Wesson idly stroked his bulging gut as he wondered what he could do to bring a little excitement to his life. He loved his job, and he loved his little town (though at 80,000 people "little" was a bit of an exaggeration), but he couldn't deny that he sometimes missed the old days. Being Chief was a great honor, but being chained to a desk and doing paperwork wasn't exactly thrilling.
It wasn't exactly good for his waistline, either, he mused as he idly toyed with the shirt button at the widest part of his gut. It was stretched taut, and he'd had to suck in a bit to fasten it this morning. A few more pounds and he'd have to size up his uniform again, an action he'd become familiar with over the years. Not that he minded: Pancione was an easy place to be a cop, and he was hardly the only veteran who'd let himself go over the years. He wasn't even the biggest, or the only one who couldn't blame his expanding girth entirely on his desk job (after all, he'd still been a beat cop when his midsection had started its long-term expansion project).
As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a knock at his office door. Dropping his hands from his gut, he sat up straight and called out for whoever it was to come in.
It turned out to be Sergeant Mike Gibbs, an old friend of Wesson's. Mike was Wesson's senior (in years served, though not rank) on the force by a good 8 years, but he'd refused any promotions past the rank of sergeant. Over 45, but a few years shy of 50, he had a shiny bald head that he shaved clean once a week rather than admit to his much-receded hairline. In addition to an extra 8 years of service, he also had a good 70 extra pounds on Wesson's own substantial weight: clocking in at over 420 at his last physical. His impressive stomach hung over his belt like a giant, overfull sack of flour and stuck out over a foot away from his wide chest.
"Chief, could I talk to you for a minute?" Gibbs asked, rubbing at his bald head, the motion making his beefy arms strain the sleeves of his shirt.
"What's on your mind, Gibbs?" Wesson asked, leaning forward until his belly bumped up against the edge of his desk and prevented him from leaning further.
"It's about the new recruits, Chief," Gibbs explained, taking a seat in one of Wesson's two visitor chairs when Steve gestured for him to do so. It was a tight fit, his wide belly and thick love handles pressing against the chair's sides. "You know how we've had a bigger than usual influx of new graduates from the police academy?"
"I wouldn't be a very good Chief if I didn't," Wesson remarked dryly, causing Gibbs to chuckle.
"Right, right." The other man said. "Well, the problem is, I'm coming up a little short on mentors." Pancione liked to pair new recruits with more experienced officers, not just on the field, but in the PPD as a whole. A person's mentor might be a complete different officer than their patrol partner. It was felt that multiple mentors helped the rookies connect to the department as a whole faster than they otherwise might, and besides that it was good for morale.
"Short?" Wesson asked, leaning back in his chair again as he requested elaboration.
"I've got three recruits I haven't been able to pair up yet," Gibbs admitted. "Most of the usual volunteers are already paired up, and everyone else I've asked has been too busy."
"And you came to try and change your luck?" Wesson asked, gesturing to his belly in amusement. The two men laughed for a moment before settling down, though Wesson noticed Gibbs eyes his gut in consideration. There were a few skeptics, but most of the force had long accepted the uncanny good fortune that tended to follow anyone who gave Wesson's midsection a quick rub. Gibbs was definitely in the latter category.
"Not exactly," Gibbs said after letting out one last chuckle. "I was actually hoping you'd be willing to take one of them off my hands? I know the Chief isn't usually on tap for this due to favoritism concerns," he went on, when he noticed Wesson's skeptical frown, "but I bounced the idea off a few of the other sergeants, and we think it would be good for morale. Everyone knows you don't play favorites, so the general feeling is that any of the recruits would be lucky to have you."
Steve was quiet for a moment, rubbing his belly idly with one hand (Gibbs watched the absentminded, circular motions avidly and resisted the urge to lean over and add his own hand to the mix) and stroking his chin (rough with stubble; he'd forgotten to shave that morning) with the other as he thought.
Hadn't he just been wishing for a little more excitement? This could be just what the doctor ordered! It had been a long time since Wesson had played mentor, and he'd enjoyed it in his younger years. This may even give him an excuse to go out into the field every once in a while!
He had a brief vision of himself walking a beat like in his old days, and his face puckered in a grimace. 'Well, maybe in a patrol car,' he hastily amended. His pavement pounding days were many years and many pounds ago, and he was definitely out of shape compared to those days: he still had muscle buried under the flab, but just climbing a flight of stairs had him huffing a fair bit these days.
But still...
"Yeah," he found himself saying. "Yeah, I don't think that'd be a problem. It's been a while, but I've still got it where it counts, after all?"
"Thank you, Sir!" Gibbs said, beaming. "And once they know you're doing it, I shouldn't have any trouble finding volunteers for my last two! Did you want to read the files and pick one out?"
"Nah, surprise me," Wesson said, waving his hand magnanimously. Gibbs pulled a manila folder out from under his arm (where he'd had it and two others tucked since he first entered the office) and slid it across the desk to Steve before hauling himself to his feet with a grunt.
"Thank you Sir, I really appreciate this."
"No problem, Gibbs," Wesson said dismissively, moving to open the folder. He paused when he realized Gibbs was still standing there instead of leaving, shuffling awkwardly on his feet. "Did you need something else, Sergeant?"
"It's poker night with the neighbors," Gibbs said simply, and Wesson barked a laugh before moving his arms to the side to clear the path to his gut.
"Alright, go ahead." Gibbs eagerly reached across the desk and gave his superior's stomach a vigorous rub like he was polishing Aladdin's lamp. He gave it a couple of pats for good measure, then pulled his hand back with a contented sigh, a broad grin on his face.
"Thank you, Sir!" He said again before he turned and plodded out of the room, closing the door behind him. Wesson shook his head with a chuckle and returned his attention to the folder in his hands, figuring he'd find out from Gibbs tomorrow how the game went.
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