Nightingale (And Not the Lark) - Chapter Five
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CHAPTER FIVE - DILIGENCE
DAY 29 - 9:45 PM
The fifth victim is a young girl. Cassadee Pope, 15. Found on the altar in Calvary Chapel on Maverick four days after the murder of Cassie Walker turned the angel killer investigation from difficult to unbearable with the tip of a hand. The similar names only make things harder: images from Cassie's crime scene flash behind Spencer’s eyes, and he finds himself unable to look away from Cassadee's face as he carefully and systematically collects evidence from the small body. There isn’t very much. Spencer has seen a lot of dead girls since he started working at the lab, and he can’t even remember processing a victim that looked so… perfect before. There is not a speck of dirt anywhere, and she’s been dressed up and arranged with so much care, it’s staggering. If it wasn’t for the fact that the girl is dead, Spencer would call it love. To be honest, he still might.
“What do we have?” Ryan asks from the door, pulling on a pair of gloves as he comes to stand next to Spencer.
“He curled her hair,” Spencer says. “It’s flat in the back, where it was trapped under her head, but he curled all the rest of it perfectly. What kind of killer does that?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan admits. “A lot of this makes no sense to me. He’s not being consistent. He’s killing after a set list of religious symbols, but there’s nothing else to suggest a religious fanatic. He doesn’t know his symbolism. He’s not working after the church calendar or the days of saints. He’s dressing them up as angels, but without incorporating anything that someone who studied angels in a theological setting would know and value. It’s like we’re dealing with a child that’s painting pictures from stories he’s heard in Sunday school.”
Spencer is silent for a while, contemplating.
“Maybe we are,” he says. “Maybe this is just a regular Joe who’s gone over the bend one day and decided to make pretty things.”
Ryan reaches out and touches a perfect curl of dark hair, rubbing it carefully between his fingers. “Yeah, maybe.”
They work side by side for about twenty minutes. It’s a familiar routine, one they have perfected over years of practice. The checks yield exactly what they’re expecting from this killer by now: no signs of a struggle, no wounds or lacerations, no bruises, no signs of sexual assault; hair and fibre that will most certainly be consistent with what they already have, but that doesn’t really help as long as they don’t have a suspect to match it to.
“How is Jon?” Spencer asks quietly as Ryan is finishing up the blood work for a tox screen.
“How come you need to ask?”
“We-” Spencer starts, trying to figure out how to tell Ryan without giving in to the tight feeling pressing down on his chest. “We fucked. That night. It just-I don’t know how it happened really.”
“You were working that night.”
Spencer swallows. “Yeah. It was kind of… then. After we wrapped up the scene. Before we left to come back here.”
“Spencer…”
“I know, alright? Don’t you think I fucking know how-” He trails off. It’s too much all at once, and he doesn’t know how to get the rest of it across.
“What time?” Ryan asks, as though he knows what Spencer hasn’t found a way to tell him yet. It’s a little scary how well they know each other after all these years.
“Sunrise,” Spencer whispers, and that’s all he has to say. Ryan was there when Dr Hurley announced the estimated time of death for Cassie Walker. Spencer doesn’t need to spell it out.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“When… I arrived at the scene,” Ryan says softly, “there was this moment when I thought-I got this premonition of walking up to the altar and seeing… Survivor’s guilt isn’t easy, Spence. You’ve seen it enough to know that.”
Spencer nods and turns his attention back to the dead girl, sliding off the familiar gold band from her wedding finger. “Diligence,” he says, putting it down on the metal surface next to the autopsy table to snap a few pictures. “Funny, I would have placed my bets on chastity for someone as young and pretty as her.”
“Only that and temperance left now,” Ryan says. “At least the list of potential victims will be short in this town.”
***
FEBRUARY 5
“So, are you free next Tuesday?” Pete asks casually as Patrick drives him home from Mass after Pete’s car mysteriously wouldn’t start when he got to the parking lot. Pete suspects the battery. Mostly because he might have accidentally left the lights on for most of the night with no ulterior motive whatsoever.
