relentless.

Date: July 2019 ( early hours; post vigil ) Location: Roadside, just outside of The Ice House

He told her they’d try another night and the vague promise of seeing each other again remain suspended in the air that stretched on for days; there was a job a to do, he always had a job to do and Ben Raleigh knew better than to prioritize playtime and what should be a side project that was The Moreau Insider Trading Case-- it’s shit like that that gets you in trouble. It was all fun and games until you lose an informant because you chose to sleep with them and you end on bad terms; the reporter would know, after burning bridges with a certain redhead.

Ben had visited the infamous club two more times since then, all geared into gathering details for Wheeler Watch Chronicle’s post-blackout news, but that didn't stop him from asking around to make sure that Andie hadn’t skipped town yet. Her sister was unhelpful but the reporter eventually got everything he needed when he came back. And so there he was, a day after the vigil and The Ice House was just about to close for the night.

Blue eyes watched drunken patrons stumble out the front door, driving slowly as he passed the rows of trucks and cars, but it was by the back door that Ben parked his out-of-place automobile; he got out, leaned against the car door and he lit a cigarette while waiting for a particular dancer.

Armed with a basket of candles and a soft smile, Cricket was glad to see the turnout for the vigil was so strong. She couldn’t understand why the police were so against it - after all, God clearing up the storm was obviously a sign that He wanted it to go on. It had seemed like Cassie had fallen to the background of so many people’s thoughts, and the woman couldn’t help but believe this would get people’s minds, hearts, and prayers in the right place.  And the number of people who showed up only encouraged her. 

Her lavender umbrella was hooked around her wrist (just in case) and her hair was pinned up in a bun that seemed to have been hairsprayed within an inch of its life to keep from moving in the breeze that still blew, Cricket handed a candle to someone who just walked in.  “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, “I know that the Kleins appreciate it. It’s been so hard for them lately, and I can only imagine how heartwarming it is for them to see they still have this much support.”

Where the fuck was Mads? Ben couldn’t help but groan just a little too loudly and the older woman who stood beside the reporter shot him a disapproving look. The reporter flashed him a boyish grin that was meant to be apologetic but it only made things worse.

‘Stop looking like you’re enjoying this, heathen.’

Ben looked taken aback, more so by the archaic term that being called a ‘heathen’ by an old lady who was one winter away from her grave as he fought an amused grin from forming. This time he gave her a more somber-looking nod before walking ahead to take more pictures of the event.

Mrs. Carroll could be heard offering her well-practiced lines of gratitude to the attendees and as she handed a lit candle, the soft flame hit her face in a lovely angle that Ben quickly lifted his camera and took a picture. Say what you want about the micro-managing, top parishioner of the First Assembly Church, but Cricket Carroll photographed well.

When their eyes met, the reporter gave Cricket a nod, greeting her with a “Mrs. Carroll,” when the person she was talking to had made their exit.

“Vigil’s got a good turnout,” he commented.

   The blonde had already dove her face into her hands by the time he asked his question. Her body giving way to heaves of breath and air that shook it. Not to mention the sobs, the choking noises she made behind her hands/ Head bowed over her plate. The tension didn’t bother to recede when his words of clarification soaked in. Though she knew if she wasn’t careful she’d have a nosebleed.    Nonetheless, she wanted to explain. But how did she even start? With that God tried to off her that afternoon? Disrespecting her parents, engaging in homosexuality, being a woman in a man’s world. She should have been dead. And then that sinner had to pull her to the side of the road with his rotten eyes and grimy hands. If God wanted her gone, she should have been gone. Not here having a breakdown in front of Wheeler’s top reporter. He didn’t care anyway, and she supposed she was lucky she hadn’t said anything more yet. Someone like him wouldn’t miss a story, even one that was so vividly tangled in her personal life.    She didn’t know if she was trying to say something when her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her shoulders trembled and her enchilada was likely subject to the tears that had slipped between her fingers. Penni was an ugly crier. She already knew that ( basically the entire PD did by now ). Loud and wheezing, she sounded like she was in pain, but she had so many things to cry about. And even when her fingers did drift to feel the dampness from her nose hoping it wouldn’t be her blood, she knew that it was as soon as the warmth touched her fingers.

