Chapter Text
You sip your beer slowly, trying to decide whether it’ll be your last of the evening. It probably should be; the rest of the squad have dispersed to fuck their spouses or kiss their kids goodnight. You’re the last one left, licking the salt off of bar nuts and lining them up in front of you. Through the warm alcohol-fog, you picture them as the heads of your enemies, the crimelords who dare to pollute your City with drugs. One day, you're going to taste their tears of despair, no matter how twisted that sounds.
You should be on top of the world right now; the task-force you headed-up is the toast of Chicago after busting a drug shipment that would have kept heroin dealers in business for months. It’s a killing blow for the local organized crime families, and you grin as you picture the amount of wiseguys who must be shitting their pants right now. The papers love you, the black, partially-sighted, hero-cop who made the mob look like a bunch of chumps, and you just know you’ll be all over the front pages tomorrow. You should be happy. You wonder why you feel empty instead.
Getting up to pee, you manage to knock your cane over into a puddle of someone’s spilled beer and decide it’s time to go home. The bartender grins at you, saluting ironically, and puts out his hand for it.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it off. Want me to call you a cab?”
“Sure, why not.”
You don’t need the cane, not really. Your vision is fine in normal light, and even in the gloom of the bar, you can still see pretty well. Depth perception is more of an issue, though. After the third tumble down the stairs, you let your pride take the hit instead. Besides, it makes a good impromptu weapon for dispensing justice to the sensitive shins of villainy. Or assholes who don’t know when to stop hitting on you.
It’s a shame you don’t have it on you when you come back out of the bathroom, because some asshole is standing directly in your path. He’s taller than you, though not by much. Mid 30s, maybe 200lbs of mostly muscle. His stance favors the right leg, so there must be something wrong with the left. You could take him; one kick to that knee and he’d be out of the game. Something has always compelled you to pick out people’s flaws and weaknesses, even five beers down.
“Hey,” he grumbles, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.
That makes two of you.
“Are you Terezi Pyrope?”
Muscles scratches awkwardly at his neck, refusing to let his eyes meet your frown. The fact that he pronounced your name correctly is deeply suspicious. Your birth certificate and your badge proclaim you to be ‘Theresa Pyrope’, and that’s how strangers have always addressed you. It takes a few weeks to train new recruits to stop calling you “Sergeant Pie-Rope.”
“Who’s asking? And is there a particular reason why he’s chosen to ambush me in a bar? Tell me why I shouldn’t radio my precinct for backup so they can teach you some manners.”
You’re only half-joking, but Muscles has obviously decided he isn’t going to take you seriously. His laugh is deep, and his grin is surprisingly attractive. You wonder if it’s the beer talking, if that’s the reason you’re openly ogling the way his abs tighten underneath his shirt. It probably is, but there’s no harm in enjoying the view.
“Damn, Pyrope. I mean, I was warned, but fuck. You’re a real hardass, huh?”
His voice is warm, with an undercurrent of scratchiness. Either he’s recovering from a bad cough, or he’s trying hard to keep his volume down.
“The hardest of asses.” You grin. So does he. He seems familiar, somehow.
“You still didn’t answer my question. Do I know you from somewhere? If I clamped your car way back when, I’m not particularly interested in hearing about it.”
He tenses up, and suddenly the awkward is back. You miss the confidence, although the flustered look is cute on him.
“Uh. No. You don’t know me.” You almost expect him to follow up with a cheesy line, something from a stupid rom-com like ‘but I’d like to’. He doesn’t.
“You know my buddy, though. He thought you might remember me. Said you nearly arrested him for being a nutball last time you met.”
Muscles gestures toward a tall, thin guy sitting in a booth. From this far away, you can’t tell if you’ve met him before. Scanning your memory for lanky nutcases brings up a hit, though. Some guy who tried to convince you that you knew him in another life. You’d chalked it up to him being high on something, threatened to take him to the drunk tank when he wouldn’t leave you alone. You’re way too buzzed to talk to that idiot again, even if his friend is kind of hot.
“Uh huh. I arrest a lot of people, all of whom deserve it. I don’t know either of you, in this life or any others, and right now I’m going home whether I have to go around you or through you.”
He steps aside as you push past. It’s a wise choice.
“Wait, Terezi…fuck, I know he’s kind of crazy, OK?” Muscles shrugs, trying to look as if he doesn’t care what you do. He’s a terrible actor.
“I thought he was full of shit when I met him. The thing is, I bet you haven’t been able to get what he said out of your head.” He folds his arms, irritated, “Anyway, if you don’t even want to fucking listen, it’s your loss.”
As appealing as his offer is, you hate having to arrest people when you’re off-duty. Instead of joining them, you reclaim your cane and enquire about your taxi. It’s a busy night, apparently, and it’ll take an hour to get here. You tell him to forget it, you’ll walk home.
Trudging past the booth where both weirdos have secreted themselves, you don't give them the satisfaction of eye contact. They don’t need the encouragement. A few seconds later, however, you’re driven back into uncomfortably close proximity when you realize the rain has set in. Heavy, fat drops are bombarding the windows, and you’ll be damned if you’re going to risk slipping on a hidden grating. ‘Pride comes before a fall’ is just too tempting a headline for the press to resist.
The bartender hasn’t even picked up the phone to cancel the cab, and you return his smug smile. You can respect professional efficiency.
You spend a half-hour sipping another beer and watching the other two occupants of the bar chatting awkwardly while pretending not to look at you. Some capricious instinct (and a large amount of alcohol) eventually convinces you to indulge them, against you better judgement. They might be full of bullshit, but it’s better than watching crummy late-night television with the sound off.
You slide into the booth next to a surprised Muscles, sitting close enough to make him uncomfortable. He still looks good enough to eat, so you might as well get close enough to smell him.
“Whatever you two morons have to say, you’d better make it good!" Whoops, there goes volume control. You're more hammered than you thought.
"I’m fiiiinally in the mood to be entertained and I’m fiiiinally too wasted to arrest either of you.”
You grin at the Skinny one, who has the decency to look terrified.
"I'm not going to remember any of this tomorrow, though!" you add, cheerfully.
"That's OK," Skinny replies, swallowing a lump in his throat. No, wait, that's just his monster Adam's apple. You snigger at your own joke.
"Nobody ever does."