#please do not perceive me objectifying another middle aged cop

[vasiktomis]

Enclosed Spaces (18+)

Pairing: Travis Hackett/Gender-neutral Reader. Solo. Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~4000. Warnings: Sexualisation of a cop (yuck). Passing mentions of gore and violence. Depictions of paranoia. Read it on Ao3!

Tags: No use of Y/N. Light angst. Self-hatred. Masturbation. Pining. Premature ejaculation.

There’s a particular sense of dreariness in diners nowadays, Sheriff Hackett has decided.

It wasn’t always like this. Back before smartphones and the internet — hell, even cable TV — before technology and fast tourism had made damn clear how cut-off from society old communities like North Kill were, Travis had spent his adolescence looking forward to breakfast outings wedged in vinyl booths with his family on this particular stretch of forest road. Even in his youth, it was decades past its zeitgeist, but as a rare treat offered by parents who prided themselves on self-sustainability, he and his brothers had once loved coming here.

The Hacketts were an introverted people by nature, but they held the respect of the county-folk for their dedication to keeping North Kill from being wiped off the map. As time passed and the population dwindled, only the most well-established locals seemed to persevere. Businesses rotated through owners almost yearly. One brother was born. Then the next. Travis's family, while ever-changing, were among the only constants he knew. Them, and this meagre little diner, nestled in the trees. 

It was always the same. 

Bobby, forever the baby, would be shoved between Ma and Pa’s elbows while they traded conversation with whatever locals stopped by to chat. Chris, while closer to Bobby's age, suffered enough middle child syndrome to boost him half a decade to keep up with Travis. On their side of the booth, the two of them would brag to each other in the hopes of catching the attention of pretty wait staff. 'A copperhead bit me once while I was hunting with Pa, but I was too strong and the poison gave me powers. I have the tooth, still.' Chris would almost yell to him over the table, both of them fixated on the 20-something that leaned across them to top up Ma's coffee.

“He’s so cute.” The waitress would coo at Bobby, not even sparing his competing older brothers a glance while the kid carved yet another crayon into the tabletop, fingers and chin caked with grease and maple imitation. 

Those moments were the only instance Travis could recall hating one of his own. 

The years came and went. Times changed, but out as far as they were, the routine didn’t. Pocket money and independence turned the spot into a hangout in a pinch. Tourists came through in increasingly modernised cars and wardrobes while their little town — if you could even call it that — drew further and further out of time. Architecture dulled. Classics became white noise. 

Family breakfasts dwindled in adulthood, but Travis still frequented for the 24-hour service that shift-work had forced him to appreciate. It was familiar. Quiet. That same side of the same booth, in the same dingy little diner. It had become an especially common habit for him in recent years to hang around the place after clocking off. Ever since Silas had been on the run, it was a handy spot to eavesdrop on late-night chatter when one had otherwise silence awaiting them back home. If there wasn't some muttered tip to follow up on, there was at least the clatter of plates. Some casual wave. A ‘hey, Sheriff’ — hell, even a drunk to ferry home — or lock-up, behaviour permitting. 

In the present, there's no better reason to be here than you. 

There's you, bearing a welcoming smile, returning to his booth like clockwork while the hours pass in the night to top up his coffee. You, who combats the loneliness and dreariness of this out-of-time place with ill-fitted enthusiasm and daily anecdotes ranging from boring to bizarre. Something about you teems with stubborn, relentless, fascinating life, and when there's nothing else to observe in the room, Travis takes great pleasure in simply existing in your proximity.

He doesn’t speak to you. Not in a familiar sense. Small-talk is a hard habit to break out of when you’d been working here so many years and all he’d grown accustomed to trading for your words were unamused hums and taciturn, one-word responses. He likes to think that despite the lack of chatter, however, your short interactions had stacked enough familiarity over all this time to transcend conversation. Even if he wouldn't dare to ever address you by your first name, Travis likes to think you enjoy having him around.

