Fic: Come Talk to Me (Switek/Zito, PG)
Title:Come Talk to Me
Rating, genre: PG, slash
Pairing: Switek/Zito
Spoilers/Warnings: For major event in Season 3
Author's Notes: Written as part of a conversation with tinx_r and romankate.
Summary: A few years after the events of Season 5, Stan Switek takes stock of his life. With his best friend's help.
Stan sat on the worn black futon in his living room and stared at the Elvis-in-bottlecaps mural on the far wall. Before today, he'd had an inkling the department just kept him around because they felt sorry for him--just another one of Miami-Dade's "widows", guys who'd lost their partners in the line of duty--but after today he was sure. Problem was, after today, he couldn't be sure they wouldn't run out of pity and can him after all.
When Trudy'd made lieutenant, she hadn't come right out and said it, but Stan had the distinct impression she'd had to pull a few strings to get IAD to lay off and give him his badge back. Since then, he'd kept his head down and his nose clean, taking day trips over the stateline and offshore to take any action on the games, and he was almost nearly always sober on the job.
"'Almost nearly always'? Stan, that's not even close to being true. You're lucky if you make it til noon before you're ducking out of the van with your flask."
Stan looked over at the ghost of his dead partner, sitting next to him on the futon. Larry was the reason he kept on living in the tiny one-bedroom at the edge of Liberty City. It was the place they'd shared, the place they'd...done all those things Stan tried hard not to think about.
Larry laughed. "As I remember it, you were pretty fond of all those things. At least, I didn't hear any complaints." He grinned and tucked a strand of overlong hair behind one spectral ear. "I mean, we could try giving it another shot if you're not sure you liked it." He grinned as Stan held up a warning hand.
"I've said it before and I'll say it again: Larry, I'm drawing the line at...that...with you...like that."
"Sure, sure." A spectral beer had appeared on the coffee table next to Stan's badge and gun, and Larry picked it up. He took a long swig, smacking his lips appreciatively. "'Course, a month ago, you were refusing to even speak to me, so, you know, we both know how this is gonna end."
Hands over his ears, Stan rose and crossed to the garish yellow-and-black deco kitchen. "I can't hear you, I can't hear you!"
"Let me know when that works," Larry called from the living room.
"Will do, buddy." Stan called back, then glared in his partner's direction. He turned the kitchen faucet on full blast, eliciting a thin stream of sickly looking water that, despite repeated calls to the landlord, smelled faintly of yeast and greenery. Eyes closed, Stan gripped the edge of the sink tight.
After Larry died (but before he came back), Stan had looked at other apartments. But this place had too many memories: Larry arriving on the doorstep with a suitcase and a slightly embarrassed smile after his house blew up, the two of them shoulder to shoulder on the futon, sharing a pile of onion rings and fries and beer as Stan explained the finer points of wrestling to his attentive partner. And all the things Larry'd taught Stan, too, happened in this apartment. Okay, there were those couple of times in the Bug Van, but mostly it had all happened here. In the bedroom. In the shower. On the futon. Things Stan had been taught were wrong but had felt, with Larry, better than incredible. Like nothing else. It had all been here.
Stan absentmindedly picked a snowglobe up off the counter and shook it, watching soap flakes settle around a mildly startled Statue of Liberty. He vividly remembered the day Larry made his return, finding it infinitely preferable to remembering the day he'd died. He'd been on the john when Larry'd strolled casually through the saloon-style bathroom doors without causing them to move. He'd stepped to the sink and ran a ghostly hand over his jaw, peering anxiously into a mirror that didn't show his reflection. "Best thing about being dead, Stan? Turns out you no longer need to shave."
Stan'd been so shocked,he'd fallen off, a move he felt the King would have sympathized with entirely.
After that, Larry'd appeared at irregular intervals, just as good a company as he'd been when he was alive. Well, nearly as good. Even if they could no longer do everything they used to, it was still comforting to lie in bed talking over old times, the stench of those foul cigars oddly comforting now.
And then came today.
"Forget about it, Stan." Larry leaned against the archway to the kitchen. "Come on, guy, it coulda happened to anyone."
"But it didn't," Stan said slowly. "It happened to me. You know they're never gonna believe my story."
Larry considered, head on one side. "They might."
Stan stared at him. "Well, partner, would you believe me if I told you that three ki's of coke disappeared from the evidence locker at the exact same time that professional bookmaker Vance Jackson was being taken into custody--the same bookie, remember, that turned State's evidence and turned me in to IAD just to shave a lousy year off his sentence. A sentence," Stan continued, "he managed to weasel out of serving, simply by disappearing without a trace. Until today. Vance shows up, spends forty-five minutes down at headquarters and disappears again, along with three ki's of Miami's finest Bolivian marching dust, all while I, the somewhat lately dishonored Stan Switek, was playing a couple hands of poker with some guys from Robbery." Stan shook his head. "What should I cop to, Lar? Cards on the clock or not knowing a damn thing about Vance passing through with three bags of white powder worth a cool quarter mil?"
