Precarious Part 1: Sheriff's Gambit
Read Part 2: Safe Zone here
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader wc: 6.9k tags: fbi agent!reader, slow burn, pining, degradation kink if you squint, like half a handjob and some groping, age difference (gator is 24, reader is 44), semi-canon compliant (takes place before the events of fargo season 5 and is based heavily on the content of the news article in the show about gator) a/n: a very special thank you to @s3xytosomeone who gave me the idea for this in the first place and has been its biggest cheerleader since i started writing it.
part 1 is everything that has been posted before (vignettes 1-3, 4.5) and vignettes 4-5 added in. part 2 is coming (vignettes 6-10) and it will be... exactly what i know you're all waiting for.
adding in a song below the cut because i remembered jet existed and this song and one other (that’ll be for part 2)… wowsers.
reblogs, comments, and likes are extremely appreciated!
&&
1: you’re the special investigator that the FBI sends down, not to investigate a crime per se; you’re there to investigate roy.
roy’s kid, some degenerate named gator, had been part of the state’s initial task force and had been asked to…step aside, putting it nicely. supposedly, he’d been steering the team in the wrong direction, trying to correct the course away from the tillman property, even though those missing folks had last been seen there. that wasn’t kosher, baby boy. and so you had to step in.
tough, hardened, cigarette-smoking, high-heeled boot wearing you. sent over from the FBI field office in denver, colorado, you stepped foot into the stark county sheriff’s office and saw the little shit immediately, hair slicked back like a helmet, few bruises on his face that he had probably both earned and deserved. it’s clear he has no idea who you are, because you don’t look like any FBI agent he’s ever seen before, and probably never will again. black heels clacking over the tile floor, hand perched on your holster over tight blue jeans, black button-down exposing too much cleavage for a federal investigator, sunglasses on even indoors, hair swept back careless and loose but you still looked poised.
“gator tillman?” you asked, voice rich and assertive. you’re older than him, and gator looks like he won a fucking prize, you asking after him.
“that’s me, ma’am,” he says. “sheriff’s deputy at your service.”
you tilt your chin down at him, the heels you’ve got on giving you a few inches over him. “we’re gonna get to know each other real well the next few days, deputy,” you say, plucking your badge out of your shirt pocket, flashing it like it’s no big thing. “where’s your daddy?”
gator would be a little embarrassed to admit that his son of a bitch of a cock stiffened just touch at your commanding presence, your authority, your disdainful look. god, he wanted you to put him in his place.
oh, and you would. gladly.
2: the next time you see gator, it's at the local diner up in town. he walks in, baseball cap boasting "stark county sheriff" and sunglasses hanging off the back of his head.
it's funny, a little cute. you remember when you were so green you'd wear your FBI hat around everywhere too. it was a point of pride back then; now, you didn't need to brag.
he spots you where you're sitting with your partner, mooney, in a corner booth. hair tied back and held with a claw clip, papers spread out on the table in front of you. he makes a beeline for your table, but you're quicker—he isn't the first 20-something who's tried to get the better of you. by the time he reaches your table, the file folders are closed, your laptop screens are shut, and your hands are folded atop the table, looking up at him.
it's obvious that he didn't expect you to clock him. which—how could you not? walkin' in like he owns the place, tactical vest shouting SHERIFF in bold lettering, combat boots audible for a block in either direction. he's the saddest excuse for any kind of officer you've ever seen, and it just makes you shift yourself a little, your breasts pressing together and deepening the v of your blouse, making absolutely sure he doesn't miss your décolletage.
his eyes sweep over your chest before moving to your partner, just your age in his mid-40s, but male and balding. not interesting to the deputy, not at all.
"deputy tillman," you say, plucking the cigarette from behind your ear.
"a-agent," he replies, clearly not having expected you to speak first either.
"care to join me?" you ask, flicking the cigarette in his direction, held between your fore- and middle fingers.
his eyes move over your partner again, but he shakes his head, then nods, following you outside like a lost puppy.
"i'll assume this visit is regarding the investigation?" you ask, once you're outside and in the shade behind the diner.
