CITY / * CLEANSE

Emilio Carrasco Deputy Chief of Police NYPD, NYC.

[emiliocarrasco]

𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜 ; 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝・ 𝚠𝚌𝚜・ 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢・𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎・

[emiliocarrasco]

📫 for Rowan, please!

Emilio: If Thompson leaves the evidence locker open one more time. I'm going to lock him in there. Emilio: That's if he's lucky.

And, the deputy's in Halliday's office no more than three hours later. Palms splayed on the chief's desk, he's standing, leaning over with murder in his gaze that isn't befitting an officer.

"It might not be a crime, but it's sacred law not to be estúpido."

Twice in one day.

@chiefhalliday

[detectivehalliday]

@ open to law enforcement

The smell of the fresh pot of coffee filled the air of the department. Reese hadn’t seen many faces yet, but it wasn’t surprising when she had arrived so early. The night shift was gearing down and anyone migrating in from days would be there shortly. Her fingers laced around the coffee pot handle before lifting it up and pouring herself half a cup. Hearing foot steps behind her she cast a glass over her shoulder offering a small smile. 

“You want some of this?” She questions raising the kraft up in the air a moment. “Its not last nights.”

[emiliocarrasco]

"Not often someone beats me to the coffee pot at this hour," Emilio bemuses, noting that one of the Halliday juniors has it brewed and ready and he's still got his jacket on. It's the changeover hour; the handover that tells of all the major overnight incidents to the morning team. More often than not, Emilio sees both shifts in their entirety.

So does the chief. And he's sure Reese knows that too.

But he's in early because he'd made friends with a bottle of scotch for the majority of the previous night, showered and thrown himself back into the fray of the precinct. Coffee is only the start of what he needs. "One sugar, black." a beat, to self-address his sweet tooth and the box from La Nueva in his hand: "I brought pionono to go with, have you had breakfast?" He's sure that sugar's an admirable morning snack.

[max-millers-deactivated20250119]

@emiliocarrasco | Setting: The Block Party

Max has been sweating for fifteen minutes now. It's been a long fifteen minutes, which Emilio has spent chatting with people Max doesn't know, and he's been patiently standing on the side to wait for the chance to speak him alone. Drink in one hand - non-alcoholic, a fun colorful mocktail - Max then finally makes his way over to the man, wiping his empty palm on his jean shorts to make it less sweaty. His heart beats up into his throat, but he manages to swallow it down. This is worse than match day - much worse.

"Mister Carrasco?" The resident clears his throat, stops in front of him and then holds out his hand for a shake, "I'm.. Max. Miller." Luis isn't near - which is good, because if this goes terribly bad, he won't find out the full extent of it. Hopefully. "Your son Luis and I.. I'm his boyfriend." Max nods to support his words, "We've been.. dating for a minute now, and I wanted to take the chance and introduce myself to you today.

[emiliocarrasco]

Name a block party where police presence hasn't either been necessary, or painfully lacking where it should have been. He's smartly dressed; black slacks with a glaring badge at the hip, polished shoes and a white shirt that could have been from a detective era.

He'd attract conversation, attention — whispers, no matter what he wore where it be full blues; a suit, a leather jacket and ripped jeans —

It's the silver gleam at his waist that everyone spots first.

Emilio's smiling in conversations with old colleagues, or familiar faces of acquaintances over the years. Few kids who'd come over to ask if they'd arrest one of the other kids for snatching a drink from another's hand. Something trivial but calm. Carrasco's always anticipating something to go off, even if he denies he is.

"Hm?" It's a murmur of acknowledgement to his name, head swivelling to look at the man in front of him; hand outstretched nervously. It's a moment of hesitation, but Emilio meets his grip; sweaty palmed, and firm as he quietly offers to tone the sudden formality down with a simple: "Emilio."

It comes with a smile, and a lilting head that seems to be surveying the man with a bit more interest now.

"I see." It comes out in thought. "Only a minute, and you're eager to meet his father?" it's a jest, but — "No wonder you're nervous."

It's both a tease, and a test. A little push to see that he's been left out of his son's life, in more ways than simply his day to day. Maybe this was his day to day? Max Miller. Emilio's tempted to pull his phone, make a call and background check the man before the interaction is even finished. But, it isn't in good taste, he's sure of that.

