aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 14 - Part 1
The rain had thinned by morning. It was still Gotham rain — a fine, greasy drizzle that stuck to the windows and made the street look like it had been wiped down with a dirty rag — but it wasn't the heavy dock weather from the night before. Vieri woke on his back in the Heights house with a deep, useful ache in his thighs and lower back. The kind that sat in the muscle and reminded him, every time he shifted, what he had done standing up, bent over crates, and on wet concrete while three women argued about turns.
He lay there for a minute and listened to the house. Fridge hum. Water in the gutters. A car two streets over with a bad belt. Nothing on the roof. Nothing at the windows. He got up.
The shower ran hot. Steam filled the small bathroom the same way it had the night before. He stood under it until the smell of leather, green things, cheap candy-sweet perfume, and sex finally let go of his skin. Scratches from Montoya were still faint across his shoulders. Hand-shaped heat was gone from his palms. He soaped, rinsed, shut it off, and dressed for work: clean undershirt, dark slacks, the same worn jacket.
In the kitchen the black lace panties were still on the counter. Selina's note sat next to them, the handwriting sharp and clean.
He picked the note up, read it once, and put it in the junk drawer under the takeout menus and spare batteries. The panties he left. He wasn't going to stand there making a decision about underwear before coffee.
Coffee was instant and too bitter. He drank it standing at the sink, looking at the wet backyard through the glass in the back door. Then he grabbed his keys, locked the deadbolt, and went to the car.
The wipers dragged a thin smear across the windshield the whole way in. East End grid. Kane Street still quiet. No Queens on the radio. No "three costumed women hit a vault" lead. No viral clip of Harley on a roof. Just weather, a crash on the expressway, and a councilman talking about sanitation like anyone in this city cared. First morning in weeks the city had sounded like itself.
He parked in the lot behind the precinct, signed the sheet by the door, and walked into the bullpen.
Burnt coffee. Damp wool. Old paper. The ancient pot on the warmer had been left on too long again. Fluorescents hummed. Phones rang in that half-hearted morning way that meant nobody important was calling yet.
Montoya was already at her desk. Dark hair in a tight ponytail. White button-down stretched across her full C-cup tits every time she breathed. Dark slacks hugging her ass and thick thighs. She looked up when he passed. Golden-brown eyes held his for half a second longer than the job required — long enough for the office, the desk, the way she had come apart under him, to sit in the air between them — then dropped back to her screen. A faint flush climbed her neck. She shifted in the chair, thick thighs pressing together under the desk, and kept typing.
Sawyer stood at the coffee station. Heavy D-cup tits pressed against her blouse as she poured. The fabric pulled tight across them. She caught his eye over the rim of the cup and gave him a small, knowing smirk that lingered on his mouth a beat too long before she looked away and sipped.
Vieri sat. The chair complained. He woke the terminal and stared at the login screen until the captain's door opened.
The captain came out with a short stack of printouts and that rare, almost-pleased look from the morning after the warehouse. The tightness around his eyes was lighter.
"Task force, listen up."
The bullpen noise dropped. Phones kept ringing. Side talk died.
"Overnight numbers just came in. No major Queens activity. No headlines. No viral anything. First clean stretch we've had in weeks that actually held through the night. IA called again this morning. They're easing the daily check-ins starting today. Don't fuck it up. Small work. Clean blotter. If any of you hear even a whisper about the three of them moving, it comes to me first. Clear?"
A few voices answered. Montoya nodded once without looking up, full C-cup tits rising under the white shirt. Sawyer raised her cup in a half-salute from the coffee station, heavy tits shifting under the blouse. Vieri kept his face blank and turned back to the screen.
The captain dropped a sheet on the corner of Vieri's desk on the way back to his office.
"Oronzo. Sawyer. You're paired today. Paperwork first. Then East End into the Bowery pocket. I want reports that survive a second look. IA's still reading everything even if they're smiling about it."
"Yes, sir."
Sawyer walked over once the door clicked shut. She set her coffee on the edge of his desk and leaned a hip against it. Heavy D-cup tits moved under the blouse with the shift. Close enough that he caught perfume under the coffee.
"Lucky us," she said, low. "The good reports pair."
"Looks like it."
"He's not wrong. Days like this are the ones that keep a unit open." Her blue eyes stayed on his face a second longer than they needed to. "You look like you slept. That's new."
"Quiet night."
"Sure." She picked the cup back up. "I'll take the noise complaints if you want the stolen car. Fair split."
"I'll take the car. You can have the noise. They're all the same paragraph anyway."
She almost smiled. Then she walked back to her desk, thick thighs flexing under the slacks, ass rolling with each step, and sat.
The work started the way it always started when nobody was shooting.
The keyboard was older than some of the rookies. The H stuck. The form for a recovered vehicle wanted the same plate number in three different boxes and kicked the file back if you missed one. Vieri typed with two fingers and the side of his thumb and listened to the room.
