Chapter Text
Before becoming an actual detective, Connor always thought the donut thing was just a funny stereotype perpetrated by mainstream media. Then he was riding home from a hard day and caught the smell coming out of the tiny little shop with the black and white donut sign and the neat, bold letters spelling “Crosstown”.
They have sixteen different flavours, including but not limited to matcha tea or passion fruit.
It was love at first bite.
So here he is now, sitting on his parked motorcycle on the side of the road just outside the shop and enjoying a taste of the new and improved limoncello donut –Sophie, the girl at the counter that knows him well enough to know that he doesn’t really have an ‘usual’, just walks in and asks how can they mess him up today, suggested that he tried it; and holy shit, Sophie is a genius.
The tang of the lemony liquor is just the perfect thing to balance out the sweetness of the frosting and it’s really just what he needs to forget his daily woes –not that he’s got anything to gripe about today specifically, it’s his day off, but this one sweet transgression gets him through any and all bullshit life could ever throw at him.
His day takes a sudden shift when someone jumps on the back of his seat, catching him off-guard enough to nearly make him choke on that last bite and yelling “Drive!!!”
Blame the surprise, blame the shock, blame his brain not quite catching up to his instinct, or blame the roguish, velvety voice at his back and the arms encircling his chest; but fact is that Connor’s body comes to life and the bike’s engine with him.
It becomes clear in less than three seconds that someone his chasing this dude, whoever he is, and that Connor is possibly making himself an accomplice for something illicit –that’s sirens behind them and… he tries a quick glance at the rear-view mirror. He can’t quite make out the patrol number, but it might be someone he knows in there.
Well, shit.
The correct thing to do would be to turn around and hand this delinquent over to his colleagues but… how awkward would it be to explain why he just complied with a random stranger’s request to run from the cops? Nah, in for a penny, in for a pound: the best thing he can do is evade the patrol, gain this guy’s trust, find out what he did, and then arrest him himself.
“Turn there!” his passenger sharply orders, and Connor can feel his tires screech along the pavement since the direction came almost too late and he has to turn quite sharply –so this guy is used to evasive driving and knows to change directions at the last possible second to make it harder for whoever is onto them.
Despite himself, Connor starts to enjoy it. It’s a strange thrill to be on the other side for once, and he can’t quite hold back a laugh when the mystery fugitive points an arm in front of them and yells “In there!”
The detective accelerates and they slip into an alleyway that’s too tiny for a patrol car to possibly fit into. He looks around. They’re close to Ferndale.
“Keep going, all the way to the docks.” The stranger says, much calmer now that the police is off their tail, and wow, that is a nice voice.
No, he has to focus. This guy might have committed a major felony, whether or not his voice sounds nice or his well-toned arms feel good around Connor’s chest is irrelevant.
Docks is a generous word for the place they arrive to, it’s really more of a boat junkyard, the most prominent of them all being a big mercantile with the name Jericho painted along the rusty sides. There’s a platform leading into it, and scaffolding all around tells the detective it’s being decommissioned, but apparently that’s exactly where they’re headed.
It’s a bit eerie to park his motorcycle inside the hull of a boat that’s gone red and brown with rust all over, the creaks and moans of metal all around them, but Connor has to admit –his heart is still beating hard from the adrenaline rush of the chase, and the atmosphere around them keeps it going.
“Thanks for that, you really did me a solid.” Then the stranger dismounts and walks to the side, so Connor can take a good look at him; and holy shit.
He’d be inclined to forgive most crimes for that face.
The stranger wears his hair close-shaved, has the barest hint of stubble over his sharp jawline and the most amazing eyes Connor has ever seen –the right one a light blue, the left one a vibrant green. Add to that the faded grey jeans, zipper vest and leather jacket, and he looks taken straight out of a cyberpunk comic book—
Wait.
He’s seen this guy before.
It’s not every day, after all, that they bring a vandal with heterochromia to the precinct. Markus Manfred, passionate and infamous political activist and a bit of a running joke among the guys at the precinct: his ‘crimes’ are never severe enough to warrant doing time, and he can always bail himself out of whatever trouble his protests and escapades get him in.
He is after all, the son of the very wealthy painter Carl Manfred –who is also known for his very passionate views and opinions and was a troublemaker himself in his youth, if tales from Connor’s own old man are any indication.
Still, Hank eventually came to respect and even admire Manfred senior; and when Chris brought Markus in at the station for making a pro-LGBT graffiti painting all over the poster of one of those ‘pro-life’ and ‘pro-family’ events, Hank definitely cut the kid some slack and Connor even saw him joke around with the infamous Markus while the paperwork for paying the bail got sorted out.
They also had a picture of the graffiti and, well. In Connor’s humble opinion, it was a definite improvement compared to the poster.
It doesn’t save Connor the shock that makes him go, in an almost cartoonish fashion: “…you!!!”
Markus seems very amused at that, and he may or may not be recognizing Connor himself just about now –he keeps it in much better, arching a brow elegantly and echoing: “…me?”
“You’re— and I just—” the detective can’t quite find the right words, and he just deflates, “…what did you do this time?”
“Nothing too bad…” Markus assures, with an innocent tone that’s way too innocent to be genuine, “I may or may not have sprayed slogans in red paint on someone’s car.”
“I should be arresting you, right now.” And he could, he brought his handcuff set with him despite being off for the day, out of repetitive habit.
Contrary to Connor’s expectations, the rogue artist doesn’t seem intimidated in the slightest –if anything his expression is almost… intrigued.
And oh, he is. He had never met Hank Anderson before that one night a few weeks ago, but holy shit he’s gonna have words with his father if Carl knew the Lieutenant had a hot son –it might have come up while he was talking to Hank and the Lieutenant noticed him staring at the brown haired beauty more than he cared to listen to the same things over and over.
