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vocab_drabblesTitle: Fishing Without Bait
Fandom: Miami Vice
Author: Cat Moon
Rating: PG
Words: 728
Characters: Sonny, Rico
Summary: Some weeks are worse than others, but fishing has always been Sonny's sanity maintenance. During a weekend of decompressing, the partners draw comfort from each other and tiptoe around some truths.
Notes: I was thinking about how they imply Rico has gone fishing with Sonny on the show. This is the result.
Sonny Crockett stretched his legs out and watched the fishing line, relaxed and in no hurry for another catch. The beer was cold, the company great, and the stress from the week was starting to melt away.
Working Vice was never a picnic, but it was especially rough when young kids were involved. The image of the twelve-year-old OD, needle still sticking out of his arm, was the kind of nightmare that stuck to a cop like poisoned glue. It was enervating, weighing Sonny down until it felt like he was swimming in molasses. Weekends like this, just the two of them out on the Bay and fishing off the Dance, were the antidote.
Rico was already nearly through his second beer, which was enough to tell how deeply affected he was, too.
Sonny glanced at his partner, hoping the recharge was working. As much as Rico was an expert at getting Sonny to bear his soul, the man himself tended to be stoic, suppressing his own emotions. It made it challenging to be there for him, with his tendency to go off and lick his wounds in private. Sonny had had to come up with alternate methods of helping.
Humor was one of those tools. “What I wanna know, pal,” Sonny began with a jocular grin, “is how you never manage to catch a single fish. If it weren’t for me, Elvis and I would be going hungry tonight.”
“I’d share my fruit and cheese with you,” Rico responded magnanimously. “But Elvis’ll have to stick with Kibble.”
“Hey!” Sonny smacked him lightly on the arm in feigned offense. “He didn’t mean that, Elvis!” he called over his shoulder to the gator slumbering on deck.
“Love me, love my alligator, huh?” Rico joked.
In the abrupt silence that followed, Sonny focused his attention on re-casting his line, hoping a change of location might bring more luck. He had plenty for his own dinner, but his pet would be expecting more than the few groupers currently in the bucket.
“Maybe you should try a different bait,” Sonny suggested.
After a few moments, Rico sighed. “I’m not using any,” he admitted, reeling the line in and showing his partner the bare hook.
Sonny stared, mouth open. “But I’ve seen you with worms.”
Rico shrugged stiffly. “I just drop ‘em in the water.”
“Why?” Sonny asked, discombobulated to be learning this after all the times they’d gone fishing together.
“I need another beer.” Rico reached over and snagged a fresh can from the cooler next to them.
“Rico.”
“Just to spend time with you. It’s like you said, sanity maintenance, right?” he continued in a rush. “Have some drinks, put our lines in the water, let go of all the crud we see on the job. It’s not about catching anything.”
“You don’t have to,” Sonny said quietly, around the lump in his throat as the reality of his city-bred, vegetarian partner pretending to fish, just for him, settled around him like a warm blanket.
“I know. I want to.”
It was times like these that Sonny was struck by how lucky he was to have Rico by his side. He wasn’t sure he deserved him, but he was grateful. He should probably express it more.
“I need another one, too,” Sonny decided, grabbing the last can, shaking off the ice water before popping the top. On the bad nights, he’d be heading for the Black Jack next. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of those.
“Guess I’ve had enough of pretend fishing for one night,” Rico announced with a quick grin, leaning the pole against the chair as he rose and grabbed the bucket. “I’ll go feed that reptile of yours, before he gets tetchy and eats another one of your country-western albums. Not that it would be a huge loss,” he muttered under his breath.
As he watched Rico tossing fish to Elvis, Sonny acknowledged the affection he felt for them both. “Thanks for being here, partner.”
Rico’s shrug this time was easy, relaxed. His words rang with a profound yet straightforward sincerity.
“Where else would I be?”
It would occur to Sonny much later, after they’d gone through hell and come out the other side together, that Ricardo Tubbs was an excellent fisherman. He’d caught Sonny Crockett.
