What If: Strangers in the Night. Chapter Two.
Written by: lady_death.
Title: What If?: Strangers in the Night. Chapter Two.
Fandom: National Hockey League, AR.
Characters: Ed Jovanovski, Unnamed NYPD detectives
Word Count: 1,638.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Once a cop, always a cop, but still able to be surprised.
Author's Notes: This is set on May 8, 2009, in New York City. The morning after Chapter One. This is an AR.
The alarm ringing incessantly suggests it is time to get out of bed, but the groggy sleep deprived fog he is fighting his way out of says it is much too early. The files from last night that he had poured over even after coming home from the little hole in the wall bar are still spread all over the covers and his lap. He’d slept half sitting up and the price is the stiffness in his neck and shoulders that threatens to become a throbbing ache as the day continues. Why the hell he spent so much time in that dive was-well it was the fault of thick dark brown hair and a pair of blue eyes.
His own eyes nearly slide shut to bring up the image of the face he spent the night dreaming about, but before he can get lost in what he could have spent the pre-dawn hours doing instead of trying to decipher chicken scratch notes, he hauls himself out of bed stumbling towards the kitchen. The smell of ground coffee beans wakes his brain up a little more as he goes through the motions of using the grinder and setting it to percolate. The routine lets him think back on the night before. He can’t remember the last time he let his tongue run that much. It was fucking stupid to give up information like his job before he was even given a name. He’d never even been offered a last name, which was a warning sign in his line of work, but to be truthful he hadn’t pressed for one and he hadn’t much cared to either. It was much more interesting to let the dance play out than to force it to its endgame immediately. Pressing for more information could have made Chris jackrabbit back down whatever high end hole he had escaped from for the night. God, he could have had him out of his clothes and in his bed or up against some alley wall in five more minutes. His knees protest to the part of the fantasy that has him on his knees in that alley, nuzzling the opening of his pants with a hungry mouth, but his dick certainly takes interest. You’re a goddamn idiot, Jovanovski. Is this what it had come to since the divorce? Ready to throw away his whole case on a gorgeous stranger for a quick blowjob? But it was worse than that because he’d invited him over to his work, invited him on a date even if he was married and it probably wouldn’t result in anything more than a night between the sheets and an apology the next day that he couldn’t do this again, he had his family to think of. It couldn’t be helped though, he fucking liked him. Who the hell are you, Chris?
One of Mitrovski’s men was highly improbable. He wouldn’t be shipped back to Canada in a body bag because he had told Chris he was a member of the RCMP. It was still a shit stupid rookie move, even if Chris was only a gorgeous stranger who needed a drink and a warm body almost as much as he did. He probably wouldn’t even find out what that warm body felt like in his arms. There weren’t going to be any phone calls with the voice that’s like a husky whisper with the power to short circuit his brain.
He snorts at himself, half amusement half disgust as he begins to stand up from the stool some joker thought it funny to call a kitchen table. There was no way he was ever getting two people seated around it to share breakfast even if he were entertaining. Before he can get halfway out of the chair, he spots the notepad he was scribbling on absentmindedly as the smell of coffee filled the room. Reading it over only causes him to laugh at himself more. In his own nearly illegible scrawl is a list of observations:
- Has money or at least wants to have the appearance of it
- Receives direct feedback on his work; from customer, higher ups, or other party?
- Origin of phone calls he takes is important to him
- Not a native new Yorker, but lived in New York long enough to act like it
- Married and closeted ; wife doesn’t usually live in New York?
- Works in an environment populated with Hispanics
- Also works in a field that instills a brotherhood and an us/them mentality
- Cagey about outsiders
- Worried how he’s perceived will effect career
- Travels for weeks at a time; work takes him to places like Baltimore and Toronto on repeat visits
- Competition is not local or foreign, at least not that it involves Canada (Toronto connection could mean friendly with Canada, but not so friendly he recognized RCMP)
The paper crinkles under one large hand, the writing obscured as it transforms into a ball before sailing into the garbage can. Chris wasn’t a goddamn suspect or a case. Theories begin to bounce around striking down possible jobs that wouldn’t require as much travel, running over others that wouldn’t lead a person to own a passport. Images of the previous night flicker across his mind’s eye questioning if he saw a wedding ring before the wife was mentioned. Others take in his style of dress, worry at the make of his cellphone and ask who was on the other end of the line?
His coffee cup is slammed down on the counter with almost enough force to crack it. "You aren’t going there, Jovanovski. You aren’t going to spend today playing little mind games with yourself over where Chris is or what he’s doing. There are people out there you know need your help, and you’re going to focus on that."
The battle to not think about Chris is only won after failed attempts while finishing breakfast where he wonders how he takes his coffee and after his shower where his memory provides perfect recall for the texture of Chris’ lips that seem to ghost down his neck. It’s once the clothes come on, his ankle holster secured and his badge and handcuffs tucked safely in a pocket that he can settle into the rhythm of the day. He gathers up the papers that were scattered over the bed with the look of a man who has won a battle through sheer determination even if it cost him most of his troops. After a quick flight of stairs the noises of New York gearing up for a new day greet him. The one thing he has stopped battling is that he’s starting to love that sound.