“Next Tuesday is Valentine’s Day,” Patrick says, in a voice that makes the silent ‘dumbass’ largely redundant.
“Yup,” Pete confirms cheerfully. “I want to take you out to dinner.”
Patrick’s eyebrows disappear into his hair. “Have you completely lost your mind? Only couples go out to dinner on Valentine’s Day, and everyone gossips like crazy about who they’ve seen out with who. You might as well just send a photo of me naked in your bed to my dad-oh, no, don’t even…” Patrick throws Pete a dark look as he turns a corner. “If I so much as see you with a camera, I will personally and painfully shove it down your throat.”
“Aw, Trick, come on! Naked pics are fun. I could totally show you.”
“Not a chance in hell. It’s like one of those crazy laws of the universe or something: naked pictures always end up on the Internet sooner or later. It’s happened to people in my class like eight times already this semester. And I’m in a preppy, Catholic private school.”
“Wouldn’t that actually increase the chances?”
Patrick snickers. “Yeah, okay. You have a point.”
“So about Valentine’s Day…”
Patrick parks the car in his usual spot and turns off the engine. “I don’t know, Pete. Wouldn’t that be kind of risky?”
“It’ll be fine. I totally have a plan. It’s super sneaky. Would you be able to get away for the night?”
“Well, my parents usually go to see one of the bigger shows,” Patrick says, chewing on his lower lip in indecision as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “I don’t want to pretend I have a date, because my mom would go all mushy and happy and want to meet her-note the emphasis on the ‘her’-and my dad might try to offer me fatherly advice, which is a conversation I was hoping to avoid until I'm at least forty. I don't know-normally, I try and make myself useful somehow. Babysitting my younger cousins or whatever.”
“What if-” Pete says, cutting himself short as though whatever idea that just entered his mind was dismissed before it had a chance to fully form.
“What?”
They’ve made it out of the car and into the elevator. Pete presses the button for the eighth floor with an exaggerated flourish. “Um... What if I kind of... let it slip to your dad that I’ve just met this really sweet girl who’s a single mom and that I would love to take her out on Valentine’s Day?” he says, looking more apprehensive with every word. “Except there’s the adorable toddler that can’t be left alone all night, right? And it’s just so hard to find a babysitter you can-no. Fuck. Forget it, I'm such a-no.”
Patrick just stares. The elevator pings and Pete gets out, leaving Patrick to continue the ride for two more floors before he goes back down to the right one and hurries down the familiar hallway. Pete is waiting right on the other side of the door, and Patrick kisses him before he has time to even kick off his shoes.
“Do it,” he breathes against Pete's lips, kissing him again when Pete starts to make some kind of protesting sound. “Please?”
Most of the time, they try to pretend that the world around them doesn't exist, and Patrick knows how difficult Pete finds it to be someone Patrick's parents trust when he and Patrick have to lie to them more or less every day.
Pete moans into his mouth, and Patrick holds him tighter, murmuring things like 'I want you to' and 'It'll be fine' until Pete melts against him and Patrick feels a smile ghost against his skin.
“Be my Valentine?” Pete asks breathlessly, and Patrick nods fiercely, smiling into their next kiss as they stumble into the living room and fall down on the couch. “How long can you stay now?”
Patrick checks his watch. It’s almost noon. “Ten minutes, maybe? Fifteen, tops.”
“Good,” Pete whispers, mouth playing with Patrick’s left earlobe. “Then I have time to do this…”
***
DAY 31 - 5:00 PM
Zack has seen his fair share of tragedies since he joined the lab. Law enforcement is not a risk-free occupation, and sometimes, people die. Whenever there is a serial killer on the loose, the detectives and CSI’s tend to go a little crazy and identify a little too much-as though every new murder is somehow at least partly their fault for not being smarter or faster or something else that would have limited the body count.
