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I Never Told You My Name

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His heart is just slamming away in that tight little chest of his. He'd start pacing if it wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Bad enough he probably looks like a freak playing that pinball machine near the bathrooms, but he has to do something about this anxiety. Maybe growling at the balls and beating up the machine will help him get over what a fucking fiasco that Godamn “anecdote” was.

Oh, sure. They bought it, alright. Freddy was not expecting all those fucking questions, but he handled them. He figures he's pretty good at reading emotions on faces, so he shouldn't have any reason to worry, but Freddy just about had a heart attack just telling that stupid story. Talk about stage fright. What he wouldn't give to switch places with his story-self, and face a possession charge over a possible death sentence. Hell, would it even be that easy? he thinks, light headed from the fears he's tormenting himself with. 

What would really happen if anyone found him out? Would they torture him, like in the stories?

Would Larry be the one to do it?

He jumps back a foot when he's touched, and only relaxes a little bit when he sees it's Larry, chomping on a toothpick, easy grin on his face. “What are you doing back here?” he asks, and sips at the drink in his hand. “Why don't you come on over and join us for a drink?”

The twisted, worrisome thoughts he let worming through his brain make him feel a bit...flighty. But he feels so comfortable with Larry, he loosens up. And he feels much safer walking back to the bar, where the rest of the guys are, by Larry's side. That hand just barely pressing against his back is telling him he's safe, but only as long as he goes where Larry wants him to go.

If it weren't for Larry, he'd misinterpret every look, every snide comment, every movement as threatening. But as long as he sits close to Larry, he feels protected. How easy it is to slip into the role of the sticky-fingered punk when he's got Larry to bounce off of. Larry talks shit, and Freddy laughs. He can't help but harbor a bit of admiration for the guy's style, his slick attitude. Hell, he even feels a bit of pride that this cool bastard prefers him over everyone else. 

Time goes by and the group breaks up. Joe comes back from time to time to bullshit with Larry, but otherwise the pair's left alone to get ever drunker. Correction: Larry's the one losing his sobriety; Freddy's being careful to stay reasonably lucid. He might feel comfortable, but he's not taking any chances. 

At one point Larry leans in real close, making out to whisper in Freddy's ear, throwing an arm around his back. Now, by this point, Freddy feels pretty close to the guy, as he should. Building a solid rapport with one of the crew was an important part of this mission, but he wasn't really supposed to like him. 

But who the fuck was he kidding? He knew from the second he and this cocky fucker first locked eyes that things would get complicated. It's just that he figured he was strong enough not to let himself get in too deep.

“You see Blonde looking at you?” Larry pulls back to look at Freddy's face, but he's still pressed up pretty close. Freddy's trying not to squirm at how uncomfortable this suddenly is. He could push Larry away, of course, but doesn't. 

So he pretends to scan the crowd, pretends he doesn't notice Larry's strong cologne, the smell of his hair gel. Pretends his skin isn't shivering from where Larry's breath falls on it rhythmically. “The Hell you talkin' about?” He laughs, facing Larry, feeling his pulse jump to meet that unwavering gaze. 

“Yeah, he's looking at you,” Larry repeats, pointing off somewhere. “He's been checking you out all night; you haven't noticed?”

I noticed you checking me out, Freddy thinks, answering Larry with a confused shrug.

“He's a real weird fuck,” Larry says. “He and Joe are close, but he's...I'd watch out for him.” 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Freddy mumbles, not really sure where this conversation is meant to go. He attempts to pull himself away from Larry, just a smidgen, but Larry won't budge. 

“You think he wants to fuck you?”

Freddy stares at him, but he can't read shit behind that smug grin. Just how hammered is this guy? “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

Larry shifts in his stool a bit, studying Freddy silently. Ice cubes clink as he takes a drink, his lips smack. “Would you fuck him?”

Freddy realizes Larry's hitting on him. He's going about it in an incredibly crude and tactless way, but it makes Freddy want to laugh. A bit of that cockiness is absent from his grin now, and he's waiting awfully patiently for the answer. This is a new side to Larry, a vulnerable side. And Freddy kinda likes it. 