"it's—" he says, clearing his throat. "no, it's—it's um." you quirk an eyebrow, pulling your lighter from your pocket and inhaling so the cigarette catches. "yes. it's about the investigation."
a smirk plays at your lips as you exhale smoke. as if mimicking you, he lifts a neon green vape to his mouth and inhales deeply, blowing out at least twice as much smoke as you. you watch him, amused. he's a cute kid, you'll give him that.
"what about it?" you ask. "i sure hope your daddy didn't send you to interfere, deputy."
"no, he—he wouldn't," gator insists.
"i just know you have a history of getting your fingers into places they shouldn't be," you say, taking a drag. "allegedly."
he stares at you for a moment, slack jawed, before he hits his vape again. "i ain't done nothin' wrong. i was helpin' that task force."
you smirk. helping them botch it, you think. but you only stare him down; he looks away after a moment, one hand still clutching his vape, the other lifting to curl around one of the straps of his vest. "well, unless this is a personal call, i'm afraid any investigation talk will have to go through the proper channels. you understand, deputy."
he mumbles something, then clears his throat.
"i didn't quite catch that," you say, lifting your cigarette to your mouth before stepping closer. he very nearly backs up, you can see him almost take the step. this one will be fun to play with, you decide.
"said y'can call me gator, ma'am." you cock your head to the side. "agent, i mean."
"well," you say, and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "like i said: proper channels." you toss your cigarette to the ground and step on it, boot crushing it into the sand. gator watches you do it, then looks back up at your face. "but here's my card. in case you ever need to reach me." you reach into your back pocket, pulling out a silver cigarette case. you pop it open, revealing that it's half full of smokes and half full of business cards. you proffer one, and he takes it. pockets it along with his vape.
you step around him, and he says nothing. when you're at the corner of the diner, about to round it to head back toward the front door, you stop and look back at him. he's blatantly staring at your ass, but when you catch him, he clears his throat and meets your eyes. unashamed, maybe even a little defiant.
"i'm sure i'll see you real soon...gator."
3: your next idea was to commandeer desk space from the sheriff’s department itself.
it made sense, on paper. you were investigating these people, so being up in their space got you empirical data. in practice it wasn’t the best idea, but you and your partner already weren’t keeping any of your actual files on you—those were kept safely locked away in an undisclosed location that you wouldn’t be sharing with anyone. it was unthinkable to assume that roy tillman, with the size of his ego, wasn’t having you tailed, but his son was obviously a decoy. kid didn’t have a subtle bone in his body.
you’d locked off a couple desks in the bullpen mostly to have a place to sit and observe. it was almost surprising the things people would say or do once they got used to being watched. your goal was to fade into the background, become an innocuous figure in the station, and just…pick up information through osmosis.
gator had other ideas for you.
you're alone when the deputy approaches you, your partner on a coffee run or a lunch run or a cigarette run—he was always doin’ some kind of run and you never listened to which.
there are a couple officers across the way from you speaking in hushed tones that had caught your interest, but weren’t close enough to give you anything.
that’s when gator appears in your periphery.
“agent,” he says, waiting for you to acknowledge him.
you let him stew for a minute, keeping your eyes on those two officers until they leave the room. then you sit back in your chair a little, turn your face up to gator. “deputy tillman,” you greet him. “to what do i owe the pleasure?” you cross your legs at the knee, sleeveless blouse showing off your arms, the scoop neck not dipping too low, but you see his eyes rake across your chest anyway. ah, to be 24 again.
“good morning,” gator says, and you nod to him, waiting for him to say something else. he doesn’t and something in your chest slides into focus; there’s more to this than him wanting to get into your pants. you’d be willing to bet dollars to donuts that roy would nip that in the bud immediately if he found out, but like hell you’re not gonna use it to your advantage while you have the chance.
“what can i do for you, deputy?” you ask, and you see him pull a frown before fixing his expression. he wants you to call him gator. you won’t, not just yet. patience.
