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Agron stifles a yawn as he climbs into the cruiser, his partner already in the driver's seat. 'You really aren't a morning person, are you?' she asks as he fastens his belt, blinking several times to clear his vision. He hates morning shifts.
'No,' Agron replies. 'I'm really not. Would it be so hard for them to give us some night shifts?'
'Yes, actually,' Naevia replies. 'I have seniority, in case you've forgotten, and I'd prefer to spend my evenings at home, with my husband.'
Agron can't really argue with that. He'd met Naevia's husband, attractive in a brutish sort of way, and he can mostly understand why she'd fallen so hard for him in the first place. Marten Crixus ran a small gym over on Lyon Avenue, and that's where they'd met. Naevia had been obsessive about her work out routine even before that, and it was one of the many traits Agron admired about her. Another was that she took absolutely no shit from anyone, fellow officers or otherwise, and he knew he was lucky to have her as a partner.
They'd been riding together for about six months, after an altercation with his former partner got him temporarily suspended. When the IAB investigation confirmed harassment, Quentin had been busted back to street duty. Captain Sparks didn't tolerate prejudice in his precinct, and Naevia had volunteered to partner up with him after that, recently back from leave herself. Her last partner, Diana, had been killed in a shoot out with a house full of junkies, and everyone in the station walked on eggshells around her once she returned to active duty. Agron had never brought up the incident, not once, and he knew she was grateful.
The radio remains blissfully silent as they head out on patrol, and Naevia takes a shortcut over to Dominion St. and parks the cruiser outside a small coffee house. Agron throws her a questioning look, and she rolls her eyes. 'You need some coffee,' she explains, and shuts off the engine.
'Are you kidding?' Agron argues. 'Why pay six bucks for some fancy ass yuppie bullshit that barely even resembles coffee when we could have just grabbed a few cups back at the station?'
'Ugh,' Naevia replies. 'I don't understand how you drink that swill. And besides,' she adds with a mysterious smirk. 'I think you'll like this place.'
'Fine,' Agron mutters, getting out of the car. He'd figured out about a week into their partnership that it was useless to argue with her once she'd set her mind on something. The sign above the glass door reads 'Via Espresso' and he's not sure he gets the joke, if there's supposed to be one. Inside, it's pleasantly atmospheric, filled with small wooden tables and a plethora of comfortable looking chairs arranged in small groups or jammed into corners. Sturdy shelves line the walls, holding everything from mugs, coffee beans and french presses to worn and used books that seem to be free for customer enjoyment. It smells wonderful, and his eyes migrate to a glass case full of freshly baked pastries.
There's a line at the counter, and now that the scent of roasting beans from somewhere in the back has caught his attention, Agron silently begs their walkies not to go off before they reach the register. Eventually the herd thins out, and Agron can see two employees rushing about to fill all the orders. A woman with long brown hair and freckles greets Naevia by name, and adds, 'The usual?' to which Naevia nods with a smile. Her name tag reads Mira, and Agron wonders just what sort of hippie concoction his partner usually orders. 'He'll have a red eye,' Naevia says, nodding her head in Agron's direction.
'I'll have a what now?' he questions, and Naevia chuckles.
'Better make that a double,' she adds, and Mira laughs.
'Coming right up,' she promises, taking the handful of bills Naevia offers. Agron doesn't bother trying to argue; it wasn't his idea to come here in the first place, she can pay for his damn red coffee if she wants to. He just hopes it doesn't involve strawberries or whipped cream.
Mira scribbles their orders down on two paper cups and passes them down to the espresso machine, manned by the second employee. Agron meanders over to the pastries, and gets a better look at the kid expertly working the dials and levers, tamping down the freshly ground beans and locking them into place while fishing out four small glasses from beneath the counter in a curious sort of dance. His skin has a light copper tone, brought out vividly by the soft lighting, and dark hair pulled back from his face in a short ponytail. Agron watches his hands move across the machine like he's playing some sort of strange instrument, and belatedly realizes that he's staring. He glances back down at the case full of croissants, danishes, and all manner of fancy miniature cakes when he hears the kid call out an order.
'Quad Americano,' he says above the ambient noise in the room, setting down a double-stacked paper cup with a cardboard sleeve around it. Agron sees Naevia's name scrawled across it in black marker, and wonders what in the hell an Americano is, and what it might have to do with a sports field. The liquid inside is pitch black and steaming, and Naevia shoves him gently out of the way to reach it.
'Thanks, Nasir,' she says with a smile, and the kid looks up for the first time. He glances curiously at Agron, his gaze lingering for several seconds before he shakes his head and turns back to Naevia.
