“Daniels! Daniels, open the fucking door, will ya?”

“What’s the matter, Edwards, forgot how to open a door?”

“My fucking hands are full, you twerp! Open the door or I’ll dump your breakfast all over the pavement. If you wanna be licking it up off the concrete be my guest, but in a city like this one? I wouldn’t recommend it. It sounds like a mighty fine way to catch some kind of fatal disease if you ask me.”

“Alright, alright, hold your horses. Such a baby.”

While Vick Edwards stood by the driver’s seat of the cruiser, cursing up a storm and shifting his not inconsiderable weight from one foot to the other, Weston Daniels laughed to himself, shook his head, and pressed the button that easily took care of power unlocking all of the door locks in the car. Their police cruiser wasn’t exactly anything to write home about, but it had the power locks, something that came in surprisingly handy for his own personal amusement if for nothing else. After pushing the locks, Weston leaned across the driver’s seat and pushed the door open, fully aware that Vick wasn’t going to be able to take care of that little detail himself with half of the doughnut shop’s food balanced in his meaty hands. Grunting, his partner hefted himself into the driver’s seat, causing the center of gravity of the car to shift in his direction as he did so. Out of the two of them, Vick was certainly the bulkier man, and that was putting it mildly. To be perfectly honest, something neither of them was most of the time (as was standard for men of their disposition and job description), Vick was pushing well past the point of having put on a couple of extra pounds and squarely into the territory of obese with morbidly obese already in his sights. This was in sharp contrast to Weston, who Vick liked to say looked more like one of those “pretty boy actors” than he did like a cop. He was tall, pushing six foot three, with thick, dark hair cut and combed into the kind of traditional cut one might have found in the forties. His eyes were a bright blue that even the hookers they had to hustle off the street would comment on—despite the fact they knew Vick and Weston weren’t going to look the other way.  As for Weston himself, more often than he’d like to admit, he’d look at his partner and then down at himself and the old children’s rhyme about Jack Sprat and his portly wife would go streaming through his head. It was mean spirited, and he knew it, but that didn’t mean he was able to put a stop to it. It was funny how many things in life worked that way, how many dark and unpleasant thoughts a person could have that seemed to come from nowhere and were all but impossible to banish.

“What’s the matter, pretty boy, cat got your tongue?”

“Don’t call me pretty boy. And what the hell are you talking about, anyway?”

“You, that’s what I’m talking about. You and this whole silence act.”

“What silence act? I’m not putting on any kind of act, not silence or otherwise.”

“Bullshit is all I’ve got to say to that. I just asked you a question and all you did was stare out the window with your mouth all slack-jawed. Like you wasn’t even here or nothing. You telling me that ain’t silence? Because if it ain’t, I might need you to give me the new and improved definition.”

“Fine, you win. I wasn’t listening.”

“So then what’s going on with you? Really, no pretty boy shit, I won’t even make a joke out of it, I promise.”

“Seriously, Edwards. Nothing’s going on with me. You’re making a whole mountain out of nothing.”

“That’s not how the saying goes, hoss.”

“What saying would you be referring to my fine friend?”

“The saying. The saying you were just trying to say. That’s not how it goes. It’s ‘don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.’ My mom used to say it to me all the time so I know how it goes. And that’s not what I was doing, just so’s you know. Something’s with you. Something’s definitely with you.”

“It’s not. I’m telling you. Just tell me what you were trying to ask me, and I’ll give you the answer, alright? We don’t have to make such a big deal out of this. You're being dramatic over nothing at all.”

“If you say so, pretty boy. I was just asking if you wanted one of the donuts or one of them egg sandwich thingies. You know, with the ham and cheese and all that good shit.”

“How many of them you get?”

“Um, I don’t know,” he answered, sticking his face so far into the grease-covered bag that Weston got the impression he was trying to actually climb on into the damn thing, and rooting around for the answer to his question. “Looks like four? Who knows, maybe five. I just told ‘em to give me a bunch of ‘em.”

“Give me two of those to start. We’ll go from there.”

“Jesus, go from there, huh? Must be nice.”

“What must be nice?”

“Look at you and then take a look at me. If I ate the way you do? Forget about it. This is me trying to curb my appetite a little, and I think we can both see the success I’ve been having on that front. You eat whatever the hell you want to and look at you.”

“Probably got something to do with age, man, that’s all.”

“Christ, so now you’re calling me old? You’ve really got a way of treating your friends, you know that? Really got one hell of a bedside manner.”

