Over and Again

by Brooke Edwards

  “Ticklish?” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the twitching muscle.

  Brock snorts, arching up beneath Cohen’s touch in direct opposition to the derisive sound. “No,” he says, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes deepening. There’s a flush in his cheeks that blooms all the way down his neck and across his collarbones. Cohen wants to follow it with his teeth and tongue, but he doesn’t want to look away from his own fingers splayed against the expanse of pale skin. Brock’s fingers hook into the chain of his necklace, tugging the cool metal until he has the rifle round between his fingers.

  “I wondered what this was,” Brock says, rolling it between his fingertips. The silver catches the light filtering in from the street. “Kept seeing the chain and thinking about what could be on the end. Does it mean something?”

  Cohen looks up, focusing on Brock’s face instead. His eyes are a little green, just flecks here and there through the gray, that are darker than the ring of blue around them, which Cohen’s never been close enough to see before. He hooks his fingers into the chain too, the familiar links pressing tight against his skin.

  “I’ve made up so many stories about it,” Cohen eventually confesses. “But really, my grandpa took me hunting when I was a kid, and I found it on the floor of the cabin. It wasn’t the same as the rounds he made me practice loading with, so I thought it was some kind of rare bullet. I was so upset when he took it away, but it was my birthday a couple months later and this was my present.”

  Brock’s eyes crinkle in the corners with the force of his grin. “I like that version of the story,” he says, and Cohen’s gaze drops to his kiss-swollen lips. His muscles are warm, loose and aching with a dull, pleasant kind of pain. He props himself up higher on his elbow, then Brock’s hand curls around the back of his neck and pulls him back down. Closing his eyes is an acceptable tradeoff for the slide of sweat-slick skin and the heat of Brock’s mouth against his.

  “Isn’t police work supposed to be a whole lot of eating donuts, and traffic stops, and banging your fists on interrogation room tables?” Peter pokes at Daniel’s cheek, dragging him from a warm, comfortable place where he didn’t have to get out of bed and face reality. “There has been entirely too much action since I’ve known you for that to be true.”

  “This isn’t normal,” Daniel mutters, eyes crossing as he blearily watches Peter’s finger land on the tip of his nose. “I’m sure I’ve spent most of the time we’ve known each other bitching about that.”

  Peter flops back down beside him, the mattress shaking enough for Daniel to groan, tugging the covers back up to his chin and rolling away from the disturbance. “The bitching is one of my favorite parts of your personality.” Peter’s voice is soft and fond, enough to make something similarly sappy tug at the corners of Daniel’s mouth.

  Something sharp starts pricking at his side and Daniel holds still as four paws’ worth of claws begin to knead at him through the covers. “I told you she likes you!” Peter croons.

  The afterglow was dim and a little patchy in the cold light of day, more the weight of everything they’d discovered and a well-earned lethargy than anything else. They’d shared a cab to the precinct, but Brock had waited a minute or two on the sidewalk to not make it completely obvious they’d spent the night together.

  Brock is trying to figure out how to coerce something drinkable out of the coffee machine in the precinct’s break room when the door shuts with a click and the noise from the bullpen suddenly disappears. He stops, the splashing of the still running water and the sharp sound of heels on the linoleum ear-splittingly loud.

  “This time of year, you need to jiggle the plug while praying to Saint Michael and then sacrifice a cantaloupe.” Kay’s voice is smooth, and Brock hears the rustle of fabric as she boosts herself up to sit on the counter beside him. He stares deliberately down at the mug in his hands, putting it on the sink slowly and turning to look at her.

  “Why a cantaloupe?” he asks.

  She shrugs one shoulder and flicks her wild, curling ponytail behind her head, still smiling bright and white at him. Her red lipstick is bold and the curve of her lips quietly threatening. “I like them.”

  “So we’re supposed to sacrifice them to you?” Brock reaches out, in active spite of his better judgment, and jiggles the base of the plug. The cord feels sticky and he draws his hand back, wincing. “You sure you can’t just take pity on me this once?”

