Rat and Fox

ADULTS ONLY

Contains explicit male/male sex.

Pairing: Roger Lococco/Sonny Crockett

Summary: Undercover agent and undercover cop have both retreated the Bahamas, where their chance meeting brings up memories and feelings long hidden. Post-series for both shows.

Disclaimer: Wiseguy belongs to Steven J. Cannell Productions. Miami Vice belongs to The Michael Mann Co., Inc. and Universal Studios. No infringement intended.

Roger Lococco sat with his chin in his hand, absently tracing circles in the wetness his glass had left on the table, watching the man in the far booth. He’d seen the man here several times before, always sitting alone, drinking glass after glass of whiskey, lighting cigarettes with a world-weary air, getting quietly drunk. The man’s dark blond hair—a shade darker than Roger’s own, and straight where Roger’s was crisply curled—was slicked back now, but as the evening progressed, it would fall forward over his eyes. He’d smile at the waitresses with a lazy charm and an aching melancholy that had them all swooning, but he always left alone. He drove a white Ferrari Testarossa, causing gravel to spit out underneath its wheels as he accelerated, too fast, out of the parking lot.

Roger had come to think of this little neighborhood bar as his own private preserve. His beach house was just four miles down the road, and he came here often, more to soak up the local gossip and enjoy an evening in company than to drink. It was eight months now since he’d retired to this little Bahamian town to lick his wounds. He found himself vaguely irritated by this new player who’d insinuated himself into Roger’s island paradise. And he was a player, Roger had no doubt of that. Or he had been. He recognized the weight of disillusionment on the man’s sinewy shoulders; the pain of terrible choices in those faded green eyes.

Go find your own hideyhole, Blondie, Roger thought. This one’s mine. He’d come here to escape his mistakes and self-doubt, not to see them reflected back at him in the mirror of another man’s eyes.

The man looked up, suddenly, and his eyes locked with Roger’s from across the room, slicing into his brittle soul. Stubborn, he refused to look away. The man continued to regard him, quietly, questioningly. Was that a spark of recognition, or just the glaze of his third shot of Jack Daniels? Roger got up and walked over to the man’s booth, slid in across from him.

“Do I know you?” Roger asked, softly, letting an edge of threat insinuate itself into his voice.

The man was not intimidated. He gazed at Roger thoughtfully, eyes narrowed in concentration. “I don’t know. Have you ever worked in Miami?” His voice was low, slightly rough, with a sweet tang of Southern molasses. Something fluttered in Roger’s midsection; a sudden image of lazy, indulgent days; long-ago summers at his grandparents’ ranch outside of Odessa.

“You look like you think you know me.” Roger pushed that image aside, and conjured outright menace into his overtly innocuous words.

Then a smile split the man’s face, warm and bright as midsummer skies. “The Isle Pavot hearings! Roger Lococco! Man, I watched every minute of that….”

The senate hearings into the CIA’s plot to overthrow the government of that small Caribbean island had marked Roger’s very public exit from the CIA. He’d blown the whistle on the operation himself, finally sick to death of Herb Ketcher’s lies and betrayals; and nearly gotten himself killed doing it. He didn’t like to think about the hearings; it still surprised him whenever anyone recognized him from them.

The blond man studied Roger’s face again. “My god, you’re a ringer for Evan. I couldn’t take my eyes off the hearings, but I never made the connection before.”

Roger swallowed, suddenly uneasy. “Who’s Evan?”

“He was… a friend of mine.”

There was a world of raw pain in that simple statement that Roger didn’t really want to get any closer to. He had enough of his own pain. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it seemed he’d started something that wouldn’t go away quietly. The man stared off into space, spoke as much to himself as to Roger. “We went through the academy together. Worked vice in Miami for a while, till he went to ATF. He died in my arms. I still wonder if it was my fault.”

“Why would it be your fault?” Roger didn’t really want to know, but somehow he couldn’t help asking.

“I knew he was in trouble, and I didn’t try to help.”

“What could you have done?”

The man shrugged. “Maybe nothing. ‘My decision,’ he said to me.” Then suddenly, he sat back, let loose that hundred-watt smile again. “Anyway, that was years ago. I’m Sonny… Crockett.” He held out his hand to shake.

Roger took the offered hand. “You don’t seem too sure about that.”

A thick molasses chuckle. Roger felt that flutter again. Sonny said, “I worked undercover for thirteen years. Still hard to get into the habit of using my own name.”

Roger nodded. “Yeah.” So the guy was an undercover vice cop. Who went to the Bahamas with a Ferrari. Definitely a player. “Miami vice, that’s got to be a tough beat.”

Sonny shrugged. “No tougher than yours. Hey, I thought— Didn’t they say you’d got killed, after the hearings?”

Now it was Roger’s turn to chuckle. “I thought it would be a good idea for some people to think so, for a while.”

“I’m glad. Glad you’re not dead, I mean.” Sonny shook his head, laughing at his own confusion. “What I mean is, at the time, when I heard you got killed, I really thought it was lousy….” He laughed again, drained the last few drops of liquor from his glass, and gestured to the waitress. “I think I need another drink. What are you having?”

