Insubordinate ( Gay ) ( BxB )

Chapter Eleven ✓

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His footsteps recede down the hallway.

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I tap my fingers in boredom as I wait for Coen's return. So high-strung, that guy- it's always something. I've only known him for a week and I've already figured out that this is his typical behavior. It has to be. 

I tilt my head to the side, grazing my ear against the top of my shoulder. I eye his desk, taking notice of a colorful photograph sitting among a pile of papers at the corner. I begin to lean, rising out of my seat slightly to see it, curious.

Dark hair, green eyes, turquoise scarf, dark skin, bright smile- these are the things I can easily make out about the man in the forefront of this photograph. It looks nothing like Coen's usual depictions, but I soon realize that it's because Coen isn't the one who took it. The mans arm is outstretched just beyond the border of the photo, undoubtedly making him the one that holds the camera.

Behind this man is a slightly blurred individual taken off guard by the flash- blonde, blue eyed, definitely Coen. A small smile barely indents his cheeks in that fleeting, captured moment. I stare intently in wonder about who this man with Coen might be. It's strange to imagine Coen having any friends. He doesn't seem like the friendly type, but I could be wrong- maybe he does. 

Or does he have a boyfriend? 

I toy with the idea of Coen having a significant other. The man is attractive, so he's a good fit for Coen, at least. If two men could conceive, their child would undoubtedly be gorgeous. A shame, really, how biology worked out for us all. Is he Coen's boyfriend? Or... husband? Is he married? I never asked. Did he try to cheat on him with me? 

No, no way.

I catch myself being more nosey than I'd like to admit. What right do I have to be nosey, anyway? Well, maybe... maybe I do have some right, come to think of it. Coen definitely intruded on my secrets without warrant.

"What a pain in the ass." Coen bellows. 

The door flies open as he complains this aloud. I slam my ass back into my seat abruptly. A breeze sweeps the room from the doorway, disturbing both the photograph and the pile of papers on which it sat. The photograph slides and tumbles out of sight before landing somewhere on the floor. I whip my head around to see Coen.

"Oh, sorry, did I scare you?" Coen chuckles, slipping into the room. "You look scared."

I stare at him, realizing that I probably do look scared.

"I'm not." I say. "You just surprised me."

"I was gone for five minutes."

"That's why I'm surprised."

Coen runs his fingers along the back of my chair as he passes, sending chills up the nape of my neck.

"I just passed the information on to Muata about the anonymous call I was supposed to have received." He sighs. "It'll be taken care of and I won't have to do a thing for you. Lucky or no?"

"Sure." I sigh, tracing my eye socket with my knuckle. "Lucky."

Coen pauses for a second, searching my expression.

"Hey, why do you always look so angry, Aaron?" Coen inquires. "Brighten up, will you?"

"I could say the same to you." I scoff.

"I've got a bit more range than you do." 

"Makes it hard to tell if you like me or not."

Coen stares at me blankly, his expression slowly growing darker the more he stares. His mood and aura shifts again. I watch him curiously.

"I guess that'll just have to be our little mystery, Beckett." He sneers, pulling open a cabinet as he sits. Coen withdraws a file, leans and drops it down in front of me. "I'm tired of talking to you. Do your job, dreckiger hund."

I smile slightly, dumbly nodding my head without attempt to pursue it. I open the folder, tenderly sifting through to weigh my work. I feel Coen eyes on me again. Something I've noticed about him is that when he stares, it's usually when he's wanting to say something to me. It takes him a god awfully long time, but he always does. How contradictory to himself could he possibly be? Tired of talking to me? Sure.

"Yes?" I say, glancing up to speed up the process.

Coen blinks at me, leaning back a bit and lacing his fingers across his upper abdomen. I advert my eyes to avoid ogling the outline of his figure beneath the tight shirt he wears.

"Go for a drink with me tonight." He says.

"Why?" I frown.

"For... a drink? Idiot."

"No, what's the point? You know, like, motive?"

"Motive?" Coen shakes his head. "My motive is that I want to have drink with a colleague. A friend, if you will."

"I'm not your friend."

"No?" Coen pouts. "So I'll tell you as your boss then, since you seem to require a different approach. Have a drink with me. Tonight."

"And if I say no?"

"You won't." He chuckles. "It's not a choice."

I rest my elbows on the desk, bowing my face into my palms for a second in something that might have appeared to be frustration. But the reason I hide my face from him is that, astonishingly, I'm grinning like an idiot.

"Well, then I guess you have your answer, kid." I say.

Coen's pale brows pop at my words, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He turns to his computer and says nothing, his eyes dropping down to the keyboard... then to the floor. I turn to my papers and say nothing. I can hear his chair whine as he leans down and retrieves the photograph. I pretend not to notice.

"Hm." Coen hums. "You didn't go through anything of mine while I was gone, did you?"

"No." I deny, mindlessly sifting. "You think I care about you that much?"

I glance up. Coen stiffens his shoulders, cradling the photograph like a cigarette between his fingers. He looks truly, deeply offended.

"I was just asking." He says, pulling open his desk drawer and tossing the photo inside.

He returns to the computer, I continue with my paperwork. I pause briefly, however, once I notice an assortment of photos sitting underneath the last paper.

"There's pictures." I say.

"Uh, yeah." Coen gestures with his hand. "Go through them. A pile for the botched ones, a pile for the useful ones. There's a lot. You've already seen the actual scene, this can't be too much for you."

"Yeah, I got it." I sigh, my head swimming as I stare at my crying woman splayed dead on the bank of a dirty frozen stream, pale skin tainted with dirt and blood, dark hair clinging to her face and blue lips. 

The photos that Coen takes, I've noticed, go beyond his job. They capture what's needed, but in this sort of... what? An aesthetically pleasing way? To me, at least. 

I try not to admire them for too long as I sort between the beautiful and the mildly less beautiful. This morbid interest of mine keeps me dedicated and attentive. After Coen had given me a run down of what photographic evidence is useful and useless on Tuesday, I proceed with the barest if knowledge.

An hour or so into our silent work, Coen and I are disturbed by the sound of his office phone ringing. Coen stares straight at the phone, squints his eyes, then looks back at his computer screen again as if he'd never heard it.

"No." He mumbles.

"It's probably Muata." I attempt. "She-"

"I know." Coen cuts me off. "I said no."

I grunt, sliding a photo to my left. 
Such a petty asshole.