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The chair creaked as he leaned back into it, arms folded across his chest like a man who owned the room and wasn’t worried about a goddamn thing.
Coyle chewed a toothpick slowly, jaw flexing under a day’s worth of stubble.
The room was small, plain. No windows. Just a table, two chairs, and a wall clock that ticked too loud for comfort. The kind of place meant to feel like the air had weight. Didn’t matter. Coyle wasn’t the type to choke.
He'd been in rooms like this before, usually on the other side of the table. Usually smiling.
He spat the toothpick into a metal tray and stretched his legs out, boot heels thunking against the floor. "Well?" he called, loud enough for someone behind the mirror to hear. "Y’all gonna waste my time or what?"
The door opened a beat later, and the man who stepped in wasn't wearing a badge. Thin frame, dark suit, red tie. Collar sharp. Not a fed, not a local. Not a cop. Coyle’s eyes narrowed at the pale figure.
The man set a folder on the table. Didn't sit. Just opened it with surgical care and paged through like he was skimming a menu.
“Sergeant Leland Coyle,” he said finally. “You’ve had a busy six months.”
Coyle sniffed. “You the fella supposed to scare me?”
That earned a glance, dry, barely amused. “My name is Easterman. I’ve been asked to assess conduct.”
Coyle leaned forward, letting the chair tip forward with a groan of metal. “Well, assess this, partner. I don’t remember askin’ for an assessment.”
Easterman sat down without acknowledging the threat. Perfect posture. “You’ve been involved in seventeen arrests this quarter,” he said, still flipping pages. “Nine required medical attention post-apprehension. Three, no formal complaint, but...” He tapped a photo. “Interesting injuries.”
“You think I hit 'em too hard?” Coyle asked, smirking now. “Maybe they tripped. Lotta slippery folks in this town.”
Easterman didn’t smile. “Of course.”
He laid the photo down, deliberately in front of Coyle.
Coyle didn’t look at it. He just watched Easterman, brow furrowed, chewing the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like this guy.
Easterman folded his hands. “I’m not interested in courtroom theatrics, Sergeant. This isn’t a trial. It’s a pattern review. Your department has asked for internal clarification. That’s all.”
“Bullshit,” Coyle muttered. “You’re sniffin’ for weakness.”
Easterman tilted his head, just slightly, just enough to get a reaction. “Only if it’s there.”
Coyle leaned back again, chuckling low. “Yer a real piece of work. You get off on this kinda thing? Watchin’ men sweat?”
“I watch men,” Easterman replied simply, “to see what they do when they think they’re being watched.”
Coyle’s smirk faltered for half a second, jaw tightening. He wasn’t used to being read. Mocked, feared, hated? Sure. But seen? Not like this.
The room felt smaller all of a sudden. Still no windows. Just the sound of that clock.
Easterman pulled a pen from his coat pocket and clicked it once. “Tell me, Sergeant,” he said, voice even “You’ve built quite a presence. I’m here to determine if it’s become a liability to the force.”
Coyle preened a bit, and barked out a laugh. “I am the force 'round here.”
Easterman met his gaze. “That’s what concerns me.” He paused letting it sit before continuing “You receive praise. But you also generate cost; broken ribs, dental trauma, concussions. Most departments would classify that as liability.”
Coyle leaned forward again. “Say it.”
Easterman didn’t flinch. “Say what?”
“What you’re dancin’ around. Say I went too far. Say I broke someone. Say I overstepped.”
“I don’t make determinations,” Easterman stated calmly “I gather patterns.”
“Bullshit,” Coyle slammed his palm down on the table, not loud, but sharp.
“You think I’m a butcher with a badge. Just say it.”
Easterman blinked once. Then returned to his notes, unbothered.
That made it worse.
Coyle’s blood was boiling, ears ringing just slightly. He wanted an accusation. A charge. Something. Anything that gave him permission to snarl, to strike, to defend.
But Easterman kept circling him like a vulture, never swooping, never scratching. Just watching. Making him name his own rot out loud.
