White suggests a trust-building exercise, and he hands Orange a straight razor.

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.

Freddy adjusts his grip on the razor. He runs his thumb cautiously over the edge of the blade, testing it. His head tilts as he tries to work out the right angle. Finally, he hoists himself up to sit on the vanity.

His toes twitch in his sneakers as White steps closer and puts his hands on the counter. One curls around the edge of the sink. The other settles square between Freddy's knees.

The air goes out of the room. Freddy has to kick-start his chest to draw breath. Be cool, he thinks. Just be cool.

There's not enough room between them to brace an elbow on his knee. So he has to balance himself with a hand on White's shoulder. Warm cotton. Hot skin. White holds steady as a rock.

Freddy bites his lip, then leans in and places the edge of the blade against White's throat. It makes a sharp line in the lather. He draws the blade up. White breathes out softly.

All of a sudden, he does remember being little—four, maybe five—and watching his dad shave in the bathroom of their old apartment. He remembers only being about as tall as the pedestal sink, craning his neck up to watch. He remembers thinking the shaving lather looked like whipped cream. He was probably stupid enough to try it when no one was looking.

The razor stops just under White's jawbone. Then he draws a careful stripe down White's cheek, closing the line. His gaze steals up. White's eyes are closed, and he's breathing slow and heavy. Freddy's mouth runs dry.

Fuck. He's getting a hard-on.

He thinks cold thoughts as he rinses the blade. Broken noses. Severed fingers. It doesn't help. All he can feel is the places where bare skin's touching bare skin. He clears another line along White's throat, and then another. Two downward strokes along White's cheek. A long sweep across his jaw. His hand tightens around White's shoulder as he maneuvers the blade over the tricky Adam's apple curve.

That's when White opens his eyes. Warm and dark. Heavy eyelids.

Freddy was real slow to get the memo as a kid on what straight guys do and don't do with their buddies, but a couple beat-downs in middle school mostly sorted him out. This definitely goes in that box of things that two straight guys wouldn't be doing. Not even if one of them was trying to see if the other one's a pussy.

White's looking at him like...

Like he doesn't even know what.

There's one last dab of shaving cream left under White's right ear. Freddy wipes it away with his thumb. They're just staring at each other. Freddy, desperately searching for some sort of clue. White, solid as anything. Like he's going to stand there forever until Freddy either fucks off or does something stupid.

So Freddy goes with it. He closes his eyes and leans in.

This is what he's supposed to be doing, isn't it? His orders are to cozy up to these guys. Be whatever they want him to be. This is their plan, their crime, and he's not allowed to give them any ideas, but he's not allowed to stop them either. Whatever it takes—that's the watchword of the day—and Tommy Wright, Mr. Orange, is just as turned on as Freddy Newandyke, with no good reason to say no.

His mouth touches White's, and that's about the point where he loses all control of the situation.

White's heavy. Not any taller than him, but a solid guy. Freddy can hardly breathe, but it's a good feeling. He's used to club bathrooms. Dark corners. Fast handjobs and blowjobs on the nights when porn isn't cutting it and he's horny enough to go into West Hollywood. Not slow, hard kissing and fingers combing through his hair. His hand slides down White's back, over his ass, pulling him in hard and grinding against him.

Freddy's making sounds like crazy, little mms and ahs that he just can't keep back, and cut-off fucks that get quashed against White's mouth. The radio was a good idea. Bob Dylan's mumbling has to be covering the worst of it. Freddy hasn't made out like this since he was in high school, all groping hands and endless kissing and hooking a thumb in a belt loop and tugging in a silent please.

It works. White eases off just a little and unbuttons his jeans. Freddy is on this, his hand in White's briefs before the zipper's even down.

"Not bad," he says breathlessly. The bulge didn't oversell.

White chuckles, his lips on Freddy's neck. Soft, open-mouthed kisses as Freddy strokes him. Don't leave any marks, he wants to say, but White's a professional. It's all lips until he's down past the collar bones. Then he's fucking going to town on Freddy's nipples. Licking. Biting. Sucking on them like candy.

"Oh shit," Freddy moans, head rolling back.

