Chapter Text
Two days.
Two fuckin' days Freddy waits in his apartment, smoking cigarettes and never straying too far from the phone just in case Nice Guy Eddie or Joe call, just like Holdaway told him to do. He's lounging across his couch in an old pair of sweats, finishing off a can of Spaghetti-Os when two sharp knocks on the door sound through the room, resonating with the anxiety he's felt since he started this job. He shoots up, dropping the spoon into the can and setting it on the table before padding over to the door. He doesn't have time to grab the Beretta from where it's sitting on the counter but he's not exactly expecting anyone dangerous—it's not even eight in the morning, for fuck's sake, and Eddie said he'd call. Nobody's supposed to show up at his goddamned apartment.
He sort of wishes he'd grabbed the gun when he opens the door to see Mr. White standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets and a cigarette in his mouth, looking like he owns the place. Out of everyone on this job, White is the one that Freddy knows he needs to keep an eye on. The guy's clearly dangerous but he does a damn good job of acting the part of the gentleman, courteous and polite until the situation calls for something more badass. Beyond that, Freddy hasn't been able to get a very good read on him.
He doesn't open the door more than he has to, keeping an eye on White's movements because the guy could very well be there to do him in. “What the fuck are you doin' here, man? Nice Guy said he'd call me.”
“Eddie's dealin' with something else today so you an' me are gonna stake out the wholesalers instead.” White removes a hand from his pocket so he can take the cigarette from between his lips, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “You got a problem with that, kid?” He asks, smile teasing at the edges of his mouth.
Freddy only feels slightly more at ease. “No I don't got a problem with that, asshole, I got a problem with people showin' up at my place with no warning.” He smirks in spite of himself. It's a little too easy to fall into amicable banter with this guy, letting his guard down that much. “I gotta get changed, I'll be down in ten.” He's not one hundred percent sure that he didn't leave any sensitive materials lying out and he can't take the risk of letting Mr. White in only to have his cover blown because of something stupid like a pay stub or a memo from the station. He's not gonna take any chances.
White lets out a puff of cigarette smoke before stepping back to leave. “Well hurry up, we got shit to do.”
**
The car is pretty hot, even with both of the front windows rolled down, and Freddy's fingers are restless as he taps a rhythm against his leg. They've been sitting in near silence for the better part of an hour, cigarette smoke swirling around them as they keep their eyes trained on the shopfront.
Holdaway had rambled off a whole list of questions to ask that might help him get some useful information, but Freddy's got a feeling that if he tried any of them on Mr. white, the guy would see right through him.
Out of the blue, White clears his throat, flicking his cigarette butt into the street. “So, you been doin' this type of shit long?”
“And what type of shit would you be referring to?”
“Jobs like this.”
Freddy gives a breathy laugh, eyes sliding over to look at White with a playful sort of smirk. “Wouldn't telling you that information be breaking Joe's rules? I don't wanna be gettin' myself in trouble with the big boss man so early on in the game.” He flicks his ashes into the ashtray, leaning his elbow on the edge of the window. He's been prepared for questions like this since day one but he doesn't want to seem too eager to divulge information about himself. He has to remember to act natural.
“Not unless you go into specifics, no, but I like the way you think. I'm bettin' Joe will, too.” White smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges as he pulls another cigarette from the pack.
The words are practically the promise of a golden ticket, exactly what every undercover cop wants. A surefire way to get in good with the main guy and make it easier to take him down in the end—and it's been pretty clear from the start that Mr. White has some history with Joe Cabot. Freddy's done a pretty good job of getting along with this guy so far, and it might just pay off. “I've only done one other job.” He says after a beat, back story rolling off his tongue like they're facts he's known all his life. “Well, two if you wanna count a convenience store I robbed back in high school. I don't.”
“You ever done any time?”
“What is this, an interrogation?” Freddy chuckles. He gets the feeling like this conversation might be par for the course for guys like White, discussing things they might have in common without getting too personal with it. Or maybe White's just trying to get a better read on him because he looks like a rookie, but either way, it's not an issue. “But to answer your question, no, I've never done any time. And here's to hoping I never will.”