“just, uh. wondering if you had a chance to—get around town yet. yer not always on duty, right?”
you keep your expression neutral. “not sure what you mean.”
he clears his throat, shoves his hands in his pockets and then takes them out immediately, crossing them over his chest, then nixes that too and just puts them on his hips. “y’know. the good places t’eat and stuff. that diner’s fine in a pinch, but we got some real nice places around here. one won’t let ya in if ya got tennis shoes on.”
jesus in heaven.
“i know how to use google, deputy. is that all?”
your dismissal does nothing to deter him. “well—yeah, ‘course ya do.” he laughs nervously. “but, them yelp reviews ain’t always the most accurate. ‘s better to get some firsthand guidance, ‘sall i’m sayin’.”
“gator, does your daddy know you’re over here?” you ask, and you thrill a little seeing him deflate at you finally using his name in the same sentence as one referring to roy.
“no ma’am. agent,” he says. his eyes wander from your face to the door marked SHERIFF, then back to your lips.
“cruising around town with you, well, that’d be a conflict of interest. you think i’d jeopardize my investigation for the likes of you?” you drag your eyes up and down the lines of his body, tight black t-shirt clinging to his biceps, camo pants a little baggy but not baggy enough to hide the actually somewhat serious bulge he has going on downstairs nor the side to which he dresses. those big stompin’ boots. and back up to the sneer he tends to wear, ‘cept for most of the time when he’s lookin’ at you. those soft little doe eyes. the freckles on his neck you could trace your tongue over and probably have him creaming his pants.
by the time your eyes reach his face again it almost looks like he’s halfway to panting.
“n-no, agent,” he stammers, and you wonder how much it’s hurting him not to call you ma’am.
your lips curve into a smile. “so you’re not as stupid as your reputation would lead me to believe. i gotta say, that’s a real pleasant surprise.”
he looks at you, nods, then hurries away, his plan, whatever it was, foiled.
you follow him later that evening to the local bar, nursing a whiskey while he stares at you unabashedly, from the other end of room. you see him shift uncomfortably, sipping on his sweaty beer, palming himself a little when you tip your drink to him, winking.
4: you're met with armed guards when you pull up to the tillman property, which doesn't exactly inspire a warm and fuzzy feeling. flashing your badge just gets you blank looks, but eventually, you're allowed to drive fully onto the property, though it's blatantly clear that you're being watched. closely. two federal agents clearly have no place on this ranch.
roy is strangely scarce when you park your car outside of the main home, several other buildings spread out on the huge expanse of land, but none of them interest you, at least not yet. you expect the front door to open once your car doors slam, and it does, but it isn't roy who walks out. it's not even roy's jailbait wife, it's gator.
“agents,” he drawls, reaching up to straighten his sheriff's department baseball hat, like he'd only just put it on before he stepped onto the porch.
“sheriff tillman here?” mooney calls, and gator only shakes his head, barely discernible from where you stand.
“nah, just me,” he says. “need somethin'?”
“we have a warrant to search the house and the grounds,” you say, and gator looks at you for a moment before clomping down the porch steps, making his way lazily over to you like it's not a concern, like they really have nothing to hide.
“lemme see it, then,” he says, bypassing mooney completely and sidling up to you. you're wearing flat boots today, knowing you'd be out in the field, but you're still just a hair taller than him. you reach inside your suit jacket, pulling the papers out of the interior pocket. instead of handing it to him, you hold it vertically between yourselves, and then tilt your wrist just a little, letting it tap him on the chest.
you see mooney snicker in your periphery. gator, to his credit, doesn't react outwardly. a smile pulls at your lips.
the deputy plucks the papers from your hand and unfolds them, looking them over. it's legit—though part of you doubts whether gator would know or care—and then he looks back up at your face.
“gotta call roy 'bout this. you understand.”
the urge to smile manages to take your lips. “of course, deputy. once you let him know, i trust you'll escort us around yourself.”
that takes him aback, but he only nods before he walks—taking pains not to run back to the house. you pull your cigarette case out of your pocket and light up while you wait for him to emerge, and look back over your shoulder. the armed men at the gate are watching you. you watch them back.
after a decent amount of time, long enough for you to finish your cigarette and to start to feel a little hot and sticky out in the sun, gator emerges from the house.