As he returns Larry's gaze, Freddy's got yet another shock of some truth: they've come at a crossroads with this. Freddy won't be able to laugh this off; everything depend on how he answers. He can just imagine Holdaway watching him, as if this were a test.

Well, get a load of this.

Freddy flashes his teeth and lowers his eye lids, giving Larry a smile that actually makes him squirm and says in a low voice, “He's not my type.”

The look on Larry's face is priceless, mostly due to how hard Larry is trying to hide it. He's bitten through his toothpick, his eyes are just drinking this in; oh Freddy's got this guy hooked, alright. Freddy barely pays attention to what he and Larry are saying to each other, he's riding too high on the sheer thrill of this situation. 

Freddy finds it ridiculously easy to play the coy cocktease all of a sudden. In fact, he's having a fucking ball. And sure, he can admit to honestly enjoying the attention, the touches, the sexy huskiness in Larry's voice, but it's alright because Freddy's in control. At any time he knows he can end this. Larry's already getting pretty drunk; Freddy doubts Larry will have the energy to keep this going for too long. Hell, he might not even remember any of this in the morning. 

Larry is close to kissing him when Freddy pulls sharply away. He would have liked to feel it, but he warns Larry that they might be watched. 

“Aw, fuck those guys!” Larry growls, but puts some distance between them, confirming Freddy's fears. It was one thing for the two of them to play around in private, but it could be dangerous if anyone else saw.

//Saw what, “kid”?// he thinks. //Him acting like a drunken fool or you acting like a horny slut?//

Apparently Larry thinks that what he said was hilarious, because he's creeping back to Freddy's side, slinking an arm back around his shoulders. “Now that's not an open invitation or anything!”

Freddy laughs involuntarily, probably the first time he's been genuine all night, and nervously scans the bar. No one's watching, or if they are, they don't give a shit. “Fuck you,” he mutters, hardly able to keep a straight face.

“Now you're talkin',” Larry drawls, wrapping his arm around Freddy's waist and pulling. Staring straight ahead with a poorly repressed smile, Freddy halfheartedly fights him off. Now they're both laughing and in danger of falling off their stools, but Freddy tries to keep them both under some kind of control; he doesn't want the whole fucking place to notice this. 

“When the Hell did I ever say anything about wanting to fuck you?” he teases, but gently. He tries to be cool and get Larry to calm down, but is betrayed by a sudden, sharp gasp when Larry drives a hand up his shirt. 

“You didn't have to say anything.” Larry's breath is hot and reeking of bourbon and far too harsh on his face. For just a second, Freddy has the crazy thought that this would be totally unacceptable if he were a woman. But then again, if he were a woman, he wouldn't even be here, would never have met Larry in the first place. 

In any case, he's getting a little nervous, a little scared. He could--should--push Larry off and end it right there, but he doesn't want to. But at the same time, he's not sure he can tolerate this rough groping. Not in public, anyway. “Come on,” he says as gently as possible. “Take it easy...White.” Fuck, that was close.

But instead of easing up, Larry suddenly gets even rougher, and a lot more serious. He pulls Freddy close against him, his grip vice-like, and plunges his other hand between Freddy's knees. He growls in his ear in a surprisingly lucid voice, “You don't fool me, Orange. You don't think anyone's noticed, but I'm fuckin' on to you.”

His body goes cold, the blood drained from his face. If Larry's nose weren't buried in Freddy's hair, he would have seen the tight, grim look on his face. Calling upon every shred of his training, he reaches his hand down while slowly lifting one leg. He didn't have a pistol in his pocket, as everyone was told not to bring guns to this little get-together, but there was still that small gun strapped to his ankle.

But Larry stops him by shoving his hand against Freddy's crotch, making him suck in his breath and tense up. And then he shudders, melting against Larry's body in sheer, delicious relief as Larry laughs. Adrenaline is still scoring through his veins, amplifying his desire to painful levels. For a second he's helpless in Larry's arms, squeezing his eyes shut and grunting as if in pain.

