After work, Roy Earle heads back to his apartment, looking to crack open a bottle of rye and put his feet up for the first time that day. He emerges from the elevator on the top floor of his apartment building, hand fishing around in his pocket for his keys. He's so preoccupied with getting the door open that he doesn't notice the figure leaning against the opposite wall.
"You've got some nerve, Earle. I'll give you that."
Roy nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of the voice behind him. "Jesus Christ," he exclaims, whirling around in alarm. He's surprised to find none other than Cole Phelps, former department Golden Boy, standing behind him. But there's something different about him; Phelps doesn't look like himself. For starters, his arms are folded across his chest and his eyes are narrowed at the Vice detective.
"What the hell are you doing here, Phelps?"
"I think you know," Cole tells him, slowly backing Roy into the apartment. Once they're both inside, Phelps kicks the door shut behind them and Roy can only stare at the man, wide-eyed. His decision to turn Cole in for his little extra-marital affair was based entirely on the fact that Phelps doesn't play dirty. Never in a million years did he see this coming back to bite him in the ass.
Boy was he wrong.
Still, the first punch comes as a shock, even though it shouldn't have (Roy had seen Phelps duke it out with enough scumbags to know he was certainly no chump in a fistfight). Ironically, the most shocking part about the sudden assault is the sheer amount of anger behind it. Very few things could make a man like Cole that angry. Clearly this is one of them.
The clean right hook sends Roy's hat flying across the room. His jaw begins screaming in pain almost immediately; so much so that he almost misses what Phelps is saying to him.
"Everything... my entire life is gone because of you!" Cole seethes. His chest is heaving as he breathes, and his hands are curled into two tight fists at his sides. "My wife, my children, my job. All of it."
Roy opens and closes his jaw in silence, steeling himself against the pain. He's not about to back down just because Cole finally decided to grow some balls.
After a deep, not-so-calming breath, he stares his former partner dead in the eye. "Yeah, well, maybe you shoulda thought about that before you started waving your dick around."
That's definitely the wrong thing to say—Roy knows it, even before the words are out of his mouth. It's obvious that Cole is desperate for someone, anyone to blame other than himself; and right now, that person is Roy.
Cole tackles him to the ground in a heartbeat and begins wailing on him, one fist after another. Roy can't get his arms up in time to block the assault. He feels more pain, this time in his lip, a sharp, stabbing feeling, followed by the warm trickle of blood down his chin.
"Fucking hell," he growls, tasting the familiar metallic tang on his tongue. For whatever reason, the sight of the blood makes Cole pause—at which point Roy reaches up and grabs him by the throat.
"Never thought you had it in ya, pretty boy." Cole's eyes go wide; he clutches desperately at the hand choking him, but Roy's grip is firm. "Guess you're human after all. Who would've thought," Roy adds with a chuckle. He shoves Phelps away from him none-too-gently and watches him land on his ass a few feet away.
Cole sucks in a deep breath and clutches protectively at his throat. "You ruin a man's life, feel no remorse about it, and have the nerve to question my humanity?" he rasps, glaring at the Vice detective with dark eyes.
Roy hoists himself into a sitting position and rolls his eyes. "Quit being a drama queen, Phelps." He wipes at the smeared blood on his face. "What're you looking for, an apology?"
"For starters, yes."
Roy can't help himself; he lets out a loud snort. "In your dreams, kid."
A moment later, he's faced yet again with Cole's fists—but this time he's prepared. He catches his former partner by the wrist and flips them over, using his body weight to keep Cole pinned beneath him. Immediately, Phelps starts struggling. He tries to buck Roy off, but all that does is force Roy to press into him even harder to keep him in one place. In fact, they're so close together by that point that Roy can feel Cole's heart racing in his chest. It stirs something within him that he doesn't even want to deny.
"Oh, come on Phelps. It's just business. It was never anything personal." He leans down a little closer, so that their faces are but inches apart. "I like you. Especially on your back like this."
The comment is worth it if only for the deer-in-headlights look that comes over Cole's face. There's a flush that follows it, pink and hot, creeping upward from beneath Cole's collar all the way to his cheeks. His lips, as if acting on their own accord, part slightly and he draws in a shaky breath.
Roy's already hard, and pressed together the way they are, he knows Phelps can feel it.
Cole's trying to ignore it, but he's not very successful. "You made it personal," he tells Roy, pausing for a breath, "the minute you involved my family."
"Your family?The one you never spent any time with?" Roy retorts, ignoring the icy look in Cole's eyes. "You were always last to leave the station, don't think I didn't notice."
"Don't," Phelps warns, struggling harder than ever to free himself.
Roy, casual as ever, offers him a calm shrug. "I get it, Cole. It wasn't enough anymore. Not everyone's cut out for that life."
All Cole can do, it seems, is turn his head away, refusing to meet Roy's gaze. By now, Roy's not the only one aroused by the proceedings, and Cole's deepening flush speaks his embarrassment loud and clear. That's it for Roy. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he reaches between their bodies to cup Cole through his slacks. When he begins stroking him, Phelps lets out a sharp breath and goes still.
