"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."
[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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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. ]