'I don't have to tell you that's hot enough to give you second degree burns, right?' he asks with a hint of concern, and Agron can't help but notice the soft, melodic lilt to his words.
'Perfect, as always,' Naevia responds, and wanders over to a small counter to fit a lid over the cup.
'See anything you like?' the kid asks quietly, and it takes Agron a moment to twig on to the fact that he's being addressed. He glances up, blinking in surprise, and Nasir smiles. 'In the pastry case,' he clarifies. 'You've, um, been drooling over it for about five minutes now.'
'Oh, ah,' Agron replies in his usual erudite fashion. 'No, that is, I mean – I'm watching my carbs.' He swallows around the words, watching the kid – Nasir – nod in acceptance, and return to the rhythmic motions of managing the equipment. Slender fingers curl around the dials as he fits a new cup of grounds into the slot and snaps it in place with an audible click. He grabs a large cup and fills it three fourths of the way full from a canister marked 'Peruvian Blend' before returning to the machine and dumping both shots of espresso straight into the coffee.
'There you go,' he says, sliding the cup across the counter. Agron stares down at it, watching small tendrils of steam curl up from the liquid, which smells absolutely amazing.
'So that's a red eye?' he asks, picking it up and taking a hesitant sip. He hadn't known until this very moment that coffee could be strong enough to actually kick you in the face. His eyes open wide as the smell from the cup surrounds and somewhat overwhelms him.
'What did you think it was?' Nasir asks curiously, glancing up at him while filling the next order.
'I honestly didn't know,' Agron replies. 'Something with raspberry syrup, or Swedish fish, or some other godawful invention.'
Nasir laughs, and his smile lights up his entire face. 'Trust me, Officer Keppler, I will never put a Swedish fish or any other sort of candy in your coffee.'
'Agron,' he hears himself saying. 'You don't have to call me Officer.' Nasir gives him another smile, this one softer, and just for him.
'Agron, then,' Nasir agrees. He sticks a pitcher of milk under a spoke and swirls it around, creating a thick layer of foam on the top, then layers it over several shots of espresso in a painted ceramic mug. 'Triple Cappuccino, dry,' he calls out, and Agron moves to one side to allow the next patron to collect their drink.
His walkie squawks loudly at his hip, and Agron nearly drops his cup. Naevia is halfway out the door before he catches up, glancing back once over his shoulder towards the counter. The kid leans against the polished wooden surface, watching them go, but ducks behind the machine when he meets Agron's gaze.
'415 in progress reported at 2550 Townsend, 10-63 requesting response.' The radios crackle in tandem, and they pile back in the cruiser. Townsend was only a few blocks north, and Agron hopes in vain that another car will take it. Naevia picks up the mic before he can object and answers. '10-98, this is Unit 73, show us responding.'
'10-4, 73,' the operator replies. 'Code 3 advised.'
Agron sits back in the seat with a groan. Any day that started out with a domestic dispute was more than likely never going to improve. He takes another sip of his coffee, and grudgingly admits that Naevia was right. He did kind of like that place, after all.
Agron's intuition proves correct, and they spend the day answering drunk and disorderlies, false alarms, and stopping motorists who seem to think they're exempt from traffic laws. By the end of the shift, he's ready to punch someone in the face. His coffee had gone cold by the time they'd managed to disentangle the two combatants from their first call of the day, a short, sketchy type who screamed 'child-molester' and his smack-addicted girlfriend, fighting it out over a credit card bill. He drank the rest of the coffee anyway, admitting that even below room temperature, it was still better than the sludge the pot at the station kicked out.
Agron grabs his gym bag from his locker and manages to catch Naevia before she's out the door. 'That coffee stand's right on my way in,' he mentions casually. 'If you want me to pick something up for you sometime, just ask.'
He can see Naevia fighting down a smirk before she answers. 'Sure,' she replies. 'Same thing tomorrow, and make sure you tell them you want it extra hot.' She winks, and crosses the parking lot to her Honda Rebel, pulling on her helmet. The streamlined fiberglass was painted a dark shade of blue to match the bike, and Agron watches her blaze out of the lot, kicking up a stream of gravel and smoke in her wake.
After that, it becomes something of a habit, Agron stopping by the coffee house most mornings on his way into work, except for the days when he's miserably hungover and sleeps straight through his alarm. One morning he finds Nasir working the register, a tall blonde handling the orders, and he must have just beaten the morning rush because the cafe is nearly empty. 'Quad Americano and a double Red Eye?' Nasir asks with a smile.
'You got it,' Agron replies, and watches as Nasir scribbles two names and checks a few boxes on paper cups before sliding them down to the girl, whose name tag reads 'Saskia'. She's quick and efficient, but Agron lingers at the register for a moment, making small talk about the weather. It's been raining for days, cold and miserable, and Agron laments handling the dank chill in a frequently soaked uniform.