[xchiefhalliday]

𝑪𝑳𝑶𝑺𝑬𝑫 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹 — @emiliocarrasco

— ROWAN’S HOUSE, BROOKLYN ; EVENING

It was rare for Rowan to be home in the earlier portion of the evening, but after a full day of meetings and a public speaking event he thought he might go mad if he stared at his office’s walls any longer. It wasn’t like him to feel like this, though. Normally he’d relish being at his desk, making a difference and feeling a part of something bigger. But away from all of that it was just him, alone, in a house that was perhaps a little too big. It needed some other kind of life in it, another voice drifting through the hallways, and another mouth to share good food and drink with. Rowan initially thought about getting a dog- he loved dogs- but leaving it at home for an average of ten hours a day by itself wasn’t fair. Then he thought about getting a fish, but the idea of that was incredibly underwhelming.

No. He didn’t need a pet. He needed a friend. And he immediately thought of Emilio. Rowan understood Emilio had his own life and his own problems, but the two of them knew they’d be there for each other no matter the situation or the time of day. So, after much deliberation, Rowan texted his right hand man an invitation and it wasn't long before a reply was returned.

It was another half an hour or so before Emilio showed up, Rowan purposely leaving the back door open so he could let himself in and setting out some cookies his sister had made yesterday on the table.

When the door swung open and the cooler night air blew in, Rowan smiled. "I'm glad you could come. Sorry it had to be so late."

[emiliocarrasco]

When Rowan's name flashes on his screen, there's little in the way of answering the text; the call. Any hour, any circumstance, he'll drop it all — and usually, it's Carrasco that's deafening the chief with phone calls. Someone to tell him to take the rational path, and not the one that will land them in hot water.

So when Rowan calls, Emilio's there.

He's at the door, a bottle of scotch in hand and his casuals. No uniform in sight; no suit, just a pair of old faded jeans and a black t-shirt he hadn't been sure still fit beneath a brown suede jacket.

"Late's what we're good for, isn't it?" How many times have they said New York never sleeps, so they hardly get to.

Emilio holds up the amber filled bottle: "And I brought a Haran."

Better company than the pair of them, sometimes.

Emilio steps through the threshold, firmly patting Rowan on the arm. He playfully scolds: "You know you never have to apologise to me." They save that, for everyone else. Then he spins around to face Rowan again, arms wide, smiling— "You know I'll only return the favour; I haven't forgotten about the sharpie, chief."

[ameliaxcarrasco]

❝ i see you’re not getting much sleep either. should i make us both some tea, then? ❞ (emilio)

"Tea would be wonderful, mi amor." Amelia smiled, though it didn't quite reach her tired eyes. She was exhausted, but even with the exhaustion sleep wouldn't come. She had gotten out of bed, and it was clear Emilio hadn't even attempted sleep yet tonight. Of course, the matriarch had found him in his study, likely working on some case or something of equal importance to him. Amelia hated waking up to an empty bed, but even now things were better between them it was something that happened often. "Care to share what's keeping you up so late? I think I could've fallen asleep in your arms if you were there, mi vida." A slight chide, but she hoped that was all it took these days for Emilio to see when things were taking too tight of a hold over him again. She just worried about him, about his wellbeing and Amelia knew that he would put work before self-care. He had done the entire time she had known him. "Camomile tea, if we have it?" @emiliocarrasco

[emiliocarrasco]

His wife hovers in the doorway to his study, a silken gown wrapped around her person, arms clinging tightly against her frame to keep the chill from sneaking in. Emilio glances up from between documents; files haphazardly scattered across his desk, a pencil in hand that he's slowly lowering in concession.

His desk chair creaks when he rises, a stiff huff tells how long he's been hunched over. Carrasco layers the sound in a laugh, to hide away his locked limbs. Amelia would only concern over him. "New York." he answers, with a testing smile — because it pains him to know he's played a part in his wife's restlessness.

He knows the cost; he stays up a little later each night. Tirelessly decoding his officer's notes, and transcripts. Looking for something missed.

In all of it, he's missing the thing that's only in the other room, waiting. "I'll bring it in," he slips by her, hand on her waist as he softly leans in and pecks the corner of her lips. He feels the chill on her skin. "Estas frio," he titters, squeezing her, like he suddenly has the right. "Go get warm beneath the blankets, I won't be long."

[rileytakeda]

The tension between them is familiar, but different from all those times when sitting in an interrogation room across from each other. There are no clients or suspects this time to play proxy for their battle of wits, and it's clear that neither of them are at the top of their game. They see the moment he catches himself, swallowing down words that would certainly be damning, and they're surprised at his self-discipline.

They just shake their head at his reply. Always with that fucking self-righteous bullshit about saving lives and protecting people, when study after study shows that the police do more to endanger society than help it. But they doubt that he'll listen, not right now, certainly not to them.

"Better ten guilty men go free than one innocent man suffers," they point out, quoting the oft-repeated idiom. "If we don't stand by that, then what is the point of anything that you or I do?"

