Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Now,” Stefan says, as the last few notes of the doorbell fade away. There is distant clattering from inside the house, accompanied by a voice or two. “What are you going to do?”

“Let you conduct the introductions.” Cole gives his tie a last-minute adjustment. “Hand your mother the wine.”

“And what are you going to be?”

Cole turns his head to regard Stefan’s profile with an incredulous look. The voices inside are getting louder now, closer.

“Myself?”

“Right. But not too much. You know?”

Cole’s stare becomes a frown. “No.”

As is so often the case, Bekowsky escapes having to explain himself. The front door opens, revealing a hallway that is at least twenty years out of date architecturally compared to the exterior of the house. There are garish gold photo frames all along the walls, and the carpet is both brown and argyle.

Answering the door is a woman, her head up to Cole’s shoulders and crowned with a shock of thinning red hair. It’s the same shade as Stefan’s, but given her age—sixty or so, her face imprinted with permanent laughter lines—Cole supposes her colour must come from a bottle.

Her eyes dart keenly between Stefan and Cole. Cole feels uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but her attention is diverted when Stefan reaches for her.

“Hey, Mama,” he says, pulling her in until she is almost flattened against him. Her bulky cardigan had made her appear stockier. “Got held up at the precinct. Sorry we’re late.”

Stefan lets her ease away from him, and Cole recognises the exasperated glower on her face as one Stefan has given their Captain countless times in the briefing room.

“Late! Late is an understatement!” Her accent places her as Eastern European, though it's been softened, slowed down by American vowels.

“I’m sorry, ma, but see—we brought regent wine.”

Catching his cue, Cole holds out the bottle Stefan had passed him in the car. Mrs Bekowsky takes it, staring at him again. He worries fleetingly that she’s offended to discover the bottle is warm; Stefan had been unceremoniously storing it in the glove compartment.

Still evaluating Cole, she demands, “Who is this?”

“Guy I work with—my partner. Cole Phelps. I told you about this on the phone, said I was gonna bring him.”

Alarmed, Cole shoots a look at Stefan, only to find the younger Bekowsky still wearing that breezy smile like he’s done nothing wrong whatsoever. Under strict orders not to speak until spoken to, Cole tries to convey what he’s thinking through a glare: you told me she invited me!

The look on Mrs Bekowsky’s face remains severe, but it has settled, at least enough for her pursed lips to unfurl from being ruler-straight.

“He is handsome,” she says, after a moment of consideration. “Introduce him to your sister.”

“Why, so he can be the next Mr Edyta Bekowsky?” Stefan snorts. “No, thanks. I’d like just one of my partners to remain unmolested.” Then he seems to reconsider. “Wait, is Edyta here now?”

“Yes, she is, and she got here on time to help make the food—unlike her brother. Lazy, selfish boy.”

“Hey.” Stefan sounds genuinely offended. “Last week, she didn’t even show.”

“Because then, she was meeting with her divorce attorney.” The smile Mrs Bekowsky gives Cole is frighteningly sweet, considering how he’s just seen what she’s capable of. “Today, she is meeting Mister Phelps.”

Once Stefan’s mother has let them in and made off with their coats, Stefan fills Cole in on a few details he probably should’ve shared on the drive over. His mother, Dorota, despairs of loud dinner guests—which Cole is fine with, because he isn’t feeling particularly chatty—and she has made bigos this week, which is apparently to die for. (Stefan sheepishly apologises for his choice of words as they walk into the kitchen, but Cole waves it off.)

The woman who greets them is, presumably, Edyta, standing in the open-plan doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. She’s taller than her mother, with darker hair that’s almost on the brunette side. In her hands, she holds a deep white oven dish: it must contain her mother’s miraculous stew.

“Who is this?” she says.

Cole wonders if all Bekowsky women are so naturally suspicious of outsiders. Then, he wonders what sort of people Stefan has been bringing home.

“Guy from work,” Stefan says.

“Cole Phelps,” Cole clarifies.

He recognises the gleam that enters Edyta’s eye. “The one from the news?”

“Yeah,” Stefan says. He angles his head to give Cole a knowing look, his smirk both wry and crooked. “The one from the news.”