'Hate to say it,' Nasir replies, 'But it's been great for business. Everyone wants something to warm them up.'
A short, hairy man emerges from the back and marches over to the register, smacking the back of Nasir's head with enough force to make him wince. 'Stop flirting and get back to work,' the man grumbles in a heavy accent that Agron pegs as Italian. Anger swells in his gut and he places a hand on the counter, leaning in.
'You know I could have your ass hauled in for that?' he tells the old man, the hint of a growl underlying his tone. 'That was two separate workplace violations in the span of five seconds.' The man mutters something under his breath in a language Agron can't parse out, and holds up his hands, backing away.
'Apologies, officer,' he replies in English, managing to make the second word sound like a slur. He slides his hands across Saskia's shoulders before retreating into the back once more, and she shudders, frowning down at the hissing espresso machine.
Nasir ducks his head, but Agron can still see the blush creeping up his neck to stain his cheeks. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbles. 'You shouldn't have had to see that. And I wasn't – I mean, I'm sorry, if you thought -'
Agron interrupts him, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder before he can think the action through. 'You don't deserve to be treated like that. He pulls that shit again, you call me.'
'C'mon, man,' the customer behind him complains. 'We don't all have as much time on our hands as you.'
Agron turns around, staring down the well groomed man in a suit and silk tie. 'I think you can wait a minute for your fucking coffee,' he responds, a steel edge in his voice, and the yuppie backs down. Agron grabs a napkin and pulls a pen from his pocket, scribbling down his cell number and pushing it toward Nasir. 'I wasn't kidding. I will drag that asshole back to the precinct by his hair if I have to.'
Saskia laughs, and Nasir smiles up at him shyly. 'My hero,' he says with a smile. Agron fights down the color he can feel rising in his cheeks, and slides down to the end of the counter to collect his coffee. He walks towards the door a bit faster than is absolutely necessary, hearing Saskia's voice behind him. 'Dude,' she pipes up, presumably addressing Nasir. 'If you don't hit that? I will.' Agron keeps his head down, pretending not to hear and drives to the station, trying his hardest to put the situation out of his mind.
The rain doesn't let up for another three days, and after an endless series of traffic stops, minor drug busts, and one barely averted suicide-by-skyscraper, Agron is desperately in need of a day off. He heads to the gym, more than ready to take out some of his pent up aggression on a punching bag, but ends up stopping at Via Espresso first for a decent cup of joe. Nasir's not working the counter when he walks in, clearing away mugs and plates from various tables and wiping them clean. He takes a risk and orders a cappuccino, which Mira crafts expertly, blending the foam with a hint of espresso dragged up through it into the shape of a heart. He glances down at it quizzically before taking the mug, but she just winks at him, tilting her head slyly in Nasir's direction.
Agron huffs out a small noise of surprise, wrapping his fingers around the piping hot ceramic and settling into one of the comfortable chairs near a bookshelf. He pulls a slim volume out of the pile, something about Mack Bolan with an explosion and several machine guns on the cover. It reads like James Bond for dummies, but he doesn't really care, only paying half attention to it anyway. The cappuccino is delicious, despite the unfamiliar sensation of milk foam against his lips, and he makes a mental note to leave an extra tip in the jar.
Nasir pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, glancing behind the counter where Mira and Saskia have the situation under control. Saskia shoos him away, and he slowly makes his way over to the chair opposite Agron, and hesitates before sitting down. 'Don Pendleton?' he asks with a hint of amusement. 'I would have figured you for more of a Sam Spade kind of guy.'
Agron smiles, and puts the book down. 'I love Hammett,' he replies. 'You'd think a cop wouldn't want to spend his spare time reading detective stories, but I don't know. The classics have a certain appeal.'
'You must really love your work,' Nasir offers, and Agron can't help but notice the way his eyes flick down across the thin t-shirt beneath his unzipped jacket.
'I do,' Agron replies. 'Never thought I'd end up doing this sort of thing, but – sometimes the right job just finds you.'
'So how did you get into it?' Nasir asks, genuinely curious, and Agron's shoulders stiffen reflexively, his lips pulling into a tight line. 'I mean – you don't have to answer that,' Nasir adds. 'I was just – trying to make conversation.' He ducks his head, and strands of dark hair fall across his eyes. Agron stills his fingers, trying to refrain from pushing them back behind Nasir's ears.