Three hours later, they were both very cheerful and very full of Jack Daniels. Roger had drunk far more than he was used to these days, and still he couldn’t keep up with the Southern charmer sitting across from him. Sonny’d also matched him story for story from his own days out in the cold. Vietnam to America’s underbelly, months in the game, until you didn’t know who you were anymore, and didn’t want to know what you were capable of. Death and loss and betrayal. Sonny had seen it all; nodded knowingly when Roger talked about Mel Profitt and Herb Ketcher and the Nam. Roger hadn’t talked like this to anyone in ages; not since Vinnie…. But he didn’t want to think about Vince Terranova just now.

Last call had come and gone; the chairs had been stacked up on the tables; the sleepy waitresses clustered at the bar with their arms folded, yawning, wanting to go home. But Roger wasn’t quite ready to end this yet, he wanted to keep talking. Sonny didn’t show any inclination to go, either.

“Looks like they’re getting ready to kick us out of here,” Roger said. “Want to continue this at my place?”

“Sure.” Sonny staggered slightly standing up. Roger didn’t feel all that steady himself. But it was a short ride on a quiet road home. He tossed a few bills on the table, threw an arm around the weaving ex-vice cop, and led him outside to the parking lot.

* * *

Roger didn’t generally go for fancy cars. In his line of work, of course, discretion had often been the key to staying alive, and Ferraris were not by any stretch of the imagination discreet. But there was something about the low, powerful thrum of the Ferrari engine nosing up behind Roger’s Buick that sent shivers through him. Sort of like the way the Ferrari’s driver’s own low, rough voice made his gut flutter. Roger didn’t like it. He gunned the Buick’s engine, shot ahead briefly. The Ferrari stayed smack on his tail. In the rear-view mirror, Roger could see Sonny grinning at him. This was a dangerous game he was playing, Roger thought, although he had no idea himself just exactly what the game was. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought. To hell with it. He jammed the accelerator to the floor.

* * *

They got out of their cars, laughing. Sonny nearly stumbled on Roger’s front porch step; Roger grabbed his arm and hauled him up with an easy strength that made Sonny’s eyes widen. Jesus, the guy can barely stand up, Roger thought. How can he drive like that? Inside, Roger dropped the man onto the couch while he went into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face and try to think. Water, successful; thinking, not.

Back in the living room, he found Sonny sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, face in his hands. He looked up at Roger between his fingers. “God, I drink too much,” he moaned, leaning back and closing his eyes.

“Probably don’t want another one right now then,” Roger muttered. He didn’t want to drink anymore, himself. His head was spinning, and not just from the alcohol. He didn’t want this gorgeous blond drunk on his couch, either. But it’d be as good as killing the guy to push him back behind the wheel of that steel demon he drove right now. Roger sighed. The thought of coffee made his stomach turn. His mouth tasted like burnt paper. A tall glass of ice water, that was what he really wanted. He went into the kitchen and fixed two glasses of mineral water with ice and wedges of lemon. He told himself it was no big deal. The guy’d pass out on the couch in a while, if he hadn’t already. Roger would feed him coffee and toast in the morning and send him on his way, and that would be that. He didn’t know why one sloppy-drunk ex-Miami vice cop should get him so wound up.

Sonny was sitting up when Roger returned, having pulled himself together and looking impossibly bright, considering how out of it he’d been five minutes ago. He accepted the drink from Roger, at first with slight reluctance, then visibly relieved when Roger told him it was only water.

“Thanks. I know I shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Why do you?” Roger sat on the other end of the couch, carefully measuring the distance between them. The man’s voice was still doing things to him he didn’t like. He wished he’d bought an easy chair along with the couch, instead of just strewing floor pillows around. He hadn’t thought he’d need much furniture here. Sonny was the first guest he’d had in the eight months he’d lived here.

“Oh, I don’t know. Because it’s easier than really dealing with things, I suppose.” Sonny finished off half his drink in one draft, frowning at the glass as though he wished there were more than water in it, after all.

“Is it?” Roger had experimented with alcohol as a way to blot out the pain, but he’d never found it very satisfactory. And he hated hangovers.

Sonny smiled at him, a world-weary smile, full of pain and knowing, and unbearably sweet. Roger clenched his teeth. Damned Southerners always smile too much. “If you know an easier way,” Sonny said, “I’d be glad to hear about it.”

“I’ve always preferred sex, myself,” Roger said, instantly regretting it. Right down the rabbit hole, Lococco, what the hell are you doing?

Sonny’s smile broadened, teasing him. He set his glass down on the floor, turned sideways on the couch to face Roger, and grinned. “Oh yeah? That sounds interesting….”

Something went off inside of Roger; he was across the couch in an instant, pulling Sonny roughly to him, his mouth hard on the other man’s. Sonny yelped, tried to jerk away, struggled briefly; then wrapped his arms tightly around Roger’s back, thrust one hand into Roger’s curly hair, and returned the kiss with fierce heat.

Roger’s vision went black. He closed his eyes, let his hands and mouth and the throb in his groin take over. He thought his heart would pound right through his chest. He took Sonny by the shoulders, tried to push him down onto the couch. His knee caught Sonny’s thigh, causing a muffled squeak of pain. Damn couch too small…. Roger abruptly stood, hauling Sonny to his feet, and dragged the unprotesting man into the bedroom, where he threw him roughly down on the futon.