But the sound of loud, male laughter from across the room snaps him back to life, reminds him of the danger of the situation. He already knows what's going to happen from this, and he's not trying to fight it, just change the venue. 

“Not here,” he pleads, reluctantly pushing Larry off. This time Larry backs off, but stares at Freddy with an intensity Freddy's not used to. Unnerving, but it's exhilarating as Hell. “Let's go to your place.”

Larry gets up and throws some bills on the counter and adjusts his shirt. Coolly he pulls a comb out of his pocket and sweeps back his hair, clearly enjoying making Freddy wait for his answer. “Sorry, kiddo. No can do.” His smug smile is undermined when he suddenly slams a hand on the bar counter to steady himself. 

Freddy laughs nervously. “Where the fuck you wanna go...?”

“That's easy. Your place.”

“Naw...” Freddy says, when he really wants to scream.

Leading Freddy out into the parking lot, Larry asks, “What? You hiding something in there?”

“Hiding something? What? No, man...”

“Then what's the problem?” He opens the passenger side door open for Freddy, who stands stubbornly beside it. 

“Well why can't we go to your place? Are you hiding something?”

Larry leans on the car and looks Freddy squarely in the eyes. He clearly has no intention of backing down. “You bet I am,” he said, with a touch of arrogance. “But that ain't none of your Godamn business, so just get in the car.” 

Freddy bites his lip, but he obeys. He's grinning but nervous, horny but apprehensive. Every instinct is warning him against this, but he ignores them, especially when Larry slides in the car, roughly yanks him closer by the shirt collar, and plants a boozy, sloppy kiss on his mouth. 

Slightly dazed, Freddy mumbles when Larry pulls away, “...don't think you should be driving...”



When Freddy finally gets the door unlocked, they stumble in, nearly falling over each other, but their lips are still fighting for contact. Freddy kicks the door closed behind them and laughs into Larry's mouth. They're both pulling and tugging at each other's clothing, but Larry's doing a much more efficient job of it, as drunk as he is.

Freddy's already kicked his boots off by now, and Larry yanks his pants down. Before the older man's hands can reach the strap at his shin, though, Freddy pushes Larry's hands back up his torso and distracts him with kisses. He rips the ankle holster off himself with his mouth still attached to Larry's.

When his hand goes for the light switch, Freddy grabs his wrist. “Leave it off,” he hisses, trying to distract Larry with a kiss on the throat. 

“I want it on,” Larry argues, but Freddy pushes him away from the switch and towards the bed. They knock into furniture and kick random objects on the floor on the way, but manage to survive the trip intact. 

He shoves Larry on his back and kneels over him. “Well, I don't.” 

There's just enough light coming in from the streets for Freddy to make out a rather stern expression on Larry's face. “Hey, what is this? Turn the Godamn light on, kid! I wanna see what I got!”

“You can see just fine,” Freddy taunts, inwardly getting scared as shit he'll lose control over this situation. Partly to appease Larry, partly to pin him down, and partly because he just wants to, Freddy lies on top of him to pull off his briefs and then goes back to straddling him. 


“Please, White,” Freddy whines, placing a finger atop Larry's lips. “I'll turn it on later, I promise. I like it like this.” He gives Larry a look that would get him beaten up anywhere else, but apparently works like a charm on him. 

“I'm gonna hold you to that,” Larry laughs. He lies back and relaxes beneath Freddy. His arms sweep around Freddy's back and pulls him closer as their teeth clack together and their lips grab greedily. He starts moaning as the kiss gets more desperate, and he grinds himself into Larry's groin, even though Larry's metal zipper hurts like a bitch. 

Larry grabs hold of Freddy and tries to change positions. Since the bed is so small, only meant for one person, they both have to help each other and struggle not to fall off. Freddy clenches with panic for a moment when he realizes that, lying beneath Larry, he wouldn't be able to stop Larry from getting up, turning on the light, and seeing what was so stupidly left on the table. 

But Larry wasn't interested in anything but ripping off his own clothes and mauling Freddy's neck with rough kisses, driving his hands through his hair, sucking the air right out of his mouth. He's an awkward and rough lover so far, but Freddy clings to him and begs for more wordlessly. 