“Well,” Edyta says, the word coming out all breathless. When she smiles, it’s warm and sincere. “This is a surprise. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cole.”

Edyta tells him her name, then sets the oven dish down in the middle of the mahogany dining table. It’s not much more contemporary than the rest of the furniture: the last time he saw such an ornate piece, it was at the scene of an elderly couple’s murder-suicide.

This one is loaded with sides and crockery. Its atmosphere is unsurprisingly far more inviting.

“Come here, Cole,” Edyta says, fluttering up to him like a moth to a candle. Cole suspects for a moment that she’s going to grab him by the shirt, but instead, she summons him toward her with waggling fingers. “You can have the chair that doesn’t wobble.”

He follows, because he likes her smile. Really likes it. Only once he’s reached his seat does he realise it’s because it's so similar to her brother’s.

“Thank you,” he says—and he casts Stefan a purposeful glance as he pulls out the chair next to his. This is for hoodwinking me before. “Shall we sit together?”

Edyta lifts her eyebrows at him, then lowers herself slowly, legs pressed together. A Hollywood starlet exiting a car in reverse.

“I like this one, Stef. He has manners.”

Stefan has rounded the table to park himself on the opposite side, and he twists his mouth in Cole’s direction from the new vantage point. “Doesn’t he just.”

Firing a half-realised smile right back at Stefan, Cole pushes Edyta’s chair in for her. She lets out a dizzy laugh just as the sound of something clinking together pokes into earshot.

Dorota sweeps into the room with a tray topped by four glasses of a substance resembling fruit juice. She regales Cole with three pertinent facts as she serves the table: the drink is called kompot, it is brewed with apricots, and she makes it herself.

“Have you tried it before?” she says.

Cole proffers an obliging nod. “I can’t say I have, Mrs Bekowsky, but it looks lovely.”

“Oh, it is,” Stefan says. Cole glances over to find his partner has already downed a third of his serving. “You should try the one she makes out of plums. Tastes better than it sounds, trust me.”

Dorota purses her lips. She has taken her place at the head of the table, and looks all the more authoritative for it.

“Plums are not in season, Stefan.”

“Ma, you can buy plums online all year round.”

“You know how I feel about the internet.” It must be for Cole’s benefit that Dorota flaps her hands around indignantly, because she leans over to him a bit, her voice lowered. “All those waves in the air—cannot be good for you, no?”

Cole smiles over the lip of his glass, this time really feeling the mirth it implies. Not because he’s conspiracy-minded, but because the juice is good.

“Maybe. Anyway, fiber optic cables would somewhat spoil the rustic effect of your beautiful home, Mrs Bekowsky.”

Well. He’d thought the decor was old-fashioned; that doesn’t mean he isn’t thoroughly enjoying it.

“Call me Dorota,” she says, sounding pleased as—well—punch. She repositions herself, sitting upright with her hands clasped. “Now we shall eat, but first we must say grace.”

In the corner of his eye, Cole sees Edyta and Stefan following suit. He was raised Protestant, so this isn’t entirely unfamiliar territory, but it’s almost surreal to see Stefan playing the good Catholic boy. Just this morning he was whining at Cole to brush his teeth faster so he’d be more amenable to receiving a tongue down his throat.

That is, he thinks, a dreadful thought to have while Stefan’s mother is asking the Holy Father to bless their meal. Cole closes his eyes and clears his head until it’s over.

Stefan has always been a woefully messy person—he can’t organise a binder to save his life, and his socks have a habit of establishing outposts around Cole’s apartment—but Cole has never been able to fault his table manners. As Cole watches Dorota pile up their plates without spilling a single drop, he can see where Stefan gets it from.

Maybe the untidiness came from his father. Stefan had told Cole a little about Carl Bekowsky: a quiet man whose one vice had been cigarettes, until they’d been the death of him a few years ago. Carl might’ve been quiet, but his presence is still resonant through the house. He’d been in the majority of the pictures in the hallway, and a large family photograph hangs on the wall behind Stefan.

Cole is only made aware that he’s staring at it when Edyta daintily elbows him.

“So, Cole, where are you from?”