Coyle sat back again, frustrated by the lack of follow-up. “What, no moralizing? No lecture about restraint and procedure?”
Easterman slid the next photo forward; bruises, teeth missing, blood staining the man’s collar. “If moralizing worked, we wouldn’t be in this room.”
That fucking silence again.
Coyle scratched the side of his neck, restless. His leg bounced under the table. The heat under his skin wasn’t guilt, it was pressure. A steady, unnatural stillness that made him want to break something just to hear a sound.
"You like doin’ this, huh?" he said. "Pickin' at people. Gettin’ in their heads."
“I prefer clarity.”
“That what you’re callin’ it?”
Easterman raised his eyes for the first time in several minutes. Pale, unreadable. “You expected something else? I’m not here to fight you, Sergeant.”
Coyle’s voice spiked and his fists tightened. “No, you’re just here to read my fuckin’ diary and pretend you understand what it’s like out there. Like you got any idea what it takes to keep people in line!”
Easterman didn’t flinch. Just clicked his pen closed. The sound was infuriating.
“You think this job’s about rules?” Coyle barked. “It’s about control. You lose that, you’re dead.”
“I agree,” Easterman commented honestly. “But the man you put in the hospital was unconscious when you kicked him in the back.”
Coyle stood up angrily so fast the chair scraped loud across the floor. “He stabbed an officer—”
“—and was already restrained when you arrived on scene.”
That silence again, not judgmental, not accusatory. Just final.
Coyle stood there, fists clenched, chest rising and falling like he’d just run up a flight of stairs. Every part of him wanted to swing. To drag this man across the table and make him act like a person instead of some surgical goddamn suit.
But Easterman only glanced at the clock.
“This session is concluded for today.”
Coyle didn’t move.
“You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”
Coyle’s jaw was tight enough to crack his teeth.
He didn’t look at Easterman as he left the room, but he could feel those eyes following him. Calm. Measured. Still unbothered.
That’s what stuck in his mind, that unflinching calm. It followed him all the way down the hall, past the front steps, out to the gravel lot where his patrol car waited.
He slammed the door behind him, alone now, breathing hard. The wheel was cold under his hands.
That was when he noticed it. The heat in his gut hadn’t faded. It had sunk. Low, thick, and uncomfortable.
Coyle cursed under his breath and shifted in his seat, adjusting himself before the feeling even registered.
Hard.
He muttered a curse, rough and quiet, like it hurt to say. Tore off his belt, popped the button on his trousers, yanked the zipper down with a sharp motion. Didn’t think about it. Just moved, as if he was quick enough it wouldn't even count.
His hand was on himself before he could breathe through it. Fast. Ugly. No rhythm. Just punishment.
“Fuck” he grunted, head tipping back, eyes shut tight.
He didn’t think about Easterman’s mouth. Or his hands. Or the curve of his spine in that suit.
He thought about his voice.
That even, quiet tone. The way he never flinched. The way he said “You’re dismissed” like he had the final word.
Coyle’s grip tightened.
“Bet you’d watch, wouldn’t ya,” he growled, breath hitching. “Sit there–all fuckin’ proper—makin’ notes while I stroke myself like a goddamn mutt.”
His hips jerked up into his fist. Fast now. Dirty
“Wouldn’t even say a word. Just sit there. Watch me make a fuckin’ mess of myself—”
He cut off with a ragged breath, groaning low as he came into his hand, hips stuttering forward with a last twitch.
He didn’t sigh. Didn’t moan. Just breathed. His hand dripped with cum. He stared at it like it belonged to someone else.
Then, annoyed, he wiped it off on the inside of his coat. Bare palm dragging down the fabric. He zipped up. Belted. Sat there with his forehead against the wheel, breathing quiet through his nose, trying not to think.
And then through the haze, the thought hit.
The one he’d been keeping out, just barely.
He’d have to see him again next week.
His fingers twitched on the wheel.
Same room.
Same voice.
Same fucking asshole.
His throat tightened.
“Son of a bitch”