The stolen warmth evaporated too soon. Hank scraped ice from the cruiser windshield Monday morning, the biting cold a stark contrast to Ed’s lingering heat. His knuckles, split anew from the ice scraper, throbbed dully. Across the snowy lot, Ed climbed into his own cruiser for the day shift. Their eyes met briefly through the swirling exhaust fumes – a silent acknowledgment of the gulf opening between them. Ed gave a curt nod before pulling away, tires crunching on packed snow. The emptiness beside Hank was a physical ache.
Night patrol was a ghost town. Hank cruised deserted streets, the radio crackling with mundane reports he barely registered. Every shadow felt hollow without Ed’s steady presence. He pulled over a lone sedan near Miller’s Creek, its headlights slicing the gloom. The driver, an elderly man lost on his way to his daughter’s, trembled visibly. Hank gave directions, his voice rougher than intended. The man’s grateful smile felt like salt in a wound. This is the job now, Hank thought grimly, alone.
At 3 AM, Hank parked behind the darkened diner. Millie’s neon sign buzzed faintly. He found the thermos tucked against the back door, still radiating warmth. Ed’s handwriting scrawled across a napkin wrapped around it: Lou’s Tavern. Midnight. Back booth. Hank clutched the thermos, the cheap paper rough under his fingers. A spark ignited in the cold void. A stolen moment. A promise.
The next afternoon, bleary-eyed after a fractured sleep, Hank stumbled into the station locker room. Ed was there, changing out of his day shift uniform. Dark circles bruised his eyes deeper than Hank’s. He slammed his locker shut, the sound echoing in the tiled room. Without a word, he crossed the distance, grabbed the front of Hank’s shirt, and pulled him into the shower stall. The door clicked shut. Water rained down, plastering their clothes instantly.
Ed’s mouth crashed onto Hank’s, desperate and tasting of stale coffee. Hank pushed him against the cold tile, hands fumbling with Ed’s belt buckle under the soaking fabric. It was frantic, silent except for their harsh breaths and the drumming water, a furious claiming in the steam-filled cubicle. Over too soon. They broke apart, adjusting sodden clothes as footsteps entered the main locker room.
Ed’s eyes held a fierce, defiant glint. "Lou’s," he breathed, water dripping from his jaw. Hank nodded, the taste of Ed still on his lips. The shift wasn’t over, but the fight for them had just begun.
Midnight found Hank in Lou’s dim back booth, nursing lukewarm coffee. The tavern reeked of stale beer and desperation. Ed slid in opposite him, smelling of rain and exhaust. Their knees bumped under the table — a stolen point of contact.
"Davies doubled Collins on my shift," Ed muttered, tracing a scratch on the Formica. "Making sure I don’t ‘stray’."
Hank’s knuckles whitened around his mug. "He suspects."
"Doesn’t matter." Ed leaned forward, voice dropping. "Miller’s Creek overlook. Thursday. Midnight." His boot pressed hard against Hank’s ankle. "Be there."
Hank’s pulse hammered. "Patrol routes —"
"Collins covers the west sector Thursdays." Ed’s grin was sharp. "I checked the logs."
The simplicity of the plan — the sheer, reckless audacity — stole Hank’s breath. He nodded once. Ed slid out of the booth, leaving cash under his untouched beer. Their fingers brushed — a spark in the gloom.
Thursday crawled. Hank’s night shift was a blur of speed traps and false alarms. At 11:45 PM, he killed his headlights a mile from the overlook, coasting into the trees. Moonlight silvered the creek below. Ed’s cruiser sat empty, hidden in the pines.
Hank found him leaning against a mossy boulder, silhouetted against the sky. No words. Ed grabbed his duty belt, yanking him close. Their mouths collided — a clash of need and relief. Ed’s hands were already under Hank’s uniform shirt, shoving it up. "Against the rock," he ordered, voice rough.
Hank obeyed, bracing his palms on cold stone. Ed unbuckled Hank’s belt, shoved pants and briefs down his thighs. The night air bit Hank’s exposed skin. He heard the snick of Ed’s belt, the rustle of fabric. Then Ed was pressing against him, hot and hard, lube-slick fingers pushing into Hank without preamble.
"Now," Hank gritted out, pushing back.
Ed sheathed himself in one brutal thrust. Hank gasped, knuckles scraping rock. Ed set a relentless pace, hips slamming into Hank’s ass, each drive eliciting a groan from Hank’s throat. Below them, the creek roared, drowning out their harsh breaths. Ed’s hand fisted in Hank’s hair, wrenching his head back. "Mine," he snarled against Hank’s ear.