“San Francisco,” he says, quickly. “My family has been based there for several generations. At least, on my father’s side.”

“So California born and bred.” She loosely points her butter-knife at him. “Never wanted to spread your wings a little?”

“Well,” he says, only to pause. He’s painfully aware of what’s coming next but he can do nothing to stop it, a pre-recorded train wreck in slow motion. “A few years back, I was in the marines…”

“Wow, really?” Stefan says, loud and haughty and waving a fork around. “Has that ever come up? I don’t know if that’s ever come up before.”

Though Cole grimaces, his irritation is all for show.

“Maybe not, Stefan. I don’t bother memorising our conversations.”

“Quiet, Stef.” Edyta clucks her tongue, shrugging her brother off without bothering to address him. “The marines, huh? Were you stationed abroad?”

“For a while, yes. I came home after an injury, but when I decided to become a police officer, Los Angeles seemed like a more attractive base of operations.”

“Better crimes here,” Dorota says sagely.

“There are less people in San Fran, mama,” Edyta says. “You can’t hold that against them.”

“I think you mean fewer, professor,” Stefan corrects. He conveniently leaves out the fact Cole taught him that distinction just under a week ago.

Edyta says something apparently crass in Polish, and Cole seizes the distraction to take his first proper mouthful of Mrs Bekowky’s lovingly prepared stew. At least, it’s the first mouthful he’s paid real attention to. It’s as good as Stefan promised, but of course it is; Stefan never jokes about food.

Cole tips his head to her. “I have to tell you, Mrs Bekowsky, this is delicious.”

“I know, dear.” She pats his hand. “But thank you for saying so.”

He hears Stefan laugh, bright and loud, commanding the room like it always does. “You’re so modest, ma.”

“Must run in the family,” Cole says, pointedly.

“Hey, now.” Stefan needles through some sautéed cabbage, his smile not quite credible. “When you're partnered with your department's golden boy, you have to blow your own horn a little just to get your due.”

“Please.” Edyta rolls her eyes, lifting from her seat slightly to commandeer the mashed potatoes. “I bet you have to do all my brother’s work for him.”

“Oh—no, not at all. He’s quite insightful.”

“Insightful?” Stefan echoes, extending his arms as though he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You make it sound like I'm your sidekick. You know—the guy in mystery novels who just hangs out until he triggers the dashing protagonist’s epiphany.”

Cole uses his glass as a shield to obscure his smirk. “You think I’m dashing, Stefan?”

“I sure as hell don’t think you’re Sherlock Holmes,” Stefan says, without hesitation. He visibly reviews. “I actually don’t know if Sherlock was meant to be hot or not.”

“You would,” Edyta sniffs, “had you ever bothered to open what I got you two birthdays ago.” She pats Cole’s hand, mimicking her mother. All the casual physical contact is odd, but strangers only ever touch him this much when they're advancing on him with a crowbar; the Bekowskys make a refreshing change from their city’s criminal underworld. “I teach high school English. I’ve tried to get Stef reading the classics, but he’s resisted me at every turn.”

“That’s interesting,” Cole says, and he means it. “I’m partial to a good book. Don’t know if I’d have what it takes to mould young minds, however.”

“Who are your favourites?”

“Oh—nobody obscure, I’m afraid. Shelley, Austen—that kind of era.” Cole catches Stefan staring and adds, “Stefan read something recently, you know, after our Captain mentioned it.”

Now even Dorota seems invested. “Really?”

“Animal Farm,” Stefan says, looking smug, pressing his glass against his temple. “It was messed up.”

Edyta lets out a contemplative hum. “I’m still gonna have to fail your book report,” she says. Then she laughs.

Dorota laughs, too, and Stefan apparently decides to make it a team effort. Cole hadn’t thought it was that funny—but he finds himself smiling at his plate, enjoying the sound, the proximity to people willing to let him hear it.

When they are finished, Dorota orders—not suggests—that they should retire to the garden, because it is a warm afternoon and the summer sun is still there for the taking. Cole is the first on his feet, but not with the intention to leave.

“Let me help clear the table,” he says. “It's the least I can do to thank you—we were too late to help with preparations, after all.”