[emiliocarrasco]

He's aware that he shouldn't have picked this fight, or — battle, whatever game or dance that Takeda and Carrasco are formidable for. Not here and not with a drink in his hand that isn't water.

Carrasco isn't in the business of walking away though.

And Takeda knows it — weaponises it, even. Because he's the one with the badge, and the one meant for the fray. They're almost respectable, and perhaps even a dangerously good partnership in another life if they were not destined for other ends of cases; being the enemy, or the barrier the other had to push through.

Emilio breaths a sigh through his nose — a rude, but quick eyeroll that's worlds of unprofessional for the philosophical spiel Riley throws at him. Is it? Never leaves his mouth, but sometimes — it's thrown into question.

Because he hates to agree, on any front with them.

And he refuses to, even now. So, he only opts for the obvious, assuming it's safe; on the record:

"If we do our jobs, then the guilty face justice, and the innocent walk free. There shouldn't be a situation to recount Blackstone."

[josiahmaxwell]

Luis never had anything against Gael. Quite the opposite — they shared many laughs and late night talks over beer at the porch of the Carrasco family house. Memories, although fond, pushed aside when it came to his sister's well being. It was never about just Gael — it had been the question of whether she had been taking her medication, mixed with the drunk state she was in, and in the company of her ex — Luis knew where all of this was going, and he didn't wish to have his sister waking up to another regret.

He froze in his spot. A touch so foreign landing on him. Not that his father hadn't tried before — he's reached for him, only for Luis to step aside, or raise his hand in an attempt to stop him, or simply dismiss each of his tries. It was the same every time, yet Emilio continued to try — like watching a movie, you've seen a thousand times before, and yet still expecting a different ending each time.

Luis would call that pathetic.

No amount of tries would ever earn him anything more than a scoff.

His father has always been too tired, too busy, too anything to deal with an actual issue, so what was the difference now?

"Of course I watch out for her. Who else would, when you stop picking up your phone?" monotone voice echoed back. A poke that was to be expected. There was no point in lacing any of his words with unnecessary anger — he wasn't worth the spike in his blood pressure.

His father's hand remained on his shoulder, and it only irritated him more, like an annoying stain he couldn't get out —

"I called you — for her. I called you because you are her father, not mine." his eyes finally met Emilio's; brown that resembled his very own — a thought he tried not to his concious linger on too much. A hollow, humorless laugh escaped his mouth, as he wiped at his eyes any traces left of his tears, "I'm fine. Please, stop playing the worried father and get back in your car — " he gestured to his vehicle vaguely. "All your children are fine, deputy."

[emiliocarrasco]

It's cold; his son's response, and Emilio should have expected it; the loosening of a hand on a shoulder as he withholds his sigh. It's never the right moment, or any moment that Luis can see beyond his own scope of bitterness. A resentment so deeply embedded that the deputy doesn't know how to help him.

Emotionless, is the word. Blunt, and unforgiving.

His father's son. As much as Luis might deny that. Emilio has sides that people see, that his family should never. Would never, if Carrasco has any say in it. He's gone this many years of imbalance, he could go some more.

"That is not what happens, and you know that." It's wasted air, to a man who shutters off so quickly. It only grows more hurtful as his son goes on, line after line —

The hand fell away. Placed back on Emilio's knee. He nods, almost acceptingly to the harshness of the phrases. Luis has years to learn, Emilio knows and teaching a child — a man with his own mind set, is a difficult task that he'll continue to tackle.

Piece by piece, around what New York allows.

Saying it hijo, does not make it true. Emilio brings his other hand up, to run a knuckle along his brow. It's a sign of fatigue he dislikes to be seen, but it's there. And Luis' statements contradict, as much as he might deny it.

"Luis," it's a similar sigh — but, hopeful. Foolishly, he's aware. "If not for me, then do it for your mother who will kill us both for letting you go without something to eat. It's an empanada, I'm not asking you to go to a gallery with me."

[rileytakeda]

Just the person they wanted to see. Riley is aware their words are inflammatory, especially as someone who works so closely with and against the police all the time, but they're not firing on all cylinders at the moment. They're driven by emotion, pure instinct and ire at the world they've found themselves in. "All public defenders are bastards, hmmm, no doesn't quite have the same ring to it," they lob back with a friendly, if sharp, smile.

"Got a second to spare a comment for what your men are doing to a bunch of college kids, or are you too busy organizing security for billionaires at an event where one ticket costs the average cop's yearly salary?" Their tone makes it clear what they think of the city's tax dollars being spent on that. "Besides, it's not PDs who are getting sued every other week for excessive force or Fourth Amendment violations."