Hank came first, untouched, splattering his sperm onto lichen-covered stone. Ed followed, biting Hank’s shoulder as he emptied himself deep inside. They slumped against the boulder, trembling. Distant headlights cut the highway — Collins’ patrol.
Ed pulled out, tucking himself away. "Next week," he panted, zipping Hank’s pants with brisk efficiency. "Your turn to pick the spot."
Hank watched Ed vanish into the trees, the cruiser’s engine a low growl in the dark. The overlook stood empty again — but the rock beneath Hank’s palms still held their heat.
The separation gnawed deeper. Days blurred into nights filled with petty theft reports and speeding tickets. Hank’s knuckles healed slowly, the scabs cracking every time he gripped the steering wheel too tight. He found another thermos on his porch Tuesday morning — coffee gone cold beside a single word scrawled on a torn evidence bag: Soon.
Thursday night, Hank parked his cruiser behind the abandoned grain silo on County Road 7. Moonlight sliced through broken windows, dust motes swirling in the beams. Ed’s silhouette emerged from the shadows near the rusted conveyor belt. No greeting. Ed shoved Hank against cold corrugated metal, his kiss tasting of winter and urgency. Hands ripped at Hank’s belt buckle. "Turn around," Ed rasped, voice raw.
Hank braced himself against the silo wall. Ed’s lubed fingers breached him fast — two, then three, stretching him with rough efficiency. Hank hissed, pushing back onto Ed’s hand. "Now, goddammit —"
Ed lined himself up and drove home in one punishing thrust. Hank choked on a groan, forehead pressed to the frigid metal. Ed set a brutal rhythm, hips slamming Hank’s ass, the clang of Hank’s duty belt against steel echoing in the hollow silo. Ed’s hand snaked around, gripping Hank’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts — hard, possessive tugs. "Missed this," Ed growled against Hank’s ear, biting the lobe. "Missed you."
Hank came first, spurting hot sperm onto the silo wall, his shout swallowed by the vast emptiness. Ed followed seconds later, hips jerking, burying himself deep as he emptied inside Hank with a guttural curse. They slumped against the metal, breathing hard, steam rising from their skin in the cold air. Ed pulled out slowly, tucking Hank back into his uniform pants with trembling hands. Distant sirens wailed — too close. Ed pressed a last, fierce kiss to Hank’s mouth. "Sunday," he breathed. "Your place. Dawn." Then he melted back into the shadows, leaving Hank alone with the scent of sex and rust.
The week crawled. Hank pulled over a truckload of drunk teenagers Friday night, their laughter grating as he wrote citations. Collins watched him from across the street, cruiser idling. Hank ignored him, the weight of Ed’s promise a shield.
Sunday dawned bruised purple and grey. Hank stood on his porch, steaming mug forgotten in his hand, watching Ed’s cruiser cut through the mist. Ed killed the engine, climbed out stiffly. Dawn light caught the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t speak. He just walked up the steps, took Hank’s face in his cold hands, and kissed him. Deep. Hungry. A silent claiming after days of separation.
Inside, the familiar scent of coffee and gun oil wrapped around them. Ed shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. His gaze, heavy-lidded and intense, locked onto Hank. "Bed," he rasped, the word thick with unspoken need. Hank followed, the quiet house amplifying the rustle of their clothes, the thud of boots kicked aside.
In the bedroom’s grey half-light, Hank pushed Ed backward onto the rumpled sheets. He didn’t kiss him. Instead, his hands went to Ed’s belt buckle, fingers working with practiced speed. Denim and boxers were shoved down Ed’s thick thighs, pooling around his knees. Ed lifted his hips, letting Hank strip him bare. He lay sprawled, legs slightly spread, the dense trail of dark hair leading down from his navel thickening into coarse curls framing his asshole.
Hank’s gaze lingered there, possessive and hungry. Sliding down the bed, he hooked his hands under Ed’s knees, lifting his legs, spreading them wide. Ed groaned softly, eyes fluttering open as Hank settled between his thighs. Hank leaned in, his breath hot against Ed’s exposed hole. He inhaled deeply – musk, sweat, the lingering tang of lube and sex. He pressed his tongue flat against the tight, wrinkled pucker, a broad, wet stroke that made Ed gasp and jerk.
Hank held him firm, hands gripping Ed’s hips. He circled the sensitive rim slowly, deliberately, with the broad tip of his tongue, applying relentless pressure until he felt the muscle soften, yielding. Then he speared inward, tongue stiff and probing, breaching the tight resistance. Ed cried out, hips lifting off the mattress. Hank ate him with fierce dedication – broad, wet licks alternating with deep, penetrating thrusts of his tongue, burying his face in Ed’s ass, licking and sucking until Ed’s hole was slick, glistening, and utterly open, his thighs trembling against Hank’s shoulders.
