aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 14 - Part 5
Barbara came in on both their comms.
"I can hear you. Both of you. Not tonight. No one goes near him alone. You regroup here. We compare the phone dump, the residual from the pier, and what you just heard. Then we decide how close. Clear?"
Cass signed toward the camera on her collar.
Clear.
Stephanie looked at the river. The vans were still down there. The uniforms were cutting the zip ties and putting on their own. A night that would look good on a blotter.
"Copy," she said.
She did not go back to the Tower.
Cass took the east roofs, exactly as briefed — a straight line of water towers and fire walls toward the Clock Tower's dark spike. Stephanie watched her drop off the first ledge, a black shape that did not splash when she landed. Then Stephanie went west.
Two buildings. A gap she jumped that was wider than it looked in the rain. She landed on the next roof and killed her comm for ninety seconds.
"Cutting a tail," she said into the dead channel, because Babs would play the last thing she heard. "Give me a minute."
There was no tail.
She knew Babs would see the dead zone on the map. A blank where Spoiler's dot should have been. She did it anyway.
Fire escape down to a service alley that smelled like rot and bleach. She stayed in the shadow of a delivery truck, mask back on, and walked like she belonged there until the alley opened on a bus stop. The bus came. She did not get on it. She let it pass so the camera on the corner would have a girl in purple missing her ride, not a girl in purple heading for the Heights.
The rest she did on foot.
Side streets. A cut through a playground with the swings wrapped around the top bar. A stretch of row houses with lights in the upstairs windows and nobody on the stoops because of the rain. The Spoiler suit was a problem under streetlights, so she kept to the dark sides and the gaps between buildings. Her hands were still scuffed from the crowbar. The knuckles on her right glove were wet from his mouth.
The Heights started as better brick and shorter yards. His block was quiet. No bike out front. That was the point. She would not park a thing in front of his house that Barbara could tag in two keystrokes.
She came in from the back.
Fence. Then the small yard. Then the porch with the sagging screen and the trash can he always remembered to take out and always left sitting by the step. Mask off. Damp blonde hair stuck to her temples. Suit still on, purple-and-black plastered to her full tits, her thick thighs, the generous ass the rain had turned shiny. She stood there with her gloves on the railing and waited.
The kitchen light came on.
Vieri opened the back door with a trash bag in one hand and stopped.
They looked at each other across four feet of wet wood.
"You going to invite me in," Stephanie said, "or do I do this in your yard?"
He set the bag down. He did not step aside.
"Spoiler."
"Stephanie. The mask's off. Keep up." She lifted her chin toward the dark house behind him. "We were on the roof last night. The warehouse by the pier. Me and Cass. Babs had the cams. We heard the deal. We heard Catwoman make you say you were her favorite. We saw all three of them on their knees when you were done. Marked. Still looking at you like they weren't finished."
He did not move. Rain ticked on the trash can lid.
"Babs has the Kane Street audio," she said. "She has Montoya. She has enough of you already. I am not here to arrest you. I'm not even here with a speech." She took one step onto the porch, boots leaving wet prints. "I just spent two hours tying up men who said a geometry lady paid them extra to stay off the main streets. Same night you're writing a domestic and eating a sandwich in a parked car. Watching you from farther away is not the job anymore. That's why I'm on your porch."
"You should go back to the Tower."
"Yeah. I should."
She walked past him into the kitchen.
He could have stopped her. He didn't. He shut the door. The rain noise dropped. The house smelled like lemon polish, old wood, and the leftover heat of a long shift. Stephanie stood on his linoleum in the dripping suit and looked at the small room like she was still counting exits.
"Take the jacket off if you're going to drip on the floor," he said.
"The suit doesn't come off for a jacket." She pulled her gloves, finger by finger, and set them on the counter next to his keys. The scuffs on her knuckles showed under the kitchen light. "You going to pretend last night didn't happen, or are we past that?"
"You watched it. You already know what happened."
"I watched three of the most dangerous women in this city negotiate quiet time so they could keep getting fucked on a schedule." Her voice stayed even. It cost her. "I watched Catwoman force a line out of you in front of the other two and then stay on her knees anyway. I watched Harley call you Daddy with your cock down her throat. I watched Ivy talk to her plants while you were inside her. That is not a beat cop having a lucky month. That is a problem Babs is trying to put in a folder, and the folder is not working."
Vieri leaned against the counter. He looked tired in the way a man looked tired after a domestic and a landlord and a welfare check and a bar fight that had already been over. He also looked at her the way he had looked at the door — like he was deciding how much of this he was going to let into the house.
"What do you want, Brown."