At least, that’s what he tells himself every time you linger at his table, slowing the stream of coffee from the pot to enquire about his day and he chokes out a curt reply that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. It’s what he tells himself when he barely returns your smiles, far too concerned with family business, work, and nerves to regard you until it’s too late. When you’re already tending to another patron or shuffling menus or cleaning tables. Gaze captured by your retreating form only when the pressure of your attention is no longer on him. 

Existing in your proximity is doable. Comfortable. Talking to you, on the other hand; he can't think of anything more terrifying.

Tonight — however —  is a little different.

It’s almost sundown when Travis is finishing up. Bobby and his parents are waiting on him to prep for tonight’s hunt. Chris and the kids are most likely sedated and chained up by now. 

You’re tugging the ties of your apron as you approach, signalling the end of your shift, and his heart sinks in relief at the prospect that you’ll be home instead of here for the full moon. Unfortunately for the both of you, that weight shifting off his shoulders looks a whole lot more like annoyance on him. 

Despite his refusal to match your energy, you seem to hold out. “You need a top-up before I head out for the night, Sheriff?” You ask, beaming bright enough that he can barely stand to meet your eye until you’re finally faltering.

Travis’s jaw rolls. Words jam on his tongue. Silence. At least until he averts his gaze to the setting sun out the window and stands from his seat. 

“Making sure you’re the one getting the tip, huh?” He grunts. A breath leaves you. Polite laughter. He’s almost dizzy at the sound. “I’m headed out, too. I’ll, uh— I’ll walk you out.” 

He overtakes you on the way to the door, maybe a little too briskly while you stop to grab your things from behind the counter. It feels almost like it could've been an evasion if he willed it, but you're catching up as he slows to escort you out. His intention is to be gentlemanly; commit to the absolute bare minimum of courtesy — maybe even catch a whiff of whatever shampoo you use while you're close enough.

Fuck his life that a group of 5 just so happens to walk through the door as soon as he opens it, ignoring the two of you completely on their way past. Travis's molars grind. Whatever. Maybe that albino shit might scare some manners into them if they stay out too late.

His failed attempt has him distracted enough that he forgets his intention completely and walks outside first, only just remembering to hold the fucking thing for you once you’re already outside. 

The summer air offers no reprieve from the heat crawling up the back of his neck while you follow him down the steps, gaze flickering at him in his periphery. It's a battle not to turn his back to you when he slows to a stop in the parking lot — to just pretend you don't exist for a few seconds and claw back a little dignity.

Jesus fucking Christ, he hates himself. 

He rifles through his wallet for whatever note seems appropriately sizeable enough to communicate a job well done without seeming like he’s playing favourites among the staff, and half-expects you to disappear the moment the cash is in your hand. 

You do not. 

“Thanks." You mutter, shrugging a shoulder. The act of giving you money while you're not in uniform almost feels dirty. He's on the verge of asking for it back before the two of you continue on your way. "You, uh, you walking me to my car?"

The curious tilt of your head has Travis frowning. Then, he realises he’s been meeting your stride in the opposite direction of his patrol car.

“Is there a problem?"

"No, you're welcome to." There's amusement in your tone. "Safest 30 steps I'll ever take."

"Sure."

Christ, why couldn’t he have been born with a little of Chris’s charisma? Why does walking you across a parking lot have to be so painful? 

“You headed back to the station tonight?"

“Nope.” Fuck. Elaborate, dumbass. “I’m — Out. Off. For the night.”

In the corner of his eye, your gaze wanders elsewhere. The prickling in the back of his neck eases. 

“Got any plans?”

“Family business.” 

“Which one?”

That almost makes him chuckle. “The hunting one.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie. 

“Anything after?” You ask.

“All-nighter. Bastard we’ve been after’s migrated back up North from the sounds of it."

“Sounds pretty elusive."

“You don’t know the half of it.” The corners of Travis’s mouth tug. 

For just a moment, while you’re rounding the driver's side of your car and the two of you slow to a stop, he’s finally able to trade a friendly expression with you.  