[emiliocarrasco]

Emilio's smile is tighter than theirs. Pulled strings at the edges of a mouth that are taut, and very easily sliced when the right words are spoken. Public defenders are (and can be) bastards; Emilio stands by it. Advocating for the money, and not the cause.

He isn't sure he's ever had a conversation with Riley that hasn't been the epitome of hostile, or aggravating. He's made a grievous error in thinking otherwise.

"Are you finished?" Because how can the deputy combat the remarks without digging himself, Halliday and the force a hole that'll be hard to climb out of. Takeda's too smart. They'll use that and Emilio's liquor stained tongue in all the ways he doesn't want it to be.

Carrasco's volitivity has to be stemmed — especially here.

Keeping you in a job, Takeda.

Do not say it. He tells himself. "But I suppose having a job where making the wrong call, is just a lesser paycheck is okay, then?" Wrong calls in his, can get people killed. What does it get Riley? "I'll keep that in mind."

[bulletpro0f]

In moments like this, Ezra often finds himself wondering what could have been.

If he hadn't been as scared as a teenager, as he was being questioned by officers. If he hadn't grown up on the street, facing drugs, and fights, and drive-by shootings. If the strong hand of his father on his shoulder hadn't let him right out of the station -- anxious eyes sparing one look back from his side of the car.

"¡Sí!", Nick exclaims, "My Dad taught me." And Ezra did. He'd rather have Nick be safe than sorry. And right there in that moment he feels a need to justify, a need to mention that Nick isn't as drawn into the world of crime as Emilio might think he is -- "Maybe we keep away from dangerous jobs, no? What about becoming a tailor, like your mamá?" Soft but scarred hands push through the kid's dark curls, and Nick complains silently -- mostly about the statement.

Nick becomes distracted, watching, exploring and figuring out, and Ezra pauses at what Emilio says, his heart close to skipping a beat. "I know he is.", the man answers, "He knows too much for his own good. Came to me recently and talked my ear off about New York's different bird species." A soft smile sneaks onto his lips -- birds have always been Nick's favorite, so he got one.

There's courage for one more statement, rooted in his inner reaction to the translation of Emilio's words -- "I'm not like my father, Emilio.", Ezra says, calm, "I don't force children into things they don't understand, or want."

That's why they're here.

That's why Nick is wearing his little badge, and black, fitting clothing.

Though Officer de la Cruz sounds like a newfound poison.

But we sadly don't get to choose our family, his eyes now suggest.

[emiliocarrasco]

My dad taught me.

Good. Emilio thinks. Ezra's done something else praiseworthy; he's done the minimum, really. Carrasco's prejudices were deeply snared, and de la Cruz knows it just as well. Ezra's fast to add in — a detail that Emilio can't miss, another curvature of a pathway that he's paving out for Nick to take.

Far away from law, and order.

Perhaps more the former, than the latter. "A respectable career too." Emilio compliments — he isn't in the business of insulting a woman who isn't there. Nick's mother, as involved as she may be, did not deserve the entire bias that Carrasco held for the de la Cruz's. Everyone needs a tailor, sure.

As much as they need some form of enforcer; to keep the peace.

And for a second, Ezra and Emilio are not on opposing sides of the law — they're not the law, at all for the streets, or the government. They're just two men, talking about an innocent who doesn't know exactly what, or who they are. It's honest, as much as a criminal, and a cop can be to one another. But it lasts only but a second.

"I hear Queens has a good aviary." Like, it's clear Emilio's never taken his own kids often — even if they're grown now, or that he is simply encouraging a child to be a child. For as long as able. Before men like Ezra coerce him down a road that's soaked in bloodied history.

It's cracking — the walls, the ground; the brick and mortar of this fragile thing between them. There's an elongated silence as Emilio lets the statement settle. It's unclear to him if saying anything at all would change the eventual outcome of all of this.

If whatever he says here, changes that Nick de la Cruz could be on his most wanted list in a decade, or two — that Ezra is a reckoning force that Emilio never stopped when he had the chance.

It doesn't change. He knows that, what will be, will be.

Emilio just hopes to be there, to watch the inevitable rise and fall. As painful, and agonising as that might be.

"But, you won't stop it, either." It's all he says, when Nick's too close to continue adult conversations. That law, and war are too closely entwined in this small space, they cannot allow anything more to come of it. But Emilio and Ezra's eyes connect — and there's a buried pity that Carrasco has for the man who he watched scared as a boy in their interview room.

To this man now; a father, a good one too.

How much he, and de la Cruz almost had in common.

