Playing Cops

Written: Wed March 13, 2013 2:41 PM
Finished: Sat March 16 2013 10:29 PM

Rating: T
Warning: Role-play, grinding time
Pairing: Knuckles/Remington

"Hands on the hood!" The dull gleam of the handgun alerts Knuckles to the threat present. Constable Remington's grip on it is firm and unshaken, which is remarkable for the fact that he's pointing a weapon at their island's Guardian, and that this Guardian in particular really packs a punch. 

For a moment, he stands there blinking at him, confused. Then an easy grin breaks out on his face, and he puts his hands in the air for him, elbows bent so he looks far more relaxed than he should be.

It's not sufficient for the peace officer. "I said hands on the hood!" He storms over, one hand still aiming the gun for the vitals, the other catching a wrist and practically hurtling him against the siding of the car.

"You've got me, officer," the younger chuckles, amusement crinkling his eyes as he sways his hips. The gun-hand comes cracking against his jaw, not enough to break anything, just enough to sting. If he didn't heal so fast, he'd have a tough time explaining the vicious purple bruising or the split lip streaking blood down his chin. Instead, he just smiles, and keeps himself quiet.

"Damn straight," Remington declares, sheathing his gun in its holster and standing there authoritatively for a moment. He's lit from behind only by the orange-tinged halo of the street-lamp. It's a striking image, one which makes him look a lot more imposing, and for a moment, Knuckles can see why people can so easily vilify the police. Why they can vilify him. He's dimly aware that the lights on the cruiser should be on, blaring, and that the siren should have woken the Chaotix, but these little details don't really concern him much. Because in the next moment, warned only by the creak of military boots and the way they crush the gravel underfoot, the constable has him pinned against the side, giving him a pat-down that's one part assault, and one part lewd grope. The Guardian's tail perks up, but he doesn't voice his protests.

"You have the right to remain silent," he says, right before grasping Knuckles' tail so hard that he squeaks. For a moment, the defendant glances back at the upper-story windows of the cheap motel they were all bunking out in for the term of the investigation. Before his face is shoved back down, he's relieved to find it dark, drapes drawn, and unruffled. "-will be used against you. You are expected to represent yourself when it comes to your reckoning -- do you understand??"

Knuckles nods, and for a moment sees stars when Remington sees fit to slam his head into the siding. He's disappointed to find it hasn't even retained a dent (and curious when he doesn't feel out any tires under this thing to support him). "An answer, now."

"Yes, I understand-- hey, can we take this somewhere else? Kinda don't want to wake the Ch--" His jawline is roughly gripped riiight over where the gorgeous red swelling of the makings of a bruise is forming, forcing another wince out of him even as he stares down cold blue eyes. The officer breaks eye contact with him as easily as he makes it, detaching a set of magnetic cuffs from his belt and racheting them down tightly over his wrists.

"Inside," he commands, holding the door open for his prisoner to enter. There's no seat-belts, and no door handles. A wall of mesh metal, and then plexiglas separates him from Remington, who takes the driver's seat, and starts up the cruiser with a keycard. The ride is smooth, most likely dependent on technology from the very era that forbade it, but he's more interested in the route they're taking, which is in no way close to the station. He doesn't ask, though. The point has been made clear: he speaks when the constable asks him to, and nothing more than that.

After almost a half hour of silence, and twisting roads that lead into a decidedly more suburban part of the city, they pull to a stop outside a townhouse, tall, neatly groomed oleanders fencing off the property on both sides. He glances back to the car and notices that it now has an innocuous grey coating on it. Smart.

"Where--" No, he's silent again, and he can see the way that Remington smirks, like he's finally trained him right in something. He's dragged along at the bicep, compliant, unusually compliant, as another electronic keycard opens the door. He's hustled through into a dark corridor. The hallway is barely furnished, and he's more interested in the sort of deadbolts that hang on the other side of the doorway, and the security system. Only a small glance at it, before the police officer hauls him down the main hallway. There's not that many windows, he notices, but there is some light emanating from the crack under one of the doors, and he steps off the soft tan carpeting into a room stripped of everything but the necessities.

Interrogation room, he quickly notes. One way in, one way out. A table bolted to the floor, a chair that isn't. Bare lightbulb screened off by a grid of metal bars, bare concrete floors surprisingly white, and the thin scent of bleach in the air. Tucked off in the corner is a wretched looking pallet, military grade, and only a few inches thick. A gray sheet that's seen out a few years covers it nearly, edges tucked in hospital-style. The seat he takes is facing away from it, but it's an interesting notion.

Remington doesn't sit. He's pacing around the table in loops, and every time that Knuckles dares to turn his head to look at him, he finds himself meeting the glossy surface of the table with his face. Oh, someone's carved their name in here. 'Wilhelm,' a Dingo name... 

"Alright Guardian--"

He coughs surreptitiously, and the officer's face screws up awkwardly for a millisecond.