Ben sat frozen in his chair, blue eyes helplessly watching Penni as she buried her face in her hands; he knew that she was crying, has heard it enough times from his own younger sister and more recently, Florence, but the way Penni cried sounded more like a person in physical pain. 

He slowly got up, metal scraping the floor as he went over to her side of the table; Ben wasn’t sure to say, and anything beyond ‘sorry’ felt insincere-- he wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for at this point. The reporter kneeled beside her, hand on her head before it slid down her back in an attempt at a comforting gesture.

“Penni, whatever it is, you can tell me.”It almost sounded laughable for those words to come from a reporter of all people but Ben continued in a coaxing tone. “If not me, then... someone. I just need you to be okay and I think-- I think talking about whatever this is, will help.” 

His eyes caught the bright crimson stain seeping from the cracks of her fingers and Ben frowned. 

“Christ, you’re bleeding,” he pointed out, quickly grabbing the napkins on the table. Ben reached for her hands and he gently attempted to pull them away from Penni’s face so he could see what the hell was going on.

Panic set in the moment after the words had left her mouth. She’d spoken before she could stop herself, let it tumble past her lips without the carefulness with which she usually spoke. Layla was usually one to choose her words with a deliberate nature, never being one to let things slip and yet there she was, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, heart hammering, and wishing wishing she could swallow the words back down. But no, she reminded herself, this is what needs to happen next, this is the only option. What good could come of that sickening twist she felt when she’d seen Ben’s injuries, what good could come from the way her chest had tightened uncomfortably when the reporter had mentioned another woman in his life, what good could come from always wanting a little more time when she had to leave? None. There was nothing there, no where to go, and nothing to offer. It was affecting her marriage, it was making things worse, and if there was any chance she and Bill were going to clean up the shit show that had become their relationship then Ben couldn’t be in the picture. No matter how much she genuinely liked him.

He looked away, and a beat later, Layla did the same, allowing him time to let the words settle. They watched the end of the film in silence, each confined to their own seat, not touching. Her hand twitched in her lap, and the woman bunched the fabric of her dress in a fist to keep it occupied. The end was touching, and it was easy for the redhead to blame the tears in her eyes on the couple’s reunion. She’d never cried in a film before, not even when Marly had to be put down, or when Jack let go of the door, or when the young boys were led into the gas chamber. Now she was trying not to blink, willing her eyes to dry as they spoke those last lines, as Émile called her horrid, and Angéla corrected him.

Non, je suis une femme.

The credits rolled, and a tear fell on Layla’s cheek, swiftly wiped away by the back of her hand. She was staring down at her hands when he finally spoke, and redhead looked up to focus on him instead as a wave of… disappointment washed over her. “Alright?” She asked, “That’s it? Just, alright?” She said the word as he had, in that casual tone, that indifference, as though she were suggesting they go for a walk or some other mundane activity. Thats not fair, said the voice in the back of her head, but Layla ignored it. She wanted him to care more, she’d expected him care more, and now she felt stupid for the hurt that settled in her chest. She looked away, back towards the front where French names were still flashing across the screen, and shook her head.

“How many other married women have you slept with?”

He saw the tear fall down her cheek yet Ben deliberately ignored Layla’s hurt expression, she mimicked the indifference in his tone when he said it-- alright, --though nothing about what was happening at that moment was fine. His answer was insufficient, unacceptable for Mrs. Seward and as she opened her mouth to ask a question, Ben felt whiplash from the polarizing ways that Layla had been treating him for weeks leading up to that confrontation that he could only stare in disbelief.

Ben responded with a scoff, shaking his head at Layla before getting up from his seat. The credits were nearing its end and they’ve missed their chance to make their individual exits before meeting up back to his place. It was not that kind of night, however, and the reporter walked instead towards the fire exit, giving the door an angry push as a gust of cold, night air shocked his skin.

Ben felt an unexplainable surge of anger and hoped that being physically away from Layla would help him calm down, but he heard the door swing behind him and the reporter let out an exasperated sigh-- she can be just as stubborn. He stood in the dark alley, back facing the redhead as Ben fumbled with lighting his cigarette; frustrated little huffs and muttered comments were directed at the faulty lighter and when he finally got a tiny spark of flame and succeeded in igniting the cancer stick, Ben tossed the lighter and it hit the wall.