'I played lacrosse in school, competed in wrestling for a couple of years.' Agron answers slowly. 'Started moving up to boxing, and I was pretty good at it too, but then.' He stops, trying to find the right words. He doesn't look at Nasir, just stares off into the middle distance while he answers the question. 'I was walking my little brother home from school, and this car peeled out around the corner, chrome wheels, stupid paint job, you know the type. I always tried to look out for Dorian, you know, but this time – this one time, he stepped out in front of me and some asshole in the back of the car just shot him.'
Nasir's face freezes in an expression of horror, and he immediately starts stumbling his way through an apology. Agron waves him off, shaking his head. 'It was eight years ago,' he says. 'We lived in a pretty rough neighborhood. The cops said we probably weren't even the intended targets, but that couldn't bring my little brother back.' He takes a deep sip from his mug, obscuring his face. 'I sat through his funeral. I watched my parents fall apart, and that's when I decided. If I could keep something like that from ever happening again, if I could save a single life, that's what I was going to do. And most of the time? This job kind of sucks. But I don't regret my decision.'
'I think your brother would have been proud of you,' Nasir offers quietly.
Agron manages an approximation of a smile. 'Yeah,' he agrees. 'I really hope he would.'
They sit in silence for a few moments, Agron finishing his coffee while Nasir straightens the magazines on the table. 'I had an older brother,' Nasir says, after a moment. 'My family decided to move to the States after the bombing in Damascus ten years ago, but Karim wouldn't go. I was only 14, I didn't have a choice, but he and my father argued for days. Karim joined a nationalist front, and we had to find out from a family friend that he was killed by a suicide bomber two years later.'
'Jesus,' Agron breathes. 'God, that's awful. I'm – I'm sorry.'
'Thanks,' Nasir replies, looking down at the table. After a moment he glances up, noting that a line has formed at the counter. Mira and Saskia are struggling to keep up, but they both keep casting pointed glances in his direction. 'Shit,' he mutters. 'I've gotta get back up there.' Nasir stands up from the chair, hesitating for a moment. 'I'll see you around?' he asks, the look on his face cautiously hopeful.
'Yeah,' Agron answers with a soft smile. 'Count on it.'
He eventually makes it to the gym, pushing his body far too hard, and nearly busting a seam in one of the punching bags. The owner politely asks him to leave after that, and he does, spending the rest of the day watching reality tv and trying not to think about Dorian or Karim, or what a fucked up world they all managed to live in. He ends the night with Jack Daniels, and falls asleep on the couch, startled awake by the sound of his alarm in the next room at an absolutely ungodly hour of the morning.
He's halfway to the dry cleaners to pick up his uniform when his cell rings. It's an unknown number, but he hits the speaker, and hears only background noise at first. He's about to hang up when he makes out the sound of three men arguing about some sort of payment, and 'a piss poor job of keeping up the front.' Agron recognizes the pleading voice as Nasir's Neanderthal boss, and makes an illegal u-turn to cut over to the coffee house. The lights are on inside, but a sign on the door plainly reads 'CLOSED.' He presses his back against the wall, and leans slightly around the corner to peer in through the large glass window front. He sees the owner gesturing angrily at two large men, both carrying what look like .44 Magnums, one pointed directly at the man in front of them. He sees Nasir and Mira huddled behind the counter, their backs to the wall, and he lifts his radio and calls it in.
'417 in progress at 1105 3rd Street, two armed suspects, 11-19, repeat, 11-19, over.' Agron knows he should wait for backup, knows the codes and guidelines by heart but before he can think the action through, he's kicking the door in, glass shattering across the floor in a cacophony of sound. The assailants turn, firearms at the ready, but Agron's service pistol is already in hand, his body automatically assuming the Weaver stance.
'Put your weapons on the ground and step away,' he commands. One of them sneers and narrows his eyes.
'Fucking cops,' he spits out. 'Always barging in where they don't belong.'
'We're just conducting a simple business transaction,' the other gunman says smoothly. 'And the odds aren't exactly in your favor. You might want to consider heading back where you came from.'
'You really want to go down for shooting a cop?' Agron questions, keeping the first man in his sights. He knows this could go bad, could go really, truly, spaghetti western bad, but he doesn't move an inch. The owner takes the opportunity to slowly back away, his footsteps silent against the low pile carpet, and ducks behind the counter like the coward he is.
'I've always wanted to take out a cop,' the first man says. 'What about you?' he questions, his eyes darting quickly to the other gunman. Agron sees his chance and takes it, shooting the first assailant in the knee. He goes down with a shout, still maintaining his grip on his pistol, and the second man shoots Agron twice in the chest.