Later...
When he walks into the area of the precinct he’s come to think of as his team’s, a woman and a group of men are huddled around a TV set. Tucked under his arm is a map of Brighton Beach that he lays out on the desk next to them. "I’ve been going over the surveillance reports and based on the foot traffic our guys have been seeing I think they’re using this tenement to turn out the---"
"Jovo, shut the fuck up, will ya?"
"Shift started boys, I want to get over there--"
"Shift doesn’t start until after the first round of coffee. We’ll get those fucks, but after the highlights, okay?"
"What highlights? Drury got his ass handed to him by the Rays."
"You can’t blame him for the runs Mo gave up."
"But would we have even been in that situation if Chris didn’t get lit up like it was Christmas in July?"
"It was the bullpen that lost…"
The argument fades into the background for him as he shoulders his way closer to the television to see what his team is complaining about. The camera pans to the mound and the face of the pitcher elicits a little hitch of surprise. His mind draws on past memories of days spent in the Miami sun and that same face only younger appearing on television screens causing the whole city to groan. The gears of his mind keep turning as details from the previous night, recorded yet not slotted into their proper place suddenly come together.
Taking in his expression, "Jovo, man, I know it looks bad, but don’t worry Drury will bounce back from this during his next start. He always does."
"Maybe he just realised the Jays actually have a chance to beat him."
"Toronto’s never going to give us a problem. Drury will have at least ten strike outs before the game is over."
Stupidly, "That is Chris Drury."
"What fuckin’ rock have you been living under? Of course that is Chris Drury, he’s only won two Cy Youngs and this’ll be like his 10th All Star game."
"Didn’t he win 3 Cy Youngs?"
"Should have, but he got robbed that year. We don’t talk about that fuck."
Shaking her head, "Jovo, you really didn’t know Chris Drury?"
"I guess I never really looked at him before. Cut me some slack, I only just came to New York."
"Canadians for ya. If it doesn’t involve ice and a flimsy wooden stick they don’t think it’s a sport."
"You gotta trash talk hockey, because it’s the only way you can reconcile being an Islanders fan. Now let’s go people, you can mourn the Yankees place in the standings later. Or should I start talking about how the Red Sox crushed the Indians last night?"
"Asshole."
"We were lied to when they said you Canadian fuckers were polite."
"I keep warning you about listening to gossip." Moves closer to the desk where he laid out the map earlier, "These buildings here are the likeliest location…"
Title: What If?: Strangers in the Night. Chapter Two.
Fandom: National Hockey League, AR.
Characters: Ed Jovanovski, Unnamed NYPD detectives
Word Count: 1,638.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Once a cop, always a cop, but still able to be surprised.
Author's Notes: This is set on May 8, 2009, in New York City. The morning after Chapter One. This is an AR.
The alarm ringing incessantly suggests it is time to get out of bed, but the groggy sleep deprived fog he is fighting his way out of says it is much too early. The files from last night that he had poured over even after coming home from the little hole in the wall bar are still spread all over the covers and his lap. He’d slept half sitting up and the price is the stiffness in his neck and shoulders that threatens to become a throbbing ache as the day continues. Why the hell he spent so much time in that dive was-well it was the fault of thick dark brown hair and a pair of blue eyes.
His own eyes nearly slide shut to bring up the image of the face he spent the night dreaming about, but before he can get lost in what he could have spent the pre-dawn hours doing instead of trying to decipher chicken scratch notes, he hauls himself out of bed stumbling towards the kitchen. The smell of ground coffee beans wakes his brain up a little more as he goes through the motions of using the grinder and setting it to percolate. The routine lets him think back on the night before. He can’t remember the last time he let his tongue run that much. It was fucking stupid to give up information like his job before he was even given a name. He’d never even been offered a last name, which was a warning sign in his line of work, but to be truthful he hadn’t pressed for one and he hadn’t much cared to either. It was much more interesting to let the dance play out than to force it to its endgame immediately. Pressing for more information could have made Chris jackrabbit back down whatever high end hole he had escaped from for the night. God, he could have had him out of his clothes and in his bed or up against some alley wall in five more minutes. His knees protest to the part of the fantasy that has him on his knees in that alley, nuzzling the opening of his pants with a hungry mouth, but his dick certainly takes interest. You’re a goddamn idiot, Jovanovski. Is this what it had come to since the divorce? Ready to throw away his whole case on a gorgeous stranger for a quick blowjob? But it was worse than that because he’d invited him over to his work, invited him on a date even if he was married and it probably wouldn’t result in anything more than a night between the sheets and an apology the next day that he couldn’t do this again, he had his family to think of. It couldn’t be helped though, he fucking liked him. Who the hell are you, Chris?