“all right,” he says. he approaches you again, slipping his sunglasses out from his pocket, though he doesn't wear them yet. “whatcha need to see?”
you orient yourself to find the location of interest, then point. “right there,” you say. it's a windmill, spinning crookedly in what meager breeze there is, and at its base, a covered well.
gator walks back up to your side, as though he needs to see it from your angle to know what you're pointing at. “what?” he asks. manages to keep his voice steady, too.
“that well,” you say. you turn to look at him and a bolt of electricity passes between you, because he's a lot closer than you realized, you're pretty much at the exact same eye level, and the intensity of his stare hits you harder than you should allow it to. he's not just looking at you, he's looking for something. you aren't sure what. sympathy, pity, help. you can't make it out, not that you're trying very hard.
“ain't nothin' over there,” gator says, and you look past him at mooney, who nods.
“all right,” you say. “can we go take a peek anyway?”
gator clears his throat. “if ya make it quick. ground's a little unstable over there.” he slips his sunglasses on beneath the brim of his hat.
together, the three of you walk over to the well, and the entire time, gator is talking at you, telling you this isn't a safe spot to walk around, and it's off-limits for a reason. as you approach the well itself, he begins to sound so distressed that you're on this part of the land that you look over at mooney, who nods again.
“all right,” you say. “if it's so unsafe, well, i think we got what we needed anyway, yeah?”
“i think so,” mooney agrees.
“so y'all leavin'?” gator asks, as he waits until the both of you start walking back toward your car before he leaves the vicinity of the well.
“oh, not yet,” you say. “we'd like to take a look in some of the other structures on the property. one being the main house.” you look back at him. “that won't be a problem, will it?”
“nope,” gator says, but it's choked.
“i'll see myself around,” mooney says, and peels off from the two of you. you watch gator watch him go, but he manages to keep his expression neutral.
gator leads you up the porch steps, pausing to look back at you, take his sunglasses off. “why’re you really here?” he asks, now that you’re alone.
you tilt your head, eyes narrowed. “sorry?”
“y’ain’t even look at nothin’ by the well,” gator says.
“we got what we needed,” you say, and gator just frowns, then steps a little closer to you, away from the front door. he’s smirking now, like he knows what he's about to say is a taunt.
“thought maybe ya wanted to come and see me,” he says, not bothering to pretend he’s not coming on to you anymore, and you hold his gaze.
you step closer too, boots resounding on the wooden porch. “yeah?” you ask, voice low. “thought i got a warrant to come all the way out here under the pretense of searching your daddy’s ranch, just to see…you, gator?”
it weakens his knees. you can see him falter just a touch as he looks up at you, and you smile. he doesn’t look like he can smile back.
“do you mind?” you ask, nodding to the door, and it takes him a moment to look away from you, his eyes lowering as he defers to what you want, and it strikes you how his eyelashes almost seem to brush his cheeks—from this close, you can see how long and full they are. your smile changes slightly from cold to genuine, but he’s looking away. he doesn’t see it.
he opens the door, pushes it into the house. “ladies first,” he says, and you snicker as you step past him.
the house itself looks innocuous, nothing at all like a criminal mastermind lives here. contrary to what you'd expected, gator doesn't lead you around the house, he lets you wander on your own. kitchen, den, dining room, a few spare rooms that aren't furnished beyond the basics, a bathroom. you gesture to the stairs and he hesitates, but nods you up, and you climb them, hearing him follow up after you. the first room you come to is another bathroom; you ignore it. across the hall there's a partially open door. you reach for it, and as you do, you hear gator behind you.
“ah—” he intones, a short little noise that you understand to mean he doesn't want you to go in there. you turn to him, expression curious, hair falling back over your shoulder.
“hm? what's in there?”
