[More brain dump. Again, still rough, and while I'm looking for a title I figure I ought to know what's going on first. I'm only to part five and I'm not entirely sure yet]

The cruiser was quiet for the ride to the police station. Detective Gagnon drove in silence after briefly radioing in, while Joe sat in the back of the car and fumed. He was pissed, and rightly so. His boyfriend had pulled him over and roughed him up. On top of that he'd not even acknowledged his existence.

What annoyed him even more is that Alex had never let on that he was a cop. They'd met at one of the local gay bars almost four months ago, and had instantly clicked. They went from meeting at the bar to dating to spending whole weekends together in three weeks. They'd even spent a weekend not long ago camping in New Hampshire.

And yet, here he was. In the back of his boyfriend's police cruiser. Apparently under arrest or something, though he'd not actually said.

"He is so not getting any," Joe muttered to himself. He shifted around trying to get comfortable, but it was almost impossible with his arms handcuffed behind him. The handcuffs were cold and uncomfortable, and a sign that something was very wrong.

Still, Joe mused, it was kind of exciting. And while Alex may have stopped the kiss he had definitely participated. And liked it, if the lump Joe had felt start swelling was any indication.

They pulled into the police station, into some underground garage.

Detective Gagnon opened the door before Joe could shift around, and he nearly fell out of the car.

"Out," Alex said.

"Sorry you fell, Joe," Joe said, his voice laden with sarcasm. "Here, let me help you up," he continued as he shifted around and got out of the car.

Alex just glared at him.

"Fine. I've got it," Joe said. "Bastard," he muttered under his breath.

"Blue door," Alex said, indicating the heavy metal door at the far end of the garage.

Joe stood up straight and marched to the door. He didn't know what was going on, but there was no way he was going to give

Alex the satisfaction of seeing him at a disadvantage. Well, at more of a disadvantage than being handcuffed and in the basement of a police station, at least.

Joe stopped when they got to the door. "Now what?"

Alex flipped a switch on a panel on the wall next to him. There was a tinny buzz.

"Detective Gagnon," Alex said. "I have a suspect. Buzz me in."

"Detective?" Joe was incredulous.

There was a loud click and an accompanying buzz as the door swung in. Alex pushed Joe in the small of the back and he stumbled forward, his balance off with his hands behind his back.

The door opened into a brightly lit corridor, its cinderblock walls painted a light grey. At the end was a small room. There was an industrial strength desk with a battered chair in front of it. Behind the desk was a row of monitors showing grainy black and white images from security cameras scattered around the building.

Joe stalked forward, absolutely furious. He stood in front of the desk and turned, glaring at Alex.

"So when do these come off?" he spat.

Alex didn't say anything, just walked around behind Joe and undid the cuffs.

"Sit," he said. "Empty your pockets."

Joe did, glaring the whole time. Wallet, keys, pen, change, spare condom, they all went onto the desk.

"Watch, cufflinks, tie, and belt."

"Jesus," Joe grumbled. "You want my underwear too?"

He dropped the requested items onto the desk. Alex pulled out a large manila envelope and swept the things into it. He handed a receipt to Joe.

"What, not worried I'm going to paper-cut myself to death?" Alex moved to take back the receipt, but Joe snatched it from his hands and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Fingerprints," Alex said, opening up a stamp pad and grabbing Joe's wrist. The printing was rough as he mashed his fingers on the form.

"Can I get something to wipe this crap off with?"

"You have pants," Alex said, before he unceremoniously shoved Joe into the holding pen.

"God damn you, Alex Gagnon! When I get out of here you are so f**king not getting any!" Joe yelled at the closed door. Then he kicked it, but it only bruised his foot.

"No good, lousy, good for nothing, son of a bitch boyfriend," Joe grumbled as he turned and started to pace, limping just a little. The room he was in was maybe ten feet by five, with a low bench running along one wall. It was cinderblock like the rest of the building, the walls having enough grey paint on them to almost hide the seams between the blocks.

"Hey man," came a cheerful but slightly slurred voice. "Bad date?"

The other man in the room looked Joe over. He was in jeans and a ratty t-shirt, with a flannel shirt unbuttoned. Joe was still in his dress suit, though rumpled and damp from the rain.

"Date. Hah! The bastard f**king pulled me over for speeding, then arrested me. And now he's pretending he doesn't even know who I am."

The man nodded. "Cops," he said, as if the word summed it all up.

Joe slumped down onto the bench. "Bastards," he said, agreeing.

They sat in a companionable silence.