Hank pulled back, breathing ragged. He slicked his fingers generously, pressing two against Ed’s loosened entrance. He pushed in easily now, crooking his fingers, finding the firm nub of Ed’s prostate instantly. Ed arched off the bed with a choked shout. "Fuck! Now, Hank! Give it to me!" Hank withdrew his fingers. He slicked his own thick cock until it gleamed, positioning himself at Ed’s wet, open hole. He leaned forward, biting Ed’s inner thigh. "Take it all," he growled. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
Ed’s shout echoed off the walls. Hank didn’t pause. He set a brutal, driving rhythm, hips pistoning, each deep stroke dragging ruthlessly over Ed’s prostate. The slap of skin filled the room. Ed pushed back desperately, meeting every thrust, his ass clenching tight around Hank’s invading length. Hank gripped Ed’s hips, anchoring him, fucking him harder, deeper, sweat slicking his chest. He reached beneath Ed, wrapping a slick hand around his leaking cock, stroking in time with his punishing thrusts – hard, tight pulls.
Ed’s moans became broken pleas. "Gonna cum … Hank … fuck … now!" Hank felt Ed’s body tighten impossibly around him. Ed’s release hit him like a seizure, back bowing, a raw shout tearing loose as hot sperm pulsed over Hank’s fist. The fierce clenching pulled Hank over instantly. He slammed deep, burying himself completely, hips jerking as he emptied himself inside Ed with a guttural roar. They collapsed, spent, the scent of sex thick in the morning air, the world outside momentarily forgotten.
Later, tangled in damp sheets, Ed traced the bite mark on Hank’s forearm. "Shift change," he murmured, voice rough. "Collins is sniffing closer."
Hank’s arm tightened around him. "Let him." He pressed his lips to Ed’s sweat-damp hair. "Got Millie’s ear. She hears things." He paused. "Davies’ niece’s wedding. Saturday. Whole department invited."
Ed lifted his head, eyes sharp. "Cover?"
Hank nodded. "Dark corner. Five minutes." His thumb brushed Ed’s jaw. "Enough."
*****
The wedding was a blur of bad suits and worse punch. Hank stood near the coatroom, nursing lukewarm beer. Ed appeared beside him, adjusting his tie. Their shoulders brushed.
"Bathroom," Ed muttered low, nodding towards a dim hallway. "End of the hall. Now."
Hank followed. The bathroom was empty, smelling of bleach and lilies. Ed locked the door, shoved Hank against the cold tile. His mouth was hot, demanding. Hank fumbled with Ed’s belt buckle, shoving pants and briefs down.
Ed turned, bracing his hands on the sink. "Quick," he hissed. Hank slicked himself hastily, pressed against Ed’s exposed hole. He pushed in with a grunt, Ed’s tight heat welcoming him. He drove deep, setting a frantic pace, hips slamming Ed’s ass. Ed muffled his groans against his forearm. The mirror rattled.
Outside, laughter echoed. Hank gripped Ed’s hips, thrusting harder, faster. Ed reached back, fisting his own cock. "Cum," Hank gritted out, feeling his own climax surge. Ed spilled over his fingers with a choked gasp, the clenching heat pulling Hank over seconds later. He emptied himself deep inside Ed, biting his shoulder to silence his groan. They slumped against the sink, panting. Footsteps approached the door. Ed shoved Hank away, yanking his pants up. Hank zipped his fly as the knob rattled.
"Occupied!" Ed barked, voice ragged. They splashed water on their faces, avoiding each other’s eyes in the mirror. The lock clicked open. Deputy Collins stood there, eyes narrowed.
"Everything alright?"
Ed shouldered past him. "Fine. Bad shrimp." Hank followed, the lie thick on his tongue. Collins’ stare burned into their backs as they melted into the wedding crowd.
The next week was wire-tight. Collins shadowed Ed’s patrols, his cruiser a constant ghost in the rearview. Hank’s nights were hollow, filled with radio silence and the gnawing ache of separation. Thursday dawned grey and sleeting. Hank pulled into the station lot, exhaustion heavy in his bones. Ed’s cruiser was already there, parked crookedly.
Inside, the briefing room buzzed. Sheriff Davies stood before a map of Miller’s Creek, red marker circling the gorge. "Hiker’s distress call. Solo male, injured, coordinates rough." His eyes pinned Hank. "Night shift’s closest. Move."