Roger stood, breathing hard, trying not to clench his fists. When it came over him like this, it was always far too close to wanting to hit. Women were afraid of him, when he was like this. They had good reason to be, though he showered them with gifts and tenderness afterward. But Sonny Crockett lay passively where he’d been thrown, dappled in moonlight from the open window, eyes full of acceptance and understanding.

He’s too fucking drunk to know what he’s doing, Roger thought contemptuously, not sure whether the contempt was for Sonny or for himself. But he’d crossed the line, way the hell over the line, and he wasn’t going to stop now, no matter how it shook out in the morning. Right down the rabbit hole….

Roger knelt down and slid on top of the man in his bed, one knee between Sonny’s legs, took the man’s face in his hands and kissed him thoroughly. Sonny tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, with a faint whiff of lemon. Sonny’s hands worked their way under Roger’s shirt, kneading the hard muscles of his back. He thrust his pelvis against Roger’s crotch, erection straining against the cloth between them. Roger pulled away suddenly, needing to regain control. He brought his other knee between Sonny’s legs, forcing Sonny’s legs apart. Sonny grunted, but did not resist. Then he grasped Sonny’s wrists and pulled them wide, pinning them to the mattress. Sonny moaned, his eyes glazing over. It was good, but it wasn’t good enough.

Roger released Sonny’s wrists and sat back on his haunches, suddenly in a frenzy to get rid of all their clothes. He pulled his own tee shirt off and tossed it onto the floor, then pulled Sonny up and went to work on his shirt. After one button, he lost patience and ripped the man’s shirt open. Roger felt the violence returning. He yanked at Sonny’s belt, gratified by the brief flash of fear in the man’s eyes as he toyed with the belt briefly before throwing it aside. Sonny’s face hardened, then, and he jammed his hand into the waistband of Roger’s Levis, trying to work the buttons open. Roger laughed, glad to have sparked a little fight into the man. It turned into a wrestling match for a time, as they fought their way clear of shoes and trousers. Sonny’s sudden aggression was as exciting as his former passivity had been.

But once they were free of their clothes, Roger felt the need to be in control again. Using all his combat-honed skills, he forced the man over onto his stomach, twisting his arm up behind his back and holding him helpless.

“Evan!” Sonny cried out. Then, “Roger, what are you doing?”

Roger went grim and cold. Damned honey-voiced Southerner, come into his bed and call him by another man’s name…. He twisted the man’s arm, making him gasp. Sonny’s free hand clawed at the bed. Roger leaned over Sonny’s back and whispered softly into his ear. “I’m fucking you. You got a problem with that?”

Sonny shook his head. A tear squeezed out between tightly shut eyelids. “I haven’t done this before. Take it easy, okay?”

Roger released him instantly. Sonny pulled his arm around to rest limply on the mattress beside him, and lay gasping. Roger stroked the man’s back, kneading his shoulder, instantly all tenderness, as he always was after he’d caused pain. God knows, he didn’t mean to be cruel. There was just something desperate inside him, a hunger that he could never quite satisfy, that he didn’t even know how to satisfy, a need so strong and yet so completely unidentifiable that it drove him to violence. Sometimes it frightened him as much as it frightened his partners.

Sonny was responding to his caresses, gasps turning to the ragged breath of passion, making small rhythmic movements with his hips. Smooth white hips, outlined starkly by the creamy golden tan over the rest of his body. Roger took that white bottom into his hands, bent down to nip at one lean buttock. Sonny sighed, let his legs fall apart. Roger slipped his hand between the white cheeks and caressed the hot, moist entrance. Sonny moaned. Roger’s cock, hot and hard and aching, demanded to be sheathed in that tender flesh.

Roger pulled himself up to press his lips against the back of Sonny’s neck, reaching for the drawer in his bedside table. His hand found a foil-wrapped condom and pulled it out, leaving it in easy reach on the tabletop. He’d had it drilled into his head, way back as far as Nam, by Captain Herb Ketcher of all people, never, never, never to let his cock touch another’s flesh without protection. It was a good lesson to have learned, especially these days, and it was one of the few things he remained grateful to Ketcher for. Like a good Boy Scout, he took condoms with him everywhere. He hadn’t needed one since he’d come to the Bahamas eight months ago. He’d never dreamed he’d be using one with another man.

He reached into the drawer again. His hand bumped against his dildo before he found the tube of KY jelly. The dildo and KY he’d used only by himself. His face burned, even though he knew that Sonny, with his face pressed into the mattress, couldn’t see what was in the drawer. Not that Sonny was in any position at the moment to question what a man wanted in his ass.

Roger squeezed a generous amount of KY onto his fingers, then applied it between Sonny’s buttocks. Sonny was new at this, and Roger was determined not to cause him any more pain. He stroked and massaged Sonny’s ass, probing gently, entering him with one finger, then two. Sonny whimpered softly, moving to the rhythm of Roger’s slow finger thrusts. Roger’s cock burned. He hoped Sonny was ready, he couldn’t wait any longer….

