Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Chapter 4

The door opened on the second knock and The Beastie Boys turned louder. She's crafty, and she's just my type.

Rivers leaned one arm against the frame. "Hey, sergeant Reid. Can't get enough of me?"

Samuel's face ignited, but he played it cool with a scoff. "Yeah, that... and uh... my iron stopped working. Was wondering if I could I borrow yours?"

The door opened wider. "Sure. Actually, you come at the right time. I was about to iron my shirt. I can do yours, too."

Samuel remained on the threshold. "Oh, that's unnecessary. I'll wait."

Rivers shook his head, walking further into the room mellow with artificial light. "Get your shirt." The invite verged on an order.

"OK. Thanks, sergeant."

With his back to him, Rivers waved a hand as a "you're welcome".

Samuel dashed into his room, snatching the shirt from the rack, but at the door, he halted. That freaking white t-shirt Rivers wore had left him stunned. How the color shone against his tanned skin, accentuating the chocolate of his Bambi eyes... The head of the hanger dug into Samuel's palm that caged the metal into a tight fist.

Rivers had taken him by surprise, that was all. But when it came to cooonduuct, Samuel had been impeccable for his entire career. Because he loved his job. He loved his life. He loved Cheryl. Honor, courage, commitment.

His eyes closed. He loved his job, his life, and Cheryl. Honor, courage, commitment.

He emptied his lungs through parted lips and stood straighter. Self-control, like with any other addiction. Dr. O preached in his mind like a mantra.

Job, life, Cheryl. Honor, courage, commitment.

With a loud puff of air, he finally left his room.

Rivers' door was ajar, and Samuel pushed it open after a soft knock. The music was low now, mingling with the steam escaping the iron to inundate the helpless sand-colored fabric underneath.

Rivers looked up. "Leave the shirt there," — he hinted at the chair in front of the tiny desk — "Take a seat."

At Rivers' commanding instructions, Samuel settled on the blue and yellow tartan armchair next to the tightly made bed. On it, lay a pair of Levis and a black t-shirt folded with care.

Rivers' attention was back on the board, where he was pressing the iron on the collar with focused precision. On his arm, the dark canvas of a starlit sky gelled together the tapestry of tattoos. An anatomically accurate heart with cursive I and O on each ventricle stood out from the artwork below his sleeve. Next to it, a seahorse, a cluster of planets, and a tiny rose popping scarlet in the black thread, like a blood drop on his veiny inner elbow.

"Sorry about sergeant Jacobs. Again."

Samuel glanced up.

River's gaze jumped on him before returning to the shirt. "I'd say I can't believe I have to apologize again, but... I think you got the gist by now." This time, his eyes settled on Samuel. The uneven shape of his mouth created a perpetual hint of a smirk on his face, painting it with mischief.

Samuel rested his elbows on his parted knees, brushing his chin with a finger. "No, I found the conversation... stimulating?"

That was the best and worst way of putting it. The bitter taste of bile still coated his tongue, no matter the amount of times he'd brushed his teeth after throwing up.

Rivers scoffed. Was he mocking Ben's behavior or his reply?

"And what did you make of the training?" His tone had acquired a shade of formality, like during an interview.