Hank geared up, the Kevlar vest cold against his skin. Ed appeared beside the locker room door, blocking Collins’ view. He shoved a folded thermal blanket into Hank’s pack. "Deep ravine past the north bend," he murmured, voice low. "Ice on the rocks. Watch your six." His knuckles brushed Hank’s — brief, electric. "Come back."
The gorge swallowed Hank whole. Sleet stung his face, wind howling through the pines. His headlamp cut a frail beam through the gloom. He found the hiker halfway down a shale slope, leg bent wrong, shivering violently beneath an overhang.
"Deputy …" the man gasped.
Hank radioed his position, voice crackling static. Securing the man took precious minutes — splinting the leg, wrapping him in Ed’s blanket. As Hank hauled him up, his boot slipped on black ice. He slammed backward, helmet cracking rock. Darkness flickered at the edges of his vision.
He woke to a hand slapping his cheek. "Hank! Eyes open!" Ed’s face swam above him, etched with fury and fear. Collins stood behind him, flashlight beam shaking.
"Found your damn radio signal," Ed snarled, hauling Hank up. Blood trickled warm beneath Hank’s collar. Collins took the hiker’s other arm. The climb out was agony, each step jarring Hank’s skull.
At the cruiser, Ed shoved Collins toward the driver’s seat. "Take him. Now." Collins hesitated, then loaded the hiker.
Alone in the freezing dark, Ed pressed Hank against the cruiser hood. His hands trembled as he checked the head wound. "Stitches," he rasped. "Again." His thumb wiped blood from Hank’s temple. "You don’t get to die out here."
The kiss was brutal, tasting of sleet and copper. Hank gripped Ed’s jacket, anchoring himself. Headlights pierced the storm — Collins returning. Ed pulled back, eyes blazing in the gloom. "My place. Tonight. Bolt cutters on the bed." He shoved Hank toward the passenger seat. "Move."
Collins watched them, silent, as Ed drove Hank to the clinic. The stitches pulled tight above Hank’s ear — six neat sutures holding his skull together. Ed hovered, radiating coiled tension, while the doctor rattled off concussion protocols. Collins lingered by the door, gaze sharp as a knife.
Back at the station, Davies eyed Hank’s bandage. "Dismissed. Rest." His stare shifted to Ed. "You too, Novak. Collins handles night patrol." Ed’s jaw tightened but he nodded, guiding Hank out.
In Ed’s driveway, the cruiser idled. Collins’ headlights appeared down the block, slow and deliberate. Ed killed the engine, leaned across the seat. His hand gripped Hank’s thigh, hard. "Midnight. Back door." He pressed a cold key into Hank’s palm. "Don’t knock."
Hank watched Ed’s cruiser vanish into the sleet. Collins’ car crawled past, tires crunching ice. Hank pocketed the key, its teeth biting into his skin.
Midnight. Hank slipped through Ed’s unlocked back door. The kitchen smelled of gun oil and stale coffee. Moonlight bled through the blinds, striping the floor. On the rumpled bed, Ed lay bare-chested, bolt cutters gleaming beside him. His wrists were cuffed to the wrought-iron headboard — a deliberate vulnerability. Hank’s breath caught.
"Took you long enough," Ed rasped. He strained against the cuffs, muscles corded. "Cut me loose."
Hank picked up the bolt cutters, cold steel heavy in his hands. He didn’t move. His gaze traced the bruises on Ed’s ribs — souvenirs from the gorge. The raw stitches on his temple. The desperate hunger in Ed’s eyes. Hank dropped the cutters. They clattered on the floorboards.
He climbed onto the bed, straddling Ed’s hips. Ed bucked, metal rattling. "Hank —"
Hank silenced him with a kiss, deep and claiming. His hands slid down Ed’s chest, over taut abs, fingers curling around Ed’s stiff cock. Ed groaned, hips lifting. "Need you inside," he gasped. "Now."
Hank slicked himself slowly, watching Ed writhe. He pressed the head of his cock against Ed’s hole, already loosened, glistening with lube. Ed pushed down, impaling himself inch by inch, a choked cry tearing loose. Hank bottomed out, sheathed fully in Ed’s clenching heat. He gripped Ed’s hips, pinning him. "Mine," he growled. "Always."
He began to move — deep, punishing thrusts that slammed Ed into the headboard. The cuffs bit into Ed’s wrists, drawing blood. Ed shouted, back arching, taking every brutal inch. Hank’s rhythm was relentless, primal. Skin slapped. Sweat dripped from Hank’s jaw onto Ed’s heaving chest. Ed’s cock leaked onto his stomach, untouched, dripping.
