Dark was the night, cold was the ground, I could barely make out the song...
Written for kawaiispinel, for the prompt "methodist".
"How do we know?"
"What?" The officer stopped two and a half steps from her desk, pointedly not looking at the folder he'd just dropped on her desk.
Casey wasn't sure why it took anyone by surprise that she asked these questions. Honestly, it was like they didn't know her at all - or maybe they just hoped that if they said things very quickly and walked away fast, she wouldn't get the chance to. That seemed more or less idiotic to her.
"How do we know this girl's a runaway?" She flipped open the folder, her eyes settling on the picture paperclipped to the top page. It looked like the girl's last school photo, red hair and a big smile. "Happy family, good grades in school, her sixteenth birthday, for God's sake... It doesn't make any sense. I mean, unless she left a note to say she ran away, and even then-"
"We know," the man said, and Casey knew that tone all too well. We know what's going on, which is why we're done with this case. We know this is a bad explanation, but it's the only one we can give. We know enough to pretend we don't. Casey hated that tone.
She bit back a growl, flipped the folder shut, and rose to her feet. "If I just go talk to the family, just once-"
"Let it go, Wyatt. The kid ran away, end of story."
He walked away, and this time Casey let him. For a second, she watched him go, and then looked down at the file, hand going to her forehead. "I guess it's too much to ask if you've ever heard of children's angels," she murmured under her breath.
*
There are things you're not supposed to do in CPD. Things you're not supposed to talk about, because there's fuck all that you can actually do about it. The law doesn't recognize angels and demons, there's no way to punish someone for the murder of someone who doesn't exist, and if they just pretend that it's all not there... that's at least more time to focus on the things you can do something about.
Casey was never very good at ignoring those things. Casey's like a terrier - she just can't let things go.
"James," she said, tapping her fingers on his desk as she walked past, "I'm taking a cigarette break."
Casey doesn't smoke. James looks up at her nevertheless, nods a little, and then busies himself with pretending he knows absolutely nothing of interest now. As Casey steps outside, she fishes her cellphone out of her pocket, flipping her journal open with her other hand, and scrolls down the contact list. Normal people do not sneak off to call the morgue on their free time. Casey hasn't been normal for a long time.
"Lonnie!" she says, too quickly, when someone picks up the phone. "I need to know if you've had any unidentified bodies lately, anything unusual about them... You know what I mean. Could have been random violence, maybe a suicide..."
The man on the other end of the line pauses a second, and then says slowly, "Ah... no. Were we... expecting something?"
Casey takes a breath, and winces. She likes Lonnie - he's a lot less willing to close his eyes to the place this city really is than most of the people she comes into contact with in her work life, but he still likes explanations, facts and numbers and proof and sometimes it's impossible to really give them. "Something's coming. Something pretty nasty. Just... keep an eye out for me, will you?"
"How do you know? I mean, that something's coming. What-"
Casey looks down at the open page of her journal, to the entry that makes her chest tighten and her stomach flip. "I just have a feeling." She knows she can't stop this. She knows no one in the department will move on this even if she can show them the bodies, she knows she's just standing there with her finger in the dike, but one day... One day, maybe her job's going to be something more than numbering the unnamed dead.
*
Casey didn't fall sick until the plague had hit nearly half of the city. It was only a matter of time, when more and more officers were falling sick, and someone had to cover their shifts... She sneezed once, and suddenly James was watching her like a hawk - and he, of course, was still healthy, the bastard. When she started to show signs of a fever, when his hands felt like ice and her skin felt to him like it was burning, he sent her home.
She made herself tea and soup, dosed herself into near-unconsciousness with the cold meds in her medicine cabinet, and then fell into bed. She didn't wake up for over twenty-four hours, and when she did, it was to a ringing phone and a throbbing head.
Casey survived the plague. Her father died, the day before people throughout the city started to get better. She went to the funeral the same day she went back to work. It was a short ceremony - they all were, those days. So many people to bury, so little time.
She didn't cry at the funeral. Her mother did enough of that for both of them, and Casey would have spent the night at her house, but enough of the police force had died alongside everyone else that taking the night off wasn't even close to an option. But the next morning, after she got off an exhaustingly long but thankfully quiet night, she ended up on Gray's doorstep, rang the doorbell and prayed he wasn't at the hospital.