White is silent for a while, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel as he blows smoke out the window. “A word to the wise, then: get out while you still can. Shit's easy when you don't have any priors but you get stuck doin' jobs like this for the rest of your life once you been in the business long enough. I mean, don't get me wrong, this kinda work suits me. But I wouldn't be able to get a real job at this point if I tried, and you're still young. You still got other options.”
Freddy's seen enough guys go through the system to know that White's telling the truth but there's something uncomfortable about being offered advice from one of the guys who's gonna go behind bars because of him, especially when Mr. White sounds so goddamn sincere about it. “Yeah, well, maybe I'm not wise.” Freddy says, a shrug accompanying the statement. He's not sure what else there is to say. He's here to do a job and he can't be talking like getting out of the business is something he wants, because Joe Cabot has to think he's in it to win it. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“I'm just tellin' it like it is, kid. Take my advice or don't, there's really nothin' I can do about it.” Mr. White doesn't seem too bothered, maybe like he was expecting an answer like that. Maybe he'd been given the same advice at some point.
“So, what about you? You're sittin' over there asking me all these questions and givin' me nothin' in return, man.”
“Ah, well, I thought the answers would be pretty obvious. I've been doin' this shit longer than I can remember, and I sure as hell did my fair share of time in the slammer. But it's a risk that comes with the job and I'd take this over working in fuckin' retail any day.”
Freddy laughs, finding that he actually kind of understands where this guy's coming from. A warning bell goes off in his head—he knows what happens when undercovers get too sympathetic, they fuck up and make mistakes and, in most cases, end up in a ditch somewhere with their brains blown out—but he shoves the thought aside because he can't let himself start thinking shit like that. Thoughts like that are an unnecessary distraction.
“I'm fuckin' starving, man, let's go get something to eat.”
**
The burger joint they stop at advertises half-priced pie on Tuesdays and unlimited refills, but Freddy can't find it in himself to care about anything other than the blissful chill of the air conditioning as they step inside. They order at the counter and find a booth by a window, far enough from the other restaurant patrons that they can speak freely without the risk of being overheard by some Christian suburban mother who'd turn them in to the cops based off of speculation alone. Freddy watches the traffic go by on the street outside, taking a long sip of Coke before letting his gaze slide over to Mr. White.
Sitting directly across from the guy feels strange, like maybe they're on level footing, eating together as friends, but Freddy feels like he's at a disadvantage because he has so goddamn much to hide. It's not easy to look White in the eyes, knowing he's gonna be the reason the man gets carted off to prison. Like, a simple 'hey, sorry, it's nothin' personal, man' isn't gonna cut it on this one. Most of these guys really aren't the heartless bastards he shouldn't have been expecting in the first place, and a couple of them are downright charming, which makes Freddy's job of getting in good with them easier but makes it harder not to get attached.
Mr. White, in particular, is a charming fuckin' bastard, and it sure doesn't help that he's exactly the type of guy Freddy fantasizes about at night. It's not the most convenient situation for him to be in.
As if sensing Freddy's thoughts, White asks, “So, your old lady know about the type of work you do?”
“My what?” Freddy asks before he can fully process the question, realizing his slip up as soon as the words leave his mouth. His fuckin' wedding ring—Tommy Wright's fictional wife which he really should have been expecting to talk about at some point. He scrambles to amend his statement, remembering specifically telling Holdaway that it was a shitty idea to begin with. “Oh, uh, she only has a vague idea about it. Y'know, nothin' specific.” It's enough to remind him that Mr. White is absolutely off limits because it would be blowing at least one part of his cover.
Freddy's thankful when the young man comes by with their burgers, hoping it'll be enough to deter any further discussion about his fictional wife. At least for now, anyway. He'll be more prepared next time around.
**
Freddy hides everything incriminating the second he gets home, just in case he has to invite one of these guys into his apartment. After that, he rehearses every minute detail of his cover until he can answer anything as Mr. Orange, determined not to be caught off his guard again.
The thing is, though, nobody else on the crew seems to give much of a shit about his marital status—or anything else about him, either. Their conversations consist of shallow chatter and amusing but vague anecdotes that only scratch the surface of what might be useful information.