  “I don’t know how they do things where you come from, Hart, but in this precinct? You bang it, you buy it,” Kay says, and she’s still smiling as she reaches out, patting his chest.

  Brock would give his left leg for her to stop smiling, especially when the sharp edge of her nails catch against the fabric of his shirt and dig into the upper edge of his pectoral for the briefest of seconds. “What are you talking about?” is on the tip of his tongue, but dies when he remembers warm, taut skin beneath his fingers.

  “You don’t get to stick it in more than one pie at this dessert bar,” she says, and her face is close enough to his that he can see the faint crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes. Her forehead crinkles, a deep furrow appearing between her eyebrows. “Okay, that went to a place I wasn’t entirely intending.”

  “I don’t think this is a professional conversation at all,” Brock says, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from looking away.

  Kay’s lips curve into a wider grin and her eyes glitter, like broken glass catching the sun. “No,” she says, sliding off the counter. “Not at all.”

  Brock stares after her as she leaves, the door opening beneath her hand and letting in all the noise. His heart thumps against his rib cage, irrationally fast, as he hears the click and whir sound as the coffee machine comes to life.

  Daniel looks up as Brock comes into the room, carrying a chipped, steaming mug from the break room. “I was about to send a search party out for you,” he says. “Coffee machine down?”

  “Got it working,” Brock says with a lazy salute. His gaze flits across the room, stopping briefly on Roger and a little longer on Rhys, before landing on Cohen. Daniel doesn’t know Brock anywhere well enough to try to read the expression that twists his face, but it only lasts a second before his features relax and he raises an eyebrow.

  “Rhys, Brock,” Cohen says, waving between the two of them and then shifting in his seat. “You’ve met. A number of times.” Something strange flashes across his face too, but Rhys starts talking and drags his attention away.

  “We sure he’s good?” His eyes are narrowed at Brock.

  “Sure as I am about you,” Brock says coolly.

  “I don’t have the time or patience for a pissing match, boys,” Roger snaps. He rubs his temples and sighs. “Now, we’re meeting one of my informants this morning. Hart, you’re going to stay here. Keep running down whatever you’ve got on Masters, and if you need us, go through Dispatch. We should be back by lunch.”

  Brock nods, putting his coffee down on the desk. Cohen takes the long way around the room, the path taking him by Brock. They share a look that makes Daniel’s nose crinkle and a vague suspicion start percolating at the back of his mind, and there’s a very deliberate-looking brush-up, their shoulders pressing together. He waves them off when Cohen turns back to look at him, and heads toward the front desk when they all split off. He’s got a different lead to chase down this morning.

  Kay spins in her chair and beams at him with far too many teeth. Something starts twitching in his jaw as she beckons him forward with a crooked finger, but he goes anyway. “So, they tried to hide it, but Hart and Bailey arrived together this morning,” she says, just on this side of a whisper. “Bea from downstairs saw them arrive and then not come in together. Followed my nose and found Hart in the kitchen. Think I put the fear in him. If he doesn’t make an honest man of our boy, then there’s more than one screw loose.”

  “I did not need to know that.” Daniel’s breath whistles out from between gritted teeth. “Just like
we did not need something else complicating this situation.”

  Kay pats his cheek. “Don’t worry, pumpkin,” she says. “Everything usually resolves itself once someone starts getting laid.”

  “Do not want to know.” Daniel pushes off the counter and keeps his eyes focused on the elevator. “Bigger fish. There are bigger fish.”

  He pulls his cell from his pocket as he backs into the elevator, darting a wary glance at Kay out of the corner of his eye. She’s still grinning, and he breathes a sigh of relief when the elevator doors close, cutting off his view. He leans against the wall, nodding to a couple of vaguely familiar faces and unlocking the screen to tap his way to the Message menu. Sam’s name is only a few from the top and he presses it, holding down the Call icon and then bringing it up to his ear.

  It rings five times before Sam answers. “Daniel? Hey.”

