#grittyverse

Space between us is a truly generational fic. Been revisiting it with boyfriend and I am truly still obsessed. These two have had my heart for years. Everything still holds up so much better than I’d dreamed- the business plot line is so elegantly executed and so achingly accurate. I could say a thousand things. Perfect perfect fic. Thanks forever @cleversnail

I dive deeper into this fic and the grittyverse as a whole on college radio:

Bad Cop let the water run over the razor. He scrutinised the job he'd done. He looked younger and softer clean shaven, but it made the scarring more stark. He ran his hand across his mouth and turned off the faucet. It would have to do. Cleaning himself up couldn't change everything, but he'd be convincing, if not authentic. He walked out into the bedroom. Drafter had rented him a suite in a luxury hotel, the same hotel their meeting was to be held at in a few hours. He searched for the remote to the behemoth flat screen mounted opposite the bed, and flicked lazily through the channels. He stared at it, unseeing, letting the picture blur. He walked to the bar fridge and pulled out a beer. No better way to waste time in this place. It was expensive, just like everything else in this place. Still worked the same way. Might make the job easier. Stop him from thinking too much. He sat on the bed and took a few large gulps, then glanced at the TV again, eyes heavy. Maybe a nap after this one, if he could manage it. There was a knock at the door, followed by Drafter entering, his usual grin absent. Bad Cop sighed. "I should have known you'd have a pass to my room." "I thought I'd come brief you, let you know what we're up against." Drafter climbed onto the bed beside Bad Cop and stretched. Bad Cop shifted over a few feet. 

Drafter put his hands behind his head, his elbows sticking out either side against the headboard. "Do you have a pen and notepad ready? This is important." "Should I be concerned?" Bad Cop glanced at him sideways, still facing the TV. "No." Jimmy picked the remote and switched the TV off. "Not concerned. But you need to pay attention." "I'm always paying attention." Drafter sucked his teeth, then quickly smiled. "Well, this should be easy for you then, shouldn't it?" He stood up and walked around the bed, towards the window. "So, the Brickburg Duplos aren't the only guys doing what we do." "I'm aware." "There's factions. And it's never been a problem. We stay out of each other's way. We ally when we have to." He pressed his head against the glass. "But over the last year or so, there have been issues. I'm supplying all of Bricksburg, but why should I stop there? Why limit my options?" "This sounds strangely familiar." Bad Cop emptied his beer and looked through the fridge for another. 

Drafter turned away from the window. "I'll take one of those." 

Bad Cop handed one to Drafter and sat on the bed. Drafter clinked the neck of his bottle against Bad Cop's. "Where was I?" "Bricksburg isn't big enough." Bad Cop rolled his eyes as he said it, but Drafter wasn't paying attention. He had returned to the bed and was busy untying his shoes. "Right. It was getting too easy. I wanted to expand my horizons, branch out." He swung his legs up onto the bed. "And it was working, too. Until my guys started coming back in pieces whenever we ventured too far west." "They were killing Duplos?" "Yeah. I suppose they didn't take too kindly to the influx of city boys selling quality product. Bad for business. 'That Duplo shit is better the junk we used to get, those conejos have been holding out.' You know the way it goes." Drafter pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, then offered them to Bad Cop. 

He hesitated. "This room is non-smoking." "I'll pay the fucking fine. You and your rules. Who would have known a dude who gets paid to torture and kill people would be such a fucking square. You ever gonna stop acting like a cop?" Bad Cop ripped the case from Drafter's hands. He pulled out a smoke and stuffed it in his mouth, then threw the case hard against Drafter’s groin. Drafter flinched. 