Weston laughed, partially because the look of distress on Vick’s face was real enough to strike him as funny and partially because he knew it was what was expected of him. Honestly, he didn’t feel much like laughing today. He didn’t feel much like talking today, either. What he really wanted was to go off somewhere where nobody knew him and nobody would bother him so that he could handle his shit the way he always did. Alone. It was nothing against Vick Edwards. He genuinely liked the guy, and over the last three years he’d been a good partner, and yes, even a good friend. It was just that when it came to things like what was currently on his mind, dealing with other people wasn’t so much his forte. Still, there was no sense in creating a ton of tension between him and the partner unnecessarily, so he grabbed his two sandwiches out of the bag Vick was holding out in his direction and took a big bite out of one of them. He groaned theatrically about how good it was, and Vick smiled some, rolling his eyes in response. It was good to see things getting a little bit easier between the two of them, but it wasn’t lost on Weston that Vick’s smile never quite touched his eyes. Someone who hadn’t spent fifteen to twenty hours a day with him might not have recognized that, and even if they did, they might not have understood what it meant, but Weston surely did. Weston knew that Vick was trying to get a read on him, the same way they’d do to a perp they’d had to bring in for questioning. He was trying to look underneath the surface of Weston and the words coming out of his mouth to get to the meat of the situation that lay beneath, the part he sensed Weston was trying to keep a secret.

“Cut it out, man,” he said around his bite of sandwich, not in an unkind voice but one he hoped Vick could take seriously. “You know I hate that shit.”

“Hate what shit, man? I’m not doing anything. And don’t talk with your mouth full of food. It’s disgusting. Didn’t your mamma ever teach you that?”

“No, but yours did. She taught me a bunch of other things as well. Want me to tell you about them?”

“Aw, hell. Come on now, that’s not cool. Besides, have you seen my mom?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Well, I love her more than life, but she’s not exactly a looker, get my meaning? I wouldn’t go around bragging about getting it on with her.”

“Ha! Alright, man, point taken.”

He thought that was the end of it, that they would just sit in silence then while they ate their breakfasts and waited for something to shake down. It really did feel like it was going that way, and Weston felt like it was finally safe for him to relax into himself the way he wanted to, but then Vick spoke again, one more time.

“Look, I can take a hint, okay? Whatever it is going on with you, you don’t want to talk about it. But I can also see that it’s eating you up inside, which means I have to give it one last shot, you know? I don’t want to get all sappy with you, I know neither one of us goes in for that kind of shit. It’s just...you’re important to me, man. I guess like a brother or something, you could say. My wife likes to say you’re like the kid brother both of us never had, and even though I like to bust her chops about it, she’s right. So for the last time, whatever it is going on that’s getting to you, you can tell me. You know, if you want to.”

The silence began again, but there was nothing comfortable about this one. This one was so thick Weston had a good mind to just open the car door, start walking, and never look back again. All he wanted was to brood over his own problems without having to talk about them, without having to think about it, really. That was one of the good things about being on the job, at least in his opinion. There was so much awful shit going on in the world, shit they had to stick their metaphorical hands in, up to the metaphorical elbows, that people didn’t usually have time to concern themselves with the personal lives of their colleagues. This situation he was facing now with Vick, this was something different. This was something a little bit too deep, and Vick had no interest in that kind of deal whatsoever. He appreciated the sentiment, appreciated it a lot actually, but no.

“Vick, listen to me when I tell you I’m okay. I appreciate you, you and Colleen both, but I’m okay.”

“And can you make me a promise to tell me if there ever comes a day when you decide you’re not so okay? Even if you don’t intend on keeping it. The wife’s going to ask me if I got that promise out of you, and if I tell her I didn’t, or worse that I didn’t even try, she’s gonna have my balls on a platter.”

“Wouldn’t want that. Sure, man. Yes. I can make you that promise. I’ll even do my best to keep it.”

Vick looked at him for a moment longer, that same too deep look that made Weston want to poke him in the eyes just to break the contact, and then he looked down at the bag still in his lap. That was when Weston knew it was really over. Vick looking down at that bag was the same as him pulling a white flag out of his pocket and waving it over his head. He nodded to himself and then pulled out the largest doughnut Weston had ever seen, chomping into it with a groan to rival the one Weston had uttered only moments before, but without the sarcasm infused in it. He chewed, swallowed, and then turned to Weston with a devious grin that almost always meant trouble.

“So, pretty boy, think we’re gonna catch any bad guys today?”

***

As a matter of fact, they did. It wasn’t anything major, nothing big time that would be recreated in an episode of Law & Order or anything like that, but it was enough to make the day feel like it wasn’t a total waste, and by the time Weston and Vick headed into the station, Weston felt halfway to okay. He wasn’t feeling all sunshine and roses, no way would he have gone as far as all of that, but the sick, deep down funk from that morning didn’t feel so suffocating. Just that on its own was enough to give him a kind of high feeling (not that he’d ever partaken in any of that illegal substance, but sometimes you just knew). That was right up until the captain ducked his head into the break room and set his sights directly on Weston.

“Daniels! You’re back!”

“I am, sir. Vick’s back too, in case anyone is looking.”

“Not at all. What would I want to do with that jackass? I’m looking for you.”

“Well, you found me, I guess. What can I do for you?”

“You can take a walk with me to my office, if you don’t mind. That’s just about all I’m looking for you to do at the moment.”

Weston nodded agreeably enough, but on the inside, he was screaming. What was he supposed to say to something like that? Something coming from his captain, no less? It wasn’t exactly like he could say no, and that was exactly the kind of thing he hated: questions that weren’t actually questions at all. His captain was asking him to take a walk, but what he was really doing was telling him that he required a meeting. You could dress a piece of shit in a Snickers wrapper, but at the end of the day, a piece of shit was still all it was. Weston knew that just about as well as anyone else around, and yet there he was, nodding at his captain with an easygoing smile like there was nothing in the world he’d rather be doing.