He grunts sharply and tenses when he feels Larry's cock, hard and thick, trying to sneak between his legs. “No, L...” he tries to hide that potentially fatal slip up with a moan, and curses himself for forgetting, again. “It's gonna hurt.” 

Larry strokes Freddy's face, and it takes an obvious effort for him to hold back. “No, no, it won't hurt.” 

“I never done that, White,” Freddy argues, panting. By God he wants to try it, he wants to try anything with Larry, but he's terrified of the pain. 

Larry kisses him softly, still caressing his face. Freddy is moved by the obvious concern in the gangster's eyes, but he's also aware that Larry fully intends to do this regardless. “I won't hurt you, baby,” he says. Freddy almost wants to laugh; he can't imagine him speaking like this to anyone else, not even a woman. It's so surreal.

Larry does end up hurting him, almost unbearably, but Freddy doesn't care. Fuck the pain; Freddy savors this moment, certain they'll never be this honestly close again. 




It's almost impossible for them both to relax on the bed together when they're done, but they manage, the younger of the pair nestling himself against the other's chest, almost on top of him. 

Freddy rubs his lips against the older man's cheek as he presses his body tightly against him in a manner that is both possessive and submissive. He whispers dreamily in his ear, “I can't believe we did that, Larry.” 

His mentor/lover is quiet a moment, then looks at the younger man through the darkness. Sirens blare in the distance; a dog barks. “How'd you know my name?” he asks, slurring slightly. 

The young cop feels his heart freeze, but he plays it cool. He can't let the fear betray his voice as he tries to distract his lover with a soft, playful touch to the chest and a flirty kiss. “What are you talkin' about? You just told me a minute ago!” He pretends to laugh, but the additional kiss is no fake.

“I did?” the older man asks, more to himself, but he doesn't say anything more. His breath still reeks of booze, Freddy notices gratefully. 

“You're fuckin' drunk,” Freddy says, only pretending to be judgmental. But his ploy works; Larry shrugs his shoulders, grunts, and drops the subject. He then relaxes under Freddy's soft kisses and falls asleep. 

When he's sure Larry's asleep, Freddy untangles himself from the mess of limbs and sheets and navigates his bedroom-cum-living room in the dark, going after stacks of papers hidden under garbage on the table. He shoves them on top shelf in his closet and hides a cold, heavy object in his underwear drawer, then lights a cigarette and begins to pace. 

The cherry's the only light in the room, the only sound his shuffling feet as he chastises himself for that slip up. How could let that happen? He had been so careful, so what happened? Fuck ups like that could get him killed. If Larry weren't drunk as fuck, things could have ended very differently. 

But things are different, Freddy thinks, gazing at Larry. There's a bit of light sneaking in through the blinds from the street, enough for him to make out Larry's features and the rise and fall of his chest through slumber. Right up until this very moment, Freddy kept his emotions out of the situation. He knew they were there, but he walled them off.

Well, some emotions were allowed. He allowed himself the pride of outsmarting a group of hardened criminals. He let himself enjoy a certain sadistic thrill at the idea of trapping them all, using their trust and their feelings against them. And at first, he used that same weapon against Larry. 

So what changed? What made the same weapon hurt himself as well as the target? Freddy sucks greedily at his cigarette, afraid to open that emotional can of worms, but he already knows it's too late, and he's too afraid to do anything about it. Right and wrong really doesn't matter anymore. What does matter is lying on that bed, but in less than twelve hours, Freddy will basically lead him to the slaughter. 

This is what he signed up for: to catch the bad guys, to clean the scum from the city's streets. But now that he's rolled in it, washed himself in that same filth, he has no desire to come clean.


“I never told you my name.”

Half eaten taco in hand, Freddy stiffens, not even daring to look Larry in the eye. He swallows, puts his food down, and finally takes a look at Larry's eyes. He dares not reach for his gun, lest he provoke his companion into doing exactly that. 

