239: Hairy
"Smecker? Whozat? Wait, is he the suit with the faggy hair?"
Some days I love being me. Especially when "being me" consists of walking in to the 18th & Boyd precinct room just as gems like the above one are dribbled from the mouths of innocents.
Greenly saw me first-- I think he's finally developing Spider-Sense, trademarked, as regards my presence. He did a nice silent Oh shit and I swear, that boy should steer clear of Vegas because his face is as easy to read as a See Spot Run book. His gut reaction, because Greenly is essentially a nice guy, was to jab at the rookie warningly; then the sense of self kicked in, and there it was on his face, schadenfreude at what I'd do to the rookie mingled with hopeful it's about time that asshole had another dog to kick around the room.
Relax, Greenly. You hold a special place in my affections as my very favorite whipping boy; no virginal young rookie could ever steal your spot.
So I sauntered in, clapped the kid on the shoulder with one hand, and smiled-with-teeth at him when he snapped around. "Close, but the actual term those dirty sausage jockeys use is 'faaaahbulous.' Say it with me."
Nametag read Beaumann. I made a mental note, let go of his shoulder. "Go... file dispatches or something, sugar. Daddy's got to talk to the big kids. Duffy, you have my ballistics?"
"Right here," said Duffy, gesturing with a folder as the kid scampered off. Dolly raised another before I could speak: "Coroner's report."
"Nice, gentlemen. So that's Larry, Curly, and you have what for me, Moe?"
Greenly looked pissy, but raised my java.
"I am impressed. Into my Bat-office, children; there is justice to be perpetrated."
We headed for the office the BPD has put at my extended service, with Duffy tossing in, "As long as Greenly wears the short-shorts" and Greenly retorting with an eloquent "Fuck you." Ah, camaraderie.
Fifteen minutes later I sent Dolly back out the door with a list of phone calls to make. Duffy had volunteered first and thus gotten dumpster diving, which is one of those chores I mentally use as a marker of how badly someone wants it:
Dumpsters are not Fun. They are not glamorous, they are not enjoyable. They're a lot of actual physical work and the smell sets into your skin, let alone your clothes; it's both tedious and difficult work to manually sort through diapers and spoiled food and all the other joys of a municipal dumpster. Phone work is also tedious, but one gets to stay indoors in the nice air conditioned building, in a comfortable chair.
Dolly is without a doubt the brightest of my Three Stooges, but his critical flaw is that he has no ambition. He reached detective sergeant nine years ago by his file and hasn't moved since. Duffy hit the same rank just before the Saints shit started, but he doesn't want to stop here, oh no. His file points out he's got a wife and a kid to support; he wants the salary that comes with detective inspector. He'll probably get it, too.
Anyway, this all left me with Greenly. Detective Constable. Oh, you poor bastard.
"So, uh, what do you want me to do?" Greenly's critical flaws would be too long to list, but certainly high in the rankings is his lack of initiative. Big, gangly, stupid puppy. I sighed without taking my eyes from the autopsy photos. "I don't know, Greenly. Go... take witness statements, or something. Or go re-read the textbook for investigative policework, if you're that lost without me."
Instead he hovered. I tolerated him for about thirty seconds then looked up from the photos to shoo him out.
"Doesn't the sort of shit Beaumann said, I dunno, bother you?" he blurted out before I could speak.
It honestly took me a second to remember what he was talking about. "What? Faggy hair? You jest, Greenly." I sipped my coffee. Greenly's face did not indicate he knew precisely what 'jest' meant, and had probably misheard it as 'just'. (This, incidentally, is why my vocabulary gets more vulgar and unprintable by the year. The more intelligent my conversation, the likelier I'm having a chat with only myself. But "shit" and "fuck" are something every cop understands.)
I sighed. "No. It does not bother me. Why would it? My hair is exceptionally faggy. Go find work to do. I would rather sit through application of a rusty anal speculum than try and talk to you about politically correct workplace language."
Greenly winced on cue, but continued to hover. "I just... I'm just trying to figure out--"
I gritted my teeth. After his One-Guy-Six-Guns Theory, I had come to the conclusion that, occasionally, the puppy did have something worthwhile rattling around in his skull, waiting to get lucky, bounce into his mouth, and make it to the outside world. I had resolved to wait, patiently, during such instances, and then turn Greenly's Theories over seriously in my head at least once before dismissing them.
"--why you do have it long."