Mrs Bekowsky tuts good-naturedly. “Don’t be so stupid. That was not your responsibility.” She eyes Stefan. “It was the responsibility of my useless son.”

“Ma! I told you—at the precinct—”

“I know, I know.” Dorota drifts up to Stefan and reaches for him, aged hands framing his face. Cole doesn’t need his police training to recognise the love in her, fierce in her gaze and how gentle she is with her child. “You are an important man with important things to do. Cole, did you know Stefan was once awarded for his bravery?”

Cole congratulates himself on managing to keep a straight face. “It may have come up once or twice.”

“He’s got a point, Mama,” Stefan says quickly. He takes his mother’s wrists and lowers her hands to hold them instead. “We should help you.”

“No, no.” Dorota keeps her line of vision deliberately trained to her son. “I only need one of you.”

“All righty, then.” Stefan slips away from his mother like a perp about to make a run for it. “Guess Cole has this covered after all. You kids have fun.”

Edyta gives him a look of disbelief that perfectly encapsulates Cole’s own feelings on the matter. But she doesn’t say anything, instead following behind as Stefan all-but struts out of the room.

It surprises Cole that Dorota is smiling when he turns to her, already prepared to apologise for Stefan. The apology catches in his throat instead.

“My son takes after his father,” Dorota says. “Lazy. I hope he isn’t giving you too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Cole says. He wonders if he’s pushing his luck when he adds: “In fact, I’d say I’m lucky to know him.”

He starts stacking plates while Dorota collects glasses and cutlery. The plates rattle in his hands a bit when she speaks again.

“He says the same about you.”

“Mrs Bekowsy—”

“They did not notice him, until he worked with you.” Cole finds her studying him with a sudden intensity. “I know who you are, Mr Phelps. I’ve heard of you.”

Cole’s lips form a thin line. “The media likes to exaggerate.”

“No need to be modest. I believe that you are very good at your job, but so is my son. He was good even before you.”

“I know,” Cole says. He brandishes the tower of dishes and bowls in a perfectly silent equilibrium. “Stefan is… I know how clever he is, and how capable. He’s some of the best police I’ve had the pleasure of working with. I’ve been the subject of some favourable press, but that doesn’t mean anything; it’s just politics.”

Cole swallows, hearing himself talk before he can think it over, left to wonder if this is what he always thought or if he’s just deciding it now. He certainly doesn’t mind the headlines, but lately they’ve felt incomplete when they don’t mention Stefan. Or maybe it’s because Stefan lives so squarely in his head now, a steady undercurrent to everything he mulls over.

And when he has nothing to think about—when he needs a distraction from thoughts he can’t afford to entertain—Stefan is always an option. It’s consuming to remember taking drives with him, pedantically rearranging his contributions to evidence boards, pinning him down and mounting him with purpose.

God. Stefan’s mother is right there. Cole hopes she can’t see what he’s picturing written all over his face.

All she’s doing is beaming at him, which only serves to make him feel that much more heinous.

“You’re kind to Stefan. Some of his friends—his women—they don’t care about him at all. Just themselves.”

Cole grimaces. He wonders if Stefan was being knowingly oblivious when he decided to interpret his mother’s disapproval of past girlfriends as some kind of stand against rigorous dinner conversation.

It’s been years since he tried bringing anyone home to meet his own mother. He called her not so long ago, though. He’d wanted to speak to her, urgently, picking up the phone with every intention of honesty, but they’d wound up talking about the weather. About how well the family business was going now that cousin Daniel had taken the job they’d earmarked for Cole.

“No kindness on my part, Dorota.” He follows her into the kitchen, depositing the plates by the sink. “It’s simply recognition where it’s due. Stefan deserves all the praise I can give him.”

Dorota turns to him. The golden light of the sun in descent makes the hair at her temples look white. She places her hand on his elbow, as gentle as she had been with Stefan.

“Go,” she says. “Go outside, relax with the others. You are my guest.” There is mischief in the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. “And I am sure you would like to get to know Edyta.”

