Chapter Text
It was him. It was Handsome Protest Boy Meme.
He wasn’t protesting, just standing around in front of John Barleycorn.
Standing around with an open beverage in hand, on Grantaire’s beat, on the wrong side of the decorative fence. Grantaire looked around to see if anyone saw him see Handsome Protest Boy.
None of that mattered when Handsome Protest Boy locked eyes with Grantaire. It was too late to pretend he hadn’t seen Handsome Protest Boy now, or watched him take a slow sip of his craft beer while looking defiantly underage. Grantaire pulled himself up straight, reaching his full height of 5’ 9” (nothing to be ashamed of, only one inch below the national average) and walked with a firm step.
“Sir, it is illegal to carry an open beverage on public property in the state of Illinois,” Grantaire said.
The kid raised one eyebrow and fished a bottle-cap out of his corduroys. “You could be doing a lot more good elsewhere, unless you’re corrupt or incapable, in which case, you ought to just stay here.”
“I’m also going to need to see some ID,” Grantaire added, because although Handsome Protest Boy was even more handsome up close than he was when photoshopped into a number of hilarious unrelated circumstances, he was being snarky and also couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
HPB reached back into his pants and came up empty-handed. “I must’ve left my wallet with a friend.”
“Where’s your friend?”
The friend had always disappeared somewhere.
HPB made a token show of looking around, then of looking embarrassed. “I don’t know where he went.”
“Then I’m going to have to bring you in.” Grantaire really didn’t want to arrest a meme. He stared down at the sidewalk while a particularly vicious ray of sunlight lit HPB from behind. “Look, just admit that you’re underage, get on the other side of the fence, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
“Why are you suddenly trying to negotiate with me? I’m clearly breaking the law. This is just laziness on your part.”
“You are lecturing the cop who was going to let you flout the law.”
“You need it!”
Grantaire took out his handcuffs. “Sir, please put your hands behind your back.”
“No, I don’t think you’ll put in the trouble of arresting me.”
He didn’t say it smugly; no, HPB had to say it confidently, like he knew that deep down, Grantaire really didn’t feel like wasting his time on prosecuting the victimless, pointless crime of carrying an open alcohol container while underage. He’d never understood why he’d decided to become a cop – it probably boiled down to ‘things to do that were not accounting and did not require a four year degree’, plus he’d forgotten to turn in his portfolio to art school on time – but he’d really never been good at it. Grantaire’s self-examination was interrupted by the sound of a frat brother saying, “Hey, it’s Handsome Protest Boy! And he’s about to get arrested!”
“I’m not protesting,” HPB said, finally expressing one fraction of the humiliation Grantaire experienced every day as a police officer as more and more people started to gawk.
“I absolutely have to arrest you now,” Grantaire said. “Please cooperate before this turns still more excruciating.”
“What kind of cop uses the words ‘excruciating’ and ‘flout’?”
“Are you implying that I shouldn’t?”
The unspoken accusation of classism made HPB freeze. Grantaire seized the moment to handcuff him while he was too distracted to argue.
“Holy shit, he’s really getting arrested!” said yet another helpful fraternal commentator.
“Is this when you march me to your car?” HPB asked, with the expression of a blond Che Guevara bent over the fencing of a sports bar.
“I’m a bike cop.”