Sawyer two desks over, tapping a pen against her teeth. Click. Click. Click. Then the pen stopped and the keys started. Montoya walked past with a folder under her arm and did not stop. The white shirt pulled tight across her full C-cup tits when she reached to drop the folder on a sergeant's desk. She did not look at Vieri. The flush on her neck was still there.
Overnight noise complaints:
A couple on Kane arguing about money at two in the morning. Neighbor said they threw a lamp. No injuries. No arrest. Vieri wrote it in four lines and checked the box that said resolved on scene by another unit.
A bar on the edge of the East End that always had a guy who thought last call was a suggestion. Already in the blotter from last week. He copied the address, changed the time, moved on.
A third one that was just a dog. He still had to write the dog.
The stolen-car report was cleaner. Two precincts over had recovered it behind a body shop before dawn. Owner already notified. No prints yet. Vieri filled the boxes, attached the other unit's sheet, and sent it. The system thought about it. Then it took the file.
The Queens activity log sat at the edge of his desk like it was waiting for him to lie.
Montoya had flagged it the night before. Captain wanted it by end of day. Clean and short. No speculation.
Vieri looked at the blank fields.
Confirmed sightings in sector: none.
Tips received: none.
Video: none.
Notes: no confirmed Queens activity overnight in assigned grid.
That was all he could put on paper that was true. He typed it. He did not add the warehouse. He did not add the rain on the corrugated roof or Selina's voice when she made him say it or Harley on her knees or Ivy's vines on his thigh. He hit send on the draft and left it sitting there for the final pass later.
A short supplemental on yesterday's disorderly took another twenty minutes because the form wanted a use-of-force box checked even though nobody had used any. He checked none. The system asked him if he was sure. He said yes.
Sawyer's pen started tapping again.
"You stuck?" she asked without looking over.
"Form wants the same plate three times."
"It always does. Type it slower. It gets precious if you rush it."
He typed it slower. The file went through.
Montoya stood, folder in hand, and walked toward his desk. White button-down, slacks hugging her ass and thick thighs, ponytail tight. She stopped beside his chair, close enough that he caught the light citrus of her shampoo under the coffee and paper smell of the bullpen. Full C-cup tits rose under the shirt with every breath. The top buttons pulled just enough to show a thin line of skin.
She set a printed sheet on the desk.
"Captain wants the updated Queens log by end of day," she said. Voice low, professional. Golden-brown eyes met his for a second and slid to the edge of the desk. "Anything from last night — tips, sightings, even rumors — goes in it. Clean and short. No speculation."
"Got it."
She nodded. The movement made her full C-cup tits shift. A faint flush still sat on her neck and the tops of her cheeks, darker than when he had walked in. She started to turn, then stopped. Thick thighs pressed together for half a second under the slacks.
"You look like you actually slept," she said, quieter, meant only for him. "That's new."
"Quiet night."
Her mouth tightened like she wanted to say something else — the office, the desk, the way she had still been feeling him when she got home — and decided against it. She walked away toward the conference room, firm ass rolling under the dark fabric, thick thighs flexing with each step, and did not look back.
Sawyer watched the whole thing from across the aisle. When Montoya was out of earshot she stood, coffee in hand, and crossed the space. Heavy D-cup tits moved under her blouse with each step. She set the cup on his desk again and leaned a hip against it.
"She's been weird all morning," Sawyer said, voice low enough to stay between them. "Shifting in her chair. Pressing her thighs together when she thinks no one's looking. Staring at your desk when you're not paying attention. You know anything about that?"
"Not my business."
Sawyer's mouth pulled to one side. She took a slow sip, heavy tits rising under the blouse. "Sure. And the captain's happy because the Queens went quiet overnight is pure coincidence too. IA easing up the same day. All just good luck." She set the cup down, leaned in a fraction. "Whatever you did, keep doing it. I like coming to work when IA isn't on our necks every hour."
She pushed off, picked up the coffee, and went back to her chair. Vieri watched her go — thick thighs, ass rolling, that long Metropolis stride — then turned back to the screen.
He finished the last noise complaint. He printed the recovered-vehicle sheet because the captain still liked paper. He paper-clipped the disorderly supplemental and dropped the stack in the out tray.
Sawyer stood and stretched. The blouse pulled tight across her heavy D-cup tits. She grabbed her jacket.
"Car's ours. You driving or am I?"
"You drive. I'll take the book."
"Good. I hate your left turns."
They signed out at the board. Montoya did not look up. The captain's door stayed shut. The bullpen kept humming like a day that might actually stay boring.
The unmarked was damp inside from the drizzle. Sawyer dropped into the driver's seat, adjusted the mirror, and pulled out of the lot with the confidence of someone who had driven worse cities than this one. Vieri rode shotgun with the call log open on his thigh.
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