Hank let him off decidedly easy, but made him promise to at least try not to get himself into more trouble –and stay away from it if he ever so much wants a chance with the pretty one with the curly hair.
Well. He’s technically not in trouble right now. He bites at his lower lip, and sees his current companion follow the movement with his eyes.
Hm. This could work.
He steps around the motorcycle and walks well into the detective’s personal space. Connor takes a step back, Markus takes one forward. “You should…” the painter whispers, making a show of hooding his gaze, “The real question is… will you?”
Connor can’t believe what’s happening –he’s struggling to even process it. Is Markus trying to seduce his way out of arrest? He’s technically on his day off so it’s not really breaking any laws right now, but attempting to seduce an officer of the law is such a reckless thing to do, it’s stupid, it’s… insanely hot.
And it doesn’t escape Connor that however much outrage he feels at the generic concept, he’s letting Markus come onto him. He tries to back up some more, only to end up with the artist cornering him against a wall, a rusty pipe to his left and ventilation shafts to his right. “What’s your name, officer?”
“…Connor.” He has to gulp to actually be able to take a deep breath –how is this happening? Sure, Markus is probably the most attractive guy he’s ever laid eyes upon and maybe, just maybe, he can kind of get behind the messages the young Manfred tries to send to the world; but there’s a proper way, there are rules and laws for a reason and you can’t just—
“That’s a lovely name… Connor.” You can’t just whisper someone’s name like that and expect them not to imagine you on your knees for them. “Are you really going to arrest me? Are you going to cuff me and have your way with me?”
“I— that would be—” Connor never had any such silly power play fantasy before, but once it’s out of Markus’ decidedly delicious-looking lips, he can’t stop thinking about it, and the other’s paint-stained fingers running slowly up his chest are not helping. “What are we even doing?”
He sounds so helplessly lost that Markus feels something soften in his heart. “Honestly? Not a clue.” He admits, sneaking his other hand behind the detective’s neck, “But I figure, I’m already in trouble… if kissing you right now gets me into more of it, so be it.” He says, leaning in just shy of touching Connor’s lips. “The real question is… do you want this enough to get into some trouble?”
Connor’s hands were already hovering at Markus’ sides, but that question is enough to make him decide. He’s always so impeccably controlled, so prim and proper, always on the straight and narrow… the wild, careless call of trouble, traveling on mismatched eyes and a secretive smile is basically a siren’s song –he stops thinking and starts feeling.
Markus kisses like he does most other things –with full, reckless abandon. He opens his mouth for Connor with the same easy trust he gave in letting him drive to this little hideout, and the detective doesn’t disappoint: he really goes for it, allowing himself this one taste, this one time breaking all the rules; and it tastes like dessert after dessert.
He can’t help but bite down when his teeth graze Markus’ lower lip, and the sound it brings forth from the other’s mouth tells Connor that there’s no complaints about it, especially when the painter’s hands snake their way behind his shoulder-blades and start slowly running down his back.
Sighing into the kiss, before briefly leaning back to let Connor attack his neck, Markus thinks he really hit the jackpot with this guy –he’s hot, he kisses like he means it and, from what little he was able to gauge, is also sweet as all fuck… he will feel horrible about this, but he’s already thinking up ways to make it right. After all, Connor really seems like a sweet guy, and he wouldn’t want to let the last impression between them to be a bad one.
Still… love and war.
Letting his hands wander further down, he cops two full handfuls of supple buttocks through the detective’s jeans. Definitely hit the jackpot, he thinks, smirking his way into another kiss as Conor bucks his hips forward at the contact.
“Fuck…” Markus curses in a hissed whisper when he feels the detective’s obvious arousal press against him, pulling away reluctantly. “I’m going to feel so bad about this…”
“About what?” Connor asks, almost in a daze, leaning his face ever so slightly forward to chase the painter’s lips.
Markus pulls back the rest of the way, brushing the other’s lips with his fingers, before opening his hand and showing what’s in it: “…this.”
Those keys look awfully familiar—
The ‘clang’ of metal against metal echoes within the ship, as Connor tries to reach his left arm forward and finds it cuffed to the pipe. “Hey!!! You—“
Predictably, the detective is outraged, and Markus can scarcely endure the betrayed expression. “I’m sorry! I can’t get caught today!”
“You manipulative asshole—”
“No! Please, don’t think that!” Markus pleads, going back on his tracks to leave one last peck at the corner of Connor’s mouth. “I really do like you.” He says, low and warm and hoping the detective can find it in himself to forgive him as he slinks the keys back where they belong –in Connor’s back pocket. “I just need a five minute head-start. Can you trust me with just one thing?”
Connor doesn’t want to, he feels betrayed, slightly humiliated, and very pissed off, but… just the proximity of Markus’ skin is so intoxicating that he’s already rationalizing about second chances. “What?” he all but growls to the other.
“Turn around before you start chasing me.”
That said, Markus leaps back with a wink and a mock-salute; and disappears out in the docks.
Damn it, he’s been played like a newbie, swayed by a pretty face and a silver tongue. Connor shakes his head at his own naivety, as he fishes his key out of his back pocket to un-cuff himself. He half expects the word ‘gullible’ to be written on the wall behind him when he turns, but once he actually does he can’t quite contain a smirk.
Scratched on the rusted metal surface, there’s a phone number and a message: call me when you’re off the clock.
Markus must have used his keys to write it while he was… distracted.
Connor huffs out a chuckle.
Maybe he can cut the man some slack, just this once.
“You win this round, Markus.”