Nothing happened. She rang again, and waited a minute or three, and finally turned away with a sigh. Of course he was at the hospital, they were still dealing with the fallout from the plague, but-
She heard the door creak open behind her, and turned around. There was Gray in the doorway, wrapped in a ridiculous Superman bathrobe and blinking at her sleepily. It wasn't hard to tell she'd just woken him up from what was probably a very deep sleep. "Case? Something happen?"
Casey stared at him for a second, not sure whether she wanted to laugh, or shake her head and tell him never mind, it wasn't that important, or... "I just..." She rubs at the back of her neck, trying to ignore the way all her joints still ache, the fact that every fibre of her is exhausted in one way or another... "I had to be sure you were still alive." The words come out soft and a little breathless, less serious than she meant it, more serious than she'd hoped it would sound.
Gray rubbed at his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and seemed oblivious to the fact that it was sticking straight up. "You know, there's this awesome invention called a phone... You couldn't've just called?"
She moved before she realized she meant to, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his chest. Tomorrow, later today, a few hours from now, she would pretend this never happened, but... "I didn't want to find out like that," she mumbled into his chest, not caring that he might not understand a word she was saying. "I just had to know... I'm glad you're not dead."
*
Casey doesn't use the journals much, as a rule. She reads them, sure, but when it comes down to it, she'd rather be talking to people face-to-face. Words on a page always seemed too cold and stale next to changes in expression, shifts in tone, the patterns of a person's breathing. Casey spent a long time learning how to read people - on the journals, there are no cues telling her who to trust.
But every now and then, someone starts talking - about war, or about peace, about banding together, standing to fight - and she reaches for a pen. She always stops before any words make it onto the paper, because what could she possibly say?
Angels, demons, wanderers, it all seems so simple for them, by comparison. By and large, choosing their side is just a matter of blood, where they ended up, who they know, calling and instinct and loyalty. And here she is on the sidelines of a war she can't even acknowledge where anyone can see her. She realizes, eventually, that she keeps meaning to write the same thing, every time.
What are you even fighting for? How do you know it's worth it?
Word Count: 1469
"How do we know?"
"What?" The officer stopped two and a half steps from her desk, pointedly not looking at the folder he'd just dropped on her desk.
Casey wasn't sure why it took anyone by surprise that she asked these questions. Honestly, it was like they didn't know her at all - or maybe they just hoped that if they said things very quickly and walked away fast, she wouldn't get the chance to. That seemed more or less idiotic to her.
"How do we know this girl's a runaway?" She flipped open the folder, her eyes settling on the picture paperclipped to the top page. It looked like the girl's last school photo, red hair and a big smile. "Happy family, good grades in school, her sixteenth birthday, for God's sake... It doesn't make any sense. I mean, unless she left a note to say she ran away, and even then-"
"We know," the man said, and Casey knew that tone all too well. We know what's going on, which is why we're done with this case. We know this is a bad explanation, but it's the only one we can give. We know enough to pretend we don't. Casey hated that tone.
She bit back a growl, flipped the folder shut, and rose to her feet. "If I just go talk to the family, just once-"
"Let it go, Wyatt. The kid ran away, end of story."
He walked away, and this time Casey let him. For a second, she watched him go, and then looked down at the file, hand going to her forehead. "I guess it's too much to ask if you've ever heard of children's angels," she murmured under her breath.
*
There are things you're not supposed to do in CPD. Things you're not supposed to talk about, because there's fuck all that you can actually do about it. The law doesn't recognize angels and demons, there's no way to punish someone for the murder of someone who doesn't exist, and if they just pretend that it's all not there... that's at least more time to focus on the things you can do something about.
Casey was never very good at ignoring those things. Casey's like a terrier - she just can't let things go.
"James," she said, tapping her fingers on his desk as she walked past, "I'm taking a cigarette break."
Casey doesn't smoke. James looks up at her nevertheless, nods a little, and then busies himself with pretending he knows absolutely nothing of interest now. As Casey steps outside, she fishes her cellphone out of her pocket, flipping her journal open with her other hand, and scrolls down the contact list. Normal people do not sneak off to call the morgue on their free time. Casey hasn't been normal for a long time.