[emiliocarrasco]

nick's fanmail, pt.1

Fanmail arrives in a crumpled letter, on a late afternoon; MR CARRASCO is written on it in wonky handwriting, with rainbow-colored pencils. (Someone has written the accurate address on the back, and glued a stamp on it.) The inside contains a note, and it says:

Dear Mister Carrasco!!! My Name is Nicolas de la Cruz!!! We met a few weeks ago, when my school came to visit. You can call me Nick!! I had a few questions left, since we had to leave, and you were talking with my Dad so much. My Dad said it's not the best idea to send you a letter, because you are so busy all the time, and that I will just make you even more busy. And I understand that, but who else should answer my kesti questions?? I hope you have some time to write me back. I think your job is super cu cool. You get to run around in those cool uniforms, and you get to use the blue lights. What does it feel like to use the blue lights?? Do you not get scared, when you have to be in a hurry, or when there is scary guys with you in the car? And do you not get tired when you work at night? My Dad says you guys work all the time. But he works all the time, too. Do you also have a son that lives with you? Does he get sceir scared when you are at work? And what do I have to do to become like you? I hope I can be a hero like you and my Dad someday. With kindest regards, Nick!!!!!! P.S.: When I work for the police, can I take my bird to work? He does not like being alone.

[barlowek]

@emiliocarrasco -- The MET, late

The constant background noise (which Kian has decided to label their guide as), is causing him a headache as he is trying to figure out security risks that might cause issues at the MET gala. It's too late for his liking, and he had his last coffee three hours ago. Three whole hours.

Sparing glances at his watch, Kian looks over at Emilio, seeking for similar distaste in his features as one of the younger officers in front of him almost stumbles over an expensive carpet, close to taking Kian out right with him. Kian smoothly grabs his arm and sends him a glare, to which the officer responds to with multiple muttered excuses.

"Do you think we can use one of the security risks as an escape from this, too?", Kian mutters in Emilio's direction, "I need a damn coffee." And hearing the news of Emilio's son being arrested, Kian is sure the man needs one, too.

[emiliocarrasco]

They've checked the exits — twice, thrice and logged the potential security risks; fire hazards, and there's still a list of preventative measures Rowan's supplied that they're to run over.

Kian's agitated beside him, Emilio doesn't have to have all his screws tight to know that time checking says everything.

"Have to be somewhere, Barlowe?" Emilio muses, watches the officer ahead, trip over the carpet.

Hazard.

Kian's murmuring before Carrasco can say much else. He finds it difficult to argue the case too. Emilio's foot straightens down the bumpy carpet, absently considering an adhesive. The scenes of New York's elite tripping over their heels because of a carpet — it isn't going to look great.

Emilio's mind is on tens of other things than the MET's security.

And he lets guilt eat away at him for that.

Sighing, he glances the officers up ahead, then to Kian. "One more lap, then we'll take a small break."

[oscar-carrasco-deactivated20250]

Oscar's light blue Jordan's hit the floor in a constant tap, tap, tap. A habit carried on from childhood, and usually a sign for an uprising tantrum, caused by something close to overstimulation. Tap, tap, tap, and a bypassing officer gives Oscar a strange look, dirty grin, and nod. Oscar's foot stops tapping.

Brunette hair hits the cold stone wall as the youngest Carrasco tries to breathe the itching in his hands away. Handcuffs feel like his own personal prison, and the idea of actual prison is suffocating. Everyone and their mother knows Oscar wouldn't even survive a day in there. He can see it all, just like in High School - dumb, laughing teens now replaced by adults, doing far worse things than pouring their coke over his head.

The cold takes over his body, and there it is - the tapping picks back up again, lips pressed together in a tight line. Unlike at family dinner's, there's no chance to drown this all out in music and art. Luis is going to be so mad, Oscar thinks. Until this day, everyone in their family filled a certain role. Amelia and Emilio, the parents, perfect lovebirds, stuffed full of achievements; Luis, the oldest, always causing trouble; Alex, the middle child, perfect, just perfect - and then there's Oscar. A ghost. Caught in shambles of being alone, of finding Alex unable to speak, of getting text messages from exes of both of his siblings, just to be judged for finally finding someone that makes him happy. Failed job interviews, unused degree, still lives at home. No girlfriends, boyfriends, friends, the protest, arguments with Flynn, the strip club - Or you can go back another time, after feeling more psychologically prepared for it, and not chicken out; said by Eliza.

The advantage of being a ghost, clearly, is the attention always being on someone else. On Luis' dirty jokes and jabs during dinner, on Alex's episodes, and awesome boyfriend. Never on him, listening to music through his AirPods, tuning out everything and everyone.

