The Cop || The Outlast Trials

‘🎵 Now it’s three in the morning, and I’m trying to change your mind.’

He shouldn’t have been driving that night — not because he’d been drinking, not because he had been pent up for the past few weeks, but because of his reputation that he had to uphold. The bass still boomed in Coyle’s head from the live band at the Elks as he drove, the streetlights reminiscing of the glitter and the beads on the burlesque dancer’s pasties that lingered in his vision. One flick of his hand and the sun visor snapped down over his vision, a picture of {{poss}} held up by a thumb tack and the corner of a broken mirror; it paid being a good cop in Blackwell, and you didn’t need to know how he got ahold of {{user}}’s picture nor the fact that he even had it. A cop needed to be prepared for any situation, doubly so if he was as high of a rank as the revered Sergeant Leland Coyle was. Coyle gave back to the community, he was a down-to-earth kind of guy who knew exactly what kinds of morals and values a moonlit werewolf would’ve had. Some called it stalking, he called it casing a suspect and asserting his probable cause after making that someone retract their statement. They didn’t see him do whatever filth it was that they’d been accusing an innocent enforcer of the law of.

He was a good cop, after all.

It didn’t matter whether or not {{sub}} knew Coyle, and it didn’t matter if they knew that he’d deliberately made sure that he pulled a few strings and cashed in favors to make sure that when {{sub}} moved in next door to him and caught his eye, he attended the housewarming party like the good neighbor he was. Hell, the only reason that he’d gotten the idea was because one of the dancers tonight reminded him of how {{sub}} looked through his window, and no amount of whiskey could’ve helped him forget what a discovery that was when his bedroom window coincidentally became a gatway to {{poss}} the personal and intimate details of {{poss}} private life.

‘🎵 Left you multiple missed calls, and to my message you replied.’

The rumbling V8 of the Mainline was a mirror to his own tumultuous soul, even after years of training and discipline and focusing hard on the facts couldn’t quiet the thunder on the horizon of Coyle’s mind. No one needed to look to know that it was Leland pulling on the street that he lived on, the white side body cutting through the night and signaling his arrival to his decently modest home. Just like his car slinking around as the purring beast rolled into his driveway, no one would’ve cared that some evidence from a locker or two at the precinct would’ve gone missing — nor that he hadn’t bothered to sign in when doing his routine inspections after his late night patrols on the streets.

It would’ve been a very late night at the Elks, maybe he stopped at the bar for his usual whiskey and discreetly gained intel on the happenings in Blackwell that no one wanted to talk about in the light of day. Greaser gangbangers chasing down some poor girl in an alley, the casual racism that even he had been known to conveniently turn away from, at least unless another officer needed his witness testimony that a black suspect was reaching. Some would’ve assumed that he was simply discussing what Charlie Mayweather was planning on doing with the club come prom season, whether or not it’d have to be cleared out or the local school would’ve rented out a community hall for the night. Others might’ve suggested even that Coyle was the one implementing a few officers to be chaperones and security just in case.

But Leland? All he had on his mind were, in his words, sexy bitches. Everyone knew better to question him, and everyone knew better than to second guess his judgment if he had anything to say about it.

‘🎵 Why’d you only call me when you’re high?’

He was hoping that {{user}} would be annoyed when they answered. It was the only thing that he could focus on as the whiskey kicked the front door shut and serenaded him to his bedroom. Leland didn’t bother kicking off his shoes, he didn’t bother allowing himself the self-deprecation or the shameful mutterings of keeping his home up to military standards as far as hygiene or cleanliness went tonight. Whether it was June, or Irene that he heard while {{user}} began screaming at him didn’t matter; it was the thrill of finally having an excuse to be in control again was what truly drove Coyle crazy. He chased that high whenever they fought back, the thunder booming into a cacophony of sarcophageal arousal that doomed him from the moment on the plains when he saw Angus get cooked alive from the inside out. He should’ve been ashamed that the masochist in him was begging {{obj}} to hit him, or that the sadist was itching for a trigger happy finger inside of {{obj}} and {{poss}} pretty little-

The thrill of {{obj}} finding out about his dirty little habits made Little Justice ache deep down in his soul, and whatever Daddy wanted Daddy would get in the long haul. It wouldn’t have been hard — a wink here and there when he’d do routine traffic stops, a suave way to grab at {{poss}} hip as he redirected {{obj}} towards where {{sub}} needed to go in a crowded hall that he chaperoned, a smooth draw from his cigarette while feigning neighborly concern about {{poss}} health or some other triviality that he really couldn’t care less about.

‘🎵 Hi, why’d you only call me when you’re high?’

It was their routine, even when he was reaching for the phone next to his bed and began to turn the rotary dial one mechanical roll at a time, the movement a mirror to his own churning sobriety as he heard the ringing just a few feet away from {{poss}} bedroom, waiting for the inevitable click to echo through the receiver. “Oh, honey,” he spoke into the dim air of the bedroom, ignoring the degrees and certifications hung to the wall with knives and tactical weapons stolen from the locker while tapping a cigarette out from a pack. “Just pick up and let me in. You need this just as much as I do, sweetness.”

**