He goes down hard, feeling the impact through his Kevlar like tiny rocket ships striking his skin. He struggles to get back up, listening for the sounds of sirens in the distance but hearing nothing. The gunman still on his feet advances across the room, taking careful aim at his head. Fuck, Agron thinks, seriously wishing he'd waited for backup as he'd been repeatedly instructed. A lithe figure vaults over the counter top and kicks the man's left leg out from under him, the surprise sending his gun flying across the floor. Agron staggers to his feet and kicks the first gunman in the chest, grabbing him by the wrist and twisting hard until he releases the grip on his weapon. He grabs the pistol and turns back to the second man, only to find him wrestling with Nasir.
Agron kicks the downed man in the face, finally hearing the sweet, sweet sound of police sirens racing up the street and races across the room to pull Nasir back. The man has given up on reaching for his gun and uses his one free hand to pull a K-Bar from his pocket. He stabs up viciously, catching Nasir in his right side, and a gout of blood spills out, coating them both before pooling on the carpet. Agron lifts Nasir bodily and sets him down against the counter just as Naevia rushes through the doorway, gun aimed and ready, followed by Officers Donar and Lugo, who quickly subdue the bloodied man on the far side of the room. Naevia paces over to the other gunman, kicking his pistol out of reach and pointing her gun directly at his face.
'Drop your weapon,' she commands, and he does, the knife clattering to the floor as he holds both hands up in surrender. She flips him over and cuffs him with little resistance as Lugo ends his struggle with the other man by punching him in the face and wrangling his arms tightly behind his back. Donar fits the cuffs a little more tightly than is necessary, and they begin hauling the men out the shattered front door as Agron radios for a bus.
He holds his hands tightly over Nasir's wound, anger and worry fighting for control in his expression. 'The hell were you thinking?' he asks, his voice tight and strained.
'I was thinking you needed some help,' Nasir gasps out. 'I wasn't thinking he'd have a knife on him, though.'
'Fuck,' Agron mutters, lowering his head to Nasir's shoulder. 'He could have killed you.'
'Nah,' Nasir counters, shaking his head slowly. 'You're my hero, remember? I knew you'd save the day.' His head droops to his chest, and Agron struggles to bring him back to consciousness with little effect. When the ambulance finally arrives, the EMTs push him away and dress Nasir's wound, lifting him onto a stretcher and settling him gently into the back. Agron jumps up behind them, sitting on the narrow bed opposite and tries his best to stay out of technician's way as she gets Nasir stabilized. She pushes a needle for a drip into his right hand which Agron assumes contains saline and potent painkillers. Agron gets on his radio and calls in a 10-7B, requesting the shift off for personal reasons, and after a muttered conversation in the background, he's told to return to the precinct to fill out the mandatory report. He switches off the radio with a curse, and reaches out for Nasir's left hand, holding it the rest of the way to the hospital.
The resident on duty decides that Nasir's wound, while deep, won't require surgery, and sends him up to the next floor for stitches. He tells Agron in no uncertain terms that Nasir needs rest, and won't be allowed visitors for the next several hours, at least. He's pacing around the waiting area when Naevia walks in, tossing him the keys to his car. 'Captain's getting anxious,' she advises him. 'Might be a good idea to head in for a while, since it looks like they're keeping you stuck out here, anyway.'
Agron sighs grumpily, muttering under his breath, and heads out to the parking deck, Naevia in tow. Captain Sparks hands him an entire folder of paperwork with a frown when he shuffles in the door, and Agron finds an empty desk to start in on a description of the incident, how he was alerted to the situation in the first place, and to account for the bullet he fired. He cites Nasir for unparalleled bravery as an unarmed civilian, and suggests a follow up on the business owner for potential criminal activity. The entire process takes several hours, and by then his shift is mostly over, anyway. He hands over his service weapon as is required after every incident resulting in gunfire, assured by the Captain that he'll have it back in a day or two. He's advised to take a couple of days off, and see the department counselor in the meantime, the latter of which he has absolutely no intention of doing.
Lugo catches up with him before he can leave the building. 'Hey, so, that crazy Italian dude those two dipshits were threatening this morning?'
'Yeah,' Agron answers wearily, waiting for Lugo to continue.
'Detective Ono interrogated one of the thugs this afternoon. Your guy's name's Genarro Abbatelli, he's low level scum for the local meathead mafia. Been laundering money for the mob through his shop, if you can believe that. Those dickheads were there this morning to collect, with interest.'
'Huh,' Agron murmurs. 'I knew he was an asshole, but that's taking it to a whole other level.'
'You think the employees were in on it?' Lugo asks, and Agron lifts his head up sharply.
'They're just a bunch of kids,' he argues. 'They couldn't have known.' Lugo gives him the side-eye, but decides not to pursue it, at least not today. 'Look,' Agron continues. 'One of them's in the hospital, I'll go see if he knows anything.'