The sight of Jon Walker huddled up in a corner of the DNA Lab with an open evidence box at his feet possibly takes the prize for pain though. Zack stands quietly by one of the shelves for a moment, deliberating whether to approach or simply go away. Walker is not supposed to be where he is, or handling the evidence Zack suspects is in the box on the floor.
“I thought Ross told you to go on that vacation to Lake Tahoe you’ve been talking about.”
Walker looks up, shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” Jon says, disgust clear and cutting in his voice. “Nothing that makes a fucking bit of difference.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well,” Jon says. “That doesn’t change things either.”
“You need any help?”
“Do you have a gun and an address?”
“Not yet.”
“Too bad,” Walker says, pulling himself off the floor and putting the lid back on the brown box. “When you do, give me a call.”
Zack is just about to answer when Detective Wentz appears around the corner, coming to a stop right in front of the door.
“What part of ‘you’re off the case’ didn’t register with you?”
Walker gives another shrug and picks the evidence box up into his arms. “Just go away, Pete.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Fuck you!” Jon snaps. “Like you wouldn’t understand. I practically had to physically hold you down last year when the review board approved parole for the thug who shot your old partner. If not for me, you would be in jail for manslaughter right now. You fucking owe me.”
“Yeah,” Wentz says slowly. “I do. Zack, can you get that box back to Archives, please?”
Zack looks from one to the other and then steps forward, simply lifting the evidence box out of Jon’s hands.
“Don’t kill each other.”
Wentz smiles and grabs Walker by the arm, pulling him with him out of the room. “I’ll do my best.”
***
FEBRUARY 14
“Bonsoir, Monsieur. Très bienvenu. Quel nom, s’il vous plaît?”
“Um…” Patrick does a double take. Yes, he’s in Pete’s apartment. The person in front of him is definitely Pete (unless there’s an evil twin somewhere that Patrick hasn’t heard about), but for some reason, he’s wearing glasses, black pants, a white dress shirt, a black tie and apron and has a white linen towel draped over his arm. Oh, and he’s speaking French.
“La réservation,” The-guy-who-is-probably-Pete says, annoyance bleeding into his voice. “Under what name iz it, please?” The accent is ridiculous. Patrick clenches his jaw to keep from laughing out loud.
“Pete Wentz,” he manages and tries to keep back a snicker when Pete pulls a small book from the front pocket of his apron and consults it seriously.
“Ah, oui,” he says, smiling at Patrick with the perfect kind of insincere tug of lips of a bored waiter. “I am Pierre and I weel be your garçon tonight. Zis way, please.”
Patrick follows him into the living room, briefly registering how much cleaner everything seems to be. Even the coffee table has been cleared. Patrick barely recognises the place.
“Et voilà!” Pete says, stepping aside. “Votre table, Monsieur.”
Patrick sits down at the lavishly decorated table, somewhere between speechless and trying his best not to convulse in laughter. Pete-pretending-to-be-a-French-waiter-named-Pierre takes a bottle of champagne from a cooler filled with ice at the end of the table and pours two glasses. He hands Patrick a menu and places the second one at the opposite side before taking off with what Patrick guesses is a polite comment. Patrick stares after him as he disappears into the kitchen. Half a minute later, Pete reappears, sans glasses, apron, towel and black tie now, the first two buttons of his shirt undone.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, sliding into his chair with an apologetic smile. “Wow, you look fantastic tonight.”
Patrick bites his lip harder, forcing the laughter back down into his lungs.
“Thanks. This looks like a really nice place. Good service.”
Pete smiles wider, takes up his glass and touches it to Patrick’s. The champagne is cool and dry. Veuve Clicqot-a long-standing Vaughn Stump family favourite.
“I hear the fish is really nice,” Pete says as Patrick opens his menu. It’s all in French. Of course it is.
