading here from the beginning.
Stanley turned to face him, and now the training wheels came off. Now he was ready. He wasn't going to shoot him, which meant they were leading toward some kind of physical violence. He grit his teeth together, waiting, watching him turn slowly red, watching the anger and resentment boil to the surface. Any second now. Ready, Vecchio? Wait for it.
Maybe there's something. Maybe there's a twitch of eyes in toward an expression of anger. Maybe there's nothing. But even if there is nothing, that nothing is Kowalski lunging toward him all of a sudden, drawing his gun up, using it like an extension of his fist and slamming it into his jaw.
His teeth crunch together, tendons in his neck overreaching as his head is snapped to the left, and backward. The gun doesn't go off - that's good - but the edge of the grip tears a gash across his jaw regardless, and knocks him back.
For a second he almost keeps his balance, but his heel catches against the toe of his other foot, and he goes down hard on his left hip. Fuck-- Fucking hell. Ow. Pressing his hand to his jaw, scooting back. ]
[It's the sound that satisfies the most, the recognition of a solid hit that comes from teeth smashing together, his own fist barely even receiving any brunt of the hit thanks to the solid metal of the gun. The fact that Vecchio falls from it only adds to the pleasure of it all, and as tempting as it would be for Stanley to throw himself at the fallen and start fighting tooth and nail, that's not why he's here. He can start a fist fight any day of the year, but right now he needs to try and grapple onto just a scrap more of self-control than normal.
He still follows the scoot back, never keeping too far away intent to loom over as that gun trains straight back on it's target. Self-control or not, he's still seething, teeth just slightly bared as his top lip curls into an animalistic snarl.]
You knew. You fuckin' knew!
[And that's what really gets to him. The pain, even the humiliation, he could deal with. They're virtually daily occurrences in his life. But the fact that 'Armando' knew exactly who he'd been dealing with? That steps way beyond the boundary of undercover.]
You saw my badge, you asshole. You saw the name- Ray Vecchio- and you still, still... [A sniff, jerking his head up and to the side for a swift crack of his neck, like a nervous twitch that he can't quite prevent. He still can't talk about it, he'd never let it leave his lips. This was all the therapy he'd ever need, he's sure of that. No psychologist will ever make him feel as satisfied as fair revenge.]
Fuck. The fuck is wrong with you? I covered for you. Every fuckin' day, I covered for you.
[He had to wonder whether he can really be betrayed by someone he'd never really known, but that's sure as hell what it'd felt like. A knife right in the back, while Fraser had stood there and smiled like the clueless idiot he is. But he wasn't to know, not when Stan had no intention of ever sharing that Vegas fiasco with him.]
[ It was true. Twice he'd seen Kowalski's badge; twice he had the opportunity to do something about it. But he'd only acknowledged it once, and that was what this was all about. In many ways Fraser and Kowalski were fortunate that he'd done as much as he needed to when they'd discovered him in that hotel room. The options otherwise would have been dire. But that was exactly it. He'd meant to shake Stanley up enough that he'd do the best he could to make sure Fraser never stumbled upon him. He'd been meant to keep Fraser out of the way of the mob forevermore, and it hadn't done any of them the slightest bit of good.
But that moment in the room, when Fraser had walked in and said "Ray!", and Kowalski had looked at him with his hard, impenetrable eyes, and he'd put it all together. Armando Langoustini was Ray Vecchio. It all came together, and Ray had been left standing there looking at the two of them hard, with a sick feeling deepening in his gut second by second--a sick feeling that hadn't even started to let up until he'd felt that gun nestle against the back of his neck in the car.
They'd been building up to this moment. It had been inevitable since the moment that hotel door had opened, and Ray had to wonder whether any explanation would ever be good enough; whether any explanation would ever be welcome.
