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It was a slow day in the cold case department. Much hadn’t come after the Merritt Lingard case was solved; the persecutor was rescued, reunited with her brother, and that was that. It had been a full three months since the two-man-one-woman trio (with half-man Hardy) had closed and opened the case—as well as the department. Life went on, and another cold case Akarm deemed “solvable” was opened. Rose was chasing a lead with Hardy in some town, so neither were there to be pushed down a flight of stairs or tease over their elderly hit-and-freeze. It was just DCI Morck and Akram that day.
The quiet one, Akram, was reading over the new case file. He must’ve been stuck on it for so long because Morck was beginning to eye the man down. He looked close to saying something, something outlandish as he always does, but alas, he kept squishing his tennis ball and faced his desk. Akram, however, who usually paid attention to his superior, did not take his eyes off that damn file. Shooting his eyes up to the man once more, the detective scoffed and dropped his therapeutic stress relief which was met with a soft metallic clang against the desk. Akram slowly looked up to finally see Morck’s head resting behind locked hands. Looking to his side, obviously confuzzled, he met his boss's eyes again. “Sir?”
“Carl,” Morck corrected.
“... Carl?”
“So, would you like to share with me why you’re so stuck on the case file we’ve been over for, I don’t know, a month now?” Morck was speaking through an obviously plastic smile. “Is there something we’ve missed?”
“No, not at all.”
Akram’s answer was concise and was meant to put an end to his boss's out-of-boredom chastising. “I’m simply reading over it.”
“There can be more productive things to do.” Morck was not the type to let these things go until action was taken. In this case, however, he was just super fucking bored. The only person to pester in the moment was Akram, but everyone knew how unfazed the enigmatic Akram Salim could be. Morck especially, having him as his trusty assistant for all those months. They’ve created a bond despite their lack of conversation. Akram was an angel of light when it came to helping the Merritt Lingard case and always had Morck’s back whenever he needed at the most coincidental of times. Morck had never forgotten that day of his panic attack after the surprise press conference where Akram helped him back on his feet.
Akram cleared his throat, and you could swear you could hear him sigh for a second. “Such as?” He asked.
“I don’t fucking know, mate, so get back to me when you figure it out.” Akram stared at his boss for a second before returning to his file. Morck scoffed, “Okay, get up. We’re leaving.” Grabbing his coat, he began walking to the elevator, leaving behind Akram confused as he left right behind.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
They were in the car now, and Akram was still unaware where they were heading. For all he knew, they could be going to Ireland. Morck drove off from the station and didn’t speak for a few minutes. He wasn’t deadpan either, he had this slight grin on his face. It was obvious to Akram that Morck was plotting something mischievous, but he was obviously not going to say a single thing. “Do we not have work to do, sir?” Akram broke the silence, the curiosity bubbling higher than usual. Morck responds, “What we were doing was rotting in that damn basement. Just sit tight and you’ll see, mate. Have some faith, will ya?”
Within a few blocks and a few quiet minutes the two pulled into a dimly lit and nearly barren parking area in front of a stand alone building hidden in a corner of Edinburgh. A flickering neon sign, reminiscent of Akram’s lamp, read The Dirt Royal in big, shining yellow letters.
Morck pulled on the handbrake and jumped out of the car, again leaving behind Akram to quickly follow. The duo had reached the door before the DI could ask what they were doing here. Once inside, one could see that the building was a small pub with just a few customers. It was a decent establishment, and it didn’t seem too rough.
“Is this place related to the case, sir?” Akram inquired. The detective turned to his assistant, “For fuck’s sake, loosen up. We’re here to drink.” Walking over to the pub, Morck and Akram took a seat. The DI shook his head slightly. “I don’t drink.”
Morck chuckled, “I bloody know that. I’m here to drink. And don’t start some ‘but you said.’ Loosen. Up. Case’s been tiring the life out me, and I cannae get back to it sober.” Morck patted the stool beside him. “So, for my sanity, just sit next to me, mate. It’s not an issue to watch a man poison himself, is it now?”
Akram took a second to eye the stool and the bar before sitting next to the DCI “One pint of ale, and… water, for my mate here.” Before the bartender could walk off, Akram stopped him. “Make it cranberry juice. Please.” Morck titled his head and smirked. “Modest.” Akram, being the pinnacle of neutrality he was, “Cranberry juice is good for your health.” Morck was amused, shaking his head with the same smirk.
He turned his body on the stool to face Akram. “Remember when I said I was going to get you drunk as all hell to get you to spill about Syria? Well, this is that. What my therapist and my lodger like to describe as ‘bonding.’” The other man didn’t say a single thing after that, and, coincidentally, their drinks came along. One cup of cranberry juice on the rocks, and a pint of £8 ale. Akram took his juice and sipped it slowly as Morck watched him drink the sweet liquid. Akram placed his drink down and looked back to Morck. “Your ale’s here, sir.”