The elder Bekowsky is deep in conversation with her brother, occupying adjacent metal lawn chairs on a patio shaped like a semi-circle. The rest of the garden is a lawn flanked by flowerbeds, and though the bushes are tidy, the grass is a little long. Cole notes the siblings are drinking from the bottle of wine Stefan bought.

“Oh, Cole,” Edyta says. She flicks back her hair and smiles up at him. “Fancy a drink?”

“Sure,” he says. “Thank you.” He frowns at Stefan. “I can’t believe you didn’t help your mother clean up.”

“Hey!” Stefan raises his glass, though not as a toast. “I help most of the time. Eddie, tell him—don’t I help most of the time?”

Edyta only speaks after a reluctant pause. “He’s usually pretty good about pulling his weight.”

“See? I’ve got you well-trained is all, Phelps.”

Cole sharply raises his brows, but he keeps his mouth shut. He’ll let Stefan off with just a caution this time.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Edyta says, extending a glass of wine to Cole once he pulls up a chair. “He should’ve done the lawn—”

“I was gonna. But I didn’t exactly have time to pick up the mower after work.”

“You’ve said that for the past two weeks now.”

Cole idly swirls his drink, looking impressed. “You really meet for dinner every week?”

“Ye of little faith,” Stefan retorts. “Why would I lie about something so dynamic as having scheduled dinners with my mother?”

“I think it’s nice,” Cole says. “You all seem very close.”

Edyta and Stefan exchange a look. Their scowls are contorted, cartoonish. They’re so simpatico that watching them feels akin to intruding.

“Sure,” Edyta says into her glass. “I guess he’s not the worst brother I could have.”

“You’re not much of a sister, but I make do.” Stefan sinks back into his chair, studying Cole lazily, like checking in with him was an afterthought. That only means he’s paying extra attention. “If you like it that much, you’re welcome to tag along next time. Provided you mow the lawn.”

“Stef!”

“What? Cole here really was in the marines, not that you’d know by looking at him. It would be a waste not to put that military discipline to good use.”

Cole grimaces. “Landscaping was but one of the many things we covered in boot camp.”

“Besides, you know how house-proud our mother is. Doing the yardwork would guarantee Cole a whole chapter in her good books.”

Edyta swallows her last mouthful. She puts her drink down by her heels, then crosses one leg over the other.

“You’ve never seemed too concerned about your esteemed guests making a good impression on mama.”

“This is different,” Stefan says, waving away the accusatory note in her tone. “They were errors in judgement, courtesy of my reckless youth. But you, Cole? I intend to work with you for as long as possible.”

Cole ducks his head. He catches himself, injecting a degree of exasperation into how fond he must look.

“Right,” Edyta says, flatly. Cole doesn’t like the way she stretches out the word, and he finds he was right to be suspicious when she goes on: “So how long have you two been dating?”

“Eddie!”

Stefan pulls his glass away from his face so abruptly that the contents splash around, but thankfully don’t spill. Cole is mostly horrified, of course, but he still has enough wherewithal to dimly think that trying to get red wine out of Stefan’s white shirt would be a nightmare later.

As he glares at his sister, Stefan’s face is the same colour as his beverage. Cole dumbly glances between both Bekowskys, before deciding to settle on Edyta. She’s looking rather satisfied with herself.

“I’m sorry, Cole—I’m not trying to embarrass you, but my brother here forgets who helped him sneak his high-school boyfriend out when papa got home early from work one night.” It is Stefan’s turn to receive Cole’s undivided concentration, and detective work must run in the family; Edyta picks up on the meaning beneath. “I don’t intend to keep bringing up his exes. It’s just, Stef is a bit of a whore.”

“I see,” Cole says, and he coughs gingerly against a fist. “Edyta, it’s not… That is to say…”

“Don’t you dare tell ma,” Stefan interrupts. He mimes cutting his throat with a hand. Cole has rarely heard him sound so troubled.

“Come on. You know me better than that. I won’t say anything, but she’s going to figure it out if you keep making moon eyes at Cole when everyone else is just trying to eat.”

Cole is disappointed, though not entirely surprised, to find Stefan lacks the dignity to look ashamed of himself. He’s giving Cole the same cocksure grin he wears when he’s cracking a bad joke, or when he’s murmuring taunts with his fingers around Cole’s tie: if you want me to stop, you’re gonna have to make me.