"I want to know what the hell you're packing that turns that into a Tuesday." She laughed once, short, not funny. "No. That's the honest version and it's also not the whole thing. I want to know if you can keep them pointed at Zodiac instead of at each other. Because if you can't, the quiet you bought last night is going to last until the first time Ivy gets bored, and then we're all in it."
She stepped closer. The suit made a wet sound against itself. Full D-cup tits sat heavy under the purple-and-black, nipples stiff from the cold rain, obvious even through the fabric. Thick thighs pressed the seam. She smelled like alley brick, river water, and the sharp leftover adrenaline of a fight.
"And I want to know before I walk back into that Tower and lie about where I was for twenty minutes."
"You're already lying."
"Yeah." Her mouth twitched. "So I might as well get the part I came for."
She reached for his belt.
He caught her wrist. Not hard. Just stopped it.
"This is a bad idea."
"All of my ideas tonight were bad." She looked at his hand on her wrist, then at his face. Color sat high on her cheeks. Her lips were parted. She was still breathing like the alley. "You going to keep holding my hand or are you going to do what I came here to find out."
He let go of her wrist.
She had the belt open in two pulls. The button. The zip. Her gloved-off fingers were cold and then they were not. She got her hand around him through the shorts first, a rough squeeze that made her breath catch when she felt the weight of it, the thick shape already filling her palm.
"Jesus," she said, quiet, almost angry about it. "That's why. Of course that's why."
She shoved the shorts down enough to get him out. The kitchen light hit the thick shaft, already heavy, already dark with blood. Stephanie stared at it for a second like she had seen it from a roof and still had not believed the scale. Then she wrapped both hands around it — fingers not meeting — and stroked once, slow, from the base up over the fat head, spreading the wet that had already gathered there.
"We were supposed to be investigating you," she said, and her voice had gone lower. "Gathering intel. Writing it up. Not this."
He grabbed her by the backs of her thick thighs and lifted.
Stephanie made a sound that was not a word. Her ass filled his hands, firm and wet from the rain, the suit slick under his palms. He set her on the edge of the counter, shoved the crotch of the Spoiler suit aside, and found her with his fingers first — already soaked, swollen, heat pouring off her. She jerked.
"Fuck—don't tease it, I didn't walk across half the Heights so you could—"
He lined the fat head up and pushed in.
One long, hard stroke, all the way to the hilt.
{R-18 Scene Vieri x Stephanie Brown 3884 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n.}
Stephanie lay there twitching. One boot still on, the other kicked halfway off. Suit in a wet pile by the table. Ass pink. Tits streaked. Hair a mess. She talked at the floor in fragments.
"I have to walk back into that room after this." A breath. "Babs. Cass. The screens. Zodiac. And I'm going to sit down and feel you leaking out of me." Another breath, almost a laugh. "This was not the plan. The plan was contact. The plan was a conversation. The plan can go fuck itself."
He sat back on his heels, still breathing hard, the ache in his thighs from the night before stacked on top of this one. The house smelled like sex and rain and her.
Stephanie pushed up on her elbows, looked at the mess on her chest, then at him.
"Shower," she said. "I'm not putting that suit back on like this. And you're not coming in with me. If you come in with me I don't leave, and if I don't leave Babs starts looking at this block on a map."
She got up on shaky legs. Ass marked. Cum running down the inside of one thick thigh. She walked like the last stretch was still in her hips, one hand on the wall, and did not look back until she reached the hallway.
"Towel," she said.
"Hall closet."
"Of course it is."
The bathroom door shut. The water started.
Vieri sat on the floor of his own living room with the rug ruined and the kitchen table smeared and the dark TV still throwing nothing back, and listened to a Batgirl use his shower like she paid rent.
The shower ran. Pipes knocking in the wall the way they always did in the Heights house. Steam crept under the bathroom door and into the hall.
Vieri did not follow her in.
He picked the kitchen up first because leaving it like that felt like leaving a report half-written. He wiped the table. He kicked the wet Spoiler suit farther off the linoleum with the side of his foot so it was in one pile instead of a trail. He threw a towel over the worst of the rug and did not look at it long. The beer he had opened before she showed up was still on the counter, warm now. He poured it out.
In the bathroom Stephanie stood under water that was too hot and let it hit the back of her neck. The tile was old. The soap was a bar, not a bottle. She washed his cum off her tits first, watching the white streak thin and run down over her stomach and into the drain. Then she washed between her legs. She was swollen and sore and still twitching when the cloth passed over her clit. She hissed and did it anyway. The handprints on her ass showed pink under the water. She turned, looked at them over her shoulder in the streaked mirror, and laughed once, quiet, mean at herself.
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