"Close," Ed gasped, eyes wild. "Hank — please —"
Hank leaned down, biting Ed’s collarbone. "Cum." Ed obeyed, body seizing, sperm pulsing hot between them. The fierce clench pulled Hank over. He drove deep, emptying himself with a roar, filling Ed until he overflowed.
They collapsed, trembling. Hank fumbled with the cuffs’ key hidden beneath the pillow. The metal clicked open. Ed pulled Hank down, kissing him fiercely. Outside, tires crunched on gravel. Headlights swept the wall. Collins.
Ed’s arms tightened around Hank. "Stay," he breathed against Hank’s mouth. The headlights lingered, then vanished into the storm.
Morning came sharp and cold. Hank woke alone, Ed’s side of the bed cold. The bolt cutters lay discarded on the floor. Hank dressed slowly, the ghost of Ed’s grip still bruising his hips. Downstairs, Ed stood at the kitchen window, coffee steaming in his hand. Sheriff Davies’ cruiser idled at the curb.
"They know," Ed said without turning. His voice was gravel. "Collins filed a report. Suspicious activity. Midnight visits."
Hank’s gut tightened. "What’d Davies say?"
Ed finally looked at him. The raw marks around his wrists stood out livid against his skin. "Called us in. Nine sharp." He drained his coffee. "Separate cars."
The station felt like a trap. Davies’ office door stood closed. Collins leaned against the filing cabinets, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. Hank ignored him, focusing on the bulletin board — missing dog flyers, community bake sale notices. The mundane armor of Oak Hollow.
Davies’ door opened. "Novak. Mitchell. In." His voice held no warmth.
Inside, Davies didn’t sit. He tossed Collins’ report onto the desk. "Midnight rendezvous. Cuffs. Bolt cutters." His eyes pinned them. "Care to explain?"
Ed stepped forward. "Private matter, Sheriff."
"Not when it involves department property." Davies tapped the report. "Or when my deputies are screwing each other blind during a misconduct investigation." He leaned in. "Ray Gable’s lawyer is digging. Claims your relationship compromised the arrest."
Hank’s fists clenched. "That’s bullshit."
"Is it?" Davies’ gaze cut to Ed’s wrists. "You think a jury won’t see those marks? Won’t wonder what else you’re hiding?" He sighed, the anger bleeding into weariness. "Effective immediately, you’re both on desk duty. Pending internal review."
Collins’ smirk widened in the hallway as they emerged. Ed shoved past him, shoulder-checking hard. "Watch it, Novak," Collins hissed.
The briefing room was empty. Ed slammed his palm against the wall map, rattling pins over Miller’s Creek. "Desk duty. They’ll bury us."
Hank gripped his shoulder. "We’ve got Jenny’s testimony. The knife. They can’t touch that."
Ed turned, eyes blazing. "They can touch us." He lowered his voice. "Your place. Tonight. Back window."
Hank shook his head. "Collins will be watching."
"Let him watch." Ed’s hand covered Hank’s where it gripped his shoulder. "Let him see what he’s trying to break."
The day crawled. Paperwork became a prison. Collins’ footsteps lingered outside the bullpen door every half hour. At five sharp, Davies appeared. "Go home. Stay there." His stare held no room for argument.
Hank drove circuits through town, watching his mirrors. Collins’ cruiser trailed him for three blocks before peeling off, testing. Hank parked behind his house, snow crunching under his boots. Inside, he drew every curtain. The silence pressed in.
Darkness fell. Hank sat at his kitchen table, cleaning his service pistol by lamplight. The clock ticked past nine. Then ten. Wind rattled the windowpanes. He didn’t move.
A soft scrape at the back door. Hank rose, hand drifting toward his holster. The knob turned slowly. Ed slipped inside, shoulders dusted with snow, breath clouding the cold air. He locked the door behind him, eyes scanning the shadowed kitchen. "Collins parked down the block. Watching your front."
"He see you?"
"Took the creek path. Through Miller’s back field." Ed peeled off his gloves, tossing them on the counter. His knuckles were scraped raw. "Fell on the ice."
Hank grabbed the first-aid kit. He guided Ed to a chair, poured antiseptic onto gauze. Ed hissed as Hank dabbed at the broken skin. "Stupid risk," Hank muttered.
"Necessary." Ed caught Hank’s wrist. His grip was iron. "Davies called Ray’s sister. She recanted. Says Jenny fell."
Hank froze. "Bullshit. The knife —"
"Gone. Evidence locker says it was logged out for ‘further analysis’ yesterday." Ed’s laugh was jagged. "Collins’ signature."