“n-nothin', ma'am.” he clears his throat. “agent,” he corrects. “that's just, uh, my room.”
you study him, then the corner of your mouth curves up into a smirk. “i'm sure i've seen messier,” you say, a little joke, then push the door open fully. it's pretty much what you expected and then some. confederate flag, check. bikini models, check. the mounted taxidermy is an unexpected touch, but your eyes settle on the handcuffs dangling from the bedframe. you say nothing about them, but gator does.
“they're just fer—”
“i'm sure i can imagine what they're for just fine, deputy,” you say, but when you look back at him, you're just amused. far be it from you to pretend you're better than using your cuffs in the bedroom.
he cracks a smile.
you stand near the side of his bed, looking around at the rest of the room, but all it's really given you is a little insight into him. you know roy isn't stupid enough to leave anything of interest in his home, but gator might have. then again—roy isn't stupid enough to trust the kid with anything.
“i think that will be all,” you say, and step toward the door to the hall.
“that's it?” he asks, then looks like he wished he hadn't said shit.
you study him from the door. he wants to talk. you can tell, you can see it in how he's looking at you. it's more than whatever advances he's making. “is there more you want to show me?” you ask.
he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.
whatever it was, it's not coming out now. “another creative way to use your cuffs, deputy?” you ask.
you're playing with him now, and he knows it, but instead of looking annoyed or aggrieved, he actually looks a little excited that you're finally bantering with him instead of just shutting him down.
“how long we got before your partner comes lookin'?” he asks, and you laugh, but not in a derisive way.
you sigh despite yourself, a little too amused by everything he's doing to get you to give him a modicum of what he wants. “gator tillman, what am i gonna do with you?”
4.5: “gator,” you said. “i showed you the warrant already.”
gator still shook his head, crossed his arms in front of his chest and didn’t move.
“gator.” your voice was more stern this time and he felt his cock twitch in interest. “move or i’ll move you myself.”
he hesitated for another moment, then sniffed through his nose and stepped aside. you smiled at him, reached up to remove your sunglasses, and clapped a hand onto his shoulder.
“that’s my boy.”
the door squeaked when you pushed it open, and then you were both in his bedroom. you made a beeline for his laptop. it was open, and you trailed your fingertip across the trackpad. the screen lit up, prompting for a password. you turned back to gator, who stepped forward and entered it wordlessly. you resumed looking at the computer and it struck gator that something felt off. if you were going to search his computer, shouldn’t you like… bring it somewhere else first?
“and what is this?” you asked, your voice sounding like he’d only ever heard in his dreams. “gator tillman.” you said it to admonish him, but there was a latent edge to it, a purr almost, and when you looked back at him your eyes were gleaming, your grin pronounced.
“wh—” he started, then fixed his eyes on the screen. you’d found the folder he’d made sure was hidden. or thought he had. he gulped comically loud. “that’s just…” he trailed off, flailing inside his own head. “research.” research? what the fuck did that even mean?
you looked away from him, back at the laptop and scrolled down. images, videos, a few audio clips. you selected an image at random, double clicked it. it opened fullsize on the monitor.
a younger man, kneeling in front of a woman probably twice his age. mature. she was bending at the waist to kiss him, breasts hanging free as his hands reached to cup them, his chin settled in her hand. it was clear it wasn’t just resting on her palm, she was holding it tight to keep his attention. she was looking down at him with a playful sneer, and he was looking up at her in submission, obedience.
gator started to take a step forward, but you tapped the right arrow and the image changed. the same couple, different position. gator recognized every inch of the photos as you scrolled through them, praying you would stop before you got to the—
a video clip popped up on the screen, taking a moment to buffer before the audio started. he closed his eyes for a moment as the woman was asking the younger man if he really thought he deserved her pussy, if he thought his cock was good enough for her. he was nodding and agreeing, mostly saying yes and please or some combination of those two words to get her to touch him, which she finally did.
“gator…tillman,” you said, turning back to him as you spoke, leaving the video playing on the laptop behind you. “is there something you need to explain, deputy?”
“n-no, agent,” he said.