  “Hey, are you and Lydia busy?” he asks. The woman next to him shuffles closer with an apologetic sound as more people cram into the elevator. He nods at her even as the rail around the sides of the elevator digs into his hip. “I was hoping to drop by and catch up.”

  “Oh, because that’s not ominous at all, right?” There are rustling sounds, and then Sam shouts away from the speaker. “Lydia! Daniel’s coming over!” Daniel can’t make out what she shouts back, just a vague impression of noise.

  “Be there in about half an hour,” Daniel says, glancing down at his watch.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “I’ll put the coffee on in half an hour, and by the time it’s done you might be close.”

  “I’m punctual,” Daniel mutters before he hangs up. The woman pressed awkwardly against his side laughs, bringing her hand to her mouth as the elevator doors slide open on the ground level and people start filtering out.

  “Good luck,” she says, grinning over her shoulder at him as she leaves the elevator.

  Daniel loses track of her and then pushes the thought away, skirting the edges of the lobby as he heads toward the parking lot. He isn’t excited about the conversation he needs to have with Sam and Lydia, or the fact that he’s sure he’s going to have to call James and talk to him about whether there’s anyone he can think of that would nurse enough of a grudge to be behind the leak.

  The claw pinpricks on his hip itch, and he scratches at them through his pants. “Fucking cat,” he mutters to himself, hitting the fob and looking around for his car. “I didn’t even want it, and now I’m a scratching post.”

  9

  There’s a woman with a stroller on the other side of the road, and Cohen can’t help but hope, fervently, that this goes a hell of a lot better than the last time they’d followed a lead. Andrew was still limping after all, and he’s sure that the internal reviews on the use of force are going to keep going for the foreseeable future. Rhys is a hundred yards further down, his hand casually resting on his gun and his gaze darting around. Neither of them are trying particularly hard to blend in, but Cohen isn’t entirely convinced that trying to blend in isn’t half of what went wrong last time. He’s sure that visible uniforms and their obvious presence is going to keep things calmer. He knows that logic says people don’t commit crimes in front of police officers, but logic hasn’t exactly been a reliable force of late, so he’s just going to keep hoping that it’ll come through when it counts.

  Roger is sitting at one of the small, rickety tables outside the café. The man across from him is built enough that Cohen wouldn’t bet on himself taking him down without help. His hair is pale and buzzed short, and there’s a scar snaking down from behind his ear, dark enough that Cohen can trace the winding path all the way to where it dips below his collar.

  When he shifts, keeping one eye focused on Roger and his informant, the muscles in his thighs and lower back twinge. He leans against the fire hydrant and tries to subtly shake out the ache. Rhys looks at him from his post, judgment clear even with a hundred yards between them. Cohen straightens, rolling his neck and shoulders until something cracks, and then reaches up to tuck the chain around his neck back inside his shirt. There’s a tender spot high on his chest and the cool chain falls against it, soothing the faint, prickling burn.

  He doesn’t let the burn take hold in his cheeks, doesn’t think about the way Brock had looked when he’d stretched under the sheets that morning when Cohen had walked backward into the bathroom, scraping his hip along the doorjamb. He doesn’t.

  The front door of Sam and Lydia’s apartment is unlocked. Daniel bristles as he turns the knob and lets himself in, telling himself that they knew he was coming and that’s why it’s unlocked, and there’s no reason for his paranoia. They haven’t been threatened at all, Bartlett’s been laying alarmingly low, and there’s no logical reason for him to think that whatever is happening at the precinct is going to affect them at all. Not in any direct way, any more than being related to James has put them in some nebulous kind of danger for most of his career anyway.

  “It’s me!” he calls, shutting and locking the door behind him.

  Lydia appears at the end of the hall, toweling her hair. She’s wearing an oversized sweater he’s pretty sure would even be baggy on Sam’s much taller frame, and sweats that puddle over her feet. “Come down,” she says, and turns to disappear again.