“Jesus Christ, Akram, we’re in public. Just fuckin’ call me Carl, as I’ve said how many bloody times.” Morck grabbed his pint and took a long, deep swing of it while he kept his eyes on the other. The bitter ale slid down in one gulp, the alcohol leaving a scorching feeling down his throat. Morck pursed his lips together and let out a groan. He scratched his beard and down his neck, his eyes lingering on the other man. The burning sensation never truly went away that evening.
The two gentlemen had been there for well over a few hours now. Their conversations started to devolve from the current cold case to something more personal. Nothing in particular, per se, but anything that the drunkard Morck brought up. He was down six pints by now which was a surprise considering he didn’t seem the heaviest of drinkers. Not to Akram, anyway.
Whenever the DCI would start up a new question the DI would answer subsequently, and briefly for that matter. “Who the fuck are you, Akram? And—And be serious with me, a’right? Don’t give me any shite about being a simple copper.” Akram would sip from his cranberry juice, “I was a police officer. My wife was a doctor.” Morck would drink to that, laugh, and move onto the next question.
It went on like this for hours and hours. The more the two talked the more they would open up. The seemingly taciturn Akram who would only speak out of the blue would begin to talk more than he did just a few months back. He surely wasn’t drunk, but maybe a fructose intoxication—who knows? This went on for a long yet still young evening. Sooner or later, the amount of customers dwindled. Then, just around midnight, it was just a few drunks, the bartender, and the two detectives. Akram was as sober as a horse, and he was the first to notice how late it was getting. Edinburgh pubs didn’t usually stay open long after midnight, and the bartender was getting ready to close the place up for the night.
“One more pint of ale ove’ here.” Morck slurred. The bartender looked at the drunken man, and then to Akram. With a slight nod, Akram pulled out a few quid, laid it on the bar, and stood up. “Where ye goin’, mate?” The DI put his hand out to the other detective. Morck chuckled with some build up, grabbing Akram’s hand and giving it a firm shake. Akram then pulled his boss up to his feet and slung his wobbly arm around him. Morck laughed again, attempting to push himself off his assistant and probably stumble to the bar again. However, the man kept a firm grip around his superior and helped him out. “Fuck, mate, the night’s young, and I could do for one more bloody ale right now. Let go..” Of course, Akram did not even lift a finger around Morck’s hand that laid to rest on his shoulder.
“I cannot do that, sir. If you’d like, I can drive you home or call—”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me sir. How many times do I gotta tell you, Akram? Just call me by bloody fuckin’ name. How hard is it to call a man Carl?”
The other stayed silent while stumbling with Morck to the car. Suddenly, detective Morck giggled.
“You’re nothing like him, so I don’t know why…” He trailed off. His smile slowly dropped. “I still blame myself for that day, y’know? Despite it all bein’ healed and shite, I still cannae get over the fact he’s a fuckin’ crip because of me. Those doctors of his say he’ll walk again, but not without a bloody walker. Goddamnit, I wish……it should’ve been me.” Akram didn’t respond at first. They were just maybe ten meters away from the car by now.
“You speak of DCI Hardy?” Akram finally says.
“Aye, mate… and to tell you the truth, he was the best damn partner I’ve had in the force. The bullet should’ve left me in that godforsaken hospital bed.”
Akram didn’t respond right away. “You blame yourself for something out of your control. If it were you, you’d not only be the one in the hospital bed, but the also the one who would torture DCI Hardy and his conscience. It’ll only do more harm.”
Morck didn’t speak, and he didn’t speak when he was being placed into the passenger seat of his own Ford Sierra. Akram started up the ignition and was going to reach for the handbrake when out of nowhere Morck grabbed at his wrist. They looked at each other, sitting there under a dim sidewalk lamp in the dead of night. In silence, just the two of them there.
Akram looked down at his wrist, at his boss's hand, and his eyes began moving subtly in every which way. His eyes only finally landed back at Morck’s face after a few seconds. The DCI got closer, and Akram didn’t get any farther away. Soon, their faces were a mere foot away from each other. Neither of the two’s faces moved, both remaining unfazed.
“Tell me,” Morck began quietly. “Why d’you help me? All those times, you would… help me back up to my feet, get me to regain my focus. I’d be taking a piss if I didn’t say you were almost one of the only people who calmed me down. So, do tell, amuse me… why bother?” Morck awaited his answer with a pensive look, a sad, pathetic look you’d probably only have seen during the Merritt Lingard case. Akram, being the man that he was, was not shy to dishing out an honest response. “It’s because I find you admirable, Carl. I like you.”
Morck was taken aback and was stunned into silence. Akram continued, “You’ve helped me more than I’ve helped you, and I appreciate you for that.” Silence befell them again. Behind the DI’s eyes, despite his continuously composed expression, was a sense of reluctance and even sorrow. Maybe he thought Morck would forget in the morning. What drunk could remember a thing they did if they were as drunk as Morck anyway? Akram snapped out of it and looked back at the steering wheel in front of him. “It’s late, we should get you—”
“Akram.”
