SWAT Ed: Fox & Bull (Nothing Special 8)

If Fox stayed on his farm with him, Bull knew his boyfriend would need to find something that would fulfill him. Something that was his plan for his own life. Ranching was what Bull wanted Fox to do alongside him every day—it was what he’d wanted since he’d first arrived—but he wouldn’t do to Fox what everyone else had. He wouldn’t force his dreams on him. Fox was his best self when he had someone to protect. And after he caught Newt and there were no more bad guys to save Bull from, he didn’t want Fox to grow restless.

“I’m glad you ultimately did what you wanted.” Bull rubbed Fox’s tense shoulders.

“Yeah, I eventually did.” Fox chuckled gravely. “At age thirty-three my balls finally dropped, and I decided to commandeer my own life. I left DC and chose the police department because my special skills are limited to either tricking bad guys or catching them.”

“With your education and degrees, you can probably walk into any job you want,” Bull added.

“Yeah, well… how come Best Buy didn’t call me back when I applied to their Geek Squad?”

“Because there is such a thing as overqualified.” Bull chuckled softly before his smile waned. “I know what it’s like to live your father’s dream, Fox. And feeling obligated to be the best son you can.”

“Your family may have a long history of ranching, Bull, but I have a feeling you’ve always wanted to live this life for yourself.” Fox turned in his arms, and Bull embraced him, along with all of the hurt radiating from his heart. “I don’t think your father beat it into you.”

“No. He didn’t.” Bull didn’t know what else he could say.

“What did your father say when you left the military?”

Fox laughed bitterly. “Nothing… since I waited until he died. I’m sure he’s rolled over in his grave a thousand times by now.”

Fox walked into the run-down dive that sat about six miles from the Interstate 85 off-ramp on Rockaway Road, with Bull trailing close behind. The dank bar was dark and smelled of cheap whiskey and depressed cowboys. Discarded peanut shells littered the floor, crunching under their boots as they walked towards the few standing tables on the other side of the bar.

Heads turned in their direction, and curious eyes assessed them quickly as expressions changed from judging to pissed within seconds. He and Bull didn’t belong there, riffraff only. This was a bar for the junkyards of the towns, just as Shannon had described.

Fifteen or so men sat around the bar and at scattered tables. A god-awful rendition of an old Willie Nelson song droned from the seventies jukebox in the corner. No wonder they all look like sorry fucks. A handful of assholes who stood around a worn pool table had paused their game to watch them, and to a less confident man, their scrutiny could’ve been construed as intimidating. But Fox wasn’t that kind of man. He cut his eyes in their direction before casually looking away and refocusing his glare on the individual sitting at a table near the rear exit.

Newt Thompson.

When he glanced up from his beer, his eyes caught on Fox before they locked and narrowed on the man looming over his right shoulder. Newt didn’t even try to hide his disdain for Bull. The two men who sat with Newt, nursing watered-down brown liquor, turned and did double takes when they approached.

Fox sat in the only empty chair, and Bull stood glaring down at the two other men. “You’re in my seat,” he growled, and both men stood at the same time and backed away from the table. They cursed and called Bull names under their breaths that Fox couldn’t hear around the lump of snuff in their jaws, but it probably wasn’t nice. However, since they’d mumbled it like weak men, Bull didn’t react as he sat in the recently vacated chair.

Fox needed to hurry and handle his business since he knew it was easy for a man to find trouble in this kind of establishment. He waved a waitress off who’d started to walk in their direction, since he wouldn’t drink a glass of water in this dump.

“You know who we are. Good,” Fox started.

Newt reclined in his chair as if he owned the place, pulled a crumpled pack of Camel cigarettes from his chest pocket, and slid one between his chapped lips. He lit it with a mini Bic and took a long drag before blowing the smoke in Bull’s face. It turned Fox on that Bull never blinked as the putrid vapors surrounded his face, but Fox saw the clench in his jaw and the tic near his temple.

“Yeah. I know who that stealing bastard is sittin’ cross from me. Had the audacity to show his face in here.” Newt turned and scowled at Fox. “And I guess you’re the new hotshot in town that everyone’s rattling on about.” He used his dirty fingers to make air quotes around the word hotshot, giving Fox an unfazed once-over. “Don’t know why though.”