But there was no answer. Larry had vanished, leaving the apartment even emptier by his absence. And Stan didn't know what was worse: when he saw his dead partner's ghost, or when he didn't.
Grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, Stan returned to the living room, snapping on the tv as he went. News. Fine, whatever. He sank heavily onto the futon and drank the beer without tasting it, letting the news anchor's heavily shellacked words wash over him, trying not to notice the sun's dying rays creeping across the grimy teal carpet. The news ended and some comedy came on, the laugh track too loud in the coral-tinged twilight. Stan waited, drinking until the fridge was down to a crusted bottle of mustard, half a dried-out pineapple and some green bologna. The more Stan drank, the more he thought about the latest derailment of his fine career in law enforcement.
"Aw come on, Stan. You're being too hard on yourself. You're a great cop."
Stan jumped, then he was able to make out Larry's outline in the settling gloom. "Does being dead mean you've forgotten how to knock?"
The specter sitting next to him scooted closer, and Stan swore he could vaguely make out the print on his friend's shirt: some type of small dog on its hind legs, wearing a grass skirt and strumming a ukulele. "Should I leave, Stan? You uh, you expecting someone?"
A pall fell over the apartment, Stan looking at his hands.
The stink of Cuban tobacco filled Stan's nostrils and he looked up to find Larry nearly in his lap. The fact that Stan could see his commemorative Graceland gumball machine through the back of his partner's head did little to diminish the romance of the moment. Truth be told, Stan wasn't all that sorry that the ghost of his dead partner was the most important person in his life. Sure, he'd pictured life a little different by the time he got to forty: a wife, some brats, a little square of land, maybe. But instead, he was a single Vice cop sweltering in a bachelor's walkup, surrounded by the world's foremost shuffleboard players. And thinking about sex with a dead man.
"Stan?"
"No. No no no. I can't go through with it." Stan rose and headed back towards the kitchen.
He heard Larry's sigh, a noise like the wind rustling palmetto leaves, and then his partner winked out of existence again. In the apartment next door, someone turned on the tv and set the volume high enough to wake the dead. Stan snickered. "Hey Lar', get it? Get..." He drew a sharp breath.
The musty apartment was silent and empty, the garish pastels and shabby memorabilia no match for his partner's company. But then again, nothing ever had been. Stan looked up at his Elvis clock, hips gyrating on the wall. Nothing for it but a beer run, he decided. Something to keep him company while he waited for Larry's return.
Rating, genre: PG, slash
Pairing: Switek/Zito
Spoilers/Warnings: For major event in Season 3
Author's Notes: Written as part of a conversation with tinx_r and romankate.
Summary: A few years after the events of Season 5, Stan Switek takes stock of his life. With his best friend's help.
Stan sat on the worn black futon in his living room and stared at the Elvis-in-bottlecaps mural on the far wall. Before today, he'd had an inkling the department just kept him around because they felt sorry for him--just another one of Miami-Dade's "widows", guys who'd lost their partners in the line of duty--but after today he was sure. Problem was, after today, he couldn't be sure they wouldn't run out of pity and can him after all.
When Trudy'd made lieutenant, she hadn't come right out and said it, but Stan had the distinct impression she'd had to pull a few strings to get IAD to lay off and give him his badge back. Since then, he'd kept his head down and his nose clean, taking day trips over the stateline and offshore to take any action on the games, and he was almost nearly always sober on the job.
"'Almost nearly always'? Stan, that's not even close to being true. You're lucky if you make it til noon before you're ducking out of the van with your flask."
Stan looked over at the ghost of his dead partner, sitting next to him on the futon. Larry was the reason he kept on living in the tiny one-bedroom at the edge of Liberty City. It was the place they'd shared, the place they'd...done all those things Stan tried hard not to think about.
Larry laughed. "As I remember it, you were pretty fond of all those things. At least, I didn't hear any complaints." He grinned and tucked a strand of overlong hair behind one spectral ear. "I mean, we could try giving it another shot if you're not sure you liked it." He grinned as Stan held up a warning hand.
"I've said it before and I'll say it again: Larry, I'm drawing the line at...that...with you...like that."
"Sure, sure." A spectral beer had appeared on the coffee table next to Stan's badge and gun, and Larry picked it up. He took a long swig, smacking his lips appreciatively. "'Course, a month ago, you were refusing to even speak to me, so, you know, we both know how this is gonna end."
Hands over his ears, Stan rose and crossed to the garish yellow-and-black deco kitchen. "I can't hear you, I can't hear you!"
"Let me know when that works," Larry called from the living room.
"Will do, buddy." Stan called back, then glared in his partner's direction. He turned the kitchen faucet on full blast, eliciting a thin stream of sickly looking water that, despite repeated calls to the landlord, smelled faintly of yeast and greenery. Eyes closed, Stan gripped the edge of the sink tight.
