Shepherd's Pie

It’s raining. It always is. This city is burning itself into extinction like a cigarette dying in the embrace of yellow-lighted streets. 

I sit in my empty office with a bottle of cheap booze in my hand, pretending I don’t hear the footsteps in the hall. 

My eyes quickly flock to the portrait of the Mayor hanging on the wall. 

Thomas Kingsley and his ever-watchful gaze. 

Over me.

And then his spitting image is there, leaning against my doorway wearing a leather jacket. Like I never let him leave.

“Hello, Jack.”

Hearing my name in his mouth … it’s always so soft. 

It’s been a year. A year since I let him slip through my fingers. A year since I let my own weakness unbuckle my belt and leave the handcuffs on the nightstand instead of his wrists.

Well …They were on his wrists some nights. 

I don’t stand. I don’t reach for my gun. I don’t throw the glass at his head like I want to. Instead, I take another slow drink, let the shame settle in my gut, and say, “You look old.” 

He grins, all pearly teeth.

He crosses the room in three steps, fingers curling around my tie, yanking me forward until his mouth is brushing mine. My body betrays me before my badge can save me.

I already know how this ends.

His breath is warm, laced with whiskey. His lips ghost over mine, not a kiss, not yet. He likes to fuck with me. 

I should shove him away. I should slam his face into my desk. But I don’t.

Instead, I let him pull me up by the tie, closing the last inch between us like it was always meant to be erased. His mouth is slow, teasing, like he enjoys watching me fall apart one second at a time. 

His fingers trace the holster under my coat, just for a second. He could take the gun. He could end this right now. But he won’t.

I rip the tie from his grip, fisting it in my own hands instead—something, anything to keep from grabbing his face and ruining myself all over again.

“Kit,” I manage. My voice is rough, like I’ve swallowed gravel, like I already know the answer and hate myself for asking. 

Kit smirks. God, I hate that smirk. I hate that I’ve dreamed about it for a year, waking up hard and angry and alone. He slides his hands up my chest until they settle at my collar.

“I missed you,” he says.

I close my eyes. Liar.

Because Kit only misses what he can steal.

The last time he was here, it was my dignity. Before that, my badge, in a moment of sick irony. Before that, my goddamn heart.

This time, I think he’s here to take what’s left of my soul.

I kiss him first. A mistake. But no bigger than the last hundred I’ve made. His mouth opens under mine, hot and hungry.

My hands find his hair, tugging, tilting his head back so I can bite his lip just to hear him gasp.

I walk him back until his spine meets the wall, pinning him there with my weight. 

Kit slides his hands under my coat, over my holster, my belt, my shirt—like he’s mapping out the easiest way to destroy me all over again—and I know I’ve already lost.

Just like every time before.

Kit laughs against my mouth, low and breathless. He likes this. The way I press him against the wall like I could hold him here, keep him. I kiss him harder.

He pulls at my coat, sliding it off my shoulders, letting it hit the floor. My badge is still clipped to the belt underneath, digging into my hip like a taunt. Like it should mean something.

It doesn’t. Not when he drags his teeth down my jaw, not when his fingers work my belt loose, not when I fist my hands in his shirt and shove him back into the desk instead.

I don’t know when we stop pretending this is a fight. Maybe we never do.

Kit’s fingers find my tie again, tugging me down just enough to whisper against my lips, “You should arrest me.”

“I should kill you.”

His grin is sharp enough to cut. “Maybe later.”

And then I’m gone. Lost in the way he hooks his legs around my waist and pulls me in like he needs me. All his bravado and independence out the window. 

I shouldn’t let him do this to me. I shouldn’t touch him like I want him more than I want my life. I shouldn’t dig my fingers into his hips like I can bruise him into staying.

But I do.

And then it’s over.

Not the wanting—that never ends. But the twilight collapses in on itself, leaving only heat and the sound of my own breath, ragged in the dark. Kit is sprawled beneath me, lazy and spent, looking like a crime scene.

I know what comes next.

The silence. The weight in my chest. The feeling of waking up alone.

That’s how it always ends.

****

I expect the sheets to be cold.

I expect to wake up alone, the window open, the night emptied of him like he was never really here. But this time, when I turn over, he still is. 

My Kit, stretched out in my bed, one arm slung over his eyes, the other tracing lazy patterns on the pillow between us. Awake, but pretending not to be.

Something ugly twists in my gut. Hope. Or love. 

I push myself up on one elbow. My voice comes out rough. “Didn’t think you were the type to stay.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just exhales lazily. “Didn’t think you were the type to let me.”

My mouth twitches.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the rhythm of his breathing, the city, the jagged orange skyline of the sun waking up , and the ghost of last night still curling between us. 