He drew his bloodied hand away from his jaw, straightening himself on the carpet, bracing himself back so that he can look up the barrel of the gun without straining his neck. Kowalski can't even say it, and Ray doesn't blame him. ]
Yeah, I fucking knew. [ He grit his teeth, pulled himself back half a foot further, staring but not glowering up at the man above him. ] I was deep undercover, and in the space of a week I'd had two cops sniffing around me. Two cops from Chicago. You know what sort of liability that makes me?
[ He ducked his head away, scowled at the ground. ] Got you to keep Fraser the fuck away from Vegas, though, didn't it?
[ He could explain the whole thing in detail, tell Stanley about the attempts on his life, and the fact that he never thought he'd live long enough to have to come back and face the music, tell him about how far Fraser had pushed considering he'd gotten off scot free, and how his reputation had been taking a nose dive as a result. He'd done what he'd needed to do, but Kowalski was rightfully angry, and in some small way Vecchio didn't want to dissuade him from his purpose. They both needed this. Hell, he just needed it over so that he didn't have to watch his back for Stanley as much as everyone else. ]
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That's good. Let the fucker guess where this was going, let him wonder if Kowalski really was pissed enough to kill or whether he was just going to get the same treatment he gave in Vegas. Neither was good. Stanley wasn't a killer. He hadn't come here for that, but he'd still defend himself with this firearm if the need arose. He'd get away with it. No one would know.
He snatched for the keys and got out the back without too much fuss, unfolding as he straightened up, shoulders rolling back, chest out, gun hand relaxed but still locked on Vecchio. He kept the keys in his left hand, intertwined them with his fingers and clenched his hand around it to make an uneven knuckle duster. It's a back up for the gun, and even with a left hook those keys would hurt if Vecchio got close enough. Stan needs whatever close range protection he can get when there an elevator. Any advantage will get the other thinking twice.]
Chicago Blackhawks, huh? I'm sure they won't mind watchin'. Give 'em some excitement.
[He kept his distance, as much as the elevator would allow, lingering just slightly behind Vecchio in the hopes that the turn of his body would give Stan the warning he needed that an attack might be coming. The gun stayed steady, still pointed, and as a precaution Kowalski announces out loud:] Fingers on the trigger, Vecchio.
[It's a risky position to rest his finger on a live firearm, but it was that extra bit of protection. It spared him that extra split second of moving his finger and it meant the extra danger of an accidental shot at any sign of a struggle. Hopefully Vecchio wouldn't be stupid enough. He tried not to concern himself with it. Kept up the confident smugness as the elevator climbs.]
Hows the hand?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
Still, he stays alert, even with the mild reassurance that the Italian won't be trying anything too stupid, offering up a growing smirk as he's glanced at. Smug indeed.
It's obvious enough that the second he lets his guard drop, the other will be on him. It's exactly what Kowalski did back in Vegas. take any chance you can get, even if it's a really bad idea. That's what he did with that bite, the bite that still seems to causing Vecchio some issues. Good.]
Yeah? Great to hear. Hip ain't so bad. Little scar. Nothin' more.
[They exit the elevator without fuss, glad to see initiative used and following in just behind, gun half tucked away against himself just in case anyway comes into the hallway. Stanley doesn't know this place. Doesn't really know the layout, and he briefly thinks that he should have found that out before he started all this, but fuck it, he didn't have time. Not when his travels back to Chicago were all last minute.
It's not worth him fumbling for the right key, so instead he tosses them back to Vecchio with minimal effort, gun still locked on it's target, unwavering. Keys still weren't a match for a bullet. Don't fucking dare, Vecchio.]
I'm sure it'll do. Probably won't wanna live here either after we're through, huh? What's with the move anyway? Mama Vecchio finally get fed up of yer whinin'?
no subject
[ It wasn't. If anything he was happy to hear it had healed well. He didn't hold any resentment toward Stanley; the guilt fell entirely on his own shoulders, and if anything it was a relief that he wasn't carrying around so severe a reminder of what Ray had done to him. Somehow it was comforting, like in some small way it might not hurt as badly for his victim - after all that was what Stanley was - as Ray had feared it would.