Rage burned cold in Hank’s chest. He finished bandaging Ed’s hand, fingers lingering on the gauze. "So they bury Ray’s guilt. Bury us with it."
Ed stood abruptly, chair scraping. He pulled Hank close, forehead pressed to his. "Then we dig." His mouth found Hank’s — hard, desperate. Hank kissed back, teeth clashing, hands fisting in Ed’s coat. They stumbled against the fridge, magnets clattering to the floor.
A sudden, blinding light flooded the kitchen window. Red and blue strobes sliced through the curtains. Sirens whooped once — sharp, commanding. Collins’ voice crackled through a bullhorn: "NOVAK. MITCHELL. STEP OUTSIDE. NOW."
Ed broke the kiss, chest heaving. His eyes locked on Hank’s, fierce and unyielding in the pulsing light. "Together?" he rasped.
Hank reached for the door handle. "Always."
They stepped onto the porch, blinking against the blinding cruiser lights. Collins stood behind his open door, hand resting on his holster. Sheriff Davies emerged from the shadows near Hank’s woodpile, face grim. "Hands on the hood. Both of you."
The cruiser hood burned cold through Hank’s shirt. Ed’s breath fogged beside him. Collins patted them down roughly, confiscating Hank’s service weapon and Ed’s backup piece. Davies’ voice cut through the icy air. "Internal Affairs is here. Collins’ report … it holds weight. You’re suspended. Indefinitely."
Ed stiffened. "On what grounds?"
"Conduct unbecoming. Tampering with evidence." Davies’ gaze flicked to the dark house behind them. "And obstruction of justice regarding Ray Gable."
Collins smirked, holding up a sealed evidence bag. Inside, Ray Gable’s hunting knife gleamed under the flashing lights. "Found it tucked under Novak’s cruiser seat during inspection today. Convenient, huh?"
Ed lunged, shoulders straining against Collins’ grip. "You planted that, you bastard —"
Davies stepped between them. "Save it for IA. Cruisers keys. Now." Hank dropped his keys into Davies’ outstretched palm. The weight of the metal felt like surrender. Collins shoved Ed toward his personal truck parked crookedly by the shed. "Move it, Novak. I’ll follow you home."
As Collins’ cruiser tailed Ed’s battered Ford down the snow-choked road, Davies lingered. His voice dropped low. "Jenny’s mother withdrew her statement. Said Jenny ‘imagined’ the threats." He met Hank’s stare. "Someone got to her. Money. Threats. Don’t know which." He pressed Hank’s service weapon into his hands, grip firm. "Suspended doesn’t mean unarmed. Watch your six, Hank."
Alone in the silent house, Hank reloaded his pistol. The clock ticked past midnight. A pebble tinked against his bedroom window. Outside, Ed stood knee-deep in snowdrifts, face pale in the moonlight.
Hank threw open the sash. "Collins?"
"Lost him at the railroad crossing." Ed hoisted himself inside, snow melting off his boots onto the floorboards. "IA’s digging. Davies is compromised. Collins owns the evidence locker." He gripped Hank’s shoulders. "We find Jenny’s mother. Tonight. Before they silence her for good."
Hank grabbed his heavy coat. "Miller’s Creek trailer park. Her sister’s place." He tossed Ed a spare Glock from the safe. "Quiet entry. No lights."
They slipped out the back window into the howling dark. Behind them, headlights flickered at the end of the road — Collins, circling back. Hank pulled Ed into the frozen treeline. "Run."
Snow swallowed their footsteps as they cut through backyards, vaulting fences, breath sawing in their lungs. Miller’s Creek trailer park lay half a mile out, shrouded in ice. They approached from the rear, crouching behind a rusted propane tank. Jenny’s mother, Linda Gable, lived in the last single-wide, curtains drawn tight. A sheriff’s department cruiser idled out front — Collins’ partner, Deputy Riggs.
"Guard dog," Ed muttered, wiping sleet from his eyes. "Cover me."
Hank nodded, drawing his Glock. Ed moved like shadow, skirting the trailer’s aluminum siding. A muffled thump — the rear door’s flimsy lock gave way. Hank watched Riggs snap alert, hand on his radio. Before the deputy could call it in, Hank hurled a chunk of ice against a neighboring trailer’s skirting. Riggs spun toward the noise, drawing his weapon.
Inside, chaos erupted. A woman’s shriek. A man’s bellow — Ray Gable’s brother, Troy. Hank heard Ed’s snarl: "Hands up!" He burst through the front door, pistol leveled. Riggs whirled, too slow. Hank disarmed him with a vicious wristlock, slamming him face-first into the snow. "Stay down."