It's good, real good—chewing his lip and arching up good. Then White's easing down Freddy's boxers, and dropping kisses along Freddy's stomach, and it all gets even better.

"Jesus..."

His stomach trembles. White's lips slide down his dick.

His brain goes stupid, and for a moment he wonders if "gives great head" is the kind of identifying information he should be passing on to Holdaway. It's...fuck, White knows how to suck dick. His hands are rough, but his mouth is smooth and slow. Dirty slow, like he's tasting him.

Freddy doesn't have a chance. He can tell himself to think cool thoughts all he likes—can silently name every single Avenger, past and present, in a bid to keep from shooting his load in five seconds flat—but the fact of the matter is this guy is sucking him off like it's going out of style, his eyes shut and his eyebrows up, like Freddy's dick is all he can think about.

"Fuck, man..."

Freddy's arms curl above his head as his body pushes up, just about begging. His hips want to move, but White's holding them down. His eyes squeeze shut and his mouth is hanging open, and he can feel the heat roll through him—that kind of black-out orgasm that makes his hands and feet go numb.

His fist bangs down on the bed as he comes. "Holy fucking Jesus!"

White's laughing around his dick. Laughing. Swallowing. Pulling off with his eyes all bright and his mouth...his mouth...

"You're a noisy motherfucker," White says. He's still laughing, but it's not a mean laugh. Freddy knows the difference.

"Sorry," Freddy says, and then he's laughing too. It sounds kind of hysterical, but he's not feeling messed up. He's feeling good. He's feeling so good. He runs his hand over his face. "I don't even know your name."

He's not fishing. He's not that goddamned smart. It's just funny, that's all. He doesn't even know why, because he hasn't gotten the name of half the guys he's screwed around with since leaving the academy. But for God's sake—Mr. White. Mr. Orange. It's ridiculous.

White looks at him seriously. Then he offers his hand. "It's Larry. Good to meet you."

The smile dries up on Freddy's face. Larry from Milwaukee. Fuck, is it really that easy? He hesitates, then takes the offered hand. Tommy, he's about to say, but White moves over him and shuts him up with a rough kiss.

"Keep it under your hat until after the job," White says. "I'm allowed to piss off Joe. You're not."

Until after the job. That's weeks away. Years. Forever. His hand moves down White's stomach.

There's a knock at the door about fifteen minutes in, and Freddy reaches for his wallet, but White waves him off. Freddy's attention leaves the TV. He watches as White cracks open the drawer on the little hallway table before peering through the peephole. Then White's shoulders ease, and he opens the door to reveal a skinny kid holding a couple of paper bags. Freddy catches a glimpse of a driver's license and a wad of cash as White opens his wallet and pays the kid.

The burger's good. So is the milkshake. Freddy hollows his cheeks as he sucks the straw, and White elbows him in the ribs. He's playing with fire, he knows it. But it's hard to really appreciate it when it feels so easy. The movie plays on, stupid and familiar. He eats his burger and fries, and he steals a couple of White's onion rings. During the commercials, White talks about the great white he saw in Baja. About swordfishing in Florida and catfishing in Louisiana. The guy has lived.

He wants to take me fishing, he imagines telling Holdaway. That's the way to go. Because he knows exactly what Holdaway will say.

Is he a faggot? He want to be your daddy?

Freddy will shrug. An embarrassed, what-can-you-do kind of shrug. Maybe.

I don't care if he wants you to sit in his lap and bounce, the Holdaway in his head says. You do whatever gets this motherfucker talking.

That's his ass at least halfway covered if any of this gets out. But it won't. White's not going to go flapping his mouth about fucking one of his supposed co-conspirators. If there's one thing worse than being queer in the LAPD, it's being queer in prison.

It's a little cold, the thought of locking White up.

He crosses his arms over his chest. Slouches down a little. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time. It's not going to be that bad. White's a smart guy, and he knows the man in charge. Freddy will put in a good word for him, and White will spill on Cabot, and he'll get five years at most. Maybe three years with good behavior. Maybe one. The prison system's fucked up.

"You okay?" White asks.