'Yeah,' Lugo laughs, his lips curling up in a smirk. 'You do that.' Agron flips him off and heads into the locker room for a change of clothes, before heading out to the parking lot.
He arrives back at the hospital, and after flashing his badge, the nurses finally agree to let him see Nasir. He's stuck in a room with another patient, their beds divided by curtains. An older man and a woman are standing at his bedside, the man stoic, shoulders squared, the woman wearing a flowered scarf over her head and occasionally sniffling into a tissue. Nasir's eyes are open, and his face lights up when Agron sticks his head around the door.
'Am, Ad,' he addresses them, 'This is Officer Keppler. He saved my life this morning.'
Then turn around, Nasir's father looking him up and down skeptically in his jeans and blue striped hoodie. Nasir's mother rushes him unexpectedly and engulfs him in a tight hug. 'Shukrun,' she says, clasping his hands. 'Alhamdulilah!'
'English, Mom,' Nasir reminds her softly from the bed. She dabs at her eyes with the tissue and says, 'Thank you, Officer. Praise be to Allah for you.'
Agron blushes and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. 'I, ah, was just doing my job. No thanks needed.' He glances towards the bed with a hesitant smile before adding, 'Your son was incredibly brave today. I think he probably saved my life, too.'
Nasir's father turns around to regard his son, tilting his head to one side, before nodding solemnly. His mother turns her head and beams at Nasir, and he returns her smile. 'I'm sorry to have to interrupt,' Agron says apologetically, 'but I promised my Captain I'd ask Nasir a few questions for my report. I'm off duty, but I figured I'd get that little nuisance out of the way while it's still fresh in his memory. Then he can go back to resting, I promise.'
Nasir's mother nods, and grabs his father by the arm, herding him toward the door. 'We'll just stop by the cafeteria then,' she offers, and firmly drags her husband away down the hall.
Agron pulls a chair up next to Nasir's bed and brushes a strand of hair back from his face. 'Please tell me you're not actually here to question me?' he asks hopefully.
'Yes and no,' Agron answers. 'Turns out Abbatelli was theoretically using the shop as a front for the local mob. I'm supposed to ask you if you knew anything incriminating about his activities, but to be honest, I really don't want to. They wouldn't let me stay when we first brought you in, so I came by after work to see how you were doing.'
'Well,' Nasir says, as if pondering a particularly difficult physics problem. 'My side sort of feels like someone stuck a knife into it.'
'Moron,' Agron answers, squeezing his hand.
'And, as for the other part of it,' Nasir continues. 'Yeah, I knew.' He sighs, glancing up guiltily at Agron's look of disbelief. 'Not in the beginning. But we started importing ten pound bags of really cheap coffee from some company I'd never heard of, and selling it to this restaurant on the other side of town. They'd come by once a week or so to pick up the stock, and they always paid in cash. A lot of cash. Gennaro sent the coffee company a check once a month, and that was that.' Nasir raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. 'Lots of businesses do slightly shady things to save money, I figured it wasn't a big deal. We didn't serve that crap to the customers, so I wasn't going to cause trouble by asking about it.' He shrugs, and then winces.
'So ok, maybe it was a bit suspicious, but I mostly forgot about it until one night I was closing by myself, and I overheard Gennaro talking to some guy in his office. Something about the check being late, funds running low, and Gennaro arguing that it was his supplier not getting the stock to him on time. He was defensive, angry, and then the other guy started threatening him, saying he was skimming off the top.'
Agron nods, wishing he could just pretend he hadn't heard the kid's statement. Well, he supposed he'd have to stop calling him a kid. Nasir might be 6 years younger than him, but he certainly wasn't the fresh-faced teenager he'd initially supposed.
'When I heard that, I stuck my headphones back in and went back to mopping the floor. I never saw the other guy leave, but I let Gennaro sneak up on me to take the cash from the register and make the nightly bank deposit. He never trusted any of the rest of us to do it,' Nasir grumbles. 'Maybe I should have confronted him, I don't know. But I needed that job, ok?' He looks up pleadingly, silently begging Agron to understand.
'My dad's an engineer, he's brilliant, but he keeps getting pushed aside, given shitty, menial jobs because no one trusts him. My mom's a seamstress, you should see her work, it's amazing – back home she ran her own shop, but here? She's been lucky if she can get work doing fittings and patches. It's ridiculous, but at least here you don't have armed militias in the streets everyday. So yeah, I work hard, and I try to contribute, but I couldn't afford to lose another job.'