“I don’t know. I was kind of thinking a filet de veau myself.” Patrick might not be able to pronounce it correctly, but his parents have been taking him to upscale, French restaurants since he was about three years old. He knows his way around a menu by now (and, more importantly, knows to always avoid anything with the words ‘entrailles,’ ‘cervelle,’ or ‘tripe’ in the description).
“Well, I hope you don’t mind,” Pete says, looking up at Patrick with an expression of total sincerity, “but I kind of ran into our waiter on my way here and so I ordered today’s special for both of us. You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good.”
Suddenly, Pete’s beeper goes off. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the message with a frown on his face. “Shit, sorry. I need to take this. Be right back, okay?”
Pete hurries off into the kitchen. There are sounds of cupboards being opened and plates clanking together. A couple of minutes later, Pierre arrives-glasses, black tie, apron and towel back in place-with what looks like two plates of intricately arranged mountains of very tiny lobsters that smell richly of garlic and butter.
“Voilà, Monsieur,” Pete-as-Pierre says, putting down one of the plates in front of Patrick with a smug little grin. “Langoustines à l’aïl au gratin. Bon apétit.” He puts down a basket of bread and two bowls filled with water and lemons next to the plates and disappears again.
Patrick watches him leave and then turns his attention to the food. It smells absolutely fantastic. He looks to the right of his plate and finds a thin utensil that looks like a long spoon with a tiny fork at the other end. It’s not that different from his mom’s lobster forks.
“God, I’m so sorry,” Pete says, slipping back into his chair. “New case. I called Travis and had him go down to the station, but I might have to take a call every now and then. How’s your starter?”
Patrick scoops out the tail of one of the pale, pink shellfish at the top of the little pile. The meat practically melts in his mouth, flavours of parsley and garlic mixing with smooth, melted butter on his tongue, making his eyes cross a little.
“Oh wow.”
Pete grins proudly.
***
The rest of the dinner is by far the most entertaining one Patrick’s ever been to. Pierre-the-waiter becomes progressively snottier (not to mention exceptionally, flamboyantly gay) and Pete’s excuses turn more and more creative. He manages to quote most of Superman III, along with some of Patrick’s other favourite movies. When he leaves to get coffee, claiming that his grandmother is on fire, Patrick laughs so hard that some of the water he just tried to drink actually sprays out of his nostrils.
Once all the food and wine is gone, Pierre thanks Patrick and wishes him a bonne soirée before disappearing for good, leaving Pete, happy and relaxed, pulling Patrick to his feet for a semi-drunken dance in the middle of the living room floor.
“Stay the night,” Pete mumbles against his neck, kissing his way down to Patrick’s collarbone and biting down lightly. “Call your parents and tell them my imaginary date had a possible allergic reaction to her dessert or something and that you need to stay here while I take her to the emergency room.”
Patrick shivers and tilts his head further to the side, giving Pete better access. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I know,” Pete replies, frustration clear in his voice. “It’s risky and stupid and totally sucks. But it would suck so much more to send you home now that the wine has given me so many other, good ideas.”
Patrick moans against Pete’s neck, attacking it with kisses of his own, mental pictures forming in his head at an alarming rate. “What kind of ideas?”
“I want to get you out of these clothes,” Pete says, starting in on the buttons of Patrick’s shirt under the thin sweater as he speaks. “Lay you out on my bed. Light some candles.” He opens the last button and pulls Patrick’s sweater over his head before edging his hands under the open shirt. “I bet you would look gorgeous in candlelight. All pale and golden.”
“You too,” Patrick replies, trying to catch up with Pete in the competition for most clothes thrown to the floor in less than two minutes. “God, I want to see that. And then?”
Pete swallows. His hands reach for the fastenings on Patrick’s pants, fumbling as they undo the button and push the zipper down. “I… Jesus-I don’t even know where to start.”