Silence stretches between you for a moment, a little more comfortable now that you seem to be the one searching for your words. With the tables turned, watching your gaze flicker to meet his — then away — then back again — he decides it’s…cute, when you do it.

That smile blooms across your face once more, now trained firmly on him.

“Maybe I’d like to.”

A pit forms in Travis’s stomach. Blood drains from his face. He sobers in an instant. Your words echo through his thoughts, sharpening with mounting anxiety. What exactly were you trying to say? You were interested in hunting?

The smile still lingers on you, and what felt like amusement moments ago has suddenly warped into something harsh and mocking. Did you know what they were hunting? Were you probing him for information? 

“What makes my time any of your business?” He snaps, ignoring a pang of guilt at such a confrontation. Perhaps he was being too paranoid. Perhaps you were none the wiser. Just curious. Less sense than caution. He made an effort to ease up at the sight of your brow furrowing. “I think it’s wiser that you get in your car and go drive home.”

You’re pulling the door open. Not quite able to slip into the drivers seat when Travis’s palm presses into the chassis, using whatever presence he could just to make sure you were listening. “Maybe another night, then.”

Another night?

Anxiety turns to panic.

“Don’t let me catch you out here after dark." He insists, voice hardening. "You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”

“I meant…—“

“I don’t care what you meant. I’m telling you to drop whatever it is you’re hoping to get out of this. No ‘another night’.” Travis grinds out. “Go home. Do I make myself clear?”

The ensuing pause is dreadful.

“Yeah.” Eventually cuts from between your teeth. Your eyes flash disdain at his order. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.” 

Travis notices far too late how close you’ve become until you slip out of his shadow. Maple scent disappears with your presence as you get into your car, avoiding his gaze now. His hand still rests against the chassis, preventing you from leaving. He leans down. 

He needs to be certain you’re hearing him. He needs to know you’ll be alive in the morning. 

It’d be overstepping to offer his number. Let you know you can call on him for help outside work hours. He'd be there in a heartbeat if you asked, if not for the implications.

“I’m flagging your licence plate.” Is all he can offer in lieu of a assurance. “I see your car anywhere between here and my family’s home? May god help you.”

The mortification is clear enough to have him content. You’re not pleased to say the least, but his point is well and truly across. It's fine; it's better this way. There's safety in distance, and he can always compensate with a more generous tip tomorrow.

Travis pushes the door closed the rest of the way, molars grinding at the empty smile that broadens on you. 

He’s upset you. He knows it, but he can’t be faulted for steering you clear of the hunt. For keeping his family safe.

Maybe another night, then. That phrase sticks out to him while you start the car and back out of your space. He’d have to keep a closer watch on you if you planned on challenging his warning more than once. Another night, then. You'd never shown an interest in hunting. Why would you do such a thing, if not out of nosiness? Malicious curiosity? Spite, even. It made less sense the more he replayed it. What was that if not an invitation to–

...

An invitation.

Oh. Oh, no.

Travis goes rigid, watching your car pull out of the lot. Hands frozen on his hips. Gawking.

Had he not been on display to the entirety of the diner, he might’ve thrown something. Started kicking the tyres of his patrol car. 

You were making a fucking pass at him. 

Shit. Shit! 

You’d shown an interest in him. In him. In being with him. Off-duty, outside work hours. At night. Recreationally. And he’d just torn you a new one for it. 

Fucking piece of shit. Fucking loser. Over and over while he trudges back to his own vehicle, the conversation flickers through his thoughts. How many more ins had you given him prior to today? How many fucking chances?

The sun's half way past the horizon. He doesn't have time to reflect. He has to table this for now. As much as the realisation claws at his insides, he has to focus on the hunt.

Maybe if he kills that kid tonight, he can look forward to making amends.

That's the final reflection he allows himself before shoving the though to the back of his psyche, where it can't bother him.

_____________________________

It does bother him, as it turns out. 