After Larry died (but before he came back), Stan had looked at other apartments. But this place had too many memories: Larry arriving on the doorstep with a suitcase and a slightly embarrassed smile after his house blew up, the two of them shoulder to shoulder on the futon, sharing a pile of onion rings and fries and beer as Stan explained the finer points of wrestling to his attentive partner. And all the things Larry'd taught Stan, too, happened in this apartment. Okay, there were those couple of times in the Bug Van, but mostly it had all happened here. In the bedroom. In the shower. On the futon. Things Stan had been taught were wrong but had felt, with Larry, better than incredible. Like nothing else. It had all been here.
Stan absentmindedly picked a snowglobe up off the counter and shook it, watching soap flakes settle around a mildly startled Statue of Liberty. He vividly remembered the day Larry made his return, finding it infinitely preferable to remembering the day he'd died. He'd been on the john when Larry'd strolled casually through the saloon-style bathroom doors without causing them to move. He'd stepped to the sink and ran a ghostly hand over his jaw, peering anxiously into a mirror that didn't show his reflection. "Best thing about being dead, Stan? Turns out you no longer need to shave."
Stan'd been so shocked,he'd fallen off, a move he felt the King would have sympathized with entirely.
After that, Larry'd appeared at irregular intervals, just as good a company as he'd been when he was alive. Well, nearly as good. Even if they could no longer do everything they used to, it was still comforting to lie in bed talking over old times, the stench of those foul cigars oddly comforting now.
And then came today.
"Forget about it, Stan." Larry leaned against the archway to the kitchen. "Come on, guy, it coulda happened to anyone."
"But it didn't," Stan said slowly. "It happened to me. You know they're never gonna believe my story."
Larry considered, head on one side. "They might."
Stan stared at him. "Well, partner, would you believe me if I told you that three ki's of coke disappeared from the evidence locker at the exact same time that professional bookmaker Vance Jackson was being taken into custody--the same bookie, remember, that turned State's evidence and turned me in to IAD just to shave a lousy year off his sentence. A sentence," Stan continued, "he managed to weasel out of serving, simply by disappearing without a trace. Until today. Vance shows up, spends forty-five minutes down at headquarters and disappears again, along with three ki's of Miami's finest Bolivian marching dust, all while I, the somewhat lately dishonored Stan Switek, was playing a couple hands of poker with some guys from Robbery." Stan shook his head. "What should I cop to, Lar? Cards on the clock or not knowing a damn thing about Vance passing through with three bags of white powder worth a cool quarter mil?"
But there was no answer. Larry had vanished, leaving the apartment even emptier by his absence. And Stan didn't know what was worse: when he saw his dead partner's ghost, or when he didn't.
Grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, Stan returned to the living room, snapping on the tv as he went. News. Fine, whatever. He sank heavily onto the futon and drank the beer without tasting it, letting the news anchor's heavily shellacked words wash over him, trying not to notice the sun's dying rays creeping across the grimy teal carpet. The news ended and some comedy came on, the laugh track too loud in the coral-tinged twilight. Stan waited, drinking until the fridge was down to a crusted bottle of mustard, half a dried-out pineapple and some green bologna. The more Stan drank, the more he thought about the latest derailment of his fine career in law enforcement.
"Aw come on, Stan. You're being too hard on yourself. You're a great cop."
Stan jumped, then he was able to make out Larry's outline in the settling gloom. "Does being dead mean you've forgotten how to knock?"
The specter sitting next to him scooted closer, and Stan swore he could vaguely make out the print on his friend's shirt: some type of small dog on its hind legs, wearing a grass skirt and strumming a ukulele. "Should I leave, Stan? You uh, you expecting someone?"
A pall fell over the apartment, Stan looking at his hands.
The stink of Cuban tobacco filled Stan's nostrils and he looked up to find Larry nearly in his lap. The fact that Stan could see his commemorative Graceland gumball machine through the back of his partner's head did little to diminish the romance of the moment. Truth be told, Stan wasn't all that sorry that the ghost of his dead partner was the most important person in his life. Sure, he'd pictured life a little different by the time he got to forty: a wife, some brats, a little square of land, maybe. But instead, he was a single Vice cop sweltering in a bachelor's walkup, surrounded by the world's foremost shuffleboard players. And thinking about sex with a dead man.
"Stan?"
"No. No no no. I can't go through with it." Stan rose and headed back towards the kitchen.
He heard Larry's sigh, a noise like the wind rustling palmetto leaves, and then his partner winked out of existence again. In the apartment next door, someone turned on the tv and set the volume high enough to wake the dead. Stan snickered. "Hey Lar', get it? Get..." He drew a sharp breath.
The musty apartment was silent and empty, the garish pastels and shabby memorabilia no match for his partner's company. But then again, nothing ever had been. Stan looked up at his Elvis clock, hips gyrating on the wall. Nothing for it but a beer run, he decided. Something to keep him company while he waited for Larry's return.