One of Mitrovski’s men was highly improbable. He wouldn’t be shipped back to Canada in a body bag because he had told Chris he was a member of the RCMP. It was still a shit stupid rookie move, even if Chris was only a gorgeous stranger who needed a drink and a warm body almost as much as he did. He probably wouldn’t even find out what that warm body felt like in his arms. There weren’t going to be any phone calls with the voice that’s like a husky whisper with the power to short circuit his brain.
He snorts at himself, half amusement half disgust as he begins to stand up from the stool some joker thought it funny to call a kitchen table. There was no way he was ever getting two people seated around it to share breakfast even if he were entertaining. Before he can get halfway out of the chair, he spots the notepad he was scribbling on absentmindedly as the smell of coffee filled the room. Reading it over only causes him to laugh at himself more. In his own nearly illegible scrawl is a list of observations:
- Has money or at least wants to have the appearance of it
- Receives direct feedback on his work; from customer, higher ups, or other party?
- Origin of phone calls he takes is important to him
- Not a native new Yorker, but lived in New York long enough to act like it
- Married and closeted ; wife doesn’t usually live in New York?
- Works in an environment populated with Hispanics
- Also works in a field that instills a brotherhood and an us/them mentality
- Cagey about outsiders
- Worried how he’s perceived will effect career
- Travels for weeks at a time; work takes him to places like Baltimore and Toronto on repeat visits
- Competition is not local or foreign, at least not that it involves Canada (Toronto connection could mean friendly with Canada, but not so friendly he recognized RCMP)
The paper crinkles under one large hand, the writing obscured as it transforms into a ball before sailing into the garbage can. Chris wasn’t a goddamn suspect or a case. Theories begin to bounce around striking down possible jobs that wouldn’t require as much travel, running over others that wouldn’t lead a person to own a passport. Images of the previous night flicker across his mind’s eye questioning if he saw a wedding ring before the wife was mentioned. Others take in his style of dress, worry at the make of his cellphone and ask who was on the other end of the line?
His coffee cup is slammed down on the counter with almost enough force to crack it. "You aren’t going there, Jovanovski. You aren’t going to spend today playing little mind games with yourself over where Chris is or what he’s doing. There are people out there you know need your help, and you’re going to focus on that."
The battle to not think about Chris is only won after failed attempts while finishing breakfast where he wonders how he takes his coffee and after his shower where his memory provides perfect recall for the texture of Chris’ lips that seem to ghost down his neck. It’s once the clothes come on, his ankle holster secured and his badge and handcuffs tucked safely in a pocket that he can settle into the rhythm of the day. He gathers up the papers that were scattered over the bed with the look of a man who has won a battle through sheer determination even if it cost him most of his troops. After a quick flight of stairs the noises of New York gearing up for a new day greet him. The one thing he has stopped battling is that he’s starting to love that sound.
Later...
When he walks into the area of the precinct he’s come to think of as his team’s, a woman and a group of men are huddled around a TV set. Tucked under his arm is a map of Brighton Beach that he lays out on the desk next to them. "I’ve been going over the surveillance reports and based on the foot traffic our guys have been seeing I think they’re using this tenement to turn out the---"
"Jovo, shut the fuck up, will ya?"
"Shift started boys, I want to get over there--"
"Shift doesn’t start until after the first round of coffee. We’ll get those fucks, but after the highlights, okay?"
"What highlights? Drury got his ass handed to him by the Rays."
"You can’t blame him for the runs Mo gave up."
"But would we have even been in that situation if Chris didn’t get lit up like it was Christmas in July?"
"It was the bullpen that lost…"
The argument fades into the background for him as he shoulders his way closer to the television to see what his team is complaining about. The camera pans to the mound and the face of the pitcher elicits a little hitch of surprise. His mind draws on past memories of days spent in the Miami sun and that same face only younger appearing on television screens causing the whole city to groan. The gears of his mind keep turning as details from the previous night, recorded yet not slotted into their proper place suddenly come together.
Taking in his expression, "Jovo, man, I know it looks bad, but don’t worry Drury will bounce back from this during his next start. He always does."
"Maybe he just realised the Jays actually have a chance to beat him."
"Toronto’s never going to give us a problem. Drury will have at least ten strike outs before the game is over."
Stupidly, "That is Chris Drury."
"What fuckin’ rock have you been living under? Of course that is Chris Drury, he’s only won two Cy Youngs and this’ll be like his 10th All Star game."
"Didn’t he win 3 Cy Youngs?"
"Should have, but he got robbed that year. We don’t talk about that fuck."
Shaking her head, "Jovo, you really didn’t know Chris Drury?"
"I guess I never really looked at him before. Cut me some slack, I only just came to New York."
"Canadians for ya. If it doesn’t involve ice and a flimsy wooden stick they don’t think it’s a sport."
"You gotta trash talk hockey, because it’s the only way you can reconcile being an Islanders fan. Now let’s go people, you can mourn the Yankees place in the standings later. Or should I start talking about how the Red Sox crushed the Indians last night?"
"Asshole."
"We were lied to when they said you Canadian fuckers were polite."
"I keep warning you about listening to gossip." Moves closer to the desk where he laid out the map earlier, "These buildings here are the likeliest location…"