Bad Cop smirked and lit his cigarette. "Can you stick to the story? I thought they were Duplos. But then you called them--" "Conejos. That's what they call themselves. Los conejos rojos. Cute, huh? Mostly white guys who watch too much TV. Dudes named fucking Connor and Logan calling each other ese. Kinda offensive, when you think about it. The desert fries brains, man, only explanation." "Who's in charge? Anyone I would have heard of?" "You've been away a while, Chief." Jimmy picked at the label of his beer bottle. "They called him Filero in the pen, you can guess why. Word says he stabbed three guys before he even went to trial. Somehow he got off, though. When you've got enough money you can get out of anything, I guess." "What was he in for?" "Beat a guy with a claw hammer. Dude heard he was growing hydro in his grandmother's basement. Went down for a look. Left on a stretcher with his cheekbone caved in and most of his teeth knocked out. Lyall was in high school at the time, too." Bad Cop pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "Lyall, like the oil company?" "Yeah, they used to have a bunch of wells out that way before Octan bought them out about 15 years ago. His daddy was-- well, is, crazy rich. I mean those guys are all crooks anyway. He probably had Duplo connections, too." Bad Cop could remember the logo for the gas stations back in the day, a silhouette of a running wolf under a bold red L. Wolves, rabbits. Didn't seem like the best mix. "This kid, Lyall: he's who we're meeting later? What exactly are you going to discuss, Jimmy? Doesn't appear to be much room for negotiation. You were greedy and he punished you. My suggestion would be to stick to the places you know. Give him a wide berth." Drafter grit his teeth. "Luckily you're not paid for suggestions, you're paid to have my back if Stabsy McGee gets violent. We are meeting in a conference room downstairs. Real official looking. I'm going to negotiate with him." Jimmy opened the bedside drawer and stubbed his cigarette on the bible inside it. He shut it and turned back to Bad Cop. "The way I see it, there's no reason we can't share turf. I'll offer him a cut. We’re all the same colours, right? Real friendly. It's a win-win situation." "How many guys is he bringing? And who of your men?" "Can't see why it would be more than 3 or 4. Anything more would be overkill. He's an idiot but he understands the game. He sent me a message, that's all. He's not going to start shit in Bricksburg." "If you're so confident, why do you need me?" Drafter patted him on the leg, smiling. "Better to be safe than sorry." Bad Cop looked down. Drafter's hand was lingering on his thigh. "What are you doing?" "I thought we could do something to help us relax. Don't wanna be distracted later." 

It was some kind of business thing. Legal, illegal, he didn't know or care. Drafter had called him and told him to 'suit up' and wait for instructions. Bad Cop didn't have a suit spare, no use for them where he'd been, and he'd told Drafter so. Which was why he was now standing out the front of the motel he'd been staying in, waiting for a driver to pick him up. He threw his cigarette to the ground as the car pulled up, crushing it under his boot. A tinted window rolled down, revealing Drafter's grinning face.

"Hey handsome, ready for our date?" Jimmy pulled his sunglasses down his nose and winked at Bad Cop.

"Go fuck yourself, Jimmy." 

"Calm down, Chief. I'm just kidding around! You've gotta lose the attitude, bro. We're working together, now." He tapped the side of the car. "Get in, loser, we're going shopping."

Bad Cop rolled his eyes and walked around the back of the car, climbing in opposite drafter.

 As soon as he'd pulled the door closed the car peeled off, kicking up a cloud of dust as it headed towards the city.

Drafter watched him, hands on his knees, still grinning like an idiot.

"So how have you been? Any news? What's that Brickowski jerk up to? You have a thing for him, right?"

Bad Cop looked out the window. it wasn't easy considering how ridiculously dark the tint was, but it might give drafter the hint that he wasn't interested in talking.

"Awww, c'mon! You're not mad, are you? I just want to have a friendly chat, why is that so hard?"

"I'm not your friend. I'm not paid to have meaningless conversations with you."

"You're paid to do whatever I say you're paid to do. “ Drafter opened the window a few inches and pulled a cigarette case from his pocket. He handed one to Bad Cop, then lit one for himself.

Bad Cop opened his own window and took a drag, avoiding eye contact with Drafter. He could see the city though haze of smog in the distance. It was going to be a long drive.

***

Bad Cop flinched as the tailor measured his inseam. It had been a long time since he'd been fitted for a suit, and it wasn't the most comfortable experience. 

"Don't mind him, he gets a bit antsy when your hands get too close to his junk."

Bad Cop shot Drafter a look.

"You need to relax," Drafter said, smiling.

"He needs to stand up straight," The tailor grumbled, standing back beside drafter and looking Bad Cop up and down. "As much as I appreciate your patronage, Mr. Drafter, sometimes I find these thugs you call men almost impossible to work with."

Bad Cop's hands curled into fists.

"Mind who you're calling a thug. I was chief of police once."

"And what are you now?" The tailor screwed up his nose. "Besides, is that meant to impress me? Government-appointed thug, then. It's all the same. God, I wonder about Business sometimes. Plenty of money, but his class was always slightly lacking, wasn't it? Those dress uniforms. So gaudy. All those stars and chevrons. And the shiny buttons. I feel ill."