Not that well meaning meant anything. He'd done what he'd done. He didn't want to be forgiven, nor was he going to give Stanley any kind of self pitying heartache. He didn't think that was what was needed right now either. ]
Home is home [ he said. ] I did a lot of fucked up shit back in the desert, I could still sleep just fine at the end of the night.
[ But Stanley was probably right. He'd probably have to move again. He'd have to explain that to his sister when she came over to help him move his furniture. Again.
But hell like he was going to tell Stanley about his night terrors, his paranoia, his flightiness, the need he had to have a secure private environment. Not this cat. ]
I like the quiet.
[ The keys had hit him in the side and fallen on the floor, and Ray ducked down to pick them up, gathering them and straightening up. He undid the lock, took the keys out the door and threw them on the tray inside the door. Ray lead the way inside, scoping the room like he'd never been in there before, even though he knew exactly where all the weapons were, all the vantage points, all the places he might move to dodge a close range gunshot. He knew his apartment intimately, because the mob had left him paranoid, but now he made all of those judgements again like a good cop. Like a good gangster. Like a guy who was being held at gunpoint.
There wasn't much to the place, really. The couch was flat back against the wall, and there was open space between it and the television. The kitchenette was sparse and unlived in, and nothing faced away from the door. No seating was in the direct line of sight from the window, which had big black curtains set to hung over it at night, and the lighting was spartan. It was elegant but it was also plain. And dark. There were three doors: bathroom, walk in closet and bedroom.
He put his hands back behind his head, stepped into the center of the room, then slowly swiveled to face Stanley. ]
See what I mean? There's a remote on the coffee table works the CD player.
no subject
The door swings open and he trails inside after Ray, assessing the surroundings just as much as the other, all while keeping him in his peripherals. Every bit of the room he could see was considered, just like he'd learnt to do from an early stage in his career. Door placement, furniture, objects, windows. They'd already established no one else was in the house, unless Vecchio was lying, unlikely though considering he's allowing an armed male into his home.]
Ain't so bad. It'll do.
[The gun's out of hiding again, happy to keep it as a visual aid as it remains locked on Vecchio even as Stan side steps towards the coffee table and blindly reaches for the one remote that doesn't look like it controls the TV.]
Twitch and I shoot. I dare ya. [Enough warning that he can drop his gaze for the few seconds it takes for him to establish how to work the thing, power on and set to CD. Appropriate really that it sounds like some sort of classical, a music selection he seems satisfied with as he cranks the volume up; loud enough to drown out the sounds to listening ears, but not enough to get the neighbours complaining.
With the remote tossed aside carelessly (not his property so he doesn't give a shit), he's left standing, staring straight back at the male in the centre of the room. And for a few silent, dragged out seconds he just keeps on staring, fingers on his free hand twitching restlessly while he takes it all in. That face is one he never forgot. A face that had his instincts cringing away in anger and disgust the second Fraser had dragged him up to that hotel room. A face that he'd seen night after night for months after Vegas. A face that, right now, was enough to get his blood boiling hot, flushing red as it dragged a molten trail up his neck and ears.
Fucker.
It's a lightning fast shift that has him lunging forward, one swift step into Vecchio's space and the gun, still pointed determinately forwards, finally raising at the last minute, swinging the butt of it upwards to try and strike a solid, metal aided upper-cut for the Italian's jaw. His whole body ducks down minutely for one split second before propelling up to get more force into the blow. It's as vicious and speedy as a snake bite, and there's plenty of venom behind it too.]
no subject
Knife edge.
Classical music. Made sense, really. Of course it did so happen that Ray left those sorts of things queued up in the machine. He'd grown to like them--he had Armando to blame for that. Still, he licked his lips nervously as Kowalski ramped the music up louder. Louder and louder. It wasn't good. He knew where it led. Then again he'd known it was leading here from the beginning.