“It’s early days,” Cole begins, measuredly, “and I’d like it on the record I was duped about my invitational status. It wasn’t my intention to join an apparently considerable list of unwanted gatecrashers.”

“You're no problem at all. You're definitely his best selection so far, not that that's saying much.” Edyta sounds so sincere that Cole feels a pang of guilt for misleading her, for being welcomed into the home of good people when he decidedly isn’t one of those. “Want me to top up your glass?”

Cole looks at the wine bottle, on the ground between Edyta and Stefan. It's half full. Maybe Stefan would call it half empty just to be contrarian. Either way, the Bekowskys are way ahead of him, so he primly holds up a hand.

“No, thank you. I think I’ve been volunteered as tonight’s designated driver.”

Stefan laughs. “Oh, you got that, did you? LAPD’s finest, right here.”

He thrusts his glass expectantly in Cole’s direction. While he’s not happy about it, Cole can’t deny him anything, it seems; he clinks their glasses together.

It turns out Cole was being hasty when he assumed dessert was off the menu, because Dorota emerges with four bowls of ice cream: store-bought, the expensive stuff. There is more chocolate in Cole’s serving alone than he’s consumed in the last six months, but he gets through the whole thing without complaint.

Partially because he wouldn’t want to be rude. Partially because the Bekowskys give him plenty of time to finish.

He learns from Edyta—in great detail despite Stefan’s petulant objections—that Stefan was once fixated on war movies, thinking soldiers were just the coolest until a shady recruiter put him off the whole thing in sophomore year. Cole is surprised by how wide a smile the revelation puts on his face, until Dorota tops it by reflecting on Stefan's short-lived acting hobby, when he tried for the lead to impress a girl and got cast as a dancing bear. She speaks of it so proudly that Cole doesn’t doubt Stefan was convincing in the role.

But he feels himself getting tired. Ragging on Stefan is usually one of his specialities, yet by the time he’s consumed all the frozen sugar in his lap, he’s stopped trying to offer any meaningful contributions at all.

Under regular circumstances, Cole would’ve regarded leaving before dusk as cutting things short. He’s always cleaned up at ostentatious galas thrown by his father’s golfing buddies; when the Phelpses need to roll him out, he can be trusted to riposte with whole crowds of strangers.

Lately, he’s just no good to anyone.

Stefan nods sympathetically when Cole gives him a look; he stands up so Cole doesn’t have to.

“Okay,” Stefan says, clapping his hands together. “I’d love to continue revelling in my own personal hell, but we’d better hit the road. We’ve got work in the morning and a heap of paperwork to boot.”

“No, no!” Dorota’s eyes widen. “So soon?”

“Don’t leave yet,” Edyta says, throwing back her head and pouting. “I haven’t told Cole about the time you got heavily into ska.”

“Jesus, Edyta, save some of your top-shelf material for next time.” Stefan quirks a brow at Cole. “You have everything?”

“Sure,” Cole says. He gets to his feet, fishing the car keys from his pocket and spinning them around his thumb. “We just need to grab our jackets.”

“I’ll fetch them,” Dorota announces, rising with them. It isn’t an offer.

On the doorstep, the evening feels a little colder than it had in the garden, despite the glorious reunion with the centrepiece of his suit. The sun’s curtain call for the day has stained the sky orange, a deep, warm shade he sees in tourist brochures more frequently than he does in reality.

He watches, feeling a little awkward, as Stefan and his mother say their goodbyes; he can’t quite make out what they’re saying, until it dawns on him they’re talking in Polish. He’s never heard Stefan speak it before.

“And you!” Dorota says. She moves swiftly for her age; no sooner has she unwound her arms from Stefan than she’s wrapping them everywhere around Cole, dragging him down to her, peppering his cheeks with kisses. “You, you are not terrible. You can join us again any time.”

Cole smiles at her, then directs it at Stefan. From his mother, that feels like high praise indeed.

“I might just have to take you up on that, Mrs Bekowsky.”