  Daniel reaches the end of the hall and comes out into the kitchen and living area. Sam is at the sink, his back to Daniel.

  “Hey, Sam,” he says, leaning against the bookcase near the doorway.

  “That’s worryingly close to on time for you.” Sam turns around with a small potted plant in his hands. He puts it on the counter.

  “Laugh it up,” Daniel mutters. “When did you get back?”

  “Yesterday,” Lydia says from behind him. She pats his hip as she passes, her damp hair down around her shoulders, and brushes by Sam on her way to the coffee machine. “Going back to work next week. What brings you over?”

  “I wanted to ask you something before I called James.” He crosses the room, sitting on one of the stools at the counter. “Hoping I don’t have to bother him.”

  “Sure.” Sam’s eyes narrow. “What about?”

  “We think there’s someone leaking information.” He doesn’t feel any better when the words are out and both of them fall still. “We don’t know who, or even why, but we need somewhere to start, and I was wondering if your dad maybe mentioned anything about a grudge, or someone he was worried about?”

  Lydia is frozen at the coffee machine, her fingers tight around the mug she’s holding, and Sam is blinking at him. “You mean you think someone he trusted told Fairhall where to find them,” she says quietly.

  “Or someone we don’t trust has compromised security and is leaking information they shouldn’t have.” Daniel picks at his thumbnail. “That’s more likely, I think.”

  “Dad never mentioned anything,” Sam says after a moment of heavy silence. “Not anyone in particular, or any suspicions. You really think Fairhall had someone on the inside?”

  “I don’t know if they’re in Fairhall’s pocket or someone else’s.” A droplet of blood wells in the corner of Daniel’s nail when he pulls at the cuticle. “But Fairhall definitely found out where James and Derek were, and Bailey went to meet an informant a couple days ago and ended up in a shoot-out. Something stinks.”

  “Do you think it’s someone on the force?” Lydia asks, carefully placing the mug on the counter and turning to face him. Her mouth is set in a tight line.

  “We don’t know,” Daniel admits. Sam wordlessly hands him a tissue, which he presses to the blood pooling over his torn cuticle. “I was hoping maybe you’d remember something, whether James ever mentioned anything off-hand about it.” The tissue soaks through quickly and Daniel sighs. “Long shot, I know, but I wanted to run down everything I could before I called him and rocked the boat.”

  “He’s doing okay,” Sam says. “Surprisingly okay. Really limited mobility, and he’s still in pain, but he’s okay.” He closes his eyes and swallows, Adam�
�s apple bobbing in his throat. “Better than I expected, when the doctors said what had happened. Gen and Clinton are taking really good care of him.”

  “They’re good people.” Daniel’s throat tightens. “And—”

  “Derek’s doing okay too,” Lydia cuts in. “Not great, but he’s recovering. When all of this is over, I am going to shove the two of you in a locked room to sort out whatever is going on, but right now you need to figure out who this leak is before they get hurt again.” She leans against Sam, tucking herself into his side. “Because if they managed to tell Fairhall where James and Derek were before, then finding them now would be a piece of cake.”

  “We don’t think—”

  “She’s right,” Sam says and straightens, shoulders back, and Daniel suddenly sees James in every inch of him. “Whether you think that’s what the leak is after or not, they’re still sitting ducks up there, and it’s putting Gen and Clinton in the firing line too. So we’re calling Dad now, and Derek’s probably going to be there, and you need to ask him too, whether you’re ready to or not.”

  Brock glances between the file, flipped open and in disarray on the table, and the screen of his laptop. “Rotolo,” he murmurs to himself. “Why do I know that name?”

  “We’ve got a Rotolo in Vice.” Andrew Nottage is standing in the doorway, one crutch under his arm and a file in his other. “You got a minute? I want to run something by you.”

  “Of course,” Brock says, and clears a spot for the file. He gets up, but Andrew nudges the door shut behind him, so Brock sits back down. Daniel had swept the room for listening devices before he’d set up, so he stamps down the paranoia. “What’ve you got?”