"Blow jobs to be paid immediately upon winning -- better be up here." He wasn't risking getting walked in on.
"I'll go grab the board. You want anything from downstairs?"
"Drinks and munchies? I could go get that if you want."
"Sure." Slayde leaned over, gave him a quick, almost chaste kiss.
"Where do you hide the good snacks?" He followed Slayde's ass down the hall and back downstairs. He knew he'd bought plenty of chips that they hadn't eaten yet.
"In the laundry room."
"Ah, good one." The kids didn't really go in there unless it was to follow Slayde while he did the washing.
Drake headed downstairs and found pork rinds and Cheetos, grabbing both and a six-pack of Coke before going to the kitchen for glasses and ice. He went back upstairs, detouring via his own room for contraband he had stashed there -- Twinkies and Slim Jims. Loaded down, he knocked on Slayde's door with his foot.
"Coming." Slayde had the TV on, the noise soft, the bed arranged with a couple of trays, one with the cards on it.
Look at that, it was like a date. Or a stakeout. He chortled as he looked at what he'd brought. Definitely a stakeout.
"Share the joke?"
"Stakeout." He nodded toward the food, the setup.
Slayde looked confused. "Huh?'
"It looks like we're setting up for a stakeout." He dropped the ice and the glasses on the little table and the munchies on the end of the bed.
"Oh. Oh, wow. Yeah?" Slayde settled, cross legged. "How long were you undercover?"
"A while. Some of it was harrowing, but on the whole there was a lot of sitting around and watching while munching on whatever the local 7-11 had going."
"Did you do…murders?"
He shook his head slowly, opened his eyes wide. "I swear, man, I never murdered anyone."
"No. No, I mean, when you work. Did you investigate murders?" Slayde leaned back on the headboard. "I've never really know a cop before."
Drake chuckled. "I knew what you meant, baby." He climbed onto the bed and sat next to Slayde. "Yeah, I investigated murders. Drug deals, robberies."
"Did you ever get hurt?"
"Sure." He shrugged out of his shirt, turned and showed Slayde the scar from the bullet he'd taken to the right shoulder. The knife scar on his left thigh.
"Oh, man." Slayde's lips brushed the bullet hole. "Oh, honey."
He shrugged, not in the least bit used to care from anyone. "It's the job."
"When did you decide to be a cop?" Slayde kept kissing.
"I…" He hesitated. He'd never told anyone the real reason, though he figured Minds knew why. Slayde's fingers traced the scar on his thigh. "When I was eight. My father. Let's just say he put my mother in the hospital." He cleared his throat. "That's when I decided I was going to be a cop."
"Oh." Slayde nodded. "I know about him. I'm sorry, honey. That just sucked."
"It did." He didn't really have anything else to say about it.
"You and Mindy are heroes. It's amazing."
"She is." His sister kicked fucking ass.
"So are you. Do you miss it?"
"The job?" He nodded slowly. "Not all of it, but yeah. I was a good cop. I helped people."
Slayde took a deep breath, swallowed. "Are you going to go back when Mindy gets home?"
Drake shrugged. He honestly didn't know. "We'll have to see. I can be a cop anywhere, really. I guess it depends on what Mindy does when she gets back." He wanted to see her and the kids more. Him. Who knew?
"I'll be finding a new job."
"What?"
"She's retiring, honey." Slayde rested against him, sighed. "There's no way she can afford me."
"Oh." damn. That was… What were the kids going to do without Slayde?
"Yeah. It's going to be… I don't know."
"It's not for a while yet, man. There's time to figure everything out." Slayde was family to those kids. And if he was the one saying it, then it had to be true.
"I know. I do." Slayde's cheek was on his chest, fingers drawing shapes on his belly. "So, what does a cop on stakeout eat?"
He grinned. "You'll be horrified."
"I don't doubt that." Slayde pinched him, playful. "Still, I'm curious."
He batted at the man's hands. "Pretty much what's here, with some fast food burgers and loads of greasy fries thrown in for good measure. Certainly nothing homemade."
"Fast food is death in a bag."
Drake had to laugh at that. "How come I knew you'd say that?"
"Because it's true."
"You show me where a guy on stakeout can get a home-cooked meal and I'll eat it."
"If you were my partner, you'd have one." The words fell between them.
He froze, then took a breath. A partner. He never imagined he'd have one, not outside of work, never believed that was for him. "Guys who bring bagged lunches get the shit teased out of them." His voice was husky as he said it.
"And the guys that get gourmet dinners for them and the cops they work with?"
He chuckled. "No one shows up at a stakeout with gourmet dinners, baby." Slayde clearly couldn't do anything by half. It was part of the man's appeal.
"They're obviously not trying hard enough."
He laughed. "You think you can come with a gourmet version of chips or Twinkies?" He grabbed the bag of Twinkies, opening one up and stuffing the entire thing in his mouth.
"Are Twinkies even real food?"
He managed to swallow the thing down. "They're a food group, man."
"Ew." Slayde took the Cheetos, though, and opened the bag. "These are sinful. I adore them."
He laughed. "Ha! They're in the same food group as the Twinkies."
"No way." Slayde shook his head. "Cheetos aren't immortal space food."
"Immortal space food?" He laughed, grabbing another Twinkie and shoving it into his mouth, making loud happy food noises.
Slayde was laughing hard, making awful gagging sounds.
He rolled his eyes and noted when he'd swallowed again, "I've seen you swallow my prick whole, a Twinkie would so not make you gag."
"Your cock is not made with plastic and weird goo."
He just stared at the man. "That's gross."
"Your cock or the Twinkies?"
"Neither!" He'd lost track of
