Heat had a strange effect on a city.

The difference between New York and Los Angeles was that New York's crime was cold, calculated, meditated. You got the occasional drunk incident, sure, but usually, usually the violence was a byproduct of something else. Some deal, some plot, a theft or a desperate addiction.

Los Angeles heat was bad for the temper, made the blood boil. Tricky for a guy who wasn't used to it. Dangerous, even. Larry had swung that pipe like a batter at field, and the homerun had splattered all over Mr. Brown's Walten Penn loafers. The violence in L.A. was intemperate, as scattered as rain from the sky -- whereas the violence in New York was a garden hose gone wild on the front lawn, no less unexpected but at least you could hunt it down to its source.

And if it wasn't violence brought to the forefront of a man's mind, then sex was the bell quick to clamor after. The heat whittled the mind down to its bare operations; it was like being slightly drunk all the time, blood thick and ears red. L.A. was the day to New York's night, and the sun was blinding.

Mr. White had rung Nice Guy Eddie to warn he'd be out of town for a while, which plied a bit of information loose at long last: a schedule. The diamonds were going to be shipped in soon, less than a month. By the time Larry got back into town on the head-doctor's green light, the group was buckling down.

Picking out a rendezvous. Studying street maps and the store blueprints, watching every single employee's comings and goings. One would think there would be less time for bullshit, but the frequency of their working afternoons only doubled the number of their celebratory nights. It was as much hard work just surviving the hangover as it was staking out the job on Karina's Jewelry and Gifts, blood thick and lungs hungry for a cigarette while L.A. carried on relentlessly sunny.

White wasn't asked on any more jobs (Papa Joe felt a debt was owed after that mess with the streeter), but he did become the salesman for the highest quality ganja the LAPD confiscation room could provide. Longbeach managed to push a few other things into the suitcase, courtesy precaution. Nothing too hard, nothing that would pull up a nasty dependence or attract the wrath of whoever held the market on that side of the city.

Bullshit college stuff, mushrooms and ecstasy and a foil sheet of speed tablets. It all went into the floor vault next to the garbage bag that held his badge and official effects. Perhaps not to be touched until the end of the case, unless Longbeach does something stupid and runs his mouth off to Nice-Guy about the product one Mr. White Russian just got ahold of and wasn't this saturday going to be shit for weather, so how about being stuck inside during a tropical storm and not tripping balls, that didn't sound like much fun did it...

Holdaway was right, Longbeach was kind of a piece of shit.

Because he trusted Orange, because he was friendly and stalwart and wanted to see all his perps safely to jail, Larry set down his briefcase and joined Orange out in the rain to see what the fuck was the matter.

Because Orange was not in any way a functioning member of society, because he'd seen White kill a man with a single magnificent blow, and because he wanted something to forget himself in, Orange punched White full and quick, and then punched White hard and clumsy, and kept swinging until White was fighting back.

Orange lost fantastically. For a moment, though, when everything in the world was upside down, the pain made sense. It was familiar. It wasn't a cure, but it was a distraction, and that was all Orange knew he was ever going to get. Sure, he still felt like shit by the time White had them inside soaking the carpet of the atrium, but it was a different kind of shit -- one that he chose instead of just rolling over under the glare of the old bad feeling.

"You know that guy with the bell and the drooling dog?" Orange could stand on his own, but he liked the way White carried his arm over his shoulder. Liked the way White kicked the briefcase inside, like his product was less important than keeping Orange upright.

"No." White is either angry or... well, no, he seemed plenty angry. That flicker in his eyes, with his eyelashes clumping dark and pretty from the rain, there was no way that was fear.

"C'mon, you know who I mean. You're smart."

"I ain't, and I don't know what you're talking about." White hisses through clenched teeth. "I don't know what you consider smart, or what the fuck you were thinking just now, but I --" White stands Orange up against the wall, sliding a potted plant out of the way with his foot. He's fuming, the steam of sweat and rain and exertion visibly rising from them both in the cool Central Air of the Cabot house. "I got nothing to do with it."

Orange runs a tongue over his front teeth, matching White's hard stare with a smile that doesn't survive the attempt. "Payload, or something russian like it... Pavlov, that was it. Pavlov's dog, see, he'd feed it and ring this bell. Then he'd ring the bell and the dog would drool because it was expecting food."

White has backed off, bloodied and scraped up and dusted off and pasted together by the rain.

