Chapter Text
They said everything looked different from the back of a police car.
Things looked a lot different with your face slammed down on the hood of one, too.
“Let me go, you fucking pig!”
Shepard closed his eyes, light from the cop cars and Finch’s screaming making the cut on his cheek throb even more. A foot kicked his legs apart while hands gripped his wrists behind his back, holding him in place with a force Shepard deemed entirely unnecessary.
He knew the drill—he knew what this was about.
“You got any weapons on you?” the cop who was doing his search asked. Shepard grunted out a ‘no’ just as he was patted down, various bits and bobs like gum wrappers and crushed cigarettes pulled from his front pockets.
Bad day to wear skinny jeans.
“You can’t do this to me, you stupid fuck face,” Finch yelled from the car next to Shepard’s. Despite his strong words Shepard could hear the fear in his voice—how the ends lifted to take away from the bravado of his words. “I’m going to—to tell the media! This is—it’s—fuck, that was my hair!”
He heard the familiar jingle of the handcuffs before he felt the cold metal slip around his wrists and tighten. Wiggling just a bit to test their hold, he was pushed down harder against the hood, the cut on his cheek opening up again.
He hissed. He’d slammed face-first on to the pavement before, but it never got any less painful. Cracking an eye open he saw Finch getting shoved into the back of one of the cars, still kicking and screaming. Off in the distance there were rubberneckers being shooed away while a hooded figure with baggy jeans stood off to the side.
Jack, probably. Here to get information and pass it on to the higher ups. Tell them all about how their precious runners were getting pulled in—again—for a night of ‘cops need to make their quota’. Clenching his jaw, Shepard bit back the resentment and stood tall and proud when the cop pulled him up and off the hood.
“He’s clean,” the officer said to the other as he was lead to the back where Finch was still yelling, mouth making movement but nothing coming out through the car door.
“Didn’t find what you were looking for?” Shepard asked, smirking.
His head almost hit the car’s roof on the way in.
“Can you fucking believe this?” Finch said as soon as Shepard was inside with him. He was wiggling around, trying to get free.
The cops hadn’t even bothered to move the cuffs from the back to the front.
Sons of bitches…
“Calm down, Houdini,” Shepard said, shifting in his seat.
“Calm down? We just got arrested for fucking nothing! I swear—once we get out I’m going to—“
“Attack a cop?” Shepard interjected. Rolling his eyes, he sat forward. “They’ve got nothing on us and they know it. They’re going to detain us for the night and we’ll be out by morning. This happens at the end of every month, and you lose your shit every time it happens.”
“Well it’s bullshit,” Finch mumbled. He’d stopped wiggling.
“Yeah… yeah, it’s bullshit,” Shepard agreed.
Glancing out the window he caught the eye of the person in the hoodie. Jack stared back, a smirk on her lips as he threw him the finger. Shepard glowered. She’d ran when she’d seen the cops arrive and managed to make it back just in time to feign innocence.
She was either incredibly lucky, or incredibly fast. Both were probably true. Sighing, he rested his forehead against the bulletproof glass in front of him. He hadn’t been in a cop car for a couple of months, narrowly avoiding the monthly round-up each time. It was about time he got caught.
That didn’t make the sting on his cheek go away, or the bitterness in his throat any easier to swallow.
XX
Shepard had spent his fair share of time wasting time in a police precinct’s jail. Probably more times than was socially acceptable in polite company, but Shepard was lucky in that he never socialized with polite people in general. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew how. A life carved out of the shit stained streets of Downtown Eastside Vancouver didn’t offer a ‘respectable’ environment, and Shepard learned quickly that a pissed off disposition would get him farther than a smile and some well-chosen words.
There were really only three routes a street kid’s life could take: drug addiction, prostitution, or petty crime. Turning to a life of addiction—either to the bottle or drugs—had never appealed much to Shepard, his mental faculties the only thing keeping him alive; prostitution had been easy money when he was younger and had no other option, but once he looked more like he would kill you than fuck you potential clients suddenly turned to less intimidating company; petty crime had filled a need, but a couple run in’s with mall cops and suddenly it became a liability Shepard wasn’t willing to make.
But then there was the fourth option: join a gang.
Shepard ran into Jack when she’d tried to steal his wallet. A couple of denials from both, an attempted swing from Shepard, and a kick to the dick and balls by Jack had landed Shepard in the company of the Omega gang leader—Aria T’loak.
Aria was the toughest son-of-a-bitch in all of Vancouver. Sure, some gangs would claim that they were top dog, like the Blue Suns and Blood Pack, but when Aria founded Omega no one fucked with her. Stunning in looks and personality, Aria knew how to charm and, most importantly, knew when to charm. Mixing grace with street smarts and a business woman mindset, Aria dominated the drug trade in Downtown Eastside.
Some would say she was Downtown Eastside.
