Simon was stretched out on the couch, long legs taking over all of the cushions. The TV was playing some zany sitcom that he couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about, and instead he was reading an article on his phone about the DA.

Well, he was actually scrolling to see the photos from the press conference because Beck was in a few of them, and he always looked so sexy in that navy suit of his, broad shoulders accentuated by his collar, matching tie cutting a crisp line down his front. Simon admired the way his boyfriend’s muscles were extremely visible through his sleeve and through the legs of his pants, and speaking of his pants, there’s a picture that caught him in profile and his rear looked—

“Simon.”

Pat strode into the living room, voice booming through the space. Simon clicked his phone shut and looked up. He hadn’t realized his uncle was over at the house—he must be staying for dinner tonight.

“Hey, Uncle Pat.”

“Move your legs.”

Simon swung his legs down off the couch, and his uncle dropped down heavily beside him. With the older man sitting so close, Simon could feel the muscles tightening between his shoulder blades. More likely than not, Uncle Pat was still upset with him for his stunt at the roulette the other night.

“You picked a good day to swing by. Ma’s making tortellini, with Nona’s special recipe and everything. Said she just felt like cooking.”

Trying to make small talk with Uncle Pat worked sometimes—the old man did like to talk. However, this was not one of those times.

“I’m not staying for dinner. I need you to do something for me.”

Simon let his blink drag a few extra seconds, gathering himself. His uncle would never assign him anything too dangerous—Ma would kill him if anything happened to Simon, and besides, he was supposed to run the family business when Uncle Pat croaked anyway.

“You remember the Johnson sting we talked about last week?”

He did. Emile Johnson owed them money—he was one of their money launderers, since he owned a cash-only business and was a bit of a pushover. Since he always payed them in change, and no one wanted the job of counting out $1500 in dimes, it was months before anyone noticed that there was money missing. Not only was Johnson a pushover, he was an idiot too. No one with common sense would intentionally cross Uncle Pat.

So they’d whacked him. If Simon remembered correctly, last night some of the guys were supposed to go over there and deal with him.

He nodded, loose strands of black hair falling across his cheek.

With a disapproving look, his uncle said, “You really need to cut your damn hair, Simon.” He shook his head, then continued, “Anyway, Johnson. As it turns out, the fool wrote down every transaction with us, with our names attached. Leroy made sure to grab it from the store, but I have him slated for another hit this afternoon, so he dropped it off. I need you to get rid of it.”

“Alright.”

That wasn’t bad at all. Simon disposed of evidence all the time for Uncle Pat, so he knew the drill. Go get the stuff, put it in a lock box, put the l9ck box in a slightly bigger lock box, fill it with wet cement, close it and toss it into the river. No one would think to dredge it up from down there.

“I can take care of it tomorrow, where’s it at?”

“No. You take care of it today. I need that thing gone. It’s in the air vent in the basement over at the Mayor’s office, since Beck was still at the office when Leroy drove past. Go get it, and take care of it, Simon.”

His uncle’s tone left no room for question, so Simon called out to his mother that he might not be back for dinner (which sucked ass, since he really wanted some tortellini), and rushed out the door.

As he walked down the street, he unlocked his phone and opened his text messages. He scrolled down to the conversation listed as, “NORTH RIVER PHONE COMPANY”, the one where there should be monthly messages about his phone bill. When he clicked on it, however, a window popped up, asking him for a password (thank you, modern privacy technology), and behind that screen, he accessed his text conversation with Beck.

They hadn’t texted in a few days. After their moment in the alley, they had parted ways, and Simon could sense that Beck was still at least a little upset with him for stepping in. As if he was going to watch his uncle kill his boyfriend for something that wasn’t even his fault. He gave Beck his space, letting him take some time to breathe and think things out for himself. That always helped him; he hated when Simon hovered too closely over him.

It had been enough time, though, so he shot off a text.

Hey, babe. Doing an evidence pickup @ your office—wanna grab dinner after? We can pick up from that new food truck?

He locked his phone screen again, and kept walking.

 Simon never once walked slowly in his life, and he didn’t exactly live far from the Mayor’s office, so he was already at the front door of the building when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Hey. I’m working on papers in my office rn. I brought the stuff up here earlier, so just come up.

He caught the elevator up to the third floor, and traipsed down to Beck’s office. His boyfriend was hunched over his desk, red pen in hand, papers strewn about. He looked stressed.

“Everything alright?”

Beck jumped. “Shit, Simon, I didn’t hear you come in.” He paused, running a hand through his blonde curls and sighing. “I’m fine, just trying to take care of something for the boss.”

His eyes made it clear to which boss he was referring—Uncle Pat must have sent him something over earlier.

Simon slung his body across the empty chair in Beck’s office, swinging one leg over the arm of the chair. His foot swung up and down, bouncing to beat only he could hear. He’d willingly sit here all night, just staring at Beck’s soft features. Pale lips, round face, deep green eyes—he even had a cute scar on the side of his jaw, which Simon had yet to learn the cause of.

Beck must have had other plans, though, because he swept all his pages together, paper-clipped them, slid them into the false bottom of his desk drawer, and stood up.

“Let’s just get out of here. Here’s that case you needed.” He pulled a battered brown briefcase out from behind his desk and passed it to Simon.

“Do you have—”

“Supplies? Yeah, in my car. Let’s go.”

Beck led him out and down to the car. The two drove down to the docks, chatting easily. Then they pulled up in front of the food truck, and Beck turned the car off.

“Let’s eat.”

“Ok, but I’m taking this with me. I’m not just gonna leave it sitting out in the car.” Simon grabbed the briefcase and took it along as they waited in line. They enjoyed the warm breeze and the fading sunlight.

The man working held out their trays of hot dogs and fries drenched in ketchup—Beck couldn’t hold both at the same time, they were so big and unwieldy. Simon set the case down, to help Beck hold them, and then the two walked back to the car. They slid in and devoured their dinner. It was every bit as greasy and delicious as they had hoped. Simon groaned, pleased.

Beck put the key back in the ignition, then paused.

“Wait, babe. You didn’t deal with the case yet.”

Simon’s stomach did a backflip, then a twist. “Shit, shit, shit.” He jumped out of the car and jogged back over toward the now-closed food truck, but his briefcase was gone.

“No, fuck, where—”

“Simon?”

“Beck, it’s gone, dammit, Uncle Pat’s gonna kill me if someone gets their hands on it. Fuck.”

“Just—uh, just lie. Tell him you did drop it in the river, but someone must have seen you or something.”

“He’s not stupid, Beck.”

“I know, I just—”

“No, I just won’t let him find out. When it surfaces, and it will, I’ll go find it and get rid of it. That’s all.”

Simon skin crawled with the uncertainty of it all, but he pushed it down and walked back to Beck’s car.