“try again,” you said, giving him a small smile.
he blinked at you. “...ma'am?”
your smile grew. “that's right.”
gator swallowed thickly, but you continued.
“now.” you pointed at the screen again, the video still playing. the woman had him sitting on her lap now, straddling one of her thighs, her hand tightly gripping his jaw as she held his head in place, sloppily kissing him as his cock strained for attention, fully erect and bobbing a little, no friction whatsoever easing things for him. “i asked if you wanted to explain this to me.”
gator shook his head. “no, ma'am.”
you huffed a quiet, unamused laugh. “what part of a warrant do you not understand? you're an officer of the law, aren't you, deputy?” you asked, and your tone made him flinch a little, made his cock throb.
“yes, ma'am,” gator said.
“then explain.” you jabbed your thumb at the video. the woman was stroking the younger man's cock, her hand loose around him.
“i,” gator said, transfixed on the video because he wanted to look anywhere but at you. “i, um—”
“speak,” you ordered, and gator snapped to attention at the commanding tone of your voice.
“i, i—” he stammered, then mumbled something low enough even he wasn't sure what he'd said.
you stepped closer. “come again, gator?”
he closed his eyes. but god, every time you said his name it only made him want you even more. “i watch 'em 'n think'a you, agent.” you cleared your throat. “ma'am,” he corrected.
“do you now?” you asked, and he nodded. “why's that?”
gator sucked in a breath. “i just. i think yer—” he broke off. “i think'a ya all the time. fuckin'—fuckin' gorgeous, your fuckin' face and your fuckin' tits and those goddamn boots walkin' all over me, since the moment i seen ya, shit, i been fuckin' hard up for ya.”
you stepped closer, but stayed silent, so gator continued.
“whenever i see ya, i swear ta god, it makes my dick hard. just seein' ya. fuckin' bein' near ya is torture 'cause i can't touch you and lord knows i fuckin' wanna.” gator's voice shook a little as he said it, because you had taken another step toward him, barely a foot away from him now.
“you wanna?” you repeated, tone just this side of mocking, and gator's mouth watered.
“yeah,” he said. “yeah, i fuckin' wanna.”
your eyes dipped to his lips. “bet your daddy would hate this,” you said, and then the next thing he knew you were on top of him on his bed, your collared button down torn open, tits out, straddling his thighs with his cock out, hard and resting against his stomach, already sticky with precome. “don'tcha think?”
“y-yeah,” gator said, looking up at you as you leaned forward, lips pouting, hair falling in front of your shoulders. he lifted his hands to cup your tits, just like in the photo on his computer. your hand moved to wrap around his cock, his hips kicking up into you as you stroked him.
“but you love it,” you said, and gator squeezed his eyes shut.
“yeah,” he said. “i love y-it.”
your rhythm with his cock didn't falter and you only smirked a little more deviously. “go ahead, gator,” you said, and he felt precome drool out of his tip. “say it.”
gator swallowed the lump in his throat. “i love y—”
“kid! the fuck you doin' up there?”
gator jolts awake, sitting bolt upright in his bed, the covers falling off of him. he looks around—he's utterly alone. his laptop is shut, but his dick is obscenely hard.
“kid,” comes the voice again, and in his just-woken stupor, it takes gator a second to realize it's roy.
“fuck,” he groans, covering his face with his hands for a moment, rubbing it before dragging his hands down his cheeks.
“kid!” roy's voice comes from directly outside his door, and he finally realizes he needs to respond.
“yeah, i'm up. fuck.” he says the first part loud enough for roy to hear, and the expletive quietly, for himself.
“that fuckin' fbi bitch wants to see you later tonight for another interview,” roy says. “gave me the address of some office they took over for the time bein'.” he pauses. “ain't got no intel on it, but it doesn't matter. don't tell her shit.”
“yeah,” gator says, lifting his bedsheet to look down his body at his cock, still tenting his boxers. “i ain't gonna.” he hears roy walk away, waits until he hears the second to bottom stair creak so he knows his father is downstairs, and then lays back down and sticks his hand right into his underwear, hoping maybe a little post-nut clarity will help him figure out how to face you for his interview later tonight.