Roger grabbed the condom, fumbled with the wrapper, his passion-heavy fingers refusing to cooperate. The condom finally in place, he pulled Sonny’s legs further apart, then settled between them, guiding his cock to the wet entrance. The amount of alcohol Sonny had consumed worked to his advantage now; he remained relaxed and open as Roger slowly pressed his cock deeper and deeper into his body. There was a shudder as Roger’s cock pushed past the tight muscle; a brief, gurgling cry; then Roger was in, and he could feel Sonny’s entire body abandon itself to the sensation, and Roger’s own mind went white as pure animal passion took over.

It was over all too quickly. Months of celibacy and the raw intensity of the encounter had Roger clutching at Sonny’s shoulders, moaning muffled into the man’s neck, thrusting with desperate urgency to a climax that was almost painful in its pleasure. He collapsed onto Sonny, gasping for breath, until he felt Sonny moving beneath him, still needing release. Then he gathered himself up, while he still had his erection, and continued, more slowly, and sensitive to the response of the man beneath him, until Sonny arched his back, then thrust against the futon, growling his pleasure. Roger felt the spasms of Sonny’s orgasm massaging his cock, and sighed.

When Sonny’s rough breathing had evened, Roger rolled off, holding the condom in place while he withdrew. Sonny whimpered a little, then curled up with Roger’s pillow and instantly fell asleep. Roger threw the condom into the trash basket and rubbed the sweat out of his eyes. There’s going to be hell to pay for this… was his last thought before he too fell deep into sleep.

* * *

Roger woke with a blinding headache and a churning stomach, praying that it had all been a bad dream. But there beside him lay Sonny Crockett, tangled in the sheet and still clutching Roger’s pillow, sound asleep, or at least pretending to be. Sick humiliation burned at Roger’s gut. What the hell was happening to him?

He got up as quietly as possible—which, for Roger Lococco, was silent as the grave—more to avoid the further humiliation of having to face his bedmate than out of consideration for his sleep. Then, stomach cramping, he rushed into the bathroom to throw up. After the heaves subsided, he used the toilet, then stood and stared into the bathroom mirror. Who are you? he asked the image that stared miserably back at him, pale and drawn, dark smudges under the eyes. You’re not Roger Lococco. Roger Lococco is a man. Special Forces, three tours in Nam, ten years in covert ops. Expert in weapons and martial arts. What would the guys think if they saw you now, shoving a dildo up your ass and picking up men in bars? What happened? Was it Ketcher’s betrayal, or Preet’s death? The Senate hearings into the fall of Lococco, by way of Isle Pavot? Or was this sick faggot lurking inside all along, just waiting for you to let your guard down? Roger squeezed his eyes shut, splashed cold water on his face. Then he grabbed a pair of swim shorts from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, pulled them on, and crept softly out of the house.

It was just after dawn, Roger’s favorite time of day. Tropical sunrise streaked the heavens with red and gold. He barely noticed the glorious sky, as he ran pell-mell from the house, across the yard, past the break onto the sandy beach. He raced across the sand at his top speed until his lungs burned, then forced himself to continue running until his breath failed and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. As soon as he could stand, he stumbled out into the waves, diving into the warm ocean, letting the ebb and flow bob him around.

Finally, he swam back to the beach. Ignoring the chill of the morning breeze on his wet skin, he walked a little farther along until he reached a driftwood log, and sat down.

One of his earliest memories: a slap to the side of his head, and his father’s voice, “Be a man!” At the age of five, he’d done his best. Apparently, it was not good enough. At six: “Maybe military school will make a man out of you.” Whether it did or not, his father never bothered to find out.

Then at sixteen, into the army. Special Forces, and Vietnam. And Captain Herb Ketcher. “Are you man enough to serve?” goaded Roger into obeying whenever he was tempted to balk at Ketcher’s more gruesome orders.

He’d spent his life trying to live up to the standards these men had set for him—a man who’d abandoned him, and another who’d used and betrayed him. But it was what he’d always believed in, and he still held to. And that idea of manhood definitely did not include having sex with men. Yes, he’d drop his trousers, if required by his job, or his Captain’s orders. But to initiate a homosexual encounter; to enjoy it… that was not allowed.

Vinnie…. He’d thought it was just an aberration, what had happened with Vince. The emotion of getting his friend back when he’d thought he was dead; knowing he wasn’t alone; having that big, warm, puppydog of an Italian back in his life…. They’d talked all evening, and on into the night, on the couch before the fire in Terranova’s childhood home, a few weeks after Vinnie came back from El Salvador, and the dead. They’d talked and laughed and felt closer than they’d ever been. And then Roger had made the biggest mistake of his life: he’d kissed Vinnie, right on the mouth. He hadn’t known he was going to do it; he hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t planned it; it just came out of the warmth of the fire and Vinnie’s blue eyes and Roger’s aching loneliness. He’d been more shocked than Vinnie was.

Oh, Vinnie hadn’t been cruel, he hadn’t been upset. He’d been kind, and gentle, and understanding—and completely uninterested. I love you, Roger—just not that way. I’m sorry, I wish I could give you what you want. Every kind word was another knife in the wound. Roger had been so humiliated, he’d wanted to crawl right out of his skin and into the deepest hole he could find. He did the next best thing—he’d tucked his tail between his legs and run to the Bahamas, bought a house, and gone invisible.