Then, without moving, Kit says, “I need your help.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “That why you came back?”

Kit finally looks at me then, something unreadable in his dark, tired eyes. “You think I came back for sex?”

I run a hand through my hair, already reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. “This should be good.” 

Kit watches me. Then he sits up, moving slowly, and plucks the cigarette right out of my hand.

“It’s a real mess,” he murmurs, lighting it between his lips.

Kit takes a slow drag of my cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim light of my apartment. His shoulders are loose, his body all lazy grace, but I know him too well to buy the act.

He’s nervous.

Which means I should be nervous.

I sit up, elbows on my knees, watching him through the thinning curl of smoke between us. “Spill.”

Kit exhales, taps ash into the tray beside the bed. Then, finally—

“I stole something.”

I huff out a laugh. “Oh, really.” 

“Not like before.” He glances at me, just a flick of his eyes, then away again. 

There it is.

A slow, sinking feeling curls in my gut. Kit’s stolen from a lot of people—politicians, spoiled trust-fund kids, mobsters with more money than sense. But if this has him rattled, if this is enough to bring him back to me, of all people…

“How bad?” I ask.

Kit drags his fingers through his hair, and I catch it—the smallest shake of his hand.

“Bad.”

He doesn’t want to say it. Which means it’s worse than I thought.

I lean back against the headboard, watching him. “What did you take?”

He hesitates. Then, voice low—

“A ledger.”

My stomach twists. “Kit—”

“I know.” He finally looks at me, really looks at me, and there’s something desperate behind his usual smirk. “I know, Jack.”

I stop pacing. Kit shifts on the bed, watching me. He looks young like this, like the street kid he used to be before he learned how to turn a grift into a career. His hair falls over his forehead, curls at the edges, shining red in the sun. There were hues of blue in his eyes when we were children, but now, there’s only green. 

“You’re gonna help me, right?” he asks, quiet and completely innocent-like.

I close my eyes. And there it is again—the inevitable.

I should throw him out. Let him dig himself out of this mess or die trying.

But I won’t.

Because it’s Kit. And because when it comes to him, I never had a choice. Not since he brought his first casserole to my mother’s as a peace offering for some offence I don’t even remember. Shepherd's pie. It tasted divine. He could have been a chef. He could have been anything he wanted. 

He chose this. And I chose him. 

I turn back to face him. “Where’s the ledger now?”

Kit gives me a slow, guilty smile.

“That’s the other problem,” he says. “I don’t exactly… have it anymore.”

I stare at him.

“…You don’t have it.”

Kit lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, still sitting there in my bed, in my shirt, like he’s not setting my life on fire. 

“I had it,” he says.  

I rake a hand through my hair. “Kit.” 

“I didn’t lose it,” he cuts in, tilting his head. “It got stolen.”

“I cannot put my career on the line to help you recover a stolen ledger that you had stolen. How many times can we possibly go over this?” 

Then Kit sighs, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Look, I get it,” he says, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “But I came to you because I need your help, not a fucking lecture.” 

I turn, bracing my hands on the dresser, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror.

This is exactly what I should’ve expected the second I let him walk through my door. Kit doesn’t show up unless he’s in over his head, and when he does, it’s always worse than he lets on.

And yet, here I am. “Who took it?”

Kit hesitates. Just for a second. And that’s all I need.

“Kit.” My voice is low. Warning.

His mouth twitches like he’s weighing whether to lie to me. 

“…Rook.”

I don't answer right away. I just watch him. Slow, steady, like I'm waiting for him to flinch.

The sun is painting his skin gold. He looks tired. Frustrated. He hasn’t looked at me since he got here. Not really.

“She stole from you,” I say finally. “And you came to me.”

Kit huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “Yeah.” A beat. “That’s about right.”

He drags on the cigarette, slow, measured. I watch the way his lips part, the way he exhales, his throat flexing. Watch the way he still does this - still makes me want him - even when I don’t want to.

Jackass.

I lean back against the dresser, arms crossed. “Thought you were all done with trying to kill yourself.” 

He takes a step toward me. I don’t move.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

Kit’s jaw tightens.” Act like I don’t mean anything to you.”

I scoff. “Oh, this is rich.”

“Is it?” His voice drops, rough. Dangerous. “Because last I checked, you were the one who walked away.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter.

“You don’t get to hold that over me,” I say, low.

Kit exhales sharply, like he’s about to laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just something mean and old and aching.

“Funny,” he says, quiet. “Because I do.”

He takes another slow step forward. Close enough now that I can smell the cigarette smoke on him, the ghost of expensive cologne he most likely stole, too.

“You left,” Kit says. His voice doesn’t waver. His head tilts, lips parting, breath warm against my skin. “So tell me, Jack—”

His fingers brush against my wrist. A whisper of a touch.