Orange's grin wasn't pretty. It wasn't nice, it wasn't sexy. It was trashy, and self-depreciating, and bashful. It was a close relative to the sneer, or maybe what animals did when they bared their teeth at each other. "I fight my wife like that, sometimes. And then we fuck like the world is ending." He detaches from the wall, shoes squelching obscenely. "It's all Pavlov for me right now, see." The storm has picked up, now more wind than downpour, howling and rushing and the distant bag of unfortunate shutters or forgotten garbage bins.

White has startled, apprehensively pacing to the door to shut it securely against the lash of the storm.

Orange laughs, genuinely amused. "It's like the world really is ending. Why aren't you on my dick yet?"

White glares over his shoulder, plucking at the front of his (now transparent) shirt to unstick it from his throat. "Because I'd rather not catch pneumonia. If it's all the same to you."

Orange is affronted. "I already told you, asshole; I'm clean." But he's really more interested in the contents of White's briefcase, and leads him down the hall to the office where Eddie and Brown were vehemently discussing the Jackson Five.

Nice-Guy's cheer turns to instant concern. "Mother Mary of GOD, what the fuck happened to you two?"

"Here," White tosses the case to Longbeach, who catches it with a startle. "Nine for the lot of it; I'm done with this shit."

"Nine hundred?" Eddie gingerly accepts the briefcase and flips it open. He considers the baggies and the pills and the small brick of weed.

"Yeah. Is there a problem?"

I just finished catching up on your story and, wow, I don't even know where to begin. Reading this didn't even feel like reading a fic, it was more like watching a QT style movie; it was witty, intriguing and just the kind of story that had me at the edge of my seat the whole time I was reading it. Your characterization is top-notch and you made me feel for these characters even more than I did previously. You had me glued next to the screen for at least an hour until I reached the end of updates, because I just had to know what happens next.

Reservoir Dogs might not be rich in the fic department but I feel as if this fic more or less compensates that lack of fanworks. This was just what I needed for this fandom, these characters and this specific pairing. Thank you for giving me the pleasure to read your writing.

It's a shame the story seems to be abandoned because I (and I'm sure many others too) would love to find out how it all ends, but I know how it is with writing: sometimes you just can't continue with a story and nothing can be done about that. But if you ever regain interest or inspiration, just know that you have at least one loyal reader.

Orange doesn't taste like cocaine this time around. Maybe there's blood, but then again maybe it was just White's blood, or the cigarettes on Orange's breath mistaken for the cigarettes White had smoked on the cab ride there. Orange doesn't taste distinct, is the thing. It's just another mouth, another dry insistent press going wet and deep because Orange is some kinda sap and can't just pull a guy off without making it personal.

White doesn't reciprocate the handjob, doesn't even bother to offer. He bites the swell of Orange's split lip because he's still kinda pissed over the fight and now angry at this fresh disregard for his morals.

Instead of flinching back or voicing any kind of protest, Orange groans and bangs his knee on the Maytag with a hollow clang.

White is startled. He leans back, voice husky. "You like getting hurt?" Concern evident.

Orange deliberates, then nods. "Sometimes. If it's not too bad." His thighs are flush against the edge of the Maytag, leaning bodily into White's heat. Dirty blonde hair damp and ruffled from the toweling. Thumb coaxing encouragement at the base of White's dick.

"I don't like hurting people," A flat intone. "Okay?"

Orange just nods. "Sure, whatever's fine. Is this good?" He kneads lightly at the soft vulnerability between White's shaft and sac, then more firmly, thumb exploring in circles. "Feels good when I do it to myself. Could just be me, though."

White doesn't bother to answer, hands braced back on the cool metal top of the machine. His eyes are glued to the way Orange's hand disappears under the towel, to the rise and fall of the fabric like a third heart beating between them as he gets worked. He's playing it cool, but he also can't face the heat in Orange's eyes. His pulse is thrumming, breath quicker and deeper.

"White," Orange pleads. "Answer me. 'S it good or not?"

White doesn't say. He looks just over Orange's shoulder at the fresh linens on the shelves. Swallows hard a few times, spreads his legs in answer to the thumb now pressing quick and sure under his sac. That feels good enough to earn a breathy groan, but White kinda likes holding out on Orange, wants to see if ... well, he doesn't know what. Half of him doesn't even want to be in that dim little room, but it's too busy arguing with the half of him that hasn't been laid in months to really say stop.

I always get stymied writing sex scenes. UGH/fails at everything

Onward and upward!