The trailer reeked of stale smoke and fear. Linda Gable cowered on a stained sofa, face bruised. Troy stood over her, a wad of cash clutched in his fist. Ed had him pinned against the wall, forearm crushing his throat. "Who paid you?" Ed hissed. Troy spat. Ed slammed his head against the paneling. "Who?"
Linda sobbed. "Collins! He said … said he’d take Jenny if I didn’t lie!" She pointed a trembling finger at Troy. "He brought the money!"
Troy gasped as Ed tightened his grip. "Collins gave me the knife too! Planted it!" His eyes bulged. "Said … said he’d make Ray’s charges vanish if you two went down!"
Ed hauled Troy outside, throwing him beside Riggs. Hank pulled Linda up gently. "You’ll testify? Again?"
She nodded, tears freezing on her cheeks. "For Jenny."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Hank met Ed’s gaze across the ruin. Dawn bled grey on the horizon. They had their evidence. The war was just beginning.
Hank shoved Troy’s face into the snowbank beside Riggs. "Move, and I’ll put a round in your kneecap." He turned to Linda, pulling her trembling frame upright. "Get Jenny. Pack essentials. Now." She scrambled inside, the trailer door banging shut.
Ed hauled Riggs up by his collar. "Keys." He snatched the cruiser keys from the deputy’s belt. "Collins sent you alone? Stupid."
Riggs spat blood. "He’s got Davies cornered at the station. IA’s tearing your files apart." His eyes flicked to Linda emerging with a duffel bag and a wide-eyed Jenny clutching a stuffed rabbit. "You won’t make it ten miles."
Hank shoved Linda and Jenny toward the cruiser. "Get in the back. Stay down." He tossed Ed the Glock. "Cover them." Ed slid behind the wheel, engine roaring to life.
Hank dragged Troy toward Riggs’ personal truck parked crookedly nearby. He zip-tied Troy’s wrists to the steering wheel with brutal efficiency. "Tell Collins we’re coming for him." He slammed the door, leaving Troy cursing.
The cruiser fishtailed onto the icy road. Jenny whimpered as Linda hushed her. Ed glanced at Hank. "Where?"
"Davies." Hank racked the slide on his Glock. "He’s the only one left who might believe us." Snow lashed the windshield. Collins would know they had Linda. He’d throw everything at them.
Ahead, taillights flared red through the blizzard. Two cruisers blocked the bridge out of Miller’s Creek. Collins stepped out, silhouetted against the swirling snow, shotgun leveled. Behind him, Davies stood handcuffed in the backseat of another car, face pressed to the glass. Collins’ voice crackled over the cruiser’s PA: "Last chance, Novak. Send them out."
Ed braked hard, tires skidding. Hank met his eyes. No words needed. Ed threw the cruiser into reverse, spinning them backward just as Collins’ shotgun roared. Buckshot peppered the hood. Jenny screamed. Ed wrenched the wheel, plunging them down the steep embankment toward the frozen creek below. The cruiser slammed through brittle ice, water surging over the windshield. Silence. Then Collins’ boots crunched on the ice above, shotgun reloading.
Inside, Linda sobbed. Ed kicked his door open against the current, icy water flooding the cabin. "Out! Through the back!" He hauled Jenny up, passing her to Hank. Hank shoved the girl and her mother toward the shattered rear window. Linda scrambled onto the trunk, dragging Jenny onto the ice. Hank followed, Glock trained upward.
Collins stood silhouetted on the bridge. "End of the line, Hank!" His shotgun swung toward Linda and Jenny. Hank fired twice. Collins staggered back, clutching his thigh. Hank surged forward, grabbing Collins’ shotgun. He slammed the butt into Collins’ jaw. Bone cracked. Collins crumpled.
Ed dragged Davies from the other cruiser. The sheriff’s face was bloodied. "IA’s compromised," Davies gasped. "Collins bought them." He nodded toward Collins’ prone form. "Get the knife from his trunk. Recorded confession on his dash cam too."
Hank popped the trunk. Ray Gable’s knife lay beside a stack of cash. Ed ripped the dash cam free. Sirens wailed in the distance — state police. Davies straightened, authority bleeding back into his voice. "My cuffs, Hank." He snapped them onto Collins’ wrists. "Novak, Mitchell — secure the scene."
Later, under the grey dawn, Davies handed Hank his badge back. "Suspension lifted. Effective immediately." He nodded toward Linda and Jenny, wrapped in blankets in a state trooper’s car. "Testimony stands. Collins goes down for everything." His gaze shifted to Ed, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Hank. "Shift assignments revert. Partners."