But Larry's grinning, or at least he seems relaxed, more interested in his food than interrogation. “I mean,” he corrects himself, not looking at Freddy, seemingly out of embarrassment. “Normally, when a guy tells you his name, you're supposed to tell him your name. I just can't believe I told you my name without asking yours.” Larry frowns. “You didn't tell me, did you?”

Freddy smiles and looks back down at his lunch, feeling lucky for every breath at this point. “No, Larry, I didn't.” Of course Freddy found that out a while ago. He actually stole that information, but now that he has an excuse to use it, it sounds lovely rolling off his tongue. He gets a thrill knowing that he, of the entire crew, is privy to such seemingly innocent information. 

With a smug grin, he turns to Larry and says, “You were plastered. You would have told me your life story if I hadn't stopped you.”

Freddy feels the cold grip of panic as Larry stares at him. The self-doubt, the pure anxiety that this man he had so successfully befriended would see him for the rat he really is grips him. But Larry just laughs in embarrassment and looks down at his lunch. 

“You do remember what we did last night, right?” Freddy asks, but this question has nothing to do with police work. Even as he asks it, he knows he's about to cross yet another line. 

“Of course I do,” Larry says. “Well, most of it.” Freddy can tell that Larry is doubting himself. Almost to himself, Larry adds, “I just can't believe I told you my name, just out of the fucking blue.” He shoots a look to Freddy. “Did I tell you anything else?”

“Nothing incriminating,” Freddy says with a smile, then turns back to his uneaten food. They pass a few moments of awkward silence before Larry breaks it. 

“So what is it?”

Freddy stares at his taco for a while. He wants to burst out of this car and just run until his legs give out. In just a few hours, this man sitting beside him will be arrested, or killed, and this facade he has created will shatter before him. He's only known this man a few days; he should know better. He should realize how ridiculous and selfish his actions have been, but he can't stop. This isn't his first undercover assignment, but this is different.

Freddy pretends to be hesitating for a different reason than he actually is. 

“Larry,” he says softly, looking down, and hesitates. If he truly wants to become closer to this man, there are certain things he has to say. But he knows he can't say them and live. “I don't want to tell you.” He looks up at Larry, who's confused, frowning in a way that makes Freddy want to comfort him. “I'm trying to leave my past behind me, you know?” He bites his lip in anxiety as he tries to read Larry's emotions.

Larry softens. “Yeah, I get it,” he says, though he couldn't possibly understand.

Freddy offers Larry a small smile. “Hey,” he says. “I'll tell you everything after...” he nods vaguely towards the windshield. Suddenly devoid of his appetite, Freddy tugs and turns the ring at his finger absently. In just a few hours, he will have done his job, probably even earn an award. But he will lose something he didn't realize till now that he needed. 

Freddy chucks his mess on the floor of the car and pulls the ring off. He stares at it a moment, considering what it was supposed to signify to those it was meant to fool. He distinctly remembers how Larry had seen it and ignored it. For reasons Freddy himself couldn't be sure, he takes the thing off and slams it on the dashboard.

He feels a rough hand take his and pull it closer. “You know, there's a funny thing about second chances,” Larry says, holding Freddy's hand. Freddy just barely glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “You can run from your past all you want, it won't make your problems go away.” 

This criminal, this murderer, takes the fake ring from the dashboard and, while holding Freddy's hand still, slips that ring right back on, looks into his eyes for a second, and lets go. He doesn't say anything as he crunches his garbage into a ball and tosses it out the window, but he doesn't need to. Freddy just stares right back at him, amazed, but at the same time, not surprised. This is only going to make his betrayal that much harder. 

Freddy tries to draw upon those sadistic thoughts he had before. He tries to remind himself how cool he is; how he, and he alone, is cool and devious and clever enough to fool all these guys and bring them to justice, but he just can't bring himself to give a shit anymore, not while Larry is giving him such an open, raw look. He could curse Larry for being so Godamn sweet. 

But it's too late to do anything about it now. He can't warn Larry without revealing himself, which could mean his own death, or at the very least, breaking Larry's heart. But if he allows this to continue...