It haunts him through the night while he searches for Silas in the undergrowth. The White Wolf hasn't made an appearance tonight and the trail is cold, and while his failure is spelled out by undisturbed frogs and crickets chirping late into the night, the Sheriff is almost relieved. The incident outside the diner and the replaying memory of it deafens him to the ambience. If he's being stalked by the werewolf, he's far too distracted to know it.

Finally, the sun rises, and Travis is once again out of time. Another month to add to the record of the family curse. Another month of Ma's ire and Pa's hard-won, past-his-prime lectures. Chris and the kids didn't deserve this. Especially the kids. 

He has to get back to the station in a few hours. Pretend he hasn’t been wandering the woods all fucking night. He has to clean off. Decompress. Take just a little time to reflect on what he’d said to you — on how the fuck he could hope to set the record straight when the mere knowledge that he’d held your interest was trying his stomach in knots. 

If he couldn’t work up the spine to speak to you before, he's got no hope in hell of approaching you now. 

The moment he’s back in his flat, Travis bee-lines for the bathroom, ignoring hunger and exhaustion and the temptation to retrieve the 6-pack from the fridge along the way. The blood he’s worn to cover his scent on the hunt isn’t so obvious against the black of his uniform, but it acts almost like a sponge, soaking fresh stains over his skin, incriminating him in the light. 

He doesn’t bother to let the water run hot before he steps into the shower fully clothed, barring his shoes. The half-minute of icy spray does well to remove whatever rusted pigment his clothes might gain once dry. Momentarily, the chill of the water is enough of a shock to his system that he stops mulling over what happened in the parking lot. 

It doesn’t last. The self-loathing seeps back in right while the water pooling around the drain runs copper and crimson. Another night of fuck ups. Another month of cursed loved ones and the overtime it took to keep them safe. Some small part of him protests; maybe they’re asking too much of him — maybe it isn’t fair that it all falls on his shoulders. With Bobby’s disabilities and his parents’ ages, though, who else can keep everyone safe?

He’s ashamed of himself for such a sentiment. And yet —

He feels just as cursed.

To be free of the favours and the corruption and the secrecy — the fucking paranoia that settles over every conversation that someone might know, or find out. He fucking wishes he could spend a moment in that diner with a clear enough head, just enough to be capable of holding a conversation with you.

Maybe he's shifting the blame too much. This has been going on so long that he can't be sure if he was terrified of you before Silas came to the county. It's possible that even if the Harum Scarum hadn't rolled into town, and there'd been no fire, and no witches, and no werewolves — he'd still be sitting in that little booth.

The water begins to warm, and Travis reluctantly disrobes in the cubicle, unbuttoning and peeling off his drenched uniform. Shame hits from a new angle once his trousers are discarded. He’s half hard in his periphery. A frequent state he’s left in while you’re on his mind. While he’s at his booth, thanking his lucky stars to be covered by the table while you wipe down tables, bent at the hip, reaching for too high glasses, body stretching, waist cinched by an apron perpetually dusted with coffee grounds and sugar. While he’s seated at his desk in a silent police department, combing social media for your image despite your unanswered friend request and the access that just fucking accepting would give him and fuck—

He blew you off. 

One fucking window of opportunity left wide open to reciprocate a now obvious flirtation, and he’d spent it trying to intimidate you instead. 

God, he's repulsed by himself. Even in the wake of the hurt and the gore, he's still suffering an erection. Even when his hands have scrubbed the mask of blood off his face and the smell of rotting flesh is all but washed away, he's still left in disgust.

What if he’d thrown caution to the wind and allowed you to come along tonight? It was quiet. You'd have survived. He'd have had you trudging through the brush, armed to the teeth. Would you still have been interested after that? Would you have pitied him, or laughed at him for his monthly routine of dousing himself in werewolf’s blood, and failing to track a freak show attraction who couldn’t even speak?

On the other hand, what if he’d taken this one night off? Had the common sense to tell you 'tomorrow night, I’m available' ? 