5: you're sitting in the stark county sheriff bullpen at very nearly the crack of dawn when roy saunters up to you, and it takes all you have not to kick him right in the balls.
because you're the actual professional here, or as professional as you can be while you're thinking about his son and why on god's green earth that kid is trying for it with you so damn badly.
the hot and heavy eye contact at the bar had been a week ago, his house barely two days after that, and gator still had yet to approach you again. at this point, it felt like something less like he was just looking at you like a piece of meat and more like he had something up his sleeve.
“sheriff,” you say, looking up at roy from your seat. you lean back, not bothering to stand in his presence like maybe you should, as a show of respect.
“agent,” roy replies, looking down at you. the amount of dirt you've dug up on this man in the past two weeks you've spent in lehigh would wipe that smirk right off his face if he had any inkling. but while he may run stark county, roy tillman underestimated you, as you expected, all because you're missing the one thing that's a requirement for his respect: a dick.
“i was just wondering how much longer you and your partner would be gracing us with your presence,” roy says, and even without the sneer, you can tell it's a thinly veiled threat. he doesn't want you here any longer, and truth be told, you don't want to be here any longer either.
“well, sheriff,” you say, resting your elbows on the arms of the desk chair and folding your hands in your lap. “that's not really up to me.” you give him a sympathetic look. “i know, i know—and trust me. i don't wanna be in your hair anymore either. but...” you look around, then you do stand, holding roy's gaze for a long moment before jerking your head to the side. “mind if we take this to your office?”
roy hesitates, than nods, leading you to his door. he closes it behind you. he sits, looking up at you now, your positions reversed in just a short few seconds. he clears his throat, indicating for you to continue.
“but,” you continue. “i gotta be honest. your son really screwed the pooch with this task force nonsense.” you study roy's expression, but he keeps a straight face. that tracks. “we just need a few more interviews with the key players, gator included, before we—”
“what ya gotta interview him for?” roy asks, and even though he doesn't look it, you detect a slight waver to his tone. he's nervous. “boy's useless as tits on a bull. he ain't got anything to give ya.”
your smile holds, faint but unassuming. “i understand, sheriff—and, truth be told, i do think we're on the same page here where gator's concerned. but it needs to be done, at least for the paperwork. i have to talk to him.” you roll your eyes a little. “higher-ups, you know?” it's a tactic you usually don't employ, because typically your marks are onto you, but you think it might work with roy tillman. making him feel more important than you—he doesn't really have many higher-ups, considering the way he runs his precinct—it's a gambit that you're willing to bet on.
you watch as he studies you, then smirks. “yeah. can't say i know the feelin', as sheriff and all, but sure. i'll arrange a room for you this evenin'.” you, honest to god, weren't sure if it would work, but apparently playing to roy's ego and being a woman were the two cards you needed to show.
“oh, sheriff, no,” you say. “i couldn't possibly put you out like that. what if you need the space? no, my partner and i will arrange something with the bureau. there are many locations nearby at our disposal.”
roy looks for a moment like he doesn't want to allow that, but apparently the draw of having both you and his son away from him is a little too promising. “all right. just pass along the time and place and i'll see to it that the kid gets there.”
“thank you, sheriff,” you say, nodding to him as you head toward the door. it might be a little bit of overkill, but as you open the door, you look back over your shoulder and say “i'm sure he'll throw himself under the bus. less for you to worry about.”
—
that night, gator pulls up outside of the empty tax office that you'd cleared with your higher-ups (the actual kind of thing you need them for, not paperwork). it's not entirely the most secure place, but you also know that gator isn't the brightest bulb, and with all of the evidence against him—and roy—that you've already accumulated, you don't really need to interview him. you need to talk to him.
you can practically see the truck vibrating from afar given the sheer volume of the music the kid has blasting through the speakers, violent drums and thick guitars, the exact kind of shit you'd pin him for.
he hops down from the cab of the truck, those heavy boots crunching the asphalt beneath him. you're alone, which was planned from the beginning, because you're the one he wants, in whatever way it is that he wants you.
you watch from outside the door to the office, his eyes trained on the cherry of your cigarette; the streetlights aren't on yet even though it's late and the sun has mostly set. he approaches, steps up onto the sidewalk, stops about two feet ahead of you.
