In Defense of the Vile + Date Night prompt fill
All movement within the warehouse ceased as Peter Parker came striding through the open doors, the moonlit harbor at his back.
"Richards," he intoned silkily, as sweet as a black mamba. "Explain to me why I'm here on my night off."
Richards- a solidly built man of six feet or more, openly carrying two separate firearms -balked at his petite employer's tone.
"I- I requested Beck, Mr. Parker."
"And Quentin was with me," Peter said, as if that should have been obvious.
Richards, the poor man, swallowed nervously.
"Why. Am. I. Here, Richards?"
Quentin Beck strolled to a stop at Peter's elbow.
He'd undone his tie on the drive over, leaving it to hang limply around his neck. His hair looked windswept, though that was mostly from his own hands running through it, still not used to the growing length.
"Probably something to do with the cop bleeding out over there," he said, scratching absently at the stubble on his jaw.
The twitchy lump of person flinched.
She wasn't anyone Quentin knew. Had known? The perforated line between his life before Peter Parker and after was sometimes hard to distinguish. There was nothing familiar about her, was the point, excepting the navy blue uniform.
So, he didn't know her. But the way her eyes widened at the sight of him said that she knew him.
Quentin quirked a brow.
"You said to call you as soon as we found the broken link in the supply chain," Richards said, retaining some shred of professionalism. He held the officer's badge out. "It's her, sir."
Quentin glanced at the badge with vague disinterest, absorbing the basic facts it offered.
"Officer Daveys," he drawled. "Well, you've probably made better choices than the ones that led you here, haven't you?"
Apparently, Daveys had the good sense to know when a question was non-rhetorical.
Richards delivered a succinct summary of events. For the last two months, Officer Daveys had been skimming from the stash of heroin she was supposed to be ferrying out of the East Side precinct. The loss in profits was nothing damaging and would've gone unnoticed if their bookies didn't have such a sharp eye for numbers. But, still.
It was the principle of the thing.
They'd even killed their man in evidence lockup, just to be sure. That was a loss on product and manpower.
"Any idea what she did with the merchandise?"
"Who cares?"
Peter's tone had shifted from ominous sweetness to obvious boredom. He barely glanced at Officer Daveys.
"It's a bit of dope. We'll make it up in the merger next week. Kill her, replace her," he leaned heavily into Quentin's side. "And we can pick up where we left off. Right, baby?"
He could have protested. Peter may have even listened. Making a case for hairbrained judgment calls used to be part of his job description. It was part of Officer Daveys' too, because they both embodied that thin blue line.
Or he had, anyway.
Quentin pulled a gun from beneath his jacket and put a bullet between Officer Daveys' wide blue eyes.
"Clean it up," he ordered Richards.
"Yes, sir."
Peter sighed forlornly as they turned from the scene, looping an arm around his lover's waist.
"Well that was more hassle than it was worth," he groused. "And we ditched our reservations and everything!"
"The waitstaff had a bunch of sticks up their asses anyway," Quentin shrugged, laying his palm over Peter's shoulder blades.
"That's true. The look that jerk gave me when I ordered a beer!"
Quentin snorted. He kissed the top of Peter's head as they stepped out into the night.
"Let's grab burgers at Fat Paul's and go to Luxe," he hummed. "We can dance."
"Ooo, they do have those flaming body shots. Wanna do one off me?"
"I was thinking you could do one off me."
Peter beamed delightedly.