“I do,” Patrick murmurs, earning a stifled groan in response. He feels Pete’s hands move up to tangle in his hair, pushing it out of his face to make more room for hurried, heated kisses. “Okay, let me just call my mom.”
Pete nods, leaning his forehead against Patrick’s when he finally manages to pull away from their kiss. “Make it quick. I’ll go clear the bed. I kind of put all the shit from out here in the bedroom when I was cleaning before.”
Patrick snickers, because that makes a lot more sense than Pete having suddenly turned into Martha Stewart (who would be seriously proud of Pete’s living room right now, holy crap). He takes out his phone, calls his mom. Not his dad, who tends to be the one driving (and slightly annoyed because of it) when Patrick’s parents go out. Patrick’s mom, on the other hand, is very mellow and easy to persuade when she’s a little tipsy. He spins a tale of ground-up hazelnuts, sleeping toddlers, guest bedrooms and a giant DVD collection. His mom doesn’t object, just tells him she’s proud that she has a son who takes on responsibility and helps out when people need it and warns him not to be late for school the next day. Patrick hears Pete move around in the bedroom and kind of loves his mom more than anything.
He takes off the rest of his clothes before walking through the doorway. Pete is shuffling dirty laundry from a pile on the bed to a corner of the floor, the flickering light of about a dozen candles playing off the muscles in his bare back. Patrick walks up behind him and presses close, leaning in to kiss the skin between Pete’s shoulder blades and wrapping his arms around Pete’s waist to make quick work of his pants.
***
DAY 31 - 5:10 PM
Spencer is setting things up in the surveillance area off interrogation room five when voices suddenly filter in through the intercom. He looks up and sees Detective Wentz pull Jon through the door, practically tossing him into one of the uncomfortable chairs by the small table.
“Let me tell you a story, Walker,” Spencer hears Wentz say, and he turns up the incoming sound from the other room a little bit, the need to hear Jon's voice overriding any kind of guilt he might have felt over listening in on their conversation. “It starts with a normal guy, right. And one day, he walks into a room and bam! the love of his life is right there. Epic romance and instant bliss, right? Except not really because the true love turns out to be fucking unsuitable and a really, really bad idea to even think about. But, yeah, fuck that, right? Because love conquers all and all that jazz, and this guy is too lost to even think straight anymore anyway.”
“I really don't want to hear it Pete,” Jon says on the other side of the glass. “So you had a fabulous stalker romance with someone back in the day. Good for you. Now leave me alone.”
“No,” Wentz says. “Because I haven't told you the best part yet. And I'm going to, even if that means keeping your ass in here until we both starve to death or something equally tragic.”
Jon looks up, and Spencer gets a good view of his face for the first time in days. God, he looks so tired.
“Fine,” Jon says, turning away from Wentz to stare at something incredibly interesting on the empty wall instead. “Tell me then. I really don't give a shit right now.”
“Some things are worth waiting for,” Wentz says slowly, grabbing Jon's hands on top of the table. “There will always be completely shitty times ahead, but if you don't commit your heart and give your fucking all, you'll never make it through. And I get that your life sucks right now. Really, I do. You were this close to having everything you'd dreamed of for as long as I've known you, and you blew it all one night in a bar with too much JD. And when you try to adjust and fix things, it blows up in your face even more. And it sucks. It sucks that you married a girl you didn't love and that you couldn't make yourself love her even though she was the sweetest, most amazing, sainted little blonde thing ever to walk the face of the earth. And it sucks that she died, but what a convenient thing to transfer your guilt to, huh? You didn't love your wife so she died. Gigantic bitchslap from God himself, right there in your face, right? Might as well lock yourself in a tower and throw away the key. Safe and snug. You'll never have to take a chance and fuck up again for as long as you live. Well, guess what, Walker? Not everything turns out like you plan, but if you have the balls to be honest with yourself and go for what you really want, then maybe you can do something better with your life than be completely miserable.”