“bum a smoke?” he asks, so familiarly, and you let your eyes drag over him. no tactical vest tonight, just a tight black t-shirt and those camo pants. the thigh holster is still present. yours is too, at your hip, though it's hidden beneath your suit jacket.
“where's your vape?” you ask, but still reach into your pocket to pull out your silver case. you snap it open and hold it out to him. he selects one, lifts it to his mouth, looks at you expectantly.
you hold his gaze as you lift the lighter, flicking it right in his face. the flame sparks and reflects in his eyes, trained on yours, the orange glow throwing him slightly into relief. it makes the spattering of birthmarks on his skin stand out even more than normal.
he inhales deeply, letting his eyeline trail down your face to your lips, the curve of your neck. “ran outta juice,” he says simply, answering your question after a few beats too long,
you both stand there in silence for a moment, you leaning calmly against the window, gator scuffing his shoe on the concrete, before he speaks.
“so what're you questionin' me fer? i already toldja i ain't done nothin' wrong with that task force.”
“it's best we wait until we're inside, gator.” he looks plumb shocked you used his name instead of his title, and you try to ignore the way you noticed that.
“are you gonna fuckin' jump me in there?” he asks, looking at the rows of desks for the various CPAs that staff this place during tax season. “got a swat team waitin' or somethin'?”
he sounds so angry and desperate that you laugh, actually. “you think i need a swat team to arrest you?” you look straight at him, meet his eyes, visible even in the moonlight.
he tries but fails to hold your gaze and looks away. you toss the butt of your cigarette to the ground and step on it, before turning to the door and pulling it open. “come on. let's get this over with.”
you watch as he lifts the cigarette to his lips one final time, pinched between his index finger and thumb, shielding it with the rest of his palm as he inhales, and then flicks it to the ground, a coil of white smoke rising from the lit tip.
he shoves past you just this side of roughly, and it makes you smirk, because now you're in his head. he's thinking about everything that could have gone his way with you tonight and everything that could go wrong.
you find him seated at one of the desks, feet propped up on it as he leans back in the chair. you sit across from him.
“all righty, agent,” he says, folding his hands behind his head. “whaddaya wanna know?”
you smile at him, small and unamused. “actually, nothing,” you say. “despite your reluctance to be an actual resource to the task force, your attempts to misguide them only worked in their favor.” he blinks at you. “we've been able to build a solid case against your father—and unless i'm mistaken...” you look down at your wristwatch. “he should be in custody already. i—” you clear your throat, having misspoken. “we wanted you off the ranch before anyone moved in.”
gator swallows, shakes his head. “wait. what?”
“your father's ranch was raided tonight. given our extensive knowledge of the missing persons cases, as well as other details we were able to fill in, i was able to make the call to keep you from the worst of it. because it doesn't seem to me that you were any sort of mastermind behind any of this. even your attempts against the task force were sloppy.”
he sits up, lowers his feet to the floor. the desk chair squeaks beneath him, loud in the still silence of the office. “you arrested my dad?”
“and others,” you say, standing up. you clear your throat, then stand and reach beneath your jacket, the hip opposite your holster. “deputy tillman,” you say, “i'm placing you under arrest for obstruction of justice. you have the right to remain silent.” as you speak, you crook your index finger at him, motioning for him to stand up. he obeys, his mouth open just a little in disbelief, and maybe a touch of betrayal, which is rich coming from him. “anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” he lets you cuff him, your fingers cold on his wrists as you finish reciting his rights. you check the cuffs, grab him by the forearm, and before you lead him outside to your car, press your front tight against his back, your lips nearly brushing the shell of his ear as you speak. even cuffed, even firmly on the opposite side of the aisle as you, you feel him shudder, just a little.
“gator, i'd find a good lawyer.”
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