“Good,” the captain answered back mildly, apparently already disinterested with the break room and the rest of its occupants. “Good, that’s good. Let’s go, shall we? You can make sure an old man doesn’t have a stroke or anything on the long walk back to his office. Just what every young man wants to do with his Friday night, I expect.”

Weston rose, wincing a little at the creak in his knees after spending most of the day crammed into the front seat of a police sedan, and he did his best to ignore the very quiet snickering sounds coming from his fellow officers. He knew part of what they were thinking. They were thinking that the pretty boy, something Vick had started but that had caught on with the others with no trouble at all, was one of the captain’s favorites. They were thinking that was so because he was so squeaky clean, which one might easily infer from looking at his clean-cut exterior, that he was some kind of a kiss ass. Sure, Weston got along with the other guys just fine, well even, but that didn’t mean they weren’t thinking those things, and it didn’t mean he didn’t know they were thinking it.

“Come on, Weston. Don’t let an old man show you up. Let’s get moving.”

This comment from the captain drew a whole new round of snickers from the others, and now Weston really did have to bite his tongue to keep from saying something he might later regret. He could feel them all looking at his back, probably jabbing each other in the ribs and making faces. He would be the topic of conversation for them once he was gone, and they would undoubtedly take bets about what it was the captain wanted from the young boy-wonder cop.

“So let ‘em,” he thought to himself, trying to get some kind of internal peace going and not doing a very good job. His voice of reason was right though, and he knew it. Those other guys meant no harm, but they also weren’t there with him on that seemingly endless walk to the captain’s office. It was a silent walk, too, which only made it harder to make. All he could hear was the whir of the ancient air conditioner trying its best to combat one of New York’s truly horrific hot and muggy August days. That and the sound of his own heels hitting the floor beneath him, a clacking sound that seemed to beat in time with the fluttering of his own heart. It wasn’t until the two men, one of them just shy of his thirty-first birthday while the other was rapidly approaching sixty, were actually in the captain’s office with the door shut that a single word was spoken, and it couldn’t have come soon enough. For Weston, for reasons he couldn’t quite understand and didn’t want to explore too closely, that silence was becoming more than just uncomfortable. It was becoming oppressive, suffocating even. He had the sudden urge to loosen his collar and only kept himself from doing it because he could still remember his mom when he was young telling him not to do that very thing at Sunday Mass. She’d told him it was not only impolite but also a sign of weakness, and that was something that had stuck with him long after she had passed away.

“I’ve been watching you, Weston. I wonder, have you noticed?”

“Can I be frank, sir”?

“I wish you would be. You have no idea how tired I get of people trying to kiss my ass and tell me what I want to hear. The funny thing about it is that I’ve always been good at reading people. All cops are, of course, to a certain extent that is, but it’s always been a particular talent of mine. Maybe something to inform your fellow officers of before the next time they think of trying to bullshit me on something.”

“Will do, captain.”

“Good. That’s good, Weston. But I never gave you the chance to answer my question, assuming that you can still remember what my question was. Long-winded speeches and stories is another particular talent of mine. One my wife has never taken too kindly to, I might add.”

“You wanted to know if I’d noticed that you’ve been watching me, sir.”

“That’s exactly right. It appears that listening is one of your many skills.”

“Thank you. The answer to your question is no, though. I don’t know if that’s what you wanted to hear, but I don’t see the point in lying about it. If you want me to be really honest, I try hard not to notice the politics in the precinct. I don’t think it helps me do my job, and I have a feeling that it might sometimes hurt it. And I’ve never been one for diplomacy. It’s one of the reasons I had trouble getting used to the idea of having a partner. You remember.”

“The fireworks with you and Vick? Shit, are you kidding me?! No way I could forget, even if I wanted to, and believe me, I’ve tried. No, that was the answer I was expecting, Weston, so there’s no need to worry there. But I have been watching you, watching you for a little while now.”

“I guess I know that now. What I don’t know is why. Have I been doing something wrong? Have there been complaints about me? I can’t think of anything, but what do I know, right? We’ve already established that diplomacy isn’t my thing.”

“No, Weston, nothing like that. If I had called you in here to reprimand yo,u this conversation would have started in a very different way, believe me. This conversation is on the opposite end of the spectrum from the kind you’re talking about.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m talking about a promotion, Weston,” the captain laughed, sitting on the edge of his desk in one of those universal positions meant to exude friendliness and being on the same level. It was a good effort, it was, but it didn’t really matter. It was a good effort that was lost on Weston. It would have been worth a hell of a lot more had it been used on someone more receptive. As for Weston, the moment he caught onto what was really going on in that office, he completely shut himself off. He didn’t go so far as to get up and walk out, but he might as well have. The captain would have had a better chance recruiting the air in his empty office than convincing Weston to accept a promotion, and if he couldn’t see that, maybe he wasn’t as good at reading people as he thought.