This, though, this is a spotlight and a stage. And Oscar is the fucking clown.

This, this is his final failure. Steps approach, and suddenly there's a lack of air, skin feeling awfully tight, and Oscar's breaths are gasps for air, until his father comes into view.

"I told them I picked up a stone I thought could've been a Banksy project. And no.", Oscar answers, "I'm not okay." Has he ever really been okay to begin with? He for sure is not when he looks at Emilio and confirms with a gaze - he thinks he fucked this up, and he knows that this job, the one he had wanted so badly, is slipping through his fingers, and his wrists are in handcuffs. There's no way to reach out and catch it. Tap - his foot hits the ground again, and Oscar likes to imagine he's crushing this stupid fucking dream, this stupid fucking police department, and the stupid fucking police. He wants to spray pant it onto their wall - fuck you, in bold and bright red letters. Fuck you.

"I don't know what to do, Dad.", he croaks out, head still leaned against the wall, "They're all talking about me."

[emiliocarrasco]

Emilio's a father and a rough soldier of the law. He's met with the line nobody talks about; the grey area that has him —for what feels like the first time in decades —thinking about breaking the rules he's spent his entire career enforcing. Provoked to the surface, by his own damn son. It makes sense, if Carrasco sat on it for more than a moment; the doubt; the trepidation; the unknown. It's all territory he's stood on before, but none of this is the outcome one could predict.

It's the law, versus right and wrong, versus the trembling, shaking line of morality that Emilio wars with day in and day out.

It's family, against a career.

Against New York City.

It's everything, against everything.

How could you do this to me Oscar?

"Did my officers act out of line?" Emilio asks, eying his lastborn for injury; bruises that could give the deputy a reason to swing, or yell and see how far he could go before a suspension hits him in the face. "You're going to be fine, hijo." He would be; the deputy rarely makes promises to his family. He's unreliable — of no fault of his own, Emilio would defend. But it is all him, and the city that has him painted as something other than all the things he is supposed to be. "I will straighten this out. We'll get to the root of it." Promise, after promise.

So easily said, than done.

The way he watches his son, leg shaking, a repetitive passive knee jerk reaction to all of this. You're not built for this, Os. It's in the back of his mind — no, the front of it. That job he'd been so excited for him to step into; a new, fresh faced intern, it's made complicated now.

"No, they're talking about me." He informs Oscar. He cannot hide the grimness in his tone. Of all the criminal things an officer of the law can commit, without being directly responsible themselves — a partner, or a child being in their cells. Those who want to be in Emilio's office; who might want to take him off his second throne, have the ammunition to fire at him now.

It piles on top of the mountainous piles of historical shit Carrasco's done over the many years in service.

But, they don't care it's Oscar, they care that he's got Emilio's name attached to the end of him. The rumour mill has started, and there's no stopping it.

"But you're telling me you didn't do it." First port of call; he's picked up his Banksy rock. "Then it's a misunderstanding, nothing will come of this, Oscar. I'll sort it." How? He hasn't decided; wipe it? Ask Rowan to see whether they could bury the file to the depths of the archives; Oscar could not have this staining his name. His career could take a hit, just as Emilio's could.

That's all before he even knows if Oscar is innocent, or guilty.

[rileytakeda]

"All cops are bastards, even the shitty campus security police." Riley's eyes are bloodshot from having gotten barely a handful of hours of sleep over the last week. When they're not wading through case law and drafting motions for their clients, they're signing affidavits and reviewing bogus arrest warrants for a bunch of co-eds. With the explosion of activity on college campuses all around the country, they've been working as much as possible to make sure everyone is having their rights protected. They raise the half-open can of Red Bull in a mock toast. "The kids might be all right though. At least some of them."

[emiliocarrasco]

"One could say that about public defenders, Takeda." Emilio shrugs, navigating this conversation carefully. If there's anything that always transpires between him and them; it's how frequently they can be on opposing sides of anything. They'd spite each other to have different favourite colours, if asked. Both will deny the common ground (probably, to the death) that they always do their job; they're the best at what they do.

They don't realise that they've said it — but Emilio's tossing aside the kids being alright. His recently took a trip to a holding cell with his son inside, on account of a serious allegation. So Carrasco fails to raise his cup, he isn't drinking. Really, he's working — or was, had been overseeing MET security earlier in the day; he's side tracked now. Switching off, is the hardest part of it all. And there's layers of barrier built between him, and Riley that require patience, and energy to reinforce.

[xchiefhalliday]

Rowan nodded in agreement. "Hey, I love books and I love reading- other than my work and family they're the great loves of my life- but there's hardly any time for it. I could be at home with a good book now, but I'm spending my evening with my best friend instead, catching up and drinking a good bottle of scotch. Even if we are at work."