The young cop feels the gangster's fingers at his chin, pulling him closer, feels those lips against his own before he can form another thought. He's a riot of bitter emotions inside, but he can't do anything about it; he throws himself into Larry's eager, pleading kiss, hoping to hide in the other man's unselfish love. How can such a man as Lawrence Dimmick, a violent felon, a man who wouldn’t think twice about taking a life, kiss with such considerate tenderness? How can his hands feel so gentle?

“Get in the back,” Larry hisses in Freddy's ear with an urgency that tempts Freddy to fuck with him. There is such vulnerability in Larry right now, so easy to manipulate. But Freddy is only too happy to obey. He gives Larry a playful, though rather hard, bite on the earlobe before climbing over the seats to get to the back seat, where he lies in wait, a hungry look in his eye.

Larry makes Freddy wait. He takes his time to get out of the car, walk around the front, and come back in through the back door before pouncing on his prey. 

Just like last night, Freddy opens his legs for Larry and lets out a heavy exhale as if his life were seeping out of him. With every kiss Larry plants on his skin, Freddy's skin tingles, his heart pounds, his thoughts shut down. This is beyond wrong; if Holdaway had any idea...

But Holdaway isn't here. No one's here but himself and this man he's suddenly, inexplicably, ridiculously in love with. This man who climbs on top of him as if he owns him, this man who, by all rights, should be rotting in prison, who is now pulling and tugging at Freddy's shirt, ripping it away like paper and kissing the skin underneath. 

The car's parked in a fairly public area, but apparently no one notices as Larry roughly, hurriedly unzips Freddy's fly. Freddy throws his thigh out of the way, allowing Larry to press himself against him, inviting the older man to meld against him, become a part of him. 

There is no turning back now, is all Freddy can think, as he accepts this mobster inside himself. He splays his thighs apart, just as he did last night, throws his head back, inviting his throat to be kissed and licked, just as before. 

Freddy's fingers dig into Larry's shoulders as he's fucked. He bites his lip to keep from screaming out and thrashes his body against the one that is invading him. When Larry lowers himself to kiss him, Freddy grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him down, snarling. “Harder, Larry,” he growls, teeth gnashing, eyes squinting. It's not so much a command as a challenge, an encouragement. When he says it, this rough, impromptu fucking becomes almost too painful to handle, but he doesn't beg for Larry to ease off. 

Last night was passionate, but tender compared to this savage treatment. He grasps Larry's shirt fiercely, partly because of the pain and partly to keep Larry close to him, not that Larry has any intention of moving off him. He throws his head back and bites his lower lip hard to keep the noise down. His face is tight, intense, and damp from sweat and tears. His subdued grunts and yelps would suggest he were in agony, if he didn't also buck hard against Larry in return. 

“Don't stop, Larry!” he whines through gritted teeth, spit forming at the corners of his lips from the intensity. He would like to keep his eyes on his lover, but squeezes them shut with every fiery thrust. “Please!”

This is becoming a work out for the older man. He's panting and really struggling to keep the vigor going, and he scoops an arm beneath Freddy's back and holds him tight, trying to conserve energy. Freddy helps by splaying his thighs as far as he can and raising his hips. Larry is fully inside him, his body enveloping Freddy's. Freddy's erection is squeezed beneath Larry's body and is ground against the man's cotton shirt. This is painful in itself, but Freddy loves that fiery, cutting pleasure and doesn't mind at all that Larry isn't jerking him off right now. 

Larry bites down on a moan as he comes, and takes a minute to catch his breath, not wanting to collapse on top of Freddy, who writhes beneath him and wishes for more. He looks totally emptied, but Larry gives Freddy a smug grin and starts stroking him. They're cramped as all Hell, trying to lie together on this car seat, but they make do. Larry is smashed against the back of the seat, with Freddy smashed against him, and he breathes heavily over him, clawing Freddy's hair with one hand and jacking him off with the other, while Freddy presses his face into Larry's shirt and moans. He pushes himself practically through the older man's body when he climaxes.