"--Knuckles. Knuckles Byron, you have been brought here on charges of cooperation, aid, and abetment of illegal experimentation on the Echidna form." He stops behind him and glares down, unbearably close, unbearably warm in such close quarters, and Knuckles can feel his fur ruffling up, embarrassed and uncomfortable.

"I don't know what you're--" The chair is kicked out from under him without warning, and he groans when he hits the floor, glaring back up at him. The fists don't come up; Remington is actually relieved that they're still behind him. He resumes a confident expression.

"Did I ask you to speak? Get your ass back up here!" He points impatiently, and the Guardian complies, pausing on his knees for a moment for the perfect vantage point. The steel toed tactical boots are a nice touch. Above, the police officer is enshrouded is shadow from the hat that he still hasn't removed, a glint of anger, perhaps, in his eyes, or one of those other mortal sins, from the way that he smells.

The splotches of fading bruises and unreadable expression on Knuckles' face are probably an arousing fixture, by the way the constable stares. It's amusing, and a little flattering, the way he can goad this reaction out of him, and he smirks in spite of the beating. It's the elder, after all, who's breathing strangely now. "Let's be reasonable," Remington starts. "We already know that your genes are already blitzed and back. It doesn't take a blood test to tell us that... What you can start with is names. Locations. Projects."

After a long moment of silence, and one smirking down the other a bit too jauntily, Knuckles was forced down against the table, legs kicking back indignantly, but defenseless in this new position. "C'mon kid." The way he grabs his tail is a warning, but the Guardian shudders into it before he can stop himself. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Knuckles replies with something rude, and he can feel Remington against the back of his leg, a fascinating distraction. "If you're gonna fuck with the law, the law is gonna fuck with you," he threatens, and then for a moment, breaks the flow. His respect for the Guardian evidently extends out, even now, and they move to the pallet in an awkward shuffle. The hat is left behind at the table; the gunbelt stays on.

"Last chance. You've been pushing it the whole night." Chest to chest like this, Knuckles is able to see how pink and needy the officer is. He's moments from spearing him when the fighter takes the opportunity to roll them, pinning his legs, hands at those shoulders and keeping him down while the cuffs, straining as far as they can, lie dangerously close against his neck. He's so close to him that he can feel a twitch rake against his entrance, and Remington, now surprised and making comments about how this 'wasn't part of the plan', looks desperate enough to beg.

He's in control now, and he likes the way that it feels, having one up on the older man. "Bad cop, huh?" It's amusing that out of all the different ways this could come into play, the constable goes for something so racy and borderline abusive in appearance. "As if you could hope to bully me into some sort of order. Waving your gun around like you could tell a Guardian what to do..."

He grins, and teases his way down, loving the way the elder sputters, never quite making his move. "I guess this is taking 'fuck the police' to a whole new level, huh?"

"Knuckles--" Remington gasps, and is silenced for his outburst with a pointed look. "How about a little respect?" He's called 'Guardian' after that, pleading and reverential in turn, while the fighter works his way down with a hiss - 'prison style', he thinks it's called. With a steady pace, he can get the constable to agree to anything, and the banter turns to his favor. "Arresting a Guardian, anyway? We're the only thing keeping this island up -- nothing's illegal for us. I thought you should know that by now." It's a barb he tosses off teasingly, but for a moment, Remington blinks up at him like it's wrong, like he's remembering something, and he has a tight frown of disapproval until the younger leans back and sinks deeper onto him and his eyes are glassy again with lust.

Not long after that, and they're coming hard, the police officer biting back a moan through his glove while the Guardian all but roars it out for everyone to hear, and there's a brief lull as they lay beside each other and try to catch their breaths.

"Arresting me in front of them?" Knuckles reprimands in this pause. "You've got some serious gumption to do that." He smirks for another moment, remembering it, before cocking his head, and the bruises are already yellowing and faded. "Really though, all I asked for was a little work-play..."

Remington shrugs. "The safehouse was available. I thought I'd treat you." He grazes his hand over the marks gingerly, before piping up with much more worry in his voice. "I didn't hurt you, did I? Much? I mean, it wasn't loaded..." The concern is rational; if the Brotherhood knew he'd actually intentionally inflicted damage, they'd have his badge and his head, but the softness of his voice speaks of much more than his own interests. It's one of the things he loves about the man, and he's quick to reassure that it didn't hurt any more than it needed to.

He makes a quick stop in the washroom to clean up, and the officer takes care of the sheets, trying to erase evidence of this encounter. By the time they get back to the motel, daylight breaks through the clouds, in pale dawn, and the Chaotix are already worrying about him. "Where were you?" Julie demands as he makes his way to one of the beds. 

"Police business. He had something he wanted to show me." He makes much more of a show of fatigue than usual, and tugs up the scratchy blankets to try to get her to stop so he could get a few hours in. "Got stuck in a rut for a bit, but we got it all figured out." He smiles to himself at the joke that she obviously won't get, while below, Remington returns to his cruiser and reconnects the recording feed.