It had been two months before he’d gotten up the nerve to call Vince and tell him where he was. Vinnie had read him the riot act for running off like that. Roger, to his utter and complete shame, had cried. Vinnie was immediately contrite, mumbling apologies and assuring Roger that everything was all right. Roger didn’t know which was worse. Vinnie called him about once a month now. Their conversations were shallow and strained. Roger ached to have the friendship back the way it was, but he couldn’t find a way to get past that shameful kiss.

Roger had never done anything like that before. It was just a one-time thing, the heat of the moment. (At least, until last night….) He’d never slept with a man before…. Well, there had been one or two encounters in Vietnam, but that didn’t count. He’d just been a kid, it was war, and far from the world. Then there was Mel Profitt, but that didn’t count either. Profitt’s Playroom was a hedonistic fantasyland of moist, yielding flesh, where champagne and poppers flowed freely, and no one knew or cared whose bodypart ended up where. All right, he’d been fucked before, but he’d never taken a man home, and to bed, and made love to him, and awakened next to him. It was suddenly a lot harder to rationalize it away as a one-time fluke. Especially when he hadn’t even looked at a woman since the debacle with Vince.

Roger stood up and sighed. No use wishing it hadn’t happened. He wasn’t going to be able to run away from it this time—unless he abandoned the beach house entirely. Damn, he’d really liked Sonny, too. He was hoping they could have been friends. Was this going to be the way it was from now on? He’d ruin every friendship that came along with his sick urges?

* * *

When Roger got back to the house, however, the Ferrari was gone. Relief warred with unexpected disappointment, and won. So Sonny didn’t want to face him either. Just as well, he had no idea what he would have said to the man.

He didn’t leave the house for three days. He was afraid to go back to the bar, and he didn’t need anything in town. Maybe he should just arrange to have his supplies delivered, and never leave his house again. Just make sure the delivery boy was old and ugly. Or a woman.

* * *

The ringing of the phone startled him halfway across the room. Late afternoon sun filtered through the windows. Roger jerked the cordless phone out of its cradle and carried it outside onto the porch, heart pounding. Could Sonny have gotten his phone number when he was here? With a trembling finger he switched the phone on.

“Hello… ?”

“Hey, Rog. How’s it going?”

“Vinnie.” Relief. And again, disappointment, quickly suppressed.

“Who else? What’s wrong, Roger? You expecting somebody else?”

“No. No, I… met this guy a couple of days ago. I thought it might be him.” Roger knew he was babbling. He rubbed his forehead, swore silently at himself.

“You met a guy! This sounds interesting,” Vinnie teased. “Got a new boyfriend?”

“Jesus, Vince.”

“Sorry. But you sound all flipped out. What’s the deal with this guy?”

“I slept with him. Then he took off. End of story,” Roger blurted. Well, what the hell. How was he going to make things any worse with Vinnie, anyhow?

There was a long silence on the phone. “Roger. I’m sorry.”

“No big deal. I took off, too. It was mutual temporary insanity, mutually resolved in the classic Lococco style—avoidance and denial.” Now that he’d opened his mouth, he couldn’t seem to shut up. Anyway, what could be more natural than telling Vinnie everything? All the things he would never tell another living soul?

“Yeah? Well, tell me about him.”

“Blond, green. Medium build. Southern accent,” Roger rattled off casually. “Drives a Ferrari. Drinks too much.”

“Good looking?”

“Fuck you, Vince. Yeah, good looking. Ex-undercover vice cop in Miami. One tour in Nam, regular army.”

“Well, you could never love anyone who only did one tour in Nam.”

Roger laughed in spite of himself. “Shut up,Vince. Jesus Christ.” He’d had no idea how good it could feel to tell someone about it. To tell Vinnie.

“Really, Roger, it sounds like he’s perfect for you. So what happened?”

Roger cleared his throat, took a deep breath. “I met him at a bar. We talked. When the bar closed, I invited him to my place. Just to talk some more, I thought….” He paused, took another deep breath. “Then it just happened. We were both drunk. We ended up in bed together. When I woke up in the morning, he was still asleep. I went down to the beach to clear my head. When I got back, he was gone.”

“So you don’t know how he really felt about it in the morning.”

“I know he didn’t want to hang around.”

“Well, he woke up and you’d split. What was he supposed to think? He probably thought you wanted him out of there.”

Vinnie was sounding dangerously sensible. Roger didn’t want to think about it. “Maybe I did.”

“Maybe, huh? And maybe not? What if he hadn’t been gone when you got back? What would you have done?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know. Jesus, Vince, I can’t do this. I can’t be like this, it makes me sick. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

“Roger, come on! You’re the same man you always were. The same strong, tough, macho son of a bitch. Nothing changes, except you’re not alone anymore. And you don’t have to fake it with hookers.”

Too damned dangerous. Too tempting to believe. “Vinnie….” His voice was almost pleading.

“Roger, I know you. I know you better than anybody. I always thought you tried a little too hard to prove you were the big womanizing stud. And after what happened with us last time, I was sure. You’re gay, and some day you’re going to have to face it. Maybe this guy isn’t going to be the one, but some day there will be somebody. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.”