....obviously this was not one of the "worth it" times. I took another sip of coffee and directed my attention back towards the photos. "Because it's better for drag, honey. Go away."
He left. Big, stupid dog. If he knew the first thing about drag he'd know that's bullshit, since it just means more hair I have to put under the net.
I scrutinized the rest of the photos, drained my coffee-- he was getting better at making that correctly-- and leaned back imagining his face if I had told him I used to have my hair as short as his. (The similarities end there.)
But yes, my pretty pretty locks had once been buzz-cut to a practical and utilitarian length. This not too long after I joined the NYPD, and very shortly indeed after a drug dealer beat the living fuck out of me with a baseball bat. While I doubt I would have won that fight regardless, it hadn't helped that the son of a bitch had grabbed me by a handful of my hair and thereby hauled me into a wall. Pain quite easily accomplished what years of a heteronormative society had not been able to do, which is to say, get me into a barber's chair and cut my hair back to a length it hadn't been since I'd been, oh, thirteen or so.
I kept it short for... years and years after that. Not always buzz-short, but certainly on the pragmatic side of things. Through the rest of my time with the force and on into the Bureau, and it wasn't until I was, oh, thirty-five, I think? and the Bureau had me undercover.
(For the record, here and now, I would just like to say: I fucking hate working undercover.)
Anyway, part of the look for the man I was pretending to be for three or four months was longer hair. Black, at that. Slicked back. (With shirts that my fabulous sense of fashion still recalls with a shudder.)
Undercover's a strange place, mentally. Messes with you. It's the extreme sports version of method acting. The bastard child of theatre and Russian roulette. I don't hate undercover because I find it difficult; other way around.
Anyway. After the case was done and shut and I got to burn the shirts I cut my hair, of course, because the black was godawful, but once it started growing back I decided to just let it. I liked it longer, and I was not, anymore, quite so often in the sort of situations that gave people an opportunity to try and rip my scalp off.
And it's a weapon, of course.
Like my expensive suits and my heeled leather boots and my manicured nails and the way I hissed fabulous into that kid's ear today. It's just a reminder. On my terms.
They don't have to like it. But goddamn if they get to ignore it.
fandom: boondock saints
muse: paul smecker
word count: 1300
playing catch-up
Some days I love being me. Especially when "being me" consists of walking in to the 18th & Boyd precinct room just as gems like the above one are dribbled from the mouths of innocents.
Greenly saw me first-- I think he's finally developing Spider-Sense, trademarked, as regards my presence. He did a nice silent Oh shit and I swear, that boy should steer clear of Vegas because his face is as easy to read as a See Spot Run book. His gut reaction, because Greenly is essentially a nice guy, was to jab at the rookie warningly; then the sense of self kicked in, and there it was on his face, schadenfreude at what I'd do to the rookie mingled with hopeful it's about time that asshole had another dog to kick around the room.
Relax, Greenly. You hold a special place in my affections as my very favorite whipping boy; no virginal young rookie could ever steal your spot.
So I sauntered in, clapped the kid on the shoulder with one hand, and smiled-with-teeth at him when he snapped around. "Close, but the actual term those dirty sausage jockeys use is 'faaaahbulous.' Say it with me."
Nametag read Beaumann. I made a mental note, let go of his shoulder. "Go... file dispatches or something, sugar. Daddy's got to talk to the big kids. Duffy, you have my ballistics?"
"Right here," said Duffy, gesturing with a folder as the kid scampered off. Dolly raised another before I could speak: "Coroner's report."
"Nice, gentlemen. So that's Larry, Curly, and you have what for me, Moe?"
Greenly looked pissy, but raised my java.
"I am impressed. Into my Bat-office, children; there is justice to be perpetrated."
We headed for the office the BPD has put at my extended service, with Duffy tossing in, "As long as Greenly wears the short-shorts" and Greenly retorting with an eloquent "Fuck you." Ah, camaraderie.
Fifteen minutes later I sent Dolly back out the door with a list of phone calls to make. Duffy had volunteered first and thus gotten dumpster diving, which is one of those chores I mentally use as a marker of how badly someone wants it:
Dumpsters are not Fun. They are not glamorous, they are not enjoyable. They're a lot of actual physical work and the smell sets into your skin, let alone your clothes; it's both tedious and difficult work to manually sort through diapers and spoiled food and all the other joys of a municipal dumpster. Phone work is also tedious, but one gets to stay indoors in the nice air conditioned building, in a comfortable chair.
