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.