To Protect and To Serve

I'm on quite a creativity kick *brags*. No really, I am so happy for myself. However, the characters have begun to misbehave. When they do that the story gets more interesting. I do not own Krylon or American Accent spray paints, I just stock them every weekday at my job.

-Naruto-

-Earlier that day-
I don’t clean much. It’s Sasuke who’s the neat freak. But I had ramen stashed away—he’s also a health food nut—and I want to eat it. I don’t remember where I hid it, and Dadi told me that if I clean, I will find what I am looking for faster. There’s not much to clean, so I organize. Sort of. He’s so meticulous. I move stuff around and put it back exactly where I find it. I get to the bedroom, shuffle over to the desk in the corner and begin rifling through drawers. Pencils, looseleaf lined paper, highlighters, paper clips, binder clips, yellow legal pads, a dark blue cover spiral-bound notebook, ballpoint gel pens that write more strongly than normal pens and don’t pretend to run out of ink, erasers, stationary, rubber stamps, boxes of small white envelopes (he has pen pals) and big yellow manila envelopes. I reach for the bottom drawers. The left one is stacked with neatly folded cavas bags. He and I use them when we go grocery shopping. I closer the drawer a little harder than usual and hear the rattle of…spray paint aerosol cans. I open the drawer again, hurriedly, and they rattle insistently. I dig through the drawer, flinging the bags around. A black beanie cap—the one he was wearing the night we met—tries to hide the cans. I toss it onto the floor as well. Krylon paint. Flat black. Glossy black. Glossy white. American Accent indigo blue. American Accent iris blue. American accent various shades of purple and blue. Twelve cans in all. He tags. It’s the only thing that makes sense for the situation.

I yank open the other drawer after carefully replacing the bags and cap. The second is horrifying and I want to deny what I am seeing. Old spoons that claim to be stainless steel are rusted over and have suspicious stains on them. Blood-stained rags. Lighters with fluid in various stages of emptiness. Pale beige foundation—makeup to hide the sores. He probably started eating meth from the spoon like some people eat ice cream. I shudder. No needles, no antifreeze or glue. He’s not cooking but he’s using. No rolled-up dollar bills or bits of paper, so he doesn’t snort. Why the nosebleeds then? I mean, it might not be nosebleeds but I think it is. It’s undoubtedly meth. I can tell by the smell—I’ve had to go into meth labs before for raids, to interpret, whatever.

I’ve lost my apetite. I just can’t believe Sasuke. Or myself. Or anything. I scramble for the telephone in the kitchen. It sits placidly in its cradle.
--Hello.—
--Rosario.—
--Hi, Francisco!—
--Your boyfriend’s a cop, right?—
--Yeah.—
--Does he know the number for the Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit? Did he tell you?—
--It’s…--
--Thank you so much.—I am nearly breathless. Anxiously, I dial the squad. “This is FBI agent badge number 2908. I need to be transferred to sex crimes detective Sasuke Uchiha.” Sasuke picks up shortly. “Uchiha.”
“Come home right now.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Come home and I will tell you everything if you tell me everything.”
“I’m on my way,” he sighs, already exasperated.
Damn this all.

-Current time-
I open the door and start talking right away.
“You’ll need to sit down for this. Listen. Don’t judge me. I’m sorry for lying, but I am telling the truth now. I am being the honest one first. My name isn’t Francisco, I’m not a Navy SEAL, my hair is not black and my eyes are not brown. I work for the FBI as a Special Agent Linguist. It’s hair dye and tinted contacts. You and I both know why and if you tell anyone I’ll have to kill you. My legal name is Naruto Uzumaki, I’m a natural blond—check out my arm hair and leg hair—and my eyes are naturally blue. The only reason I shave my pubic hair is that it’s too much of a hassle to dye. I’m really Peruvian, and as I said before, Japanese-Peruvians are common. My scars are real. I got them during an interrogation during which the suspect became violent. I’m adpoted. Never knew my birth parents. They fled to America, where I was born, then they left me in adoptive care—Dadi’s my mom—and went back to Peru, where they were killed by the Shining Path. My skin really is this color of brown. I really am Latino. I’m gay and out to my family but not at work and it’s going to stay that way. Any questions?”
I pause for breath. Sasuke blinks and stays quiet, digesting the information. “Sit near me,” he finally speaks. I do. “Closer. Good.” Silence. I supress the desire to fidget. Silence. I rub the back of my neck. Sasuke takes my hand. Or eye contact is unwavering. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he murmurs. “I couldn’t,” I whisper. “I wanted to.”
“Did you kill the suspect?”
“I had to. It was self-defense.”
All Sasuke can do is shake his head. I don’t blame him.

Sasuke leans further back into the couch and closes his eyes. He takes my arm, looks at it carefully and nods, then releases it. I’ve never seen him fidget. Oh, he’s hesitating to tell me something. I ‘harrumph’ internally then scold myself for being such an asshole. At least he’s going to talk or at least he’s acting like it.
“I don’t want you to turn me in—”
I remember the times he’s come home high—
“but I’ll understand if you do—”
and tossed things around, screaming—
“It’s fine if we break up—no, I’d be devastated but I mean—”
The sex was so rough and I felt terrible afterward—
“I’ve never had anyone move in with me, much less after two months—”
Am I codependant? I was in denial for a long time. “Please, don’t leave me,” I beg.
Sasuke is crying. I’m crying.
“Don’t turn me in,” he whispers desperately. “I use meth. And I really need it.”