Agron nods. He knows he can't quite understand, but he can at least try to sympathize. Nasir's family certainly wouldn't be the first to suffer that level of prejudice over the past 13 years. 'My grandparents came over from Germany in 1913.' Agron offers. 'Pretty bad timing. Still, it wasn't so bad for them, not as rough as your family's had it, and I'm sorry.'
'So,' Nasir asks warily. 'What are you going to tell your Captain?'
'I think I'll go back to the scene with my partner, dig up some of those bags of shit coffee you mentioned, and investigate the company Abbatelli bought them from. See where that goes.' Nasir squeezes his fingers, and gives him a hopeful look. 'I mean, maybe I overheard someone arguing about where to put all that extra stock one day while I was drinking my cappuccino, eh? Maybe my partner will figure out when she sees it that you never served that brand in the shop. Sound good?'
'That sounds...pretty great, actually,' Nasir replies, letting out a slow breath.
'Now that's out of the way,' Agron says with a look of disappointment. 'I should probably let you get some rest, huh?'
'I've been sleeping all day,' Nasir counters. 'Not exactly tired right now.'
Agron looks at Nasir for a long moment before slowly leaning over the bed rail and pressing a soft kiss against his lips. Nasir's right hand, the one not currently gripped tight around Agron's, reaches up to touch the side of Agron's face while he returns the kiss, opening his mouth and moving against him. Agron pulls back for air, his vision hazy, and plants a firm kiss on Nasir's forehead.
'Your parents will be back soon,' he murmurs, 'and I'd really prefer to not piss them off right from the start.' Nasir laughs, his breath ticking Agron's lips.
'You'll have plenty of time to do that,' Nasir answers. 'At least, if I have anything to say about it.' Agron kisses him again, quick but rough and open mouthed, and has to force himself to pull away.
'They're making me take time off,' Agron says, rolling his eyes. 'So I'll be back to see you tomorrow, all right?'
'That'd better be a promise,' Nasir says, a mock threat in his tone.
'It is,' Agron assures him, wrapping both hands around Nasir's left and holding them there for a long moment before leaving the room.
Three months later, Nasir's wound has entirely healed, and Agron thinks it's time for him to consider some serious self-defense classes. He's found a job at a used book store near the precinct station, after Via Espresso went under on charges of conspiracy and money laundering, and it's easy for Agron to stop by every now and then. Sometimes, he even leaves with a book.
Despite the extremely low chance of Nasir encountering danger in his newfound place of business, Agron drags him along to Crixus' gym for free classes two nights a week, watching from outside the door as he makes swift progress. He's fairly certain he shouldn't find it as hot as he does, but Agron's not going to argue with his body on this one. Particularly since Nasir's appetite is always heightened after a night of exercise, and he's not talking about dinner.
Once Nasir's graduated from the basic and advanced classes, Naevia volunteers to start sparring with him in the evenings when their schedules line up. Nasir, in turn, encourages Agron to go back into training for boxing, even if only on a recreational level. It's not difficult to get the hang of it again, and he enters a few local competitions, winning about 70% of the time.
After a thorough schooling in proper etiquette, Agron even manages to survive dinner with Nasir's parents, though his father remains less than impressed with him. Still, it could have gone worse, and Nasir's mother promises him she'll work on the situation. 'Trust me,' Nasir tells him in private. 'My dad acts the tough guy, but mom always wins.'
After a while, Nasir ends up spending more time at Agron's place than his own, and once Agron sees where he lives, he understands why. It's a fourth floor walk up with leaks in the roof and a deadbeat super who can't be bothered to fix the heating. It comes up over dinner one night, Nasir having whipped up an amazing dawood basha 'in his spare time,' and honestly, Agron thinks, he could eat like this every night for the rest of his life. When it's his turn to cook, he usually makes breakfast or spices up some ramen with whatever he has left in the fridge.
'You know,' Agron says around a mouthful of meatballs, 'Half your stuff's already here. If you wanted to bring the rest of it over sometime, I wouldn't mind.' He swallows his food and glances up, wondering if he's just made a critical error in judgment. He doesn't bring in much income as a beat cop, but even after making Assistant Manager at the bookshop, he knows Nasir brings home even less. On top of that, he sneaks groceries and other necessities over to his parents' house when he knows they're not home.
Nasir stares at him across the table, a forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. 'Did you just – ask me to move in with you?' he asks, his tone curious, but not angry or disappointed.