“Ah Jesus, Vinnie, I don’t know. Anyway, this guy, he’s probably back in Miami by now.”

“Well, I don’t think the cost of a plane ticket to Miami is going to be a problem for you.”

Roger laughed again. Oh, god, maybe it was all worth it, just to have Vinnie back. “I don’t know, Vince. I’ll think about it.”

“Okay, Roger.” Vinnie paused, took a breath himself. “So, other than that, how’s it going?”

* * *

He’d sat around feeling sorry for himself long enough. Buoyed by the renewed connection with Vince (although still refusing to accept what Vinnie had said), Roger decided to pull himself together, and walked the four miles to the bar. He settled himself at his favorite table, back to the wall with a clear view of the rest of the interior, and prepared to nurse a single scotch and soda through the rest of the evening. The booth where Sonny had charmed the waitresses and drowned his pain in Jack Daniels mocked him with its emptiness. Got your hideyhole back, didn’t you? No fear he’ll intrude on your empty little life again. Too bad they couldn’t have just been friends. If he’d stuck it out, might it have been possible to talk through it? Miami’s just a plane flight away…. If that was where he’d gone. Roger didn’t even know that Sonny’d left the Bahamas. You didn’t generally bring a Ferrari out of the country when you were just going on vacation. It would be easy enough to find out….

No. He didn’t come here to think about Sonny Goddamned Crockett. He came here to try to get his life back. Not that his life, as it was, was so great. He didn’t have any family. Most of his friends were dead. Who would really care if he decided he’d rather fuck men? Not Vinnie, obviously. Mostly just himself. He couldn’t bear to think of himself that way. As a homosexual. A queer. That wasn’t Roger Lococco. No, it just wasn’t worth it. He didn’t need anyone that bad.

* * *

Around ten o’clock, Roger decided he couldn’t stretch his drink out any farther, so he drained the last few drops, and headed for the door.

Only to run right into Sonny Crockett, on his way in.

Roger stopped dead. So did Sonny. They both stood, staring at each other, speechless—long enough for the bar to grow quiet and heads to turn. Roger, mortified at the thought of causing a scene, took Sonny by the arm and hustled him out into the parking lot.

“Look, I… about the other night… ,” Roger said.

“Yeah?” Sonny pulled away from Roger, glaring.

“I’m sorry.”

Sonny stared at him. “Sorry for what?”

Roger shook his head and sighed. Sorry for fucking him? Sorry for cutting out the next morning? Sorry for being born? Quietly, he asked, “What do you want me to be sorry for?”

“Ripping the buttons off my shirt?” The attempt at bravado was only partly successful.

Roger laughed shortly. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Sonny nodded. He tried to smile, but pain flashed across his face. “How about buying me a little self-respect?”

Roger flinched. He had been shot before. Gunshot wounds were nothing compared to this. “I wish I had some to give you.”

There was a long pause. “I… I’m sorry too.”

“What have you got to be sorry for?”

“I don’t know… I don’t think one person could make this big a mess of things all by himself.”

“Maybe.” Roger thought Sonny was being very generous. “Do you think we should go somewhere and talk?”

“You mean, like to your place?” Sonny’s voice was bitter.

Another dead shot. “Anywhere. Wherever. I… just don’t think I can face going back into the bar right now. And I don’t really want to be having this discussion out here in the parking lot.”

Sonny sighed. “Ah, hell. Let’s go to your place.”

* * *

This time, Roger rode home in the Ferrari, leaning against the door with his arms wrapped around himself while Sonny guided the purring steel beast down the road. This had to be the worst idea yet. Couldn’t they have gone for a walk, or something? The thought of Sonny sitting on his couch again did things to him that made him want to scream.

But neither of them sat on the couch. Sonny stood, leaning on the sill of the living room’s picture window, looking defensive and ready to bolt. Roger paced in short, tight circles at the other side of the room.

“You want to start?” Sonny finally asked.

“I think that’s how we got into trouble last time.”

“Okay….” Sonny took a deep breath. “I want to tell you about Evan.”

Roger looked at him sharply. “He was your friend. He died. You don’t need to go into it.”

“I want to. There’s more to it than that. I want you to know… I don’t usually go around calling people by the wrong name during… intimate moments.”A self-deprecating laugh. “Well, I’ve done it before. Generally, I’d bring flowers, but in this case, I guess I’ll just try to explain.” Sonny crossed his arms, seemed to shrink a little. “I told you Evan and I went through police academy together. We had a friend named Mike, who was at the academy too. After we graduated, the three of us went into vice. We were like the Three Musketeers, man, all for one….” He smiled slightly at the memory. “Then Mike told us he was gay.”

He paused a moment before continuing. “Evan really freaked. He couldn’t handle it at all.” He glanced up at Roger. “Man, he was just like you.” Sonny shook his head. “I was young. I didn’t know what to do. I just… stood by while Evan called Mike ‘faggot’ and Mike’s career went down the toilet. Then Mike stepped in front of a bullet, got himself killed. Evan went to ATF, total loose cannon. Blamed himself for Mike’s death, and did his best to catch a bullet himself. I… I blamed Evan, too. I guess maybe I was trying too hard not to blame myself.” Sonny stared at the floor.