Dolly is without a doubt the brightest of my Three Stooges, but his critical flaw is that he has no ambition. He reached detective sergeant nine years ago by his file and hasn't moved since. Duffy hit the same rank just before the Saints shit started, but he doesn't want to stop here, oh no. His file points out he's got a wife and a kid to support; he wants the salary that comes with detective inspector. He'll probably get it, too.
Anyway, this all left me with Greenly. Detective Constable. Oh, you poor bastard.
"So, uh, what do you want me to do?" Greenly's critical flaws would be too long to list, but certainly high in the rankings is his lack of initiative. Big, gangly, stupid puppy. I sighed without taking my eyes from the autopsy photos. "I don't know, Greenly. Go... take witness statements, or something. Or go re-read the textbook for investigative policework, if you're that lost without me."
Instead he hovered. I tolerated him for about thirty seconds then looked up from the photos to shoo him out.
"Doesn't the sort of shit Beaumann said, I dunno, bother you?" he blurted out before I could speak.
It honestly took me a second to remember what he was talking about. "What? Faggy hair? You jest, Greenly." I sipped my coffee. Greenly's face did not indicate he knew precisely what 'jest' meant, and had probably misheard it as 'just'. (This, incidentally, is why my vocabulary gets more vulgar and unprintable by the year. The more intelligent my conversation, the likelier I'm having a chat with only myself. But "shit" and "fuck" are something every cop understands.)
I sighed. "No. It does not bother me. Why would it? My hair is exceptionally faggy. Go find work to do. I would rather sit through application of a rusty anal speculum than try and talk to you about politically correct workplace language."
Greenly winced on cue, but continued to hover. "I just... I'm just trying to figure out--"
I gritted my teeth. After his One-Guy-Six-Guns Theory, I had come to the conclusion that, occasionally, the puppy did have something worthwhile rattling around in his skull, waiting to get lucky, bounce into his mouth, and make it to the outside world. I had resolved to wait, patiently, during such instances, and then turn Greenly's Theories over seriously in my head at least once before dismissing them.
"--why you do have it long."
....obviously this was not one of the "worth it" times. I took another sip of coffee and directed my attention back towards the photos. "Because it's better for drag, honey. Go away."
He left. Big, stupid dog. If he knew the first thing about drag he'd know that's bullshit, since it just means more hair I have to put under the net.
I scrutinized the rest of the photos, drained my coffee-- he was getting better at making that correctly-- and leaned back imagining his face if I had told him I used to have my hair as short as his. (The similarities end there.)
But yes, my pretty pretty locks had once been buzz-cut to a practical and utilitarian length. This not too long after I joined the NYPD, and very shortly indeed after a drug dealer beat the living fuck out of me with a baseball bat. While I doubt I would have won that fight regardless, it hadn't helped that the son of a bitch had grabbed me by a handful of my hair and thereby hauled me into a wall. Pain quite easily accomplished what years of a heteronormative society had not been able to do, which is to say, get me into a barber's chair and cut my hair back to a length it hadn't been since I'd been, oh, thirteen or so.
I kept it short for... years and years after that. Not always buzz-short, but certainly on the pragmatic side of things. Through the rest of my time with the force and on into the Bureau, and it wasn't until I was, oh, thirty-five, I think? and the Bureau had me undercover.
(For the record, here and now, I would just like to say: I fucking hate working undercover.)
Anyway, part of the look for the man I was pretending to be for three or four months was longer hair. Black, at that. Slicked back. (With shirts that my fabulous sense of fashion still recalls with a shudder.)
Undercover's a strange place, mentally. Messes with you. It's the extreme sports version of method acting. The bastard child of theatre and Russian roulette. I don't hate undercover because I find it difficult; other way around.
Anyway. After the case was done and shut and I got to burn the shirts I cut my hair, of course, because the black was godawful, but once it started growing back I decided to just let it. I liked it longer, and I was not, anymore, quite so often in the sort of situations that gave people an opportunity to try and rip my scalp off.
And it's a weapon, of course.
Like my expensive suits and my heeled leather boots and my manicured nails and the way I hissed fabulous into that kid's ear today. It's just a reminder. On my terms.
They don't have to like it. But goddamn if they get to ignore it.
fandom: boondock saints
muse: paul smecker
word count: 1300
playing catch-up