She didn’t suffer fools lightly. She was strong; she was ruthless; she was power. Shepard knew all of this when he’d, quite literally, been tossed at her feet inside a nightclub. He half expected to be thrown into English Bay to rot with the fishes, his overactive teenage mind telling him this was the only way it could end.
Instead she offered him a job.
He’d get a sense of purpose; money; protection. All she asked was loyalty.
And that was why he was sitting in jail for the night, cheek swollen, wrists chaffed by too-tight handcuffs, and a fucking horrendous headache doing the hustle in his head, with not an ounce of complaint.
Too bad Finch hadn’t been given the same ‘loyalty’ speech.
“She’s gotta help us get out. I mean, there is no fucking way she’s gonna keep us in here. Right?”
Shepard sighed and rested his head back against the cement wall. Kicking a foot up on to bench, he began counting his molars with his tongue.
“How long you think we’ve been in here?”
Shepard didn’t answer.
“Hey! Hey, Shep!”
Finch stepped in front of Shepard, blocking his thrilling view of the wall. With the way he was bouncing around from heel to the balls of his feet, Shepard would have sworn he’d been taking in some of the product were it not for the fact that Shepard knew Finch refused to snort coke. He’d lost his mum to the drug when he was twelve, so instead of using it he sold it to some other junkie doomed to repeat the mistakes of his mother.
Hypocrisy was a funny, fucked up thing.
“What?” he replied.
“You’re not at all worried by what’s going on? We just got arrested.”
“We’re not arrested,” Shepard said. Sitting up straighter, he ran his hand over his face, immediately regretting it when he touched his cheek. “We’re detained for one night. They’ll let us out in the morning. I don’t know why you’re freaking the fuck out—we’ve done this shit before.”
“But what happens when we get out?” Finch asked, ignoring Shepard’s comments. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the room like there were bees buzzing around them. Shuffling closer, he loomed over Shepard, unintentionally setting him on edge.
“What if Aria finds out we dropped the package?” he whispered.
Shepard quirked a brow. “What package?”
“The package with the—”
“What. Package?” he repeated slowly, sending Finch a sharp glare.
Jesus Christ he’s fucking dumber than I thought.
Finch pressed his lips hard together, making a thin line. Finally he sighed. Sitting down beside Shepard on the bench, he kicked his feet out, hands stuffed in his hoodie’s pockets. Sitting back as well, Shepard closed his eyes, prepared to get some rest. There wasn’t much else he could do sitting in a cement box for twelve hours.
“I’m not cut out for prison,” Finch mumbled.
Shepard breathed hard through his nose.
“I mean it! I mean, prison for you must be paradise, but I can’t suck a dick to survive!”
“Prison isn’t fucking paradise because I’m gay, Finch. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“All’s I’m saying is that you know how to suck dick, so you could get like, protection or some shit. Suck the dick of the prison king or something,” Finch said. He pointed at his mouth. “See this mouth? Never had a dick in it. I’m going to be so fucked over if I go to prison. They’d shank me on my first day.”
Shepard clenched his hand into a tight fist until his knuckles went white.
Finch looked down at Shepard’s hands, and Shepard watched as his tiny mind furiously tried to think of a good method of backtracking.
“I-It’s a compliment, man! I wish my girlfriend could suck dick as well as you probably do. I mean, look at your lips!”
“Say dick one more time and I’ll shove yours in your mouth.”
“Right. Right… okay… see, there’s the Shepard I know. Not the cool, calm, collected one you put on with those cops out there. Which was really great, by the way. Showed those dicks— oh fuck.”
XX
“I heard you spent the night in a cozy cell last night.”
Shepard flopped down on the leather couch in Aria’s office. Down below someone was checking the speakers in the club, music cutting in and out, causing the floor to rumble beneath Shepard’s feet.
“Yep.”
Aria looked up from her paperwork and glared. “You also got hurt. Did a cop do that?”
Shepard touched his cheek. He hadn’t taken a look at himself, but judging by Aria’s disapproving stare it must be nasty.
“No. I tripped when I was dumping the package.” He pressed it again, grimacing as the skin stung all the way up to his eye. Last time he ran with his shoelaces untied.
“Ah yes… the package,” she said. Sitting back in her chair, she locked her fingers together and rested them on her stomach. “Your little run-around had the cops confused long enough for Bray to pick it up. Well done.”
Shepard shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
“Which is more than I can say for Finch,” Aria mumbled. Standing, she slid her finger along the edge of her desk before coming to a stop at the corner. Leaning her hip against the edge, she stared out the windows of her office toward the dancefloor of Afterlife.
Shepard dropped his hand and rested his elbows on his knees. He knew what she was going to ask—she’d asked it before. Everyone thought Finch was a liability. Kid couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut, and one of these days he would slip up.
Shepard just didn’t plan on being there when it happened.
“Did he say anything?” she asked after a time.
“No,” he replied. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired and didn’t much feel like spending his time defending Finch, but… “He was freaked but no. He didn’t snitch.”
Aria hummed. “That’s a surprise.”
