8 Ian #2
The door to the marshals’ office is glass and locked, but there are lights on inside.
Ian pulls on the doors then knocks, looking for someone.
All they can see is the waiting room, blue carpet, beige walls, photo of the president on the wall.
They really never should have dated a cop.
They bang the door with both hands, and eventually someone comes to open it.
Not Victor though. His partner, Willis. Ian met Willis only a few times.
He’s impossibly tall and narrow, with deep-brown skin.
He always seemed nice, if a little standoffish.
But from the way Victor talked about him, they’re like family.
“Hi, Ian,” he says, leaning in the doorway so Ian can’t move past him.
“I’m here to see Victor,” Ian says, trying and failing to keep their voice neutral.
“I sort of figured. What about?”
“It’s personal.”
Willis nods slowly, looking Ian up and down. “Maybe you tell me and I pass it along.”
“What are you even doing here?” Ian asks, frustration rising. “This is when he does paperwork.”
Willis cracks a smile. “We had to go over a few things. He’s at his computer. I saw you on the camera.” He points at a camera behind him, through the glass doors. “Said I had to use the can. Thought maybe he didn’t need to see you.”
“What’s your problem?” Ian asks, folding their arms. “I’m allowed to talk to Victor.”
Willis gives a faint smile. “Look, Ian, I like you. You’re passionate and smart, and you know how to make Victor laugh. And what he did to you was cowardly, and believe me, I let him have it when he told me. Told him it was selfish.”
“So nice of you to stick up for me.” The sarcasm in their voice wavers a little, like a teenager with a cracking voice.
“But the thing is, he’s happy now. No drama, no fighting, no on-again-off-again.”
“We weren’t like that,” Ian says quickly, but the moment it’s out of their mouth, they’re not sure.
They did fight a lot. But they always got back together—that was usually the fun part.
Sometimes Ian would start fights just to get back together.
They swallow under Willis’s gaze. “Look, I’m not trying to get back together with him. This is about what he did today.”
“Today?”
“Yeah. I guess he didn’t tell you about that, huh?”
Willis considers Ian for a moment, then sighs. “All right, I’ll send him out.”
“Thank you.”
“But, Ian, maybe take a breath. You know, about ten years back, I had to go to this anger-management class after…well, something I’m not proud of.” He reaches into his wallet and takes out a card. “You ever want to talk about that, let me know.”
“If I take the card,” Ian says, voice a growl, “will you go get Victor?”
Willis smirks. Ian takes the card.
“Good to see you,” Willis says, going back inside and locking the door behind him.
Ian watches him move, too slowly, back into the office, feeling like a cat stalking prey.
Then they sigh and lean against the wall opposite the door.
They fold their arms again, trying to look angry, which isn’t hard, and menacing, which is.
Briefly, they wonder if they should text Brandon, or Nicole maybe, just a quick hey, I’m outside the U.S.
marshals’ office about to yell at my ex , in case Victor decides to arrest them or something.
But he probably won’t. Victor got angry a lot, but he was never a tough guy, never threw his authority around, except to get out of a speeding ticket once.
Ian didn’t even know what he did for a living until they’d already fucked a dozen times, and then it was kind of hot: Show me your badge, get out your handcuffs.
The door to the waiting room opens, and through the glass Ian sees Victor’s face, polite but guarded at first, and then, after he looks through the glass and meets Ian’s eyes, falling into something more resigned. Sadder.
Fuck him . Sad? He should be guilty.
He opens the glass door and closes it softly behind him. “Ian. You okay?”
Ian scowls, eyes prickling with tears that must be of rage, a thousand retorts on their tongue, saliva dripping like needles, hungry for everything they want to say. “No,” they settle on. “You broke into my apartment. What did you take?”
Victor looks up and down the hallway. It’s empty, but their voices echo off the polished floor.
He’s got a square face and a broad body, like he went pro after being a college quarterback instead of becoming a marshal.
He’s not in uniform now, just a white Henley and jeans.
The Henley is so tight, Ian can almost make out his abs, and they hate themself for searching for them.
Their eyes meet his, dark brown and probing.
Confused. Innocent. Ian doesn’t buy it. This was always the expression he wore when talking to other people, but Ian knows what he really looks like.
“I didn’t break into your place, Ian. Why would I?” He sounds more confused than annoyed. That’s not him.
“To get me back for keying your car.”
Victor’s expression changes. The soft, open look closes, a flower turning into a knife.
The real him reveals itself: Creases sharpen in his forehead, and his jaw turns hard as he clenches it.
“That’s you ? You’ve been keying my car?
” He keeps his voice low, but it’s straining.
Ian likes this. Likes seeing Victor angry again. The real him.
Ian rolls their eyes. “Like you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. I thought it was some teenager. Why would you?”
Ian levels him with a glare. “Why do you think?”
Victor shakes his head, and the real face vanishes, turns back into the look he first had, sadder. “Ian, it’s been a year.”
“Since you cheated on me?”
“Since we ended.” There’s a flash of the real him at the reminder that he’s the one at fault, but then it changes into something else. Sad again, though Ian doesn’t know why. Ian hates this new expression on his face. An impostor.
“After you cheated on me,” Ian says again, a little louder, hoping for another flash of the real Victor. There isn’t one. Just a sigh.
“Yes. After I cheated. Which I apologized for. I can do it again if you want. But I didn’t break into your apartment. Go talk to the cops. Ask for Lieutenant George Callas. Say you’re a friend of mine, he’ll help you out.”
Ian scoffs at the fake kindness. “Sure.”
“Ian.” He pauses, wants to say something else, but instead shakes his head again. “Just…don’t key my car again. I’ll press charges.”
“Don’t break into my place again,” Ian says.
They shove off the wall finally, get close enough to Victor to kiss him.
If he would just get angry again, like he should be, they’d probably make out.
Duck into the bathroom for a quickie. Victor looks up, and his eye flash.
So what if Victor has a boyfriend? He’s cheated before. It would be only fair.
This is fucked up—the realization floods into Ian, cold water again, putting out the fire in them, steam rising.
They take a step back. They want Victor to be angry at them so that they’ll go fuck.
So Victor will cheat on his boyfriend with them.
This isn’t who they are, right? It’s not who they want to be, at least.
“Go talk to George,” Victor says, his voice hard, not meeting Ian’s eyes or seeing the steam there.
He takes a step toward Ian, and for a moment, Ian feels it again, their bodies pulling toward each other, magnets of rage, tongues hot, fire on his breath begging Ian to reignite.
They stare at each other. The hall is quiet.
Then Victor steps back. Takes a long breath and holds it. “Bye.”
He goes back inside. Ian goes to follow him, though they don’t know why or what they’d say, but the door is locked again anyway, and Victor vanishes into the rest of the office without looking back.
Well, fine. Fuck him. He’s clearly lying. Who else would want to break in and not take anything? Ian stares at the waiting room for the marshals’ office a few minutes longer before going home.
There, they put on Olivia Rodrigo as loud as their speakers will go, take out some cheap bourbon, and drink it from the bottle while cleaning up the apartment.