Jon doesn't reply. His face is completely void of emotion, and he keeps staring at the wall. He doesn't even blink, just lets the wetness forming in his eyes well up and spill over, like the dolls Spencer's sisters had when they were little, that you could fill with water and make cry by pushing a button on the back.
“Make it up to Smith,” Pete says, pushing out of his chair. “Today, next week, in thirty years, whatever-but make it happen. Because he's the one, you fucking idiot. And if you haven't realised that by now, then I'm deeply sad for you.”
“Fuck you,” Jon manages. It's barely more than a broken breath.
“Sorry, Jonny,” Pete replies cheerfully. “I totally would, dude, but then the wife would have to kill you. And trust me when I say that you do not want to be on the receiving end when Mrs Wentz throws a temper tantrum.”
The corners of Jon's mouth actually pull back a little bit, and Spencer releases a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
“Pete, the day you get someone-someone who's an actual, living, non-imaginary person-to marry you,” Jon says, “I will host a party in your honour and dance on a table in pink drag, singing Pretty Woman at the top of my lungs.”
Wentz's answering smile is so huge that Spencer briefly wonders if it will end up cutting his head in two.
“I'll hold you to that,” he says, clapping Jon on the back before reaching for the door. “Better start practising. You'll need a dance to match the dress.”
Jon gives him the finger when Wentz walks out, but he looks a little less tense. Completely broken, but in a better way, if such a thing is possible. Spencer gets a mental picture of a tiny Phoenix baby bird shrugging off the ashes. He reaches out a hand, places it against the one-sided mirror, wishing he could somehow just fall through the glass.
***
DAY 31 - 7:30 PM
“Aren’t you supposed to be in interrogation?” Patrick asks as he climbs through the open window to the fire escape below. “Zack said Spencer was looking all over for you earlier.”
Pete lifts his head and gives him a tired look before leaning it back on his knees. “Probably, yeah.”
“So…? Are you going to join him?”
“He’ll be fine. It was a routine interview anyway. He’s probably done by now.”
“Okay,” Patrick says, sitting down against the red brick wall a few steps above Pete. “Wanna talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you?”
“How well do you know Jon Walker?”
“Not that well. I’ve helped him with evidence analysis on two cases so far. We haven’t really talked much.”
“He’s falling apart,” Pete says. “And I don’t know how to fucking stop it. Did you know he was married? I mean, before they found her?”
“Yeah. He and Spencer were blowing up all over the place the week after I started. I didn’t pay that much attention to it though.”
Pete nods slowly. Patrick leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes to the setting sun, fingers tapping a syncopated rhythm absently against his thigh.
“I tried to kill myself once,” Pete says suddenly. “I never told you that. Back when I was twenty-one and just too messed up to keep anything together. I swallowed some pills, drank half a bottle of vodka and parked my car in an empty parking lot. It was so fucking easy.”
Patrick stills. “Why are you telling me this?”
“If that had been you-I mean, if that psycho had-I wouldn’t have used pills then. Too easy to undo.”
“But it wasn’t me,” Patrick says firmly. “Pete, look at me. I’m just fine.”
Pete looks back over his shoulder and manages a small smile. Patrick wishes he could touch him.
“Soon, Trick,” Pete says, as though the feeling of want inside Patrick is drawn plainly across his face. “After college, remember? Less than a year to go now.”
“You know, sometimes, I think your big master plan is just stupid.”
“I know. But it will all be worth it, I promise. I’m saving all my vacation time this year, so after you graduate, we’ll go on a trip. Take a proper honeymoon somewhere. Did your parents ever take you to Europe?”
“Once when I was four or five, I think,” Patrick says. “Mom had a friend who lived in Paris for a while. I don’t remember anything about it, but there are pictures at home of me getting jam all over my face and playing with French pastries.”
“Cute.”
“Very.”
“So, is there a place you’d really want to go to?”