There was a collection of books at home waiting to be devoured. In his less chaotic moments at work, Rowan found himself thinking of which one to start off with when he had the chance. Usually, before he even got to weigh up his options, the phone rang or there was another threat of emergency in Manhattan or an officer had been injured. Never a dull moment. But taking on the role as Chief, Rowan almost missed them. He missed having nothing to do when he got home after work. But it was times like this- the quietude in the dimness of his office in the evening with Emilio for company- that more than made up for it.

The mention of Amelia's book signing in the city piques Rowan's interest. "Oh, that's wonderful! I'm sure she's looking forward to it. Depending on dates and times, I'll have to go over and support her. It'll give me a change of scenery too."

Taking a sip of his drink, Rowan noted Emilio's vague response to asking after his family, but even if they were best friends he didn't want to intrude on their lives. If there were problems, they were personal and Rowan hoped that any of the Carrascos- his deputy especially- could come to him for advice or even just to offload their feelings. He cared if they were all safe and happy, yet sometimes they weren't going to be given the nature of Emilio's job. Rowan didn't want to think about that, but he worried immensely about his second family. Although the mention of Alex's party was positive; no doubt all the Carrascos would be there and it would be a good day for all.

"Oh, I'll be there," he then said, returning the smile. "I'll be there with bells on. I really am looking forward to it. Being round at your place with Amelia's delicious cooking and being with my favourite people makes me feel more like a regular human that a cog in the giant machine that is New York City."

Despite the things he missed and the disorder and stresses of being Chief, Rowan wouldn't trade it for the world. He could really make a difference, really improve things for people, and leave a legacy behind that all those years of NYPD experience had amounted to. He would leave this earth plain before he left the force and wanted something to show for it.

[emiliocarrasco]

Emilio can't say he's surprised. He's confiscated books from his officers when they've left his wife's published works on their desks. On their breaks, how can Emilio play dictator for their literature. But, during their shift, he expects professionalism. He's caught Rowan and Amelia talking novels, and authors tens of times. He's yet to see the man stop work, to read bound fiction. Or maybe, he's just missed that — because he's working.

"I'll pretend I didn't just almost lose being top spot, to a book, Ro." Emilio chuckles, tipping back another warm mouthful of scotch. It's nice, like this. Carrasco sometimes forgets what it's like to stop, entirely and completely when the walls of the plaza are all consuming; behemoth's that whisper of endless workloads, and how New York never sleeps, so then, why should he get to? Talking about Amelia, brings him back. "Please, she'd love to see you there. But she knows what happens; we don't always get to put a pin in the city when we'd like to." It reads: I'll try too, but I never promise to be present anymore. They'd learned that their schedules were not fixed.

Emilio cannot afford another broken promise to shatter his heart when Amelia, or his children look at him like he's crushed their entire world whilst criminals steal him for theirs.

I'll be there.

Rowan could make promises; he's the chief of police.

"Alex likes aji de gallina, so I think Lia's making a few dishes. Rocoto relleno, ceviche, she's got a schedule, as always." Emilio remarks, smile widening at the image of his family gathering around the table; warm dishes, and smiles. Rare a scene, but, Emilio hopes he gets to enjoy it more often, as deputy. He's glad Rowan gets to have that too.

Carrasco and Halliday as giant cogs in the machine; a rusting, aging pair that were just as pivotal in the function of the contraption as the rest of the force were (they'll never count someone out). But where they differed, is the responsibility of that cog; they operated more than a singular piece; each notch operates a hundred other parts. One day — as every overworked, aging cog did — they would be replaced with a shiny new piece. And repeat. The system of New York, and it's endless, broken pieces had to end somewhere.

Nothing in the world is a hundred percent effective in its creation; there is always wasted energy, be it heat, or kinetic or otherwise but — they'd like to change it; pull off the impossible.

Or at least, go down trying.

Finishing his drink, Emilio makes a remark, to drag the pair of them out of the weight of responsibility that they'll always fail to bury: "Can't wait to see these bells of yours, Halliday."

[emiliocarrasco]

LOCATION: Upland, Rose Hill. TIME: 19:05 CLOSED FOR: @ameliaxcarrasco

Held behind at work for an incorrectly filed document he'd had to fix. Emilio had dressed for dinner at the precinct. His uniform, and suit were a questionable combination of disarray on his desk, and chair. It was partially left behind in his office as he wrestled with his too tight tie for ten minutes too long. Amelia, if she hadn't planned to already, was going to have his head. He knew.