"Roy—"
"I can play nice if you can," he hums into Cole's ear, slowly releasing his captive hands. A surge of triumph courses through Roy's veins when Cole makes to move to push him away. Smirking to himself, Roy grips the man's cock through the material and Cole whimpers.
Roy is still thoroughly surprised, a moment later, when Cole's mouth is on his, coaxing his lips open and kissing him roughly. Blood is still trickling from Roy's bloodied lip; it seeps into both their mouths and when Phelps pulls away, it's smeared over his lips.
In response to what is perhaps the most arousing thing he's ever seen, Roy growls and yanks open Cole's belt. He extracts the man from his trousers, gripping him hard enough to make Cole squeeze his eyes shut and buck into his hand.
Then, suddenly, Phelps whispers, "Turn over." His breath is hot against Roy's lips.
The Vice detective craned his head backward and stares at Cole in alarm. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me, Roy. I said turn over," Cole repeats, emphasizing the command by sliding out from underneath Roy and rolling him over onto his knees. Just as Roy's about to let him have an earful of his thoughts, Cole grabs him by the hips and presses his hardness against him from behind. Roy bites his lip and quickly extends his arms to keep from falling flat on his face.
Even more shockingly, when Phelps unzips his fly and yanks down his slacks and boxers all at once, Roy actually lets him. And when he feels one of those hands wrap around his aching prick, his breath catches in his throat. It's all he can do to keep from thrusting into that warm hand.
Behind him, Roy can hear the sound of Cole shoving his trousers down his thighs. A moment later, when Cole presses against him for the second time, they're skin to skin.
"What're you waiting for, Phelps?" Roy peers over his shoulder at the other detective until he feels a single finger, wet with Cole's saliva, carefully slip inside him and begin spreading him apart. It's not long after that the head of Cole's cock brushes his entrance. Roy feels it throb against him and waits.
"Christ," Roy says with a strangled groan. The saliva does little to ease Cole's passage, but Roy grits his teeth and keeps still until Phelps is completely sheathed within him. It's at that point his former partner lets out a breathy, barely-audible moan. But Roy catches it, and his mind struggles to wrap itself around what he's letting Cole do to him.
Even through the pain, all Roy wants is to feel Cole move inside of him. But instead, one of Cole's hands reaches beneath them to pop open the buttons of Roy's shirt. He only bothers with the first few; just enough to slip his hand inside and trail it across Roy's chest. Somehow, it feels more personal than anything else, especially when one of those fingers brushes his nipple.
"Cole. For Christ's sake..."
Phelps leans down, his breath hot in Roy's ear, and continues teasing his nipple. "Yes?"
Roy's way of asking for more is to push himself even further onto Cole's cock. If the sharp breath he draws from the other man is anything to go by, Cole's surprised and rather pleased by it.
It does also prompt him to start moving. And when he does, nothing in the world can prepare Roy for what happens next.
The hand that was formerly touching Roy's chest is now trailing its way down his arm, making each hair stand on end even through his suit. It comes to rest over Roy's hand, effectively pinning it to the floor. Just as Roy's about to comment on it, Phelps drives into him hard enough to rock him forward on all fours, and coherent thought suddenly escapes him.
Thank God they're not face to face, because Roy can't stop his jaw from hanging open in surprise.
Cole's thrusts are long and none-too-gentle, but Roy adjusts to the pace. He knows this is Cole's way of working through his anger at him; maybe that's part of the reason why he's letting Phelps have his way. All the better once he realizes Roy isn't at fault for what happened. Well, at least not completely at fault.
Phelps wanted to bash his face in not ten minutes ago, and now, ironically, he cares about Roy's pleasure. One of his hands curls around Roy and strokes him in time with each thrust, bringing the Vice detective dangerously close to the edge. But Cole's there too, and when Roy hears him moan and feels him coming, he can't hold out any longer.
Cole rolls onto his back on the floor, chest heaving with each breath. Roy watches him yank his trousers back into place, all the while wishing Cole would get undressed for real so he can see that body in all its glory.
"Your career will recover," he tells Phelps, redressing himself as he talks. Since Cole was kind enough to leave him looking like he's just stepped out of a tornado, Roy doesn't even bother with his shirt; just reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cigarettes.
"Don't pretend you care."
There's so much self-pity in Cole's voice that it makes Roy want to deck him. He settles instead for a frown. "Then why would I waste my time trying to reassure you that this isn't the end of the world?"
Phelps stands up and scoops his hat off the floor. "Maybe your conscience finally caught up to you."
"I thought I didn't have a conscience?" Roy lights up a cigarette and lets it hang from his mouth.
Cole frowns, but says nothing. He puts his hat back on and makes for the door. Before he can turn the knob, however, Roy's behind him, holding it shut.
"I trust that next time you come over it won't be with fists flying," he says, fingers caressing the curve of Cole's hip. By the way Cole leans into the touch before sighing and disappearing out the door, Roy knows he'll be back.