"Lonnie!" she says, too quickly, when someone picks up the phone. "I need to know if you've had any unidentified bodies lately, anything unusual about them... You know what I mean. Could have been random violence, maybe a suicide..."
The man on the other end of the line pauses a second, and then says slowly, "Ah... no. Were we... expecting something?"
Casey takes a breath, and winces. She likes Lonnie - he's a lot less willing to close his eyes to the place this city really is than most of the people she comes into contact with in her work life, but he still likes explanations, facts and numbers and proof and sometimes it's impossible to really give them. "Something's coming. Something pretty nasty. Just... keep an eye out for me, will you?"
"How do you know? I mean, that something's coming. What-"
Casey looks down at the open page of her journal, to the entry that makes her chest tighten and her stomach flip. "I just have a feeling." She knows she can't stop this. She knows no one in the department will move on this even if she can show them the bodies, she knows she's just standing there with her finger in the dike, but one day... One day, maybe her job's going to be something more than numbering the unnamed dead.
*
Casey didn't fall sick until the plague had hit nearly half of the city. It was only a matter of time, when more and more officers were falling sick, and someone had to cover their shifts... She sneezed once, and suddenly James was watching her like a hawk - and he, of course, was still healthy, the bastard. When she started to show signs of a fever, when his hands felt like ice and her skin felt to him like it was burning, he sent her home.
She made herself tea and soup, dosed herself into near-unconsciousness with the cold meds in her medicine cabinet, and then fell into bed. She didn't wake up for over twenty-four hours, and when she did, it was to a ringing phone and a throbbing head.
Casey survived the plague. Her father died, the day before people throughout the city started to get better. She went to the funeral the same day she went back to work. It was a short ceremony - they all were, those days. So many people to bury, so little time.
She didn't cry at the funeral. Her mother did enough of that for both of them, and Casey would have spent the night at her house, but enough of the police force had died alongside everyone else that taking the night off wasn't even close to an option. But the next morning, after she got off an exhaustingly long but thankfully quiet night, she ended up on Gray's doorstep, rang the doorbell and prayed he wasn't at the hospital.
Nothing happened. She rang again, and waited a minute or three, and finally turned away with a sigh. Of course he was at the hospital, they were still dealing with the fallout from the plague, but-
She heard the door creak open behind her, and turned around. There was Gray in the doorway, wrapped in a ridiculous Superman bathrobe and blinking at her sleepily. It wasn't hard to tell she'd just woken him up from what was probably a very deep sleep. "Case? Something happen?"
Casey stared at him for a second, not sure whether she wanted to laugh, or shake her head and tell him never mind, it wasn't that important, or... "I just..." She rubs at the back of her neck, trying to ignore the way all her joints still ache, the fact that every fibre of her is exhausted in one way or another... "I had to be sure you were still alive." The words come out soft and a little breathless, less serious than she meant it, more serious than she'd hoped it would sound.
Gray rubbed at his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and seemed oblivious to the fact that it was sticking straight up. "You know, there's this awesome invention called a phone... You couldn't've just called?"
She moved before she realized she meant to, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his chest. Tomorrow, later today, a few hours from now, she would pretend this never happened, but... "I didn't want to find out like that," she mumbled into his chest, not caring that he might not understand a word she was saying. "I just had to know... I'm glad you're not dead."
*
Casey doesn't use the journals much, as a rule. She reads them, sure, but when it comes down to it, she'd rather be talking to people face-to-face. Words on a page always seemed too cold and stale next to changes in expression, shifts in tone, the patterns of a person's breathing. Casey spent a long time learning how to read people - on the journals, there are no cues telling her who to trust.
But every now and then, someone starts talking - about war, or about peace, about banding together, standing to fight - and she reaches for a pen. She always stops before any words make it onto the paper, because what could she possibly say?
Angels, demons, wanderers, it all seems so simple for them, by comparison. By and large, choosing their side is just a matter of blood, where they ended up, who they know, calling and instinct and loyalty. And here she is on the sidelines of a war she can't even acknowledge where anyone can see her. She realizes, eventually, that she keeps meaning to write the same thing, every time.
What are you even fighting for? How do you know it's worth it?
Word Count: 1469