'I'm pretty sure I just did, yeah,' Agron answers, unable to keep the worry from his face. 'It's ok if you don't want to, really, it's fine, I probably should have just kept my mouth shut as usual -”
Nasir sets down his fork and walks around the table, pulling Agron up from his chair. He wraps both arms around Agron's neck and kisses him, long and deep, not stopping with his mouth, but moving down to kiss his jawline, hid neck, his chin. He rests his forehead against Agron's for a short moment before answering. 'Then yes,' he whispers. Agron smiles, giving Nasir that wide, toothy grin he seems to love for no reason he can possibly fathom. He lifts Nasir up into his arms and holds him close, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
'First, though,' Nasir says as Agron sets him back down, his tone mockingly serious. 'We're going to have to get you some decent art for this place.'
'I like my art,' Agron says with a frown, glancing around at the pub signs and vintage adverts for beer that line his walls.
'I swear,' Nasir promises, shaking his head. 'One of these days I will pound some culture into you, by force if I have to.'
'You're going to pound it into me, are you?' Agron asks teasingly, and Nasir flashes him a wicked grin. 'You'd better get started on that, then,' he suggests. 'I think it might take a while.'
'Hmm, then there's no time to waste,' Nasir agrees, lifting Agron's shirt over his head and tossing it onto the chair at his back, dinner completely forgotten. He kisses Agron's chest and takes his hand, leading him back into the bedroom. Agron unbuttons Nasir's vest and pulls off the henley beneath it, bending down to unbutton the jeans that fit him like a glove. Nasir kicks them off and reaches for Agron's belt, unbuckling it and tugging at the buttons on his pants before bending to slip them off, along with his socks. He pulls down Agron's boxers from his position on the floor and stands back up, looking him over with obvious approval.
Agron moves to kiss him again, but Nasir sidesteps him and pushes him down on the bed. He casts off his briefs and crawls up Agron's body, holding him down by his shoulders and kissing him until Agron's mouth opens beneath his searching lips, exploring his mouth with his tongue. Nasir's nimble fingers move to his nipples, teasing and prodding, and Agron groans, while Nasir's mouth works its way down his neck and chest. Nasir's fingers slide down his side, scraping his short nails gently across Agron's skin and making him shiver before reaching his cock, already hard and waiting for him.
Nasir swallows him down, one hand resting lightly on his hips while the other slides up and down at the base. His lets that hand slide down and back, cradling Agron's balls in his hands until he moans from it. He sucks harder, starting back at the tip of Agron's shaft and slowly working his way down, squeezing and caressing between his legs. Agron's hand fumbles at the bedside table, retrieving a bottle of lube and shoving it down the bed. Nasir ignores it, choosing to spend a while longer teasing him with hands and lips and tongue. He pulls Agron's hips forward, lifting his knees and sliding off the bed to get a better angle.
He licks gently at Agron's entrance, his tongue spreading him open with hot, wet strokes. Agron murmurs nonsense words, his hands roving across the bedsheets as Nasir's tongue works its way inside. He lingers, pushing in and pulling back out again to lick slow circles around Agron's skin, seeing how long he can take it. His cock is thick and pulsing above him, and Nasir finally reaches for the lube, rubbing it into his fingers and pressing them inside. Agron's breathing has gone harsh and shallow, but he still manages to moan and even whine a little at the penetration, his hips jerking off the bed when Nasir finds his prostate and strokes it, over and over again. Agron knows better than to beg for it, knows that will only make Nasir back away and keep teasing until his eyes roll back and he loses all sense of dignity.
Nasir rises to his feet, slicking down his cock and replacing his fingers with its hot, thick warmth. Agron groans, loud at first, fading away into a contented series of focused, pleasurable sounds. He loves giving in to Nasir, loves feeling him all the way inside. Nasir thrusts slowly, rocking his hips back and forth gently at first, to give Agron time to loosen up and adjust before sliding all the way in. His hips move faster, skin slapping against skin as sounds fall from both their mouths, mingling together in the darkened room.
Nasir reaches a hand out to stroke Agron's cock, hard and heavy against his fingers, He squeezes the base, moving up with every solid thrust of his hips until he reaches the head, stroking the taught line of muscle beneath and sliding his thumb into the wet, leaking slit. Another few strokes, strong and fast, and Agron's gone, lost to it, his hips rolling up into Nasir's strokes and back down into his thrusts. He comes all over both of them, and Nasir lets himself go, slamming into Agron, knowing he can take it hard. Agron's muscles contract, deep inside and it's only a few more minutes before Nasir falls over the edge, his vision whiting out with simple pleasure.
He crawls back onto the bed, sliding up next to Agron, who spoons around him, wrapping his arms tight about Nasir's chest. In the everyday world, he's always the one in the charge, the one barking orders, the one holding the gun. In here, in their bedroom – and he can say that now, theirs – Nasir often takes the lead, making him feel things he never thought possible, and Agron can't think of a single thing he'd ever change.