But he's there. Dashing to make their dinner reservation, only five minutes later than he'd promised. (Twenty, since he was supposed to be there at quarter to the hour.) But as he enters through the doors, Amelia's there, waiting.

Fortunately, they've kept the reservation open. Amelia made quite sure of it, apparently. Emilio's beside her, smiling ⏤ as he leans forward to steal a kiss in greeting. There's a wink too, for good measure as he skirts his arm around her.

"Lo siento," he murmurs, hoping a winning smile, and a polished suit would soften the tardiness. "You look gorgeous, Lia."

The server is past ready to lead them to their table, that's clear. And they follow suit, it's a nice place. It's subtle, and nothing flashy. And upon making the reservation, he's tried to see if they could have somewhere that's not so centre to the room. It's rare they can schedule date nights, let alone not have someone wonder if his badge is a badge, among other details.

They sit, and there's already a request for drinks. Emilio turns to his wife, flattening the menu, to ask after her wine request:

He's not sure about Tempranillo, but ⏤ "Rioja, Amelia?"

[oscar-carrasco-deactivated20250]

@emiliocarrasco | Setting: NYPD HQ | Local Time: 20:33

"Alex, I'm not fucking joking. You need to pick me up before Dad finds out. Or Flynn. Or anyone else. I swear I'll pay you back. I'll do your dishes for a year. I'll cook you dinner. I will get down on my knees in front of Gael, begging him to accept my apolo-"

Oscar stops talking into the telephone, because a familiar face comes into sight, and he suddenly feels like being swallowed by the ground, or running away, or maybe even dying.

It all started out pretty simple - Oscar had picked up a cool stone from the ground. Weirdly enough, the stone had been spiky, and close to a mass of glass, and when he had turned around to find the source, he had faced a shattered window to a store. "Oh no.", had been his instant reaction, and when the police car stopped behind him on the road, it's had been a little too late. He caught a glimpse of the storefront reading CCTV, but badly enough, he didn't know the cops getting out of the car.

One of the exact same cops is standing next to him now, Oscar being in handcuffs. Which feels suffocating, because he's innocent.

"He was arrested for robbery.", the officer explains, "We're checking the cams right now." Oscar half snorts, half snobs, seeing his bright and dazzling career as a forensic artist disappear right in front of his eyes.

"Dad.", is all he can say.

[emiliocarrasco]

One of his officers had come by his desk, burst in like the building was on fire. Emilio would have scolded the cop to the brink of madness if he hadn't quietly instead blurted out something far more pressing than door etiquette.

Deputy, we brought in a Carrasco — robbery — I think he's —

His son.

Tonto del culo, Luis. It's kinder words than he wants to say. He's up from his desk in the next moment, passing through the precinct as eyes that pretended not to look at him, were. Whispers travelled; the deputy's son? — armed? — I'd kill to be in that room when —

When he arrives, and officers filter towards him. Emilio's gaze settles on Oscar. A hesitation as his youngest utters nervously at him. He has to refrain from immediately upheaving the whole system because it's simply impossible that Oscar's robbed anything (and yet, he forgets that he's first assumed it was his eldest; somehow, more believable). This is a mistake. And he'll have the heads of whoever the arresting officers were.

That's where his eyes fall next, as Oscar continues to sit cuffed, fidgeting in a holding cell. Emilio cannot find the right words to say to him right then; his phone is going off in his pocket. He's thinking about calling Rowan — about reviewing the footage himself, about unlocking the cuffs and smearing his name for the sake of knowing this is a mistake.

What if it isn't? Sensibilities return; the officer that fought for justice peels through the cracks of familial loyalty. There's nothing to be afraid of Os, if this is just a misunderstanding. He shoots his officers a look — intending for them to hurry up, and write up paperwork, and facts for Carrasco to look over.

"Oscar," it's finally said as he trails up to the bars. He's not a lawyer — but he knows some fucking good ones who would eat this situation alive if they caught wind of it. "What did you tell them?" a beat, to be a father, for a moment: "Are you okay?"

His phone won't stop, and he's irritatingly pulling it from his pocket. He has to tell Amelia, for one. And Alex is already filtering panic through his messages. You called Alex, Oscar? Emilio looks between his son, and his phone — knowingly. That's his call. He hadn't called his mom. If Emilio hadn't been withholding his anger then, at Oscar, at his officers — at the lack of clarity for the situation, he;s let it become visible in the severity of his features then. Gaze dart back to his son, eying the dried tears staining his face, and the sharp ache that penetrates the deputy's chest starts to have him wonder how much of his power he could abuse here. And he hates that he's thinking that at all.