Bad Cop was incredulous. "That's what all police uniforms look like!"

"Well. You can have them." The tailor wiped his hands together. "You can take those trousers off now. I'll have the alterations done by the end of the day, Mr. Drafter."

"I don't know why you'd go to all this trouble, Drafter. I'm sure I could have picked something suitable up at a store."

The tailor gasped.

"I'm not having one of my guys wearing some Men's Warehouse mass-produced shit. Only the best for you." Jimmy patted him on his shoulder. Bad Cop pulled away, grabbing his pants off the back of a nearby chair.

"Will this be coming out of my pay?"

"’Course not. It's a gift."

"You wouldn't be able to afford me without Mr. Drafter footing the bill, I assure you." The tailor considered him a moment. "You know, maybe some sweat shop department store slop would have been more your speed after all. You don't seem capable of appreciating the subtleties of my garments. You lack the culture."

Bad Cop scowled. "The only difference between you and some kid sewing Nikes is your fake accent, you pretentious arsehole."

The tailor pointed to the door.

"Get out. Now."

"With fucking pleasure." Bad Cop grumbled. He lit a cigarette and walked out onto the street, slamming the door behind him. 

He leaned against the front window and took a long drag. He could hear drafter inside, speaking loudly, but whatever he was saying was muffled by the street. Bad Cop sighed and watched a couple of lanky looking officers walk by, working the beat. They gave him unimpressed glances, too green to recognise him, or maybe he looked too different. Probably a bit of both. Either way, he knew that look. He was a low-life, an undesirable, probably looking for trouble if he hadn't found it already. A walking cliche who would have looked more at home in a lineup than a uniform. Was that really that far off? He sighed and blew smoke towards the pavement. Of all the places he'd been, it was right back here in Bricksburg where he was out of his element.

Drafter appeared outside, looking slightly flustered.

"You know how to make anything a miserable experience, don't you? Quite a skill." He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. There was a light sheen of sweat on his brow. He opened his cigarette case and pulled one out with his teeth, jutting his jaw in Bad Cop's direction. Bad Cop lit it, and Drafter quickly turned his back to him, heading down the street at a clip. He turned his head to his shoulder, enough for Bad Cop to hear him over the traffic.

"You're really something aren’t you? Jesus Christ. If I didn't know better I’d think you didn't want the job. Is that really what you want me to think?”

“I never agreed to playing dress-up.”

“Part of the job is looking the part, Chief, you know that.”

Bad Cop scoffed.

“You think you’re fooling anyone, Jimmy? You might have the money to look like you're someone, but I know where you came from. This act, people can see through it a mile off.”

Jimmy stopped suddenly and turned to him. 

“You're wrong. And here’s why. People look at me and all they see a man going places. They look at you and they see a tatted up alcoholic deadbeat.” He took a drag of his smoke and flicked it at the gutter. “But, if you put on the uniform again, combed your hair, had a shave, well. Maybe they’d still see you as somebody. And that’s why I dress the way I do. Image is everything.”

“You carry who you really are around with you every day.” Bad Cop flicked his eyes downward, at Drafter’s hand, then back to his eyes. Drafter laughed.

“You’d be surprised what people don't see if they don't need to. Like you. You’re a shadow, a ghost. Anything you were is nothing but browned newsprint in some hoarder’s garage. The only thing that gives you any value at all is the knowledge of a select few, and out of them, I’m the only one giving you a chance. Giving you any relevance.”

“You think I’d leave if I gave a shit about meaning anything to anyone?”

“That’s exactly why you left though, right? You had your precious image you’d spent years building up ripped away from you. So you ran. Because if you aren’t the chief of police, if you're not the Butcher, who are you?”

Jimmy pulled off his jacket and folded it over his arm. “I might not be able to give you back that deluded idea of justice and honour that you used as an excuse to do what you did. But I might be the only one who will let you do the only thing you do well. What you were made for. You’re playing for a different team but it’s the same game. The only game you know.”

“And I thought Business loved the sound of his own voice,” Bad Cop muttered.

“Bitch, go along with it, I don't give a fuck. We both know it’s true. Otherwise you wouldn't be here.”

“Are you done? Or are we going waste more time walking aimlessly while you analyse me?”