So Freddy finds himself rehearsing details for the sake of a single person, memorizing his back story in the context of possible conversations with Mr. White. He's prepared for anything.
And if he has one or two dreams that involve White in some not-so-PG13 situations, well. Whatever.
**
“You want another drink, kid?” Mr. White asks, speaking under the joke Mr. Pink's telling and leaning in.
Freddy keeps his breathing even and his thoughts cool, politely declining because he's already a bit too tipsy to do responsible undercover work. Though, he's almost tempted to say that his irresponsible undercover work isn't too shabby because he's doing a bang up job of acting comfortable around these guys, like he's one of them. “No thanks,” he says before he looks over, but then he turns his head and sees that White is close. Like, really close. And then he finds himself saying, “Actually, yeah. I'll take whatever you're havin'.” Which might be toeing the line between irresponsible and idiotic but he's feeling bold.
White smiles, one of the final nails in Freddy's metaphorical coffin because he's fallin' for this guy and he's fallin' fast.
Freddy tunes back into the conversation going on at the table, trying to glean some information from the story Brown's telling about some heist he'd heard about that got seriously fucked up. But there's not much to be learned. Half the details sound highly exaggerated, and in the long run Brown is gonna be the least of his worries. Freddy's got bigger fish to fry. Holdaway had been really specific about their priority—Joe Cabot, boss of bosses—and maybe a few of the guys closest to him, but the rest of 'em aren't such a big deal.
Freddy laughs when everyone else does, subtly glancing back to the bar and staring a little self-indulgently at Mr. White's ass. He's tipsy, warmth thrumming beneath his skin and making him feel sort of giddy, and for a few short moments he lets his mind wander to places it shouldn't, heart stuttering as White turns and catches him staring. It doesn't matter the he snaps his eyes back to the table, the guy noticed, and the mortification doesn't quite have time to set in before White's back with a drink in each hand.
Freddy mutters a quick thanks as he's handed a drink but he can't bring himself to make eye contact, trying to act like he's engrossed in what Mr. Pink is saying, though he hadn't actually followed the subject change. Mr. White rests an arm along the back of his chair, casually but with purpose and Freddy immediately feels the need to escape. If he doesn't leave, he knows he's gonna do something stupid that could put his cover at risk and he can't let that happen.
His drink disappears as he thinks about his options, surprised as he brings the glass to his lips only to find it empty. White's arm hasn't moved and there's a line of warmth where they're touching, a prickling heat that's driving Freddy slowly insane. He clears his throat, saying something he's not sure is audible as he gets unsteadily to his feet and excuses himself to the restroom.
The music dies down to a low thrum as the door swings closed behind him, making his head feel just a little bit clearer. His shoes echo on the tiles as he moves toward the sink, pressing his hands against the cool porcelain surface of it before ducking his head down to splash some cold water on his face. He can only imagine what Holdaway would be telling him right now. Not a single mention of any of this can ever be put into a report, that much is for sure.
Freddy doesn't hear the door open, and he nearly jumps when a voice pipes up from behind him.
“You alright there, kid?”
His stomach swirls as he turns, feeling the world tilt a little bit because of the alcohol. He braces his hands behind him, gripping the edge of the sink so he doesn't lose his balance. “What? Yeah, I'm good.”
White frowns. He shoves himself off the wall he's leaning against, uncrossing his arms with a serious look. “You sure about that?”
The question isn't spoken loud enough to echo around the small room but it seems incredibly loud to Freddy anyway.He swallows hard. Honestly? He's not quite sure, that's sorta what he's trying to figure out here. He should assure White that he's fine—tell him nothin's wrong and then skedaddle home before he can make any bad decisions.
Instead, he shrugs. “I dunno, man.”
Mr. White takes a few steps closer, not quite invading Freddy's personal space but verging on it. “You want me to call you a cab home?” His voice is quiet, just a notch above a whisper and in a tone that makes Freddy's breath stutter.
“You don't gotta do that, man, I just...I don't drink much, y'know. Gotta get my head on straight.”
White doesn't look entirely convinced, but he smiles a little bit reassuringly. “Then you're in no state to drive anyway. Come on, I'll call you cab and you can go home and sleep it off.”
