Work Text:
Easterman’s shoes clicked against the worn floorboards as he strolled around Leland Coyle's cramped office. The ex police officer watched him warily from behind his cluttered desk, his brow furrowed with distrust. Though Coyle tried to just ignore him, the presence of the enigmatic doctor always set him on edge.
Suddenly, Easterman shot him a look of disdain that made him flinch.
"Your boots are filthy. Don’t put them on your desk," he said sharply.
"It's my desk," The officer scoffed, dragging the heel of his boot across the desk, leaving a deep scuff. “What do you want? You don’t come ‘round here ‘less ya got something to say— You here to tell me how to run my station?!”
Leland’s lip curled into a snarl. He didn’t need some city doctor telling him how to do his job.
“Not at all,” Easterman responded smoothly, turning to face him. “But you do seem a bit...frustrated lately. Something on your mind?”
Coyle gave a sharp laugh. “Why the hell would you care how I’m feelin’? Got an interest in me now?”
His laughter was cut short and his posture stiffened as Easterman started to approach, an unsettling calm in his steps.
Coyle tensed, his eyes narrowing. "Don’t you come any closer—“ he warned, his voice low and threatening. But Easterman ignored the protest, continuing his advance until he stood looming over the seated officer.
“Are you feeling unappreciated, Leland? Maybe you just need someone to recognize all the hard work you’re doing.”
Before Coyle could react, Easterman reached out and plucked the battered hat from his head, setting it down on the desk. Then, in a surprising gesture, he extended his hand, his fingers ghosting through Coyle's short, dark hair.
A shudder rippled through the officer's body, and a low, guttural groan escaped his lips. His eyes fluttered shut as he sank deeper into his chair, all traces of his earlier hostility melting away. "D-Don't— Fuck…off—," Coyle’s voice wavered, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he sank back into his chair, an unfamiliar pleasure washing over him as Easterman’s nails scraped the sensitive skin of his scalp.
The doctor’s lips curved into a satisfied smile as he continued to caress Coyle's scalp. "You're such a good cop, Leland," he purred, his voice low and soothing. "The best. You're doing an excellent job." A hand slid beneath Coyle’s chin, gently scratching along his jawline.
"Take your boots off the desk."
Without thinking, Coyle did exactly that, his body moving with surprising obedience. The sharp hostile words never came—he simply complied, still lost in the sensation of Easterman’s touch.
“That’s a good boy,” Easterman praised softly, the words almost a whisper. He could hear Coyle’s foot tapping in time with some rhythm only the officer understood, and a smile flickered on the doctor’s lips.
It reminded him of the quiet satisfaction a dog gets when a person scratches them in just the right spot.
Coyle’s breath caught, a deep low chuckle escaping his lips. He shut his eyes, feeling an odd mix of pride and pleasure.
The doctor was right.
He was a good cop.
The finest there was.
And if this was the kind of attention he got for it, he was more than willing to keep working hard—just for Easterman.