He clutches at Larry's shirt, lifting himself so he can press his lips on Larry's, and he throws his arms around the other's shoulder, nearly falling off the car seat in the process. They laugh into each other's open mouths as this intimate moment is suddenly hilariously awkward. 

He makes a show of having to cling to Larry's shoulders lest he fall off the seat, but this isn't a completely fake gesture. As soon as he lets go, as soon as they separate and remove themselves from this moment, the clock will start ticking. They will never be this close again, Freddy realizes with a sudden depression. But he smiles when Larry pulls away, unable to express that even though Larry is sitting right beside him, he is already lost. 


It's so cold in there, so desolate. It's no comfort to have a fellow cop to talk to. His assurances that help will arrive soon only serves to comfort the other guy, not himself. A part of him expects to die right there, and with how much blood he's lost, he's amazed he still has the energy to scream at Marvin or even move at all. A part of him knows he's going to die, and is even waiting for it. But he doesn't want to. It's depressing to imagine life after all this, after what he's done to Larry, but he's too scared to die. He's terrified of sinking into that cold, empty feeling that's beginning to take over already. He's scared to even close his eyes in case this time he doesn't wake up.

He's holding onto the promise of Larry's return more so than the cops showing up. He has never felt so alone, pressing himself into the floor, missing Larry's comforting presence. If only he could feel Larry's arms around him again, just once more, and hear his soft, caring words, feel the warmth of his body against his cheek. Even the sight of his own blood smeared on Larry's white shirt didn't revolt him; it made him feel closer, more connected. As if Larry were bleeding just as much himself.

Relief and guarded joy washes over him when Larry returns with Joe and Eddie. Any minute, the cops will come storming in, ending this quickly devolving, Hellish situation and saving his own life. He should be hopeful, but he couldn't care less about that when Larry crouches over him. 

It breaks his heart how fiercely devoted and loyal Larry is to him, defending him when he has no reason to. Freddy can figure just how this nightmare will play out, but he can only watch, helpless, as Larry puts himself through it. He can only stare in dumb, primal fear and wait for the gunshots, which aren't even enough to kill him and Larry, at least not immediately. No, they're allowed to suffer together for a little bit longer.

He should be furious that the cops still haven't busted in, but all he can do is stretch out his arms for Larry and let loose some tears for him. His body is too numb and cold for him to care about his own pain anymore, and he must know death is right around the corner if he's not rescued soon. It's hard to tell where Larry's been shot, but he looks so pitiful, so broken as he crawls over to Freddy and struggles to get his head onto his lap. 

The police sirens seem much louder than realistically possible, thundering in Freddy's ears, warning him he has but seconds left with Larry. He reaches his arms behind himself to hold Larry as he moans his name, his heart thundering in his sweat soaked chest. The sirens are getting louder, his time is running out, so he clings to Larry with what little strength he has left and tries to look up at him. 

//I never told you my name!// he's screaming in his head, but something tells him that's not important right now. He can feel his heart pounding in his head now; any second he'll be ripped from Larry, so he finally blurts out what he's been hiding for what seemed like an eon: “I'm a cop...Larry!”

Larry's caressing his cheek, still holding Freddy's upper body tight against himself, but his pain is obvious. Freddy only wishes he had the strength to sit up so he properly comfort him, but must instead lie pathetically in his lap.

//But I love you!// he's desperate to yell out, but already the feds are surrounding them. From the looks on their faces and their savagely barked orders, they probably think that this scum bag's got one of their own hostage.

Trying to keep his voice down, so the cops won't hear, he hisses, “I'm sorry!” over and over. He can't bear the idea of being separated without having at least told Larry his name, like he promised, but he has to make Larry understand just how truly sorry he is. Sorry to have even gotten himself involved in this insanity, sorry for raising them both up so high, only to get knocked right back down. 

The cold, hard press of the pistol at his cheek is just a distraction. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows he should be scared, but he doesn't believe Larry will really do it. Larry's hurt, he's broken, and about to go away for a long time, but he wouldn't kill him, Freddy thinks during those frantic few seconds, with the cops screaming and Larry crying in the background. He wouldn't kill him now, not when Freddy hasn't even told him-