Where else would I be?
Fandom: Miami Vice
Author: Cat Moon
Rating: PG
Words: 728
Characters: Sonny, Rico
Summary: Some weeks are worse than others, but fishing has always been Sonny's sanity maintenance. During a weekend of decompressing, the partners draw comfort from each other and tiptoe around some truths.
Notes: I was thinking about how they imply Rico has gone fishing with Sonny on the show. This is the result.
Sonny Crockett stretched his legs out and watched the fishing line, relaxed and in no hurry for another catch. The beer was cold, the company great, and the stress from the week was starting to melt away.
Working Vice was never a picnic, but it was especially rough when young kids were involved. The image of the twelve-year-old OD, needle still sticking out of his arm, was the kind of nightmare that stuck to a cop like poisoned glue. It was enervating, weighing Sonny down until it felt like he was swimming in molasses. Weekends like this, just the two of them out on the Bay and fishing off the Dance, were the antidote.
Rico was already nearly through his second beer, which was enough to tell how deeply affected he was, too.
Sonny glanced at his partner, hoping the recharge was working. As much as Rico was an expert at getting Sonny to bear his soul, the man himself tended to be stoic, suppressing his own emotions. It made it challenging to be there for him, with his tendency to go off and lick his wounds in private. Sonny had had to come up with alternate methods of helping.
Humor was one of those tools. “What I wanna know, pal,” Sonny began with a jocular grin, “is how you never manage to catch a single fish. If it weren’t for me, Elvis and I would be going hungry tonight.”
“I’d share my fruit and cheese with you,” Rico responded magnanimously. “But Elvis’ll have to stick with Kibble.”
“Hey!” Sonny smacked him lightly on the arm in feigned offense. “He didn’t mean that, Elvis!” he called over his shoulder to the gator slumbering on deck.
“Love me, love my alligator, huh?” Rico joked.
In the abrupt silence that followed, Sonny focused his attention on re-casting his line, hoping a change of location might bring more luck. He had plenty for his own dinner, but his pet would be expecting more than the few groupers currently in the bucket.
“Maybe you should try a different bait,” Sonny suggested.
After a few moments, Rico sighed. “I’m not using any,” he admitted, reeling the line in and showing his partner the bare hook.
Sonny stared, mouth open. “But I’ve seen you with worms.”
Rico shrugged stiffly. “I just drop ‘em in the water.”
“Why?” Sonny asked, discombobulated to be learning this after all the times they’d gone fishing together.
“I need another beer.” Rico reached over and snagged a fresh can from the cooler next to them.
“Rico.”
“Just to spend time with you. It’s like you said, sanity maintenance, right?” he continued in a rush. “Have some drinks, put our lines in the water, let go of all the crud we see on the job. It’s not about catching anything.”
“You don’t have to,” Sonny said quietly, around the lump in his throat as the reality of his city-bred, vegetarian partner pretending to fish, just for him, settled around him like a warm blanket.
“I know. I want to.”
It was times like these that Sonny was struck by how lucky he was to have Rico by his side. He wasn’t sure he deserved him, but he was grateful. He should probably express it more.
“I need another one, too,” Sonny decided, grabbing the last can, shaking off the ice water before popping the top. On the bad nights, he’d be heading for the Black Jack next. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of those.
“Guess I’ve had enough of pretend fishing for one night,” Rico announced with a quick grin, leaning the pole against the chair as he rose and grabbed the bucket. “I’ll go feed that reptile of yours, before he gets tetchy and eats another one of your country-western albums. Not that it would be a huge loss,” he muttered under his breath.
As he watched Rico tossing fish to Elvis, Sonny acknowledged the affection he felt for them both. “Thanks for being here, partner.”
Rico’s shrug this time was easy, relaxed. His words rang with a profound yet straightforward sincerity.
“Where else would I be?”
It would occur to Sonny much later, after they’d gone through hell and come out the other side together, that Ricardo Tubbs was an excellent fisherman. He’d caught Sonny Crockett.
Where else would I be?