“A couple of years later, I ran into Evan on an undercover assignment. He was playing middleman to a gunrunner; my partner and I were the buyers. We planned a buy with a fake ripoff, to get the guns off the street without blowing Evan’s cover. The deal went sour and the gunrunner tried to whack me and my partner. Evan got in the way. The gunrunner shot him, but it was suicide, same as Mike. All that guilt, and I didn’t do anything to help him, either. I made up my mind then that I wasn’t going to let anybody’s prejudice and intolerance hurt any more of my friends. Especially not my own.”

Roger stopped pacing. Sonny was right, he was just like Evan. So what was Sonny doing with him? Penance? “Did you ever do it with a man before?”

Sonny’s face reddened. “Stuff in Nam. You know how that was. But not like what we did.”

Roger nodded. Yeah, he knew how it was. You got close to your buddies, when your life depended on them. You got lonely and scared. You took comfort where you could. That sort of thing didn’t mean anything, but it was a relief to know that Sonny wasn’t quite as virginal as he had seemed. “I hope I didn’t… hurt you.”

A short, strangled laugh. “Outside of nearly tearing my arm out of its socket, you mean? No. You didn’t.”

Roger squirmed. “Why did you let me do it?”

“What, twist my arm, or… the other?”

“Either. Both.” Roger was sure his face was as red as Sonny’s.

“Well, the arm-twisting, I don’t remember having much choice about.” He rubbed at his shoulder. “For the rest… I don’t know. It felt good. I just… wanted to forget everything for a while. To just let something happen.” A brief, crooked smile. “You were right, it’s better than drinking.” He looked away. “So. Why did you do it?”

Roger struggled for words. He wanted desperately to toss off some casual nonsense about any port in a storm, but he owed Sonny—he owed himself—more than that. Pacing again, he began to speak in agitated bursts, looking at the floor as he talked. “I look at you, and… listen to your voice… that heartbreaker of a Southern smile… God, even your fingernails drive me crazy! I can’t stand to look at you! And I can’t stop. I just want to… rip you up into tiny little pieces. And fuck every last one of them.” He stopped, glanced up at Sonny. The other man’s face was still pink, and twisted into an expression that looked something like pain, something like fear. And maybe something like desire. Roger’s voice was ragged as he continued. “Then I think about what it means to feel this way, and I hate it.”

“Do you hate me?” Sonny asked, very quietly.

“No! No, I hate myself, the way I feel….”

“Well, you should hate me. Because, standing here listening to you talk like that… makes me feel exactly the same way.”

Sonny’s words cut through Roger like a knife. But it was a knife that pierced so sweetly…. “And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Hell, yes, it bothers me! I like women, Roger. I was married twice. I have a son, who can barely stand the sight of me as it is. You think I want to have to go to him and tell him his old man’s dating a man?” Sonny rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I never went looking for this. I don’t even know what made me come home with you. It was just… you understood everything, every damned word I said. And you looked at me… like you were going to crawl right down my throat. Nobody ever looked at me like that before, not even Caroline. I need that. All right, maybe I’d just as soon it was a woman… but it wasn’t, so I’ll live with it.” He sighed deeply, ran a hand through his thick hair.

“Roger, I’m just an old Southern cracker. Dade County’s not San Francisco; I grew up with the same attitudes you did. But after what happened with Mike, and Evan—and all those years on vice—I guess I figured out a few things. And I got over all that macho crap years ago.” A weary smile. “Well, most of it anyway.”

“Then why did you take off?” Roger bit off the words.

“Roger, I wasn’t the one who took off.”

Roger flinched. “Damn it, Sonny! I’m sorry. I… It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, hell, Roger, I was just as freaked out about it as you were. I wasn’t even going to go back to that bar, but I didn’t see your car in the lot, so I didn’t think you were there. It never occurred to me you’d walk there.” He laughed shortly. “Some detective, huh.”

“I haven’t exactly been thinking straight these past few days, either.” The double meaning made him redden. “I just wanted… we’ve got a lot in common. I don’t have a whole lot of friends left alive anymore. I never meant for it to be anything more than that.”

Sonny looked at him strangely, obviously not believing. “Well, I guess we’ve danced around it long enough. What happens now?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

Sonny shrugged, elegantly, making Roger grit his teeth. “You tell me, Roger. I want… something from you. Whether it’s sex or not… I’m not the one who’s going to be dying from guilt every time we make it. You have to decide if you can deal with that or not.”

“I don’t know, Sonny. I don’t know.” Roger’s pacing took him, finally, to Sonny’s side of the room, where he stood, a few short feet away from the man, fists clenched. Sonny pushed himself away from the window and stood upright, tense, suddenly uneasy. The air between them was heavy and charged with raw intensity. Roger was helpless; paralyzed by the need to do this and the need not to, both so strong that he was rooted to the spot. “I can’t do this. I can’t decide. Oh, shit, Sonny, I give up, do whatever you want—fuck me, walk away, take me out and put a bullet in my head—anything! I give up.”