The detective turned back and was suddenly pulled by both sides of his face. It was obviously unexpected, and had he not known who was next to him, he would’ve lost control. He tasted and smelt the bitter ale he would’ve never tasted otherwise. The sensation of the chapped and yet wet flesh, although unfamiliar, was not unwelcomed. The rough, unkempt facial hair scratched his face and rubbed against his mustache, creating a friction that was almost unpleasant but was ignored over the viscera of emotion both men displayed.
Akram's stiffened body slowly relaxed and fell into Morck’s. Morck stripped off Akram’s seatbelt with a free hand and made Akram rest into the door behind him. He felt Morck’s palm cup the back of his head as cushioning which was odd considering the man was drunk and out of his mind, but who cares about rational thinking?
Akram felt the detective’s tongue slide into his mouth and he couldn’t help but intertwine with it. Strings of drool formed as one or the other had to pull away to breathe, small drops of saliva falling onto their coats and button ups. Wet, sticky drool stuck to their facial hair and dried simultaneously as they continued with scrunched noses and tightly shut eyes.
Morck was the first, moving off and then down Akram’s entire figure, leaving no part of the man’s torso untouched. Guilt and second thoughts began to storm Akram’s mind in that small span of time, but was ultimately cleared as he felt the DCI wrap his fingers around his waistband and tug them down.
“Carl, I don’t believe it’s best we do this here, or at all—”
“Mate. Relax. I’m drunk as balls, and fortunately not an AIDs patient. I’m assuming you aren’t as well. So lean back and let me suck ya off.”
Morck obeyed and clasped his jaws together with his back leaning on the car door. Morck continued his otherwise slow, irregular, and amateur routine. This was his first ever attempt at anything sexual with a man, and it surprised even him it was with his DI. Wrapping his fingers on Akram’s drawls and unhesitatingly pulling them to the man’s ankles revealed to Morck the absolute unit of girth on the man.
“Jesus Christ, are you still soft?” He hissed. Akram did not respond, only raising his hands to his face, his lips coveting a quiet grunt. “... No matter.”
Morck wrapped his hand around Akram’s semi-erect manhood. Once he had it in his grasp, it began throbbing almost immediately, Morck feeling the tender flesh grow to size in his hand. “Fuckin’ hell. How am I supposed to fit this bloody thing in my mouth?”
“Carl, just start doing whatever you plan on doing, please. I cannot be left like this.”
“I jest, I jest.” Morck held Akram’s manhood at its base and placed just the tip in between his lips, hollowing his cheeks and sucking lightly. This elicited a pleasant and low moan from Akram. Morck held back the urge to laugh. Whatever he knew from whatever porno he applied. He circled the tip with a wet tongue as he continued to suck. Akram held a hand to his flushed expression, although never truly dropping the neutral face.
It was taking a while for Morck to adjust and move past the tip, and Akram was growing impatient (if you can believe that) over this teasing. He was eager to feel everything Morck was to give, but he wished not to rush things or, worse yet, hurt the detective. So, either out of instinct or encouragement, Akram spread his legs further apart and pushed upwards into Morck’s warm, oral vice. The DCI groaned, his eyes darting to his assistant’s in anger. Akram’s face remained still as ever. Morck returned to the task at hand and finally decided to man up.
In one go, he swallowed up the entirety of Akram’s size, leaving the man dazed. His breath hitched in his throat, a squirm in his slouched form shook through his entire body. Morck felt a sliver of pre-cum slide into his mouth. He didn’t swallow—no, not yet. Morck’s head began to bob up and down repeatedly in a slow-paced fashion, leaving Akram to rush and adjust to this newfound sight. Morck paced himself and reached a quicker speed of cocksucking. Akram’s head pressed harder into the window being left huffing softly.
Morck realized this wasn’t going to last long, but he didn’t mind. He just needed to feel this momentary warmth alongside the already growing warmth inside him (alcohol poisoning). His head bobbed faster, adamant to suck Akram dry. Akram was clutching onto dear life in his seat. His moans got louder and breathier. He kept flinching. Akram looked back down into Morck’s eyes, Morck looking up into his.
“You’re… so handsome, Carl.” Akram was able to mutter a phrase before subsequently throwing his head back. He was no longer able to hold back anymore, losing his grip and control. Akram exploded into Morck’s mouth. The DCI attempted to swallow the large, hot load, yet unfortunately letting some splotches drip down his chin down into his cup holders. Akram was left a mess, his head pressed up against the window, arms resting on the headrest and dashboard, and legs sprawled across the two front seats covered in his own semen. Morck crashed into the door behind him while wiping away the stream of cum that dripped from his chin.
Like before, the two sat in silence, only this time both were intoxicated on the same drug. Akram, after a few seconds of heavy breathing, gathered his composure back and sat upright. Same went to Morck. Both sat in their seats in a barren parking strip under a dim lamp in front of a cheap pub.
Akram moved for the handbrake and started up the ignition. “I’ll drive you home, sir.”
“For fuck’s sake, Akram.”