Why were you drawn to him in the first place? Did you feel sorry for him in that empty station, in his empty patrol car, in his empty flat? Was it the uniform you liked? Or had his hope that your mutual little routine of small talk affect you as well?

Maybe, somehow, you took him at face value and liked what you saw. 

Travis stiffens at the thought. A twitch from below beckons his attention once more. He presses a forearm against the cubicle wall, shifting his weight, contemplating. 

Then, he gives in. Takes himself gingerly in-hand and basks in the relief of touch, thoughts clearing, envisioning the potential your interest might have had before he ruined it. 

Do you find him attractive? Do you steal your own furtive glances when he isn't taking his own, ignoring the thinning hairline and the way his ears stuck out — or do you like that, too? 

Heat licks up through his spine with an experimental pump. Body reacting emphatically to what he's testing. 

Travis slackens with a sigh as the tension in his shoulders lessens. Nerve's spark elsewhere now, begging to keep his attention. His forehead comes to rest against the tile beside his wrist, and swallowing back a hesitation, he builds into a rhythm. 

Did you want him to fuck you? Did you think about that at all before today? He ventures to hope you’re kind enough not to mind the only experience he has to show for himself is a handful of one night stands dotted few and far between. You’d be patient, and he’d make it up to you. He’s nothing if not dedicated. He’s all too happy to learn. 

A scene he's imagined before takes shape on the backs of his eyelids. If you’d let him, he’d take you in your workplace. Late hours of a weeknight. Unlikely that anyone should enter, but always a risk that you could be caught. He’d have you against the counter, apron bunched around your waist. Right now, though, he can’t decide which image he prefers. Bending you over the counter-top or having you spread on your back atop one of the tables. Would you let him, anymore, after how he treated you? 

Maybe some fucked-up, fictional version of you might find retribution in sex. Shit, he likes the idea of that. Foregoing verbal apology in favour of physical satisfaction. Something electric buzzes through his nerves, core tightening with a particular throb that simultaneously warns and sings. He's already close, and slowing strokes do little to lessen his momentum.. He has to make the best of the time he has. 

Travis changes the scene. His patrol car. Behind the wheel. Sitting back, helpless beneath you while you rock in his lap. Taking what you need from him. Paying no mind if he’s already finished— overstimulated, trembling, slacks a stained mess from how much of him has spilled out of you. It’s only fair, after how he behaved. He transplants the image into as many scenarios as imagination will allow: his office, his couch, his bed. Arms draped around your rib cage, cheek pressed to your sternum. Feeling you make yourself come around him, over and over, flushed from exertion, not letting up until the score is settled and forgiveness is earned. 

When you’re finally done taking what you’re owed, you give way to sweetness again. Fingers scratching gently through gelled back hair. Lips ghosting over his forehead. Murmuring praises. Telling him how well he did. 

It's the thought of being held by you that brings him undone. 

The surge comes too soon, catching him off guard, choking the air in his lungs. He’s emptying into his fist already, bliss and humiliation dragging him through an orgasm that lasts nearly as long as his performance. Whatever hasn’t been spent on the tile wall coats his knuckles in residual little twitches.

The image of you evaporates, and a nearly inaudible curse slips through Travis's teeth. 

He doesn't want to leave the cubicle. What he wants is to savour the waning warmth. Enjoy what he can of the afterglow before clarity and guilt creep back into his mind.

Even if you did want him, the truth would change that. 

He’d blown you off, but at least you weren’t privy to what he’d done. What he was doing. So long as he kept you at bay, the height of your disappointment would only stem from his refusal.

Fuck. He couldn’t convince himself of that. 

At some point, he’d have to decide whether or not he’d be content to remain in the stasis of that booth, in bitter silence, or clear the air. Admit wrongdoing and hope that you’d find his incompetence charming, so long as he hadn’t completely dashed his chances.

The prospect alone terrifies him.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s so fucking tired.

At least there’s a 10 hour stretch of shift work between himself and that confrontation. 

At least there’s still a few minutes of hot water left. 

...

He can work with that.

He's got another round left in him.