Work Text:
In another life, Marcus did not have red paint on his jeans when he got to the precinct.
Neither had he just robbed a bank.
He had slept late.
"Maybe your new partner will make you come to work on time." said the sergeant. The guys had a good laugh.
Marcus squinted at Chris, the newbie just forced on him. A mop of forcibly tamed black curls, the guy was compulsively chewing bubblegum (Seriously, bubblegum? Get a toothpick like a real man!). That silver cross around his neck would serve well as a target. Pale blue eyes flickered to Marcus with an impish spark in them, sizing him up. Some crossing guard from Zone 2, did he even know what 'the street' meant?
Turned out he did, and knew Spanish as well. OK then. No sooner had Marcus turned his back however, the idiot went over and somehow got Pinto the hotheaded gangster in handcuffs, and almost started a riot. Marcus did his best to cool the situation, then dragged his partner to the drugstore nearby, kicked the owner out and locked it up to give the rookie a much-needed lesson on the rules of the street. Not surprisingly, the jackass shot back with some nonsense about "his" investigation, before turning to storm out - only to run into the door.
"Unlock the door, stupid." The last bit came out unexpectedly soft. Marcus shook his head in dismay. Stupid.
They went to raid the home of the severed-heads murderer. Chris took the shield at the front, as the team filed closely after him, up the stairs and into the apartment. Marcus listened to him give out orders to check every door, every closet, and call on the suspect to surrender, with surprising precision and poise. That he learned in Zone 2?
When Chris fell in the ensuing gun fight, Marcus's stomach plummeted to the ground. No, no. The guy might be a jerk but he's still his partner. He called out his name, rushing to Chris's side the first chance he got, and was relieved to find the vest caught the bullet. Unable to get up yet, Chris pushed him to go chase the suspect. A few minutes later Marcus was deadlocked with the 300-pound perp in a struggle for the gun. Just as he felt he couldn't hang on any longer, his partner came on the scene, thrust his gun into the narrow opening, and blew the perp's brains out. Before he could stop himself, Marcus picked up the gun and fired two more shots into the dead man.
The two of them stood against opposite walls, across the pool of blood, gore and brain matter. Coppery stench permeated the steamy air, seeping into every pore. Marcus's ears were filled with his own heavy breathing, and sirens that sounded very far away, his low-cast eyes fixed on Chris's arm below rolled-up sleeve, sweat streaming down the muscle lines and dripping to the ground.
"I can't remember one shot." Marcus stared at his beer bottle. "Is that weird?"
"No. It's called survival stress reaction."
A few hours ago he'd never have believed he could be having a drink with his partner after work, much less talking about FEELINGS. Now it already felt like a familiar routine.
"You don't say. By the way, did you use to lead searches for armed criminals in Zone 2?"
"In Fallujah actually." Chris took a sip of his beer, "Two tours." He was quiet for a moment, looking far ahead, before turning back with a crooked smirk. "I'm a badass motherfucker."
Yeah right. Marcus rolled his eyes. "From Fallujah to Atlanta, huh? Out of the frying pan and into the fire?"
"Ha,"Chris chuckled, "Atlanta's not so bad. Lots of history and heritage."
Marcus frowned. Such as, heritage symbolized by the confederate flag?
"Such as MLK's birth place."
Oh. Marcus let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. As he looked up at his partner, there was that all-knowing mischief twinkling again in those brilliant blue eyes. Bastard.
"Come on, I'll show you heritage."
Bathed in blood-red lights, strippers twisted and twined to thundering beats of music, occasionally pushing their breasts right into the faces of the cops in the front row, causing a burst of laughter. Behind the crowd, Marcus stood leaning against the wall, next to Chris who gave a little clap from the bar stool he was sitting on.
This was their place, guys of the precinct. Bringing Chris here was sort of an initiation. He's one of them now. Marcus could sense Chris was not really into the entertainment, just going with the flow. He started to feel a slow burn of sensation low in his belly, getting lower, and hotter, almost achingly so. He was keenly aware that the kindler was not the dancing sirens on the table, but the distinctly male body next to his, black curls tantalizingly close to his fingertips, sinewy shoulders he could take hold of just by dropping his arm.
It surprised him, this sudden flush of longing, tingling with desperation, because everything felt so real, yet so surreal, fragments of broken memory whirling in his mind. One minute too late, two inches too close, it would have all gone to dust, the whole present and future.
He tried to shake it off, looking around the room. Just so happened that a man about to go out the door was waving at him. It's Gabe Welch who used to be in the same precinct but was transferred to a quieter part of town a few years back. Marcus was relieved for his sake. Gabe would have been too soft to survive the mean streets of East Atlanta.
He strolled over to say hello, and walked with him outside to get some fresh air.
"Heard you got a new partner," Gabe nodded backwards as they walked down the stairs. "He the one?"
"Mmm-hmm. " Marcus grunted indistinctly. He's THE ONE. His mind supplied with force. Unrequitedly. It added dryly. Apparently the night air had done nothing to cool his head.
Gabe was long gone when Marcus turned around to walk back. Seeing the figure on top of the stairs he actually slowed down, even though it was clear the other man was waiting for him, and had been waiting for some time.
Halfway up the wooden stairs, Marcus slowed to a halt, and locked eyes with his partner. "What, girls in there ain't to your liking?"
Perhaps it's the nightly shade or the dancing neon lights, but the ever trenchant blue gleams in those eyes were now but a soft shadow, lightly playful, bordering on tenderness. "I can think of a better place to be."
In another life, Officers Belmont and Allen were both late for work the next day.
******
In this life, Marcus paces the dark corridor of the abandoned housing project. Finally he slumps against the wall, clutching his head. Oh shit, oh shit. He's not sure if he's saying it out loud.
He waits.
Anticipated gun shots tear the silence. A shootout. One body falls to the ground. He slowly stands up, clenching his gun tight.
"Marcus!" It's Chris calling out to him. He stomps his foot and runs toward him.
"Where have you been?" His partner says without turning back, busy trying to staunch the blood for the gangster lying on the ground. "Call it in. Maybe he'll make it. Hey, stay with me man." He pats Pinto on the cheek, oblivious to Marcus's utter silence behind him.
Marcus's gun is trained on its long intended target. One pull of the trigger...
Chris picks up a piece of paper fallen out of Pinto's pocket. He scans it. Once. Twice. Then again. What does it say...whatever...just pull...
He turns around. The hallway is dim and eerily quiet. Those eyes, cold fires burning in an icy blue, pierce straight through Marcus's gun barrel.
"Why?"
Marcus swallows hard. He wants to say what are you talking about, say it's not what you think, say I'm sorry. He wants to say, in another life...
But in this life, at this moment, it's all too late.
Chris fires first. Marcus is already falling when he does pull the trigger. The last thing he feels is his partner's fingers on his neck, the call of Triple 9 fading away from his ears.