Ryden Oneshots

Innocence (In A Sense)

.:. Rating : NC-17 .:.
Warnings: Mentions of murder and cross-dressing, handcuffs and bashing of Pete Wentz's clothing line.

The air in the room is stagnant and thick. 

It smells like stale cigarettes and sweat and the only things giving the room any substance are the tarnished metal chairs on either side of an old metallic desk, smudged with ancient fingerprints. The door just beyond the opposite side of the table is grimy, rusted with age, and the wide mirror just to the right of it is blotched with smears of palms and foreheads. It stretches from the ceiling (crumbling tiles and dusty insulation) to the middle of the wall, lit up with the fading yellow florescent rods hung overhead. The walls are brick, painted gray but peeling and the floor is unforgiving concrete.

He kicks the table with the toe of his shoe and brands his own fingerprints into the table’s surface through an impatient drumming. He sighs.

With a loud protesting squeak, much like the exaggerated sound effect of heavy doors and dry hinges, the door before him opens and another man walks in. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark intentions. He strides over and before he sits down, he reaches behind him to unholster his gun, standard police issue, deadly.

Intimidating.

He grins. “Mr. Ross, is it?”

No reply.

He nods carefully, registering and his lip curls up despite it, “I’m Detective Urie.”

No reply.

“I’d give you my first name, but I like having a leg up, seeing as I know yours. Ryan,” Detective Urie says, and places his gun down on the table, barrel pointing straight at Ryan.

Detective Brendon B. Urie, all around good cop but instant badass the minute he draws his gun. Regardless of its intent. He doesn’t plan on using it, really and truly hates it when he as to, but having a loaded gun pointed at you, even if it’s not aimed at you, usually gets people to speak.

The only silence allowed in Brendon’s line of duty is the silence of the victims. There’s no time for mute criminals.

But this kid, this Ryan Ross. He doesn’t even fucking flinch when the clunk of the gun resonates through the tight air around them and Brendon, frankly, is a little impressed.

He’s guilty. Brendon can feel it. The crossed arms, the bored eyes, the way he didn’t immediately try to plead his innocence, the way the sight of the gun didn’t seem to faze him in the least. Brendon’s had a few characters like this in his day and this kid is no different, just an unimportant member of society known as scum, a murderer.

The metal scrapes along the concrete floor when Brendon goes to sit. Fingers threaded together, he rests his elbows on the table and stares over his knuckles at the hardened expression on Ryan’s face. 

“Sorry we didn’t give you any water.” There’s an unapologetic grimace on his face and Ryan stares at him, unimpressed, undaunted. “You see, the tap’s been pouring nothing but shitty water lately. Supposed to have some people out within the next week to fix it. I’d give you a bottled water but.” Brendon smirks, “I don’t want to spoil you.”

Ryan remains motionless, frustratingly quiet and the buzzing of the bulbs above only amplify the silence. Brendon gives another smile, leans back in his chair to imitate Ryan’s posture and says,

“Lovely weather today, yeah?” Ryan doesn’t reply, naturally. “Perfect day to go for a jog, do a little kite flying, kill someone. The usual.”

The casual tone Brendon uses causes Ryan to chuckle in disbelief, perhaps a little amusement and he shakes his head, smiling through a clenched jaw. Brendon sees the veins in his neck tighten and the way his fingers curl around the edge of the armrests of the chair and he continues.