“If I’m the one running in circles—why is it that every time I turn around…” His voice is almost gentle now, “…you’re still right here?”

I don’t move.

I can’t.

Kit waits. Lets it settle. Lets it burn.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he steps back.

The air feels colder on my skin.

I look away. Exhale through my nose. When I speak, my voice is even. Detached. “I cannot guarantee Rook’s safety.” 

Kit watches me. “Alright.”

“And if I decide we walk away, we walk away.”

A hesitation. But then— “Alright.”

“Alright.” I reach for my shirt, already regretting this. “Let’s go find your girl.”

****

I taste blood pooling in my mouth. My ribs ache, every breath a slow drag through broken glass. My arms are tied behind the chair, rope biting into my skin. I flex my fingers. Not much give. Across from me, the Mayor watches. He stands near the window, the city smoldering behind him in neon and filth. The bastard’s suit is immaculate. Silver cufflinks. A silk tie. Nothing out of place.

Unlike me.

Unlike this.

He hums. "Julian Dunsmore."

I let out a slow breath. “Actually, it’s just Jack,” I mutter, licking blood from my split lip. 

He does not appreciate the levity.

He walks toward me like he’s got all the time in the world. "You had one job, Detective. Instead," he continues, "you let him go. Again."

I exhale through my nose. "You sure do like repeating yourself.” 

A fist slams into my stomach.

I choke on the pain, ribs screaming, the chair tilting dangerously before slamming back down. The two goons in the corner—muscle, blank-eyed and silent—watch me with disinterest.

I grin, spitting blood onto the floor.

The Mayor sighs. "This is the problem with you, Jack. No respect for authority." He adjusts his cufflinks.

I laugh, low and bitter. "I'm not the one giving lectures on duty when I’m the reason a woman bled out on her kitchen floor."

Silence.

A heavy, leaden thing.

The Mayor doesn’t flinch, but I see it—the faintest flicker in his expression. 

I lean forward, voice like gravel. "Tell me, Mayor. Do you ever hear her scream when you close your eyes? Or do you drown it out with whiskey and speeches about circumstances?"

He exhales through his nose, slow.

"Christopher was always going to be a criminal," he says, turning back toward the window. "I did not make him one.” 

He glances at me, voice quiet. "I simply ensured he was placed where he belonged."

I clench my jaw. "You don’t get to talk about fate when you’re the one who pulled the trigger on his mother."

He doesn’t answer. Just watches the city below, hands in his pockets.

Finally, he speaks.

"Your obsession with him is the real reason we are in this mess."

The words are almost gentle.

I shake my head. My ribs hurt like hell, my vision swims, but I force out a chuckle. "You should’ve done your job twenty years ago, that is why we are in this mess. But instead, you tossed your kid into the system and let him rot."

The Mayor turns to face me fully now. I have never noticed how serpentine his eyes appear in the light. No trace of blue that used to be there when he was a young man working at the docks, trying to provide for his family.

I wonder. What made him stop trying?

He steps closer. Leans in. Presses his fingers against my bruised cheek with almost mocking gentleness.

"And look at you now," he murmurs. "No badge. No legacy. Just the lingering scent of Christopher Kingsley’s cologne on your skin."

I don’t flinch.

I don’t give him that.

Instead, I grin. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad that I fucked your son.” 

His voice is quiet. "No, Jack. I’m mad because you love him."

I force my expression blank, but he sees it.

Thomas Kingsley used to chastise me every day for giving my old man the cheek. I thought he had my best interest in mind, that he was just doing his neighborly duty. I never knew he snitched on me to have my father punish me. 

"And yet, despite your little indulgences, despite all your bleeding-heart excuses, you still let him drag you down into the gutter with him." The contempt he has for me runs deep. 

"I expected better.”

I breathe through my teeth. "Funny. Kit used to say the same thing about you."

He walks back to his desk, takes his time pouring himself a drink. The ice clinks in the glass. He takes a measured sip before looking at me, gaze level.

"My granddaughter," he says. "She came to me. She returned the ledger." He exhales, something almost fond flickering through his expression. "Because unlike her idiot father, Rook is loyal."

My stomach knots.

"She knows," he continues, swirling his glass, "that this city lies and cheats and steals." His gaze flicks back to me. "But she also knows it gives, if you know how to take."

I swallow.

His voice drops. "You should’ve brought him to me when you had the chance, Jack."

I let out a slow, bitter laugh. My ribs scream in protest.

"Yeah?" I rasp. "And you should’ve been a father to him."

The smile fades from his face.

I knew Kit and my love for him would get me killed one day. And I just hoped he’d be by my side when it happened.