The credits are rolling, and Freddy's been staring at the coffee table for at least a minute.

"Yeah. Fine. Just thinking."

"Don't sprain anything." White pulls a little at his shoulder.

"Asshole," Freddy says.

Maybe he's doing White a favor. Maybe after he does his time, he'll go straight. Move down to the Florida Keys and get a boat or something. Take tourists fishing. Feed them to sharks.

"I mean it," White says. His voice is kind of gruff, but it's probaby just heartburn. "Don't be so fucking tense all the time. It's contagious."

White pulls at his shoulder again, and this time Freddy goes with it. He lets White ease him down and ends up on his back, head pillowed in White's lap.

It's weird. But kind of good. He's had a headache he can't shake ever since starting this gig, and lying down makes the pressure ease. White's hand settles on his stomach. Again? Freddy's dick makes it clear it's on board with that. Freddy himself isn't sure where this is going, but he spreads his legs for it, putting one foot on the floor. Playing along.

The next thing he knows, the sun is up. The sound of traffic is drifting in through the windows. Birds are chirping. He can smell coffee, and he really needs to piss. He sits up, groggy, and looks around.

White is in the kitchen, going through the cupboards. He's freshly showered, his hair wet and combed back. He's barefoot in jeans and a white t-shirt. Not a bad look for him. The coffeemaker's dripping. Freddy rubs his eyes, feeling a little hungover. Then he rubs his neck. He's getting too old to comfortably sleep on a couch. He tries to remember if White slept there with him.

"Morning," White says. He takes a half-carton of milk out of the mini-fridge and sniffs it.

Freddy stumbles to his feet and stretches. He looks at the clock. He's due to meet Holdaway in a couple of hours. Shit. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

White shrugs. "Looked like you need it."

He kind of did. He hasn't slept all the way through the night in a couple of weeks. "Thanks. I should really get going..."

"I'm not sending you out looking like that. Grab a shower."

Freddy considers that and shrugs. The second he catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, he sees the wisdom in the offer. He's a mess. His hair is standing up, and his eyes are still puffy, and he looks like he spent the night in an X-rated movie. The inside of his mouth vouches for it. He gets the hot water started, then squeezes some toothpaste on his finger and brushes his teeth. He takes a leak, then gets in the shower.

He can hear White moving quietly around. Things clunking in the kitchen. Footsteps across the length of the apartment—into the bathroom for a moment, which makes Freddy peer out from behind the curtain with soap in his eyes, but White's already gone. He scrubs himself down as best he can, then dries off and puts on yesterday's clothes.

There's bacon sizzling on the stove when he gets out. There are two cups of coffee waiting on the little formica table. There's also a bowl, a can of shaving cream, a towel, and the straight razor.

"Sit," White says.

Freddy hesitates. Uh-uh, the academy voice in his head is whispering. No fucking way. But the curtains are open, letting in the early morning sunlight, and you don't make a cup of coffee for the guy whose throat you're about to slit.

"Sit down," White says again. Not forceful. Blustery, like maybe he thinks Freddy will laugh at him. "I ain't sending you out there looking like a bum."

So Freddy sits down. He takes a drink of coffee, his shoulders drawing together just a little as White steps behind him with the towel. "Told you I'm old enough to shave."

White rubs Freddy's cheek. "Peach fuzz," he scoffs.

The hot, wet cloth feels good against his face. There's a squirt of shaving cream and then the slick sound of lather between White's palms. It goes on his face warm and smooth. Goosebumps break out down his arms as White leans over him, closely inspecting his work. Then White wipes off his hands and picks up the razor.

"Hey, maybe—" Freddy starts to say, but then the blade is against his throat.

The first kiss of steel is cold. Freddy's breath catches. The razor lingers for a long moment over his jugular. White's hand is firm on his shoulder, and Freddy holds very still. Then the blade slides up in one slow, fluid stroke, and he breathes out.

White smiles down on him and dips the razor into the hot water. Freddy smiles back and then closes eyes, laughing a little. The razor is warmer the second time around. You've got this, he thinks to himself as his head tilts back, coming to rest against White's chest. Everything's cool. Everything is totally under control.