Chapter 15
Dancing, Dancing, Dance the Night Away
THE SATURDAY night before Crosby was supposed to come back to the SCTF in person after fixing up the precinct brutalized by the Sons of the Blood, the team took a night off together.
Harding called it “team building,” and first there was an excellent steak dinner, and then in a club in Queens, owned by a drag queen named Chartreuse who sort of adored Crosby and Garcia, there was dancing.
Gideon wasn’t usually a dancer. He was quite aware his angular, ropy body wasn’t graceful on the dance floor no matter how much he adored music, so he’d planned to be the group’s drink-bearer, schmooze at the bar, and flirt with Chartreuse, who was arch and funny (a requirement for drag queens), and who had decided to embrace all of Crosby’s unit, since they’d gone out of their way to help a few of her kids—employees and young people she took under her wing in a harsh world—land someplace safe.
Joey wasn’t about to let him do that.
They hadn’t come out formally to the team, and they certainly weren’t going to start holding hands or kissing in public now.
God no, not even Natalia and her wife did that, because the public conservatism of law enforcement went bone deep.
But something, some spine of worry, had relaxed between him and Joey since that terrible night with the Sons of the Blood.
It was as though just admitting he cared for somebody had melted that last sturdy barrier that would keep Joey Carlyle from caring. Admitting he was afraid for his person allowed him to be glad his person was there in the first place.
Gideon hadn’t wanted to tell him, but he’d been very afraid, from their first meeting, that Joey Carlyle would have a hard time making the sort of attachment that the two of them had formed.
Every other morning or so he got to wake up with Joey in his bed, in his arms, or touching him casually as they passed each other in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Gideon’s waist as he cooked or folded laundry, or rubbing their feet together as they read at night on opposite sides of the couch.
Every moment of them together was a miracle.
And they still worked like clockwork in the field.
The day before, they’d been interviewing a woman they thought was a witness until Gideon had caught her in a fairly significant lie.
He knew his eyebrows had raised fractionally—an unguarded microexpression—but he wasn’t aware he’d tipped her off until she’d gone for the knife in the waistband of her jeans.
And Joey had tackled her before she’d gotten it clear of her belt.
“Good tip-off, Gid,” he’d said, after wrestling her into cuffs and yanking her to a standing position.
“Anything for you, Carlyle,” he’d said dryly, but inside he’d been thinking that it was a damned good thing that kid could read his mind, and that he’d been born to track prey.
Either way, two years of partnership outside the bedroom was really paying off.
And eight months of partnership inside the bedroom felt as necessary as breathing.
So when, as Gideon was doing a drink roundup with the fresh-faced Henderson and older, battle-hardened Doba, and he heard Joey’s whistle above the music—a remix of an acoustic rock song about stolen dances—he turned just in time to watch Carlyle pop above everybody’s head in a graceful leap and signal him over with a jerk of his chin.
He had to swallow, hard, because in that moment Joey Carlyle was fierce and happy and carefree, and he turned in dismay to the tray of drinks he’d been going to ferry over to the team’s table.
“I’ll get them,” Chartreuse said, waving him off. “You people… I don’t mind po-po in my place as long as you dance.”
And Gideon found himself in the center of the dance floor with the rest of the unit, having tiny Gail Pearson whirled into his arms in a sleek river of blond hair that went all the way to the waist of her Little Black Dress.
He laughed and gallantly pulled her in so they were both facing the same direction and then whirled her out again, into Manny Swan’s waiting arms.
Henderson and Doba—both as straight as rulers, Gideon knew, although they apparently were working nicely as roommates since the night they’d saved Toby, their DJ for the night, from getting beaten to death by cops—were both executing swing moves side by side, and Chadwick blessed them.
Not a word from either of them about how Harding had needed to come out about being married to Harman Blodgett in the course of the many trials and press conferences he’d attended in the last two months, and they’d been as happy as the rest of the team to hear that Crosby was being returned to SCTF after his long-term loan to the 43rd Precinct to clean up the corruption mess.
For a moment, Gideon found himself doing a quick two-step with Natalia’s lovely wife, Emily, and after five years with the unit and a lot of holidays with Emily and Tal, he treasured her happy laughter and her exquisite dancing on amazingly tall heels.