Patrick thinks for a long time. “Iceland,” he says finally. “I want to see the midnight sun.”
“I hear there’s this really cool volcanic lagoon there,” Pete replies. “The water is supposed to be insanely blue and completely opaque. Really good place for sex.”
Patrick grins. “You know, Pete, I’m not sure you’ve realised this, but there is actually a difference between going public and going at it in public.”
“That’s what you think,” Pete teases, right before his phone starts to buzz. “Shit, I’m supposed to meet the DA for an update on the angel murders. Catch you later, okay?”
Patrick nods and goes back to leaning sleepily against the wall. His shift doesn’t start for another half-hour. He has time to enjoy the sunset before he leaves.
***
DAY 31 - 7:05 PM
“She's such a fantastic girl. She started swimming when she was four, did you know? And reading. Really early reader. Just the best girl you could wish for. Always so amazing, and...”
Spencer tunes out the rambling recollections. He's been interviewing Cassadee Pope's biological father for close to an hour and it's been looking like a giant waste of his time for almost as long. The man before him won't stop crying. Spencer has managed to ask three whole questions that got even close to coherent answers so far: the man's name (Joseph Keanes), his address (54, Magnolia Street) and his place of work (The Las Vegas Sun, research assistant, which Spencer understands to mean 'general slave who has to run around an do all the grunt work and never see his name in print'). The remaining fifty-eight minutes have been spent on crying, more crying and turning every one of Spencer's questions into an ode to his sainted child. He's not getting anywhere, Pete is MIA and Brendon is probably still working on the evidence they got from Jon’s house. He’s got other things to do.
“Thank you for your time.”
Mr Keanes shakes his hand, still crying. Spencer's never been so glad to see the back of someone before in his life.
“How did it go?” Ryan asks when he comes back to the boardroom.
“No luck,” Spencer replies. “I know we said that everyone’s a suspect at this point, but honestly, Ryan, I don't think anyone could have said the things he did and not be totally honest. The guy was a wreck.”
Ryan nods. “Did you get a DNA sample?”
“Couldn't even be distracted for long enough to accept a cup of water. Just sat there and cried and talked about how proud he was that he had such a great daughter and how much he would miss her.”
“Fuck.”
Spencer does a double-take. Ryan doesn't swear openly at work. It's been years since Spencer heard him say so much as a 'damn it.'
“You okay?”
“I'm fine, Spence, don't worry about it.”
Spencer does though. Worrying is kind of a speciality of his. He's been doing it for far too long to just stop now because Ryan asks him to.
“Where's Brendon?”
It hits the mark. Spencer can practically see the muscles in Ryan's back tense up where he's leaning over the conference table.
“I sent him out with the swing shift to process the hit and run over on Fifth. It's-I mean, we’re-I think I fucked it up.”
An uncomfortable blush spreads across Ryan’s cheeks, and his eyes dart in the direction of the window overlooking the back of the lab before fixing themselves firmly on the floor. Spencer feels something cold and painful trickle down his spine. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I never meant for it to happen,” Ryan says quietly. “We’ve been fine. Not completely on the same page, but something like it. And it’s like, people don’t do that. Not for real. So not talking about it wasn’t really that hard.”
“What happened?”
“I caved,” Ryan confesses, not meeting Spencer’s eyes. “It was that night, for us as well. We were discussing a case in the Ballistics Lab. He kissed me. And I just… I just couldn’t remember how to say no anymore.”
Spencer doesn’t reply. He wants to, but it would all be stones thrown in glasshouses, and more importantly, it wouldn’t help. He walks closer to Ryan, reaches out, pulls him in for a hug when Ryan doesn’t shy away. Ryan hugs him back, the clasp of his arms fierce and somewhat desperate. Spencer holds on tighter, burying his face against Ryan’s neck. It’s the first thing in days that feels like the world isn’t completely fucked up.
Chapter VI - Temperance