Ed’s knuckles brushed Hank’s as Davies walked away. The creek ice groaned beneath them, broken but holding. Hank didn’t move. The cold felt clean now. Alive. Ed’s hand found his, fingers interlacing. No words. Just the weight of badges returned, and the promise of a cruiser waiting — together.
The station buzzed when they walked in. Collins’ desk sat empty, stripped bare. Davies stood outside his office, nodding them toward the briefing room. "Gable’s retrial starts Monday," he said, tossing Hank a file. "Your testimony. Jenny’s. Linda’s." His eyes hardened. "Make it stick."
For three days, they rebuilt routines. Patrols were quiet, the town holding its breath. Hank drove while Ed scanned the streets, shoulders touching. At Miller’s Creek overlook, Ed killed the engine. "Here," he said, pulling a folded crayon drawing from his vest pocket. Jenny’s stick figures — two cops, a little girl, a bridge. Thank U Hank & Ed scrawled in wobbly letters. Hank traced the lines. "She’s safe?"
"Davies placed them with her aunt upstate." Ed’s thumb rubbed over the paper. "Collins won’t touch them now."
Friday night, Hank pulled into Ed’s driveway. Rain sheeted down, blurring the windows. Inside, Ed pushed him against the door, mouth hot and urgent. Hank tasted coffee and exhaustion. "Court Monday," Ed growled, biting Hank’s jaw. "Last hurdle."
They didn’t make it to the bed. Ed shoved Hank onto the couch, ripping buttons free. His hands were everywhere — claiming, demanding. Hank arched into him, the scrape of denim on bare skin sharp and real. Ed pinned Hank’s wrists above his head. "Mine," he breathed against Hank’s throat. "Through this. After." Hank surrendered, letting Ed’s mouth silence every doubt.
Later, tangled in damp sheets, Hank woke to moonlight. Ed slept hard, arm slung heavy over Hank’s ribs. Outside, a cruiser idled down the street — Davies, making rounds. Hank watched the taillights fade. The storm was over. Dawn would come. And when it did, they’d face it side by side — badges gleaming, hands brushing, ready.
*****
Monday dawned brittle and cold. The courthouse steps felt like a gauntlet. Reporters clustered near the entrance, microphones thrust forward like weapons. Hank kept his gaze fixed ahead, Ed’s shoulder a solid pressure against his own as Davies flanked them. Inside, the air hummed with tension. Ray Gable sat shackled at the defense table, eyes venomous. His new lawyer, slick and sharp-suited, drummed fingers on a legal pad.
The prosecutor called Hank first. He took the stand, oath firm. The questions were precise: the rescue, Jenny’s terror, the knife. Hank answered plainly, his voice filling the hushed room. He described the ledge, Ed’s bleeding grip, Jenny’s small hand in his own. When the defense rose, the attack was swift.
"Deputy Novak," the lawyer purred, circling. "Isn't it true you harbored a personal vendetta against Ray Gable? That you pursued his daughter without proper cause that day?"
"No," Hank stated. "I responded to a child’s scream."
The lawyer produced a grainy security still — Hank and Ed leaning close in Lou’s Tavern booth weeks prior. "And isn’t it true your personal relationship with Deputy Mitchell compromised your judgment? That this entire case is rooted in bias?"
Ed shifted in his seat, knuckles white. Hank met the lawyer’s stare. "My relationship is irrelevant to Ray Gable throwing his child off a cliff."
The gallery murmured. The judge slammed his gavel. "Answer the question asked, Deputy."
Hank leaned into the microphone. "My judgment saved a life. Ask Jenny Gable."
Jenny testified next, clutching her rabbit. Her voice was small but clear as she described her father’s threats, the shove, the fall. Linda Gable followed, defiant through tears, detailing Collins’ bribes and Troy’s fists. The defense’s objections grew increasingly desperate.
The jury deliberated for ninety-seven minutes. Guilty. Ray Gable’s roar of fury echoed as deputies dragged him away. Justice, cold and hard, was served.
Outside, winter sunlight glared off the snow. Hank breathed deep, the sharp air cleansing. Ed bumped his shoulder. "Told you we’d dig out," he said, voice rough with relief. Davies clapped them both on the back. "Shift starts in an hour. Don’t be late."
They walked to the cruiser, steps falling into sync. Ed slid behind the wheel. Hank settled into the passenger seat, the familiar weight of the door closing sealing them in their world. Ed turned the key. The engine rumbled to life – steady, reliable, theirs. He glanced over, a slow, fierce smile spreading across his face. "Where to, partner?"
Hank met his gaze. "Wherever they need us."
Ed nodded, pulling into the stream of traffic. The road ahead stretched clear and open.
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