“Think of it as a testament to your authority. Not even the police can scare him as much as you.”
He caught the edge of a smirk, but it was gone when by the time she’d turned to face him.
“You did well. Now go home. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Grunt got a bottle to the back of the head last night when an unruly… patron decided he didn’t want to leave. I need you to cover for him.”
Shepard nodded. Standing with a low wheeze, he zipped up his jacket and headed to the door, stopping only when Aria spoke again.
“Oh, and Shepard?”
“Yeah?”
“Get that cut checked. It’s not a good look.”
XX
Shepard hated the rain. Living in Vancouver, Shepard was reminded of that hatred almost every day.
Popping the collar of his jacket he hurried off down the street, head ducked as he avoided the puddles. Coming around a corner quickly, he squeezed past a group of locals as they shared shelter under the awning of a Chinese restaurant, before coming to a stop in front of a shitty bar that looked like it had never seen better days. Actually, it looked like it didn’t even know what ‘better days’ was—like it had just grown up from the ground like a mushroom.
Slipping inside he didn’t bother to scrape off his shoes on the mat, and ignored the disapproving glare from the tall man behind the counter.
He was used to it by now.
“Did you really have to do that, Shepard? I just mopped the floor,” Garrus said.
Shepard sat down on one of the stools and looked down at the floor. “Doesn’t look like you did. What colour did these tiles used to be?”
“They’ve always been black… I think.”
Rolling his eyes, Shepard stretched his arms across the counter before gently resting his forehead on the polished wood. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath in before letting it out slowly. Home sweet home.
“You got a smoke on you?” he mumbled. Lifting his head he watched as Garrus reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pack.
“What happened to yours?” he asked, holding one out for Shepard.
Taking it, he tucked it behind his ear. “Cops took them.”
“They also give you that cut?”
“Pavement did.”
“At least it doesn’t make you any uglier than you already are.”
Shepard flipped Garrus off. “Thanks, fucker.”
Shepard had spent a few weeks standing out across from the Palaven before it had been bought, watching the regulars stumble in at eight and leave at midnight. Every day he watched and every day was the same; the same regulars; the same weary looks; the same stench of desperation and cheap beer.
But then Garrus showed up.
Bright eyed, bushy tailed, and straight out of university with a business degree, Garrus came into the place and tried to pick it up. Attracting local hipsters who wanted the ‘authentic’ experience, Palaven became the ‘hip’ place to be, offering cheap beer and karaoke Saturdays. That was until one of the patrons got mugged and stabbed by a local, and Vancouverites were once again reminded why Eastside was a no-fly zone if you valued your kidney. Still, the occasional group could be seen coming in, not caring too much about the locals so long as the beer remained cheap and the karaoke delightfully out of tune.
Garrus had noticed Shepard during that time, and it was on a particularly wet and cold day that he invited him in and gave him a shot of whiskey to warm him up. Since then Shepard had become a regular.
He avoided Saturday Karaoke, of course.
“So if you’re not to fucked up from your, uh… adventures last night—and no, I don’t want to know what you were up to—did you want to come to a party?”
“A party?” he repeated, a bit skeptical.
“Down by the UBC. Some university kids are having a ‘welcome back’ party and I got an invite from an old friend of mine.”
Shepard groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “A university party? C’mon, Garrus, do I look like the type to hang out with a bunch of rich fucks?”
“You hang out with me.”
“You’re not rich—you’re middle class. Besides, maybe I only visit you because of the free booze.”
Garrus tossed his cleaning rag over his shoulder and braced his hands on top of the bar. “C’mon, Shepard… it could be fun. Free drinks and drunk freshmen doing stupid shit while we look on and judge. Besides, you might meet a guy. You look like you could use some… company, and you know how horny university guys are. They might even take pity on you with that banged up face and have sex with you with the lights on.”
Shepard gave him the finger again. Dropping his hand back on to the bar he fiddled with a peanut shell, fingertips still cold from the rain. After the week he’d had maybe going to a party would be a good thing. Free booze, the chance to laugh at university kids who couldn’t hold their liquor and, as much as he hated to admit it, he hadn’t been laid in a long time.
Kind of an embarrassingly long time. Like… months. Even Finch had gotten more action than he did.
Finch saying the word dick over and over again replayed in Shepard’s mind, and he held back a grimace.
“I’m going to go home and sleep. I’ll text you if I’m going,” Shepard said, slipping off the stool. Keeping things open and vague was what Shepard did best, if he was being honest.
“Starts at nine—I’ll be leaving here once Joker shows up. I can give you a lift if you’re here by ten.”
Shepard waved Garrus off. Taking the cigarette from behind his ear, he debated thanking Garrus for it but figured he’d give him a heart attack if he did. Instead he shoved it in his pocket for later. Steeling himself, he turned the collar of his jacket up once again and stepped out into the pelting rain.
Maybe he’d go if it stopped raining.
And in Vancouver? That wasn’t likely.