Stanley turned to face him, and now the training wheels came off. Now he was ready. He wasn't going to shoot him, which meant they were leading toward some kind of physical violence. He grit his teeth together, waiting, watching him turn slowly red, watching the anger and resentment boil to the surface. Any second now. Ready, Vecchio? Wait for it.
Maybe there's something. Maybe there's a twitch of eyes in toward an expression of anger. Maybe there's nothing. But even if there is nothing, that nothing is Kowalski lunging toward him all of a sudden, drawing his gun up, using it like an extension of his fist and slamming it into his jaw.
His teeth crunch together, tendons in his neck overreaching as his head is snapped to the left, and backward. The gun doesn't go off - that's good - but the edge of the grip tears a gash across his jaw regardless, and knocks him back.
For a second he almost keeps his balance, but his heel catches against the toe of his other foot, and he goes down hard on his left hip. Fuck-- Fucking hell. Ow. Pressing his hand to his jaw, scooting back. ]
Sure. Sure, I deserved that.
no subject
He still follows the scoot back, never keeping too far away intent to loom over as that gun trains straight back on it's target. Self-control or not, he's still seething, teeth just slightly bared as his top lip curls into an animalistic snarl.]
You knew. You fuckin' knew!
[And that's what really gets to him. The pain, even the humiliation, he could deal with. They're virtually daily occurrences in his life. But the fact that 'Armando' knew exactly who he'd been dealing with? That steps way beyond the boundary of undercover.]
You saw my badge, you asshole. You saw the name- Ray Vecchio- and you still, still... [A sniff, jerking his head up and to the side for a swift crack of his neck, like a nervous twitch that he can't quite prevent. He still can't talk about it, he'd never let it leave his lips. This was all the therapy he'd ever need, he's sure of that. No psychologist will ever make him feel as satisfied as fair revenge.]
Fuck. The fuck is wrong with you? I covered for you. Every fuckin' day, I covered for you.
[He had to wonder whether he can really be betrayed by someone he'd never really known, but that's sure as hell what it'd felt like. A knife right in the back, while Fraser had stood there and smiled like the clueless idiot he is. But he wasn't to know, not when Stan had no intention of ever sharing that Vegas fiasco with him.]
no subject
But that moment in the room, when Fraser had walked in and said "Ray!", and Kowalski had looked at him with his hard, impenetrable eyes, and he'd put it all together. Armando Langoustini was Ray Vecchio. It all came together, and Ray had been left standing there looking at the two of them hard, with a sick feeling deepening in his gut second by second--a sick feeling that hadn't even started to let up until he'd felt that gun nestle against the back of his neck in the car.
They'd been building up to this moment. It had been inevitable since the moment that hotel door had opened, and Ray had to wonder whether any explanation would ever be good enough; whether any explanation would ever be welcome.
He drew his bloodied hand away from his jaw, straightening himself on the carpet, bracing himself back so that he can look up the barrel of the gun without straining his neck. Kowalski can't even say it, and Ray doesn't blame him. ]
Yeah, I fucking knew. [ He grit his teeth, pulled himself back half a foot further, staring but not glowering up at the man above him. ] I was deep undercover, and in the space of a week I'd had two cops sniffing around me. Two cops from Chicago. You know what sort of liability that makes me?
[ He ducked his head away, scowled at the ground. ] Got you to keep Fraser the fuck away from Vegas, though, didn't it?
[ He could explain the whole thing in detail, tell Stanley about the attempts on his life, and the fact that he never thought he'd live long enough to have to come back and face the music, tell him about how far Fraser had pushed considering he'd gotten off scot free, and how his reputation had been taking a nose dive as a result. He'd done what he'd needed to do, but Kowalski was rightfully angry, and in some small way Vecchio didn't want to dissuade him from his purpose. They both needed this. Hell, he just needed it over so that he didn't have to watch his back for Stanley as much as everyone else. ]