Once they’re in the car, Cole setting up behind the wheel and Stefan checking his phone, Stefan breaks the silence that Cole had been begrudgingly comfortable with sinking into.

“That went pretty well.”

Cole huffs. “It apparently wasn’t terrible.”

“Ha. Yeah. You can see I didn’t get my soulful, sensitive side from my mother.”

“She’s a nice lady.” Cole pauses. “She’s very protective of you.”

“What exactly did she say to you after dinner?” Stefan says. If he wanted to hide how blatantly he’s been desperate to ask that for an hour now, he’s failing miserably.

“Not much. She just wanted to make sure I’m fully on board with Stefan Bekowsky getting his day in the limelight.”

He can feel Stefan beaming at the side of his head. “And what did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth. That you mean a lot to me.” Cole pauses. “I didn’t reveal the full extent of it, of course.”

“Cole…”

“Would she mind that much?” Cole turns his head to study Stefan properly, and for a moment they stare at each other. Reading Stefan usually comes easily to him, so it’s frustrating that now is a deviation from the norm. “If we told her, I mean. I know she’s Catholic, so…”

“She’d need some time to get her head around it, but she wouldn’t hate me. She wouldn’t hate you.”

“I just dislike the prospect of lying to her. And now we’ve dragged your sister into it.”

“Eddie is not suffering here, trust me. She’s always delighted to have something on me. Anyway, we’ll tell my mom eventually; it’s just…” Stefan’s throat bobs, and Cole can read him now; he can see the wariness in Stefan’s eye. “You have enough on your plate at the minute. Before we get to heavier stuff, I just want you to enjoy good company and home cooking.”

Cole grips the steering wheel, turning his head away a little more briskly than intended. He stares straight ahead, drinking in the suburban road, setting his jaw against the gnawing in his gut.

“I wasn’t going to eat my gun, Stefan.”

Stefan says nothing. Maybe he’s not urging Cole to continue, but Cole continues regardless.

“When you walked in, it wasn’t what you thought it was. I wasn’t going to put the gun to my head.”

“You had it pretty damn near.”

“It helps to remind myself I have options.” For the second time today, Cole is a spectator to himself, working it out without the aid of conscious thought. Did he know this already? Has his self-medication always been this violent? “Sometimes… Well, I have bad days sometimes. But I’m not going to do something stupid.”

“No,” Stefan says, emphatically. “You’re not. It doesn't matter if nobody in San Francisco is listening to you because now you've got three people in Los Angeles who'd be heartbroken.”

Cole relaxes. He flexes his fingers against the wheel, chancing a weak smile at his partner.

“Heartbroken?”

“C’mon, Cole, I love you.” It’s downright wondrous that Stefan can say it without flinching, because it crashes through Cole like a detonation. “Don’t pretend you didn’t already figure that one out, Detective Braniac.”

“I had a hunch,” Cole says, or struggles to, his mouth a notch drier. He turns the ignition, if only so he has something else to peer at. “This is just the latest entry in your proud tradition of poor decisions.”

“Hey.”

Stefan nudges Cole’s face with his hand in a loosely-curled fist, four knuckles kneading Cole’s cheek. He knows it was meant to be a display of indignation, but Cole leans into the touch and sighs, letting his eyes shut for a moment. He’s so tired.

“Anyways,” says Stefan’s voice, in sync with the rumble of the engine. “Let’s go back to my place. You can berate me over some more wine, maybe google local therapists just for kicks.”

Cole scoffs. He pulls away, slipping his arm between the seats as though he intends to check the rear-view. Instead, it puts him in prime position for leaning into Stefan and kissing him. He tastes enough like wine already, like a summer afternoon on the West Coast.

Stefan is only too happy to reciprocate. Cole feels him smiling, too. It makes his heart ache.

He breaks away, scrutinising the dopey grin on Stefan’s face, weighing up the wisdom of trusting this man with the very heart he’s so good at stressing. In the end, this is another thing Cole doesn’t have to think about.

“I love you, too, Stefan.”

Stefan doesn’t appear remotely surprised. He doesn’t appear horrified, though. His smile is all teeth, wide and boyish, the last of the light catching in his eye.