White drops his keys on the coffee table and smiles back at him. His wallet, which might be worth looking through, remains in his back pocket. Which means Freddy's kind of staring at White's ass as he walks into the bathroom. The door's left open, leaving Freddy with a prime view as White strips off his polo shirt.
Freddy looks away. Then he glances back, getting an eyeful of broad shoulders and a tight undershirt. He lets the image sink in, just in case he wants to jerk off to it later.
He twists the evidence locker wedding band around his finger. It was Holdaway's idea. Backstory. Subliminal reassurance that Tommy Wright isn't just a name on a fake ID. He's regretting it now, suspecting that if anything's going to make him fuck up, it's this, because White's definitely not buying it. The guy keeps pointing out hot girls to him and laughing when Freddy busts out his usual squad room bullshit, but here they are, getting dinner together for the third night in a row, and not one question about whether there's a pot roast getting cold somewhere.
And maybe that's just how it is with these guys. He's known his share of old school dogs who go from business to the bar to the bedroom of the apartment their wives don't know about. Some of them are crooks, and some of them are cops. But he can't shake the feeling that White doesn't play that game. Like if he had a wife, he'd be real good to her. Like he wouldn't have taken a shine to Freddy—Tommy—Mr. Orange—if he thought he was a slimeball.
So maybe White's screwing with him.
He listens to the sound of the sink filling up with water. There's no getting away with a thorough search, not in a place this small. Nothing useful lying out plain sight: no mail, no pictures, not even any crumpled-up receipts. Just a copy of yesterday's Times, which Freddy sorts through until he finds the funny pages.
An aerosol squirt of shaving cream. Freddy's gaze slides over.
He can see White's face in the mirror and watches as he neatly daubs on the shaving cream. White rinses his hands, shuts off the faucet, and then unfolds an honest-to-God straight razor.
Goddamn, that's badass.
Freddy's stomach tenses up, and he looks back at the funny pages. The urge to fill the silence gnaws at him. He considers asking White if he thinks Hobbes is really just a stuffed tiger. Then he considers asking White if anyone has ever told him he sort of looks like Baretta. They're both stupid questions, but one is stupider than the other. Freddy kind of had a serious crush on Baretta when he was a teenager, around the time he was still figuring out whether he wanted to be a tough guy or elope with one.
He reads a couple of comic strips without really getting the jokes. Then he carefully looks over the top of the paper again. White catches his gaze in the mirror and holds his stare for a long moment as he draws the razor blade along his cheek.
Freddy looks away. He shakes out the paper and peers at the word jumble. He can hear the swish of a razor through water. He slowly looks up again.
White's still watching him in the mirror. The razor glides along his jaw in a long, smooth line. Freddy can hardly even blink.
"You're driving me crazy here, kid."
White says it real quiet, but it rattles him anyway. He stares stupidly, having no fucking idea what that's supposed to mean. Then White smiles. It's not at full wattage, but maybe that's just the mirror. Freddy lets out a breath and looks away.
Right. Don't gawk at the guy who's handling something sharp. That's all he meant.
"Sorry, man," Freddy says. He shrugs, then shrugs again like it'll lift off the weird vibe that's suddenly hanging in the air.
Re: Orange/White, shaving kink - FILL: "Cut My Throat" 2/10
Freddy looks away. Then he glances back, getting an eyeful of broad shoulders and a tight undershirt. He lets the image sink in, just in case he wants to jerk off to it later.
He twists the evidence locker wedding band around his finger. It was Holdaway's idea. Backstory. Subliminal reassurance that Tommy Wright isn't just a name on a fake ID. He's regretting it now, suspecting that if anything's going to make him fuck up, it's this, because White's definitely not buying it. The guy keeps pointing out hot girls to him and laughing when Freddy busts out his usual squad room bullshit, but here they are, getting dinner together for the third night in a row, and not one question about whether there's a pot roast getting cold somewhere.
And maybe that's just how it is with these guys. He's known his share of old school dogs who go from business to the bar to the bedroom of the apartment their wives don't know about. Some of them are crooks, and some of them are cops. But he can't shake the feeling that White doesn't play that game. Like if he had a wife, he'd be real good to her. Like he wouldn't have taken a shine to Freddy—Tommy—Mr. Orange—if he thought he was a slimeball.
So maybe White's screwing with him.
He listens to the sound of the sink filling up with water. There's no getting away with a thorough search, not in a place this small. Nothing useful lying out plain sight: no mail, no pictures, not even any crumpled-up receipts. Just a copy of yesterday's Times, which Freddy sorts through until he finds the funny pages.
An aerosol squirt of shaving cream. Freddy's gaze slides over.
He can see White's face in the mirror and watches as he neatly daubs on the shaving cream. White rinses his hands, shuts off the faucet, and then unfolds an honest-to-God straight razor.
Goddamn, that's badass.
Freddy's stomach tenses up, and he looks back at the funny pages. The urge to fill the silence gnaws at him. He considers asking White if he thinks Hobbes is really just a stuffed tiger. Then he considers asking White if anyone has ever told him he sort of looks like Baretta. They're both stupid questions, but one is stupider than the other. Freddy kind of had a serious crush on Baretta when he was a teenager, around the time he was still figuring out whether he wanted to be a tough guy or elope with one.
He reads a couple of comic strips without really getting the jokes. Then he carefully looks over the top of the paper again. White catches his gaze in the mirror and holds his stare for a long moment as he draws the razor blade along his cheek.
Freddy looks away. He shakes out the paper and peers at the word jumble. He can hear the swish of a razor through water. He slowly looks up again.
White's still watching him in the mirror. The razor glides along his jaw in a long, smooth line. Freddy can hardly even blink.
"You're driving me crazy here, kid."
White says it real quiet, but it rattles him anyway. He stares stupidly, having no fucking idea what that's supposed to mean. Then White smiles. It's not at full wattage, but maybe that's just the mirror. Freddy lets out a breath and looks away.
Right. Don't gawk at the guy who's handling something sharp. That's all he meant.
"Sorry, man," Freddy says. He shrugs, then shrugs again like it'll lift off the weird vibe that's suddenly hanging in the air.