And then the beat changed, grew slower, sultrier.
Henderson and Doba laughingly went to claim their drinks, take them to the unit’s table, and mark it since the place was filling up.
Emily moved into Natalia’s arms, the happy slope of her neck as she rested her cheek on Tal’s shoulder somehow one of the sweetest things Gideon had ever seen.
Manny teased Pearson into doing a slow dance, his posture and stance that of a professional dancer, although his hand in the small of her back spoke of tenderness.
Partners or, well, partners, Gideon had to admit, they’d all grown closer in the last few months, and since Crosby and Garcia had paired off, and everybody knew Clint was married to Harman now, maybe the SCTF would simply be a DOJ anomaly. Partners who were partners allowed.
And as he turned to Joey to meet his eyes and share the joke—and to head back to the table because God knew he was lucky not to have caught any of the women, at least, in the ear with his wild flailing elbows—he felt a small, callused hand in his and Joey’s cable-strong arm wrapping around his waist.
“Oh,” he said softly, assuming the dance position. “Hello.”
“Here,” Carlyle murmured, resting his head against Gideon’s chest. “Call me sentimental, but I think an LGBTQ dance club in Queens is the perfect place to come out.”
Gideon chuckled and pulled him closer, dropping their formal “dance arms” so he could hold Joey against him while Joey wrapped his arms around Gideon’s neck.
For all the music they’d listened to, they’d never danced like this—not even in the privacy of Gideon’s apartment—and the intimacy of their bodies, the synchronicity of their feet, their movements, their heartbeats, was suddenly all he could think about.
He had no urge to glance around to see if the rest of the unit saw and approved—or disapproved—or was even surprised. Right now, with Joey in his arms, leaning against his chest, trusting him, all he wanted was Joey.
“Kid,” Gideon said, because he couldn’t break the habit, “you know I love you, right?”
“Yeah, Gid. I love you too.” It hadn’t rolled smoothly off the tongue for either of them at first. But then once a day, in private, one of them would stare at the other in surprise.
Joey, what?
I love you.
Yeah, that’s weird. Love you back.
Or,
You thought about it again.
You complaining?
Naw, Gid. I love you too.
Or that evening as they’d been getting dressed,
What? I like this suit. (Joey always liked his suits, no matter how doomed for the rag pile they’d be in the next two weeks.)
Yeah, I like it on you.
So, is that, uhm, lust in your eyes?
No, moron, it’s love. I can’t lust after you in a suit that shows me how long it’s been since you waxed. It feels unclean.
So “I love you” was getting easier, was starting to fit a lot more comfortably (at least more comfortably than Joey’s suit, which was about to burst at the seams, and it wasn’t like Joey had an ounce of fat to spare.)
And right now, the music washing over them, this thing they both loved, Gideon had no qualifiers.
No embarrassment. They loved each other.
This—them moving in sync, their breath mingling as Gideon lowered his mouth for a kiss—this was as happy as he was ever going to get, and it was a stunning amount of happiness for a man who’d never dreamed of romance or partnership or love.
It was probably a stunning amount of happiness for a man who had dreamed of those things, but Gideon felt so much less prepared for it than one of those other men.
And maybe a smidge more grateful. To say being in love with somebody who was exasperating, fierce, and damned near as amoral as Gideon was such an amazing surprise. Who knew life could give such a gift?
Gideon had never suspected.
The kiss deepened, and the dance went on, and like Ed Sheeran was saying, everything was “Perfect.”
The dance ended, and the floor grew more crowded. Joey let Gideon retreat to the drink table while he be-bopped with Swan and Crosby. He was surprised to see the rest of the unit there, quenching their thirst and chatting happily—and more surprised to get a cheer as he sat down.
“I have no idea what you’re going on about,” he said, and Garcia elbowed him in the ribs.
“Crosby so called you guys. Kept going on and on about you two singing Hamilton. I thought he was crazy.”
Gideon snorted. “Well, it’s not like we’re all lovesick and missing each other.” He held his hands to his chest and batted his eyes. “Crosby, oh Crosby, why won’t you call me.”
There were hoots and hollers, and Garcia laughed and accepted the razzing with good humor. Crosby’s absence from the team had been hard for everybody, but watching Garcia so obviously trying not to miss him had been the hardest part.