Freddy doesn't immediately move. His grip on the edge of the sink behind him tightens, and it almost feels like the only thing keeping him upright. He's not as macho as he bargained for and he's definitely not capable of drinking anyone under the table, so this whole night was a bad move on his part. But he'll know better next time.
“You're a good guy, you know that?” He asks after a moment, following the statement with a heavy breath to settle his uneasy stomach.
“Who, me?” White asks with a scoff. “I think you've got me confused with somebody else.”
“Nah, I mean it, man. You're like...a good fuckin' guy. Like, for a career criminal.” Freddy knows he should stop talking, but something spurs him on. Maybe it's the look in White's eyes or maybe it's the fact that he's too distracted by the effort it's taking him to remain upright to really think about what he's saying as it leaves his mouth. “I don't think I've ever met a guy like you.”
White steps forward, and this time he really is encroaching on Freddy's personal space, something almost predatory in his eyes. His breath smells like whiskey and cigarettes, drawing Freddy's eyes down to his lips before he has a chance to stop himself. White chuckles. “Shouldn't you be getting home to your wife soon, anyway?” His eyes search Freddy's, looking for answers to questions he's not even asking.
A silence stretches between them, White's gaze unwavering. Freddy knows that this is it. The Moment. Even while drunk, it's obvious what Mr. White is really asking and Freddy's in no position to answer responsibly, frozen in place with the guy's gaze locked with his own. He feels like a deer in the headlights. “What's it to you, man?”
“Maybe I'm just askin'.”
Freddy can feel his heart in his throat. He doesn't want to be in this situation but there's a thrill running up his spine that makes him feel drunk in an entirely different way. He's on the verge of breaking some serious rules here, balancing on the precipice of responsibility and quickly losing his bearings. “I uh. I don't got a wife.” He admits, uncertainty crawling all over him. The piece of his back story falls away, leaving a thread that White could easily pull to unravel Freddy's entire cover.
But the man just smiles, knowing and dangerous. “I figured as much.” He says, bringing his hand up to move Freddy's hair from his face. “How about we go call you that cab?”
Freddy's not sure what he'd been expecting, but he knows it wasn't that. He opens his mouth to ask something, but White stops him.
“We've got time to talk about other stuff later. For now, let's get you home.”
Freddy recognizes White's gesture for what it is—a chance for him to sober up and get his head together before initiating anything too serious. White's giving him a chance to change his mind, and it's almost too much to handle.
“Shit, man.” Freddy mutters, looking down at the floor because he can't stand looking at White's face knowing that this is all one big farce on his part. Guilt gnaws at him, a weight that settles heavily in the pit of his stomach and makes him feel a little sick. The job would be so simple if White turned out to be some lowlife scumbag who truly deserved to go to prison but here he is, acting like a gentleman and giving Freddy plenty of breathing room to make up his mind.
It's more than he feels he deserves.
**
There's a single stream of sunlight pouring in through the tiny bathroom window, shining directly onto Freddy's face where he's sprawled across the tile floor. He groans, realizing his hangover the second he opens his eyes. A long few seconds pass where he doesn't move. He can hear the dripping of the faucet, the traffic outside, but none of it helps the sharp pounding in his head.
It takes him a while to work up the energy to shove himself off the floor, fighting off a wave of nausea as he finally gets to his feet and stumbles over to the sink.
By the time he feels a little bit more human, most of the morning has passed him by and he doesn't even feel that much better. He's been trying not to think about the previous night—he just knows if he thinks about it he's going to emerge with a mile-long list of regrets and mistakes, so he puts it off. And he's doing a pretty good job of it until he slips up and catches himself thinking about Mr. White, opening the floodgates. The entire night comes back to him in vivid detail and fuck, his reaction shouldn't be to become even more enamored with the guy but he is.
Mr. White's a handsome guy who treats him nice, and who might even be a little interested in him, too, and it's been so long since Freddy's met someone like that. It's a pretty fucked up situation, but he's already justifying it to himself which means he's in too deep. There's nothing left for him to do but hold his breath, brace himself, and jump in.