In the forty long years of his life, Roger had never said those words to another living soul. Not Herb Ketcher, not a whole army of Viet Cong, not Mel Profitt’s psychotic megalomania, not a galleryful of hostile senators could make Roger Lococco surrender. Now, here he was, brought to his knees by one damaged, slightly alcoholic, breathtakingly beautiful ex-vice cop. But far from the shame and degradation he would have expected to feel from such a revelation, Roger felt strangely at peace. He’d burrowed down to the depths of his being, and found the lost piece that had been eluding him for so long.

Sonny was watching Roger’s face carefully. Then he took two careful steps toward Roger and laid a tentative hand on Roger’s arm. Roger held still, barely breathing. Then Sonny smiled, and Roger felt the world begin to spin. Right down the rabbit hole, and this time so deep you’ll never come out. But then Sonny had slipped his arms around Roger and held him in a tight, strong embrace.

Roger’s mouth found Sonny’s without conscious effort. Time and light and motion ceased as they stood together, lost in a soul-deep kiss.

* * *

This time, it was slow and careful and gentle; a little tentative, sometimes awkward. Roger felt like a gawky seventeen-year-old. But whenever the uncertainty began to overwhelm him, Sonny’s throaty chuckle pulled him through. They undressed each other with languorous care; lay down together, kissing, touching, exploring, discovering. There was a heady newness and freedom that left Roger breathless. He wanted to give himself up completely to the experience; to allow Sonny to possess him utterly. At last, he pulled free from their close embrace and rolled over onto his stomach.

“I want you to do me,” Roger whispered. The feel of Sonny’s hands on his back made him dizzy. He wanted the man all over him; inside him; all around him.

A kiss on the back of his neck was Sonny’s reply. Then Sonny reached over Roger’s shoulder into the bedside drawer. Roger buried his face in the pillow and waited for Sonny to get what he needed from the drawer. Sonny stroked Roger’s back, massaging his shoulders and running his fingers down Roger’s spine. Then Sonny’s hands were on his buttocks, and between them, and he felt the slippery lubricant on Sonny’s fingers, caressing him, entering him, moving inside him. He moaned, relaxing himself, allowing himself to be taken.

“Now…,” he whispered.

Sonny reached for the condom, quickly put it on, and lowered himself between Roger’s legs. Roger gasped as Sonny’s cock pressed into him; too fast, too eager; but Roger ignored the pain and shifted his hips, trying to accommodate the fullness inside him.

Sonny seemed to realize his over-exuberance; he pulled back, kissed Roger’s shoulder, his hot breath tickling Roger’s ear, and began again, slowly this time. Gradually, with short, strong thrusts, he worked his way in, until the full length of his cock was inside. Then Sonny settled into his rhythm, thrusting into him, sweat-slick chest sliding along Roger’s back. Roger abandoned himself to the sensation that spread through him from his ass to his fingertips, growing until it passed beyond pleasure or pain, until Roger thought he would go insane.

His climax, when it came, made him cry out. Sonny gripped him around the chest and rode it with him, allowing him to catch his breath a little before thrusting to his own climax.

It was good. It was so good, Roger thought he would die. Sonny withdrew slowly, laughing gently into Roger’s ear, disposed of the condom, then settled in beside Roger, sweat cooling against his skin. It was good. To hell with tomorrow; to hell with everything. This was damned good.

* * *

For only the second time in his life, Roger woke with a man in his bed. Sonny slept on his side, blond hair falling into his face, once again clutching the pillow tightly. Roger smiled. This time, far from wanting to run away, he wanted to lie here forever. Never to be alone again…. How could Vinnie have known?

“Oh, god,” Roger groaned.

Sonny opened his eyes, propped himself up on one elbow, and peered sleepily at him. “Something wrong?”

“Vinnie was right. I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

Sonny grinned. “I think I’m going to have to meet this Vinnie guy.”

Roger smiled back. “That can be arranged. Let’s go to New York. You could see your old partner, too.”

Sonny rolled onto his back, and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Just like that, huh? You know, I can’t afford to go hopping off to New York whenever I want to.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Roger said casually. “I’m rich. Anyway, you can’t be that bad off, you drive a Ferrari.”

Sonny grinned again. “Well, technically, the Ferrari belongs to the Miami Dade Police Department. I sort of forgot to give it back when I retired.”

Roger stared for a moment, then laughed shortly. He barely knew this man. What was he getting himself into? “This is weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Sonny agreed.

“This… is not going to be easy.”

“Well, I think that pretty much goes with the territory. No matter what kind of relationship you have. Let’s just take this one step at a time.”

Roger leaned over him, kissed him good morning. “Yeah. There’s just one thing, though.”

“What?”

“We’re going to have to get you your own pillow.”

Sonny smiled, growling softly, and pulled Roger to him. “I think I can handle that.”

“Yeah, well, handle this….” Roger wrapped his arms around Sonny, kissed him roughly.

“Unh…. You do wake right up in the morning, don’t you?”

“You got a problem with that?” There was mock menace in the question, but no real threat.

“No problem at all.” The growing stiffness between them attested to the truth of Sonny’s response.

So this is the rabbit hole, Roger thought, as he settled in for some morning lovemaking. I think I’m going to like it here.

end.