Smoke filled with his lungs, expanded to its full capacity as though Ben was about to make an underwater dive sans the gear; perhaps he was, with the way Layla demanded an answer for a question she no longer had a right to ask, and as he finally opened his eyes that were shut too tightly, Ben spun around and pushed her against the wall.

“What do you want from me, huh Layla?” his voice was low, almost a growl even as Ben ran his free hand over his face. Tension gathered in his shoulders, showed in the way his jaw clenched, as Ben had her trapped between his towering frame and the wall of the old cinema; blue eyes drilled holes with the way he glared, like he just can’t understand why things have to be this complicated. 

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

Reece restrained herself from actually rolling her eyes at him. Sure, whatever, it was a joke, but really? She wasn’t sure what he did for a living, but she doubted that he was familiar with the very specific stress of what she did. “Right, like you said. The kind of friendship where she doesn’t give you her phone number.” Maybe Andie had given him her phone number, but by now Reece was too deep in it to think about that. 

“Well, she doesn’t work today,” Another lie, she knew for a fact that Andie would be in later. “So you’re gonna have to figure something else out if you really are so worried about her.”

“Okay,” Ben nodded, finally conceding to the girl. The reporter didn’t actually have to waste his time on her, and whatever information he needed could be acquired from someone else but it was good to talk to everyone available, just to check if there was anything worthwhile to learn.

“Don’t worry, I’m resourceful.” The reporter stated as he prepared to make his leave. 

“Thank you, for the uh...” he pretended to think about what it was he was thanking the girl for because she certainly was not helpful, and Ben finally settled with “the chat, I guess.” The reporter flashed her a quick smile before giving the empty Ice House one last glance, deciding that he’d get better answers from those who were on duty the night of the attack.

“I’d have hoped most people wouldn’t’ve seen the file.” Émile stated flatly. He knew that the investigation had gained some form of notoriety, however he still felt uncomfortable that there were people in the world who knew his name and the name of his late partner, Sami Esperanza. He missed them. He knew that he still missed them even though it had been 5 years now since they had been taking away from them.

“It was based around the head and his personality. It was a way for him to make it so everyone else who was involved was complicit in such horrid crimes they wouldn’t turn on him. And it also gave him another way to sway everyone.” He stated with a slight shrug of his shoulders before looking away for a second. “We always have to take seriously the things that the people we’re investigating are.”

“I interned for someone who wasn’t just most people,” he clarified. It was because of Carmila that he realized he was better off being a reporter, and while there were times where he questioned her methods and motives, Ben wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

“Tie that with a superstitious culture and you got yourself a sort of demi-god I suppose.” Ben wondered if that was the case with the white-clad figures in Wheeler, if their leader was as charismatic and violent. But who could fit the bill? 

“That kind of thing messes up people, messes up a community,” would Wheeler recover after this?

Layla’s stood looking out into the drizzle as a sudden cool breeze riddled her skin with goosebumps. She could still hear the sound of Annie Lennox coming through the speaker of his car, and fought the urge to hum along until suddenly it stopped. She already knew and yet her heart skipped a beat when he answered, and the woman couldn’t help the little smile that spread over her lips, or the drop of laughter that followed Ben’s teasing remark. He continued, clarifying that she needn’t come, that they could just stay on the phone until she decided to crawl back in bed with her husband, but Layla was already making her way down the steps.

I just wanna make sure you’re alright, I guess

That made Layla pause, heart hammering in her chest from the thrill and… something else? She opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, so the secretary said nothing at all, and ended the call instead.  Gripping the mobile in her hand, The grass felt cool, and slick beneath bare feet  as she made her way towards the front of the house. The sun would start its ascension soon, and the woman hated that fact. She wanted to stay this way for as long as she wanted, she wanted him for as long as she wanted– but that wasn’t possible, so she’d make do with what she was offered: a few minutes in his car, cloaked by that early morning shadow that someone always seemed darker than the dead of night.

The rain fell softly against her, wetting her skin, her shirt, her hair as Layla gingerly crossed the street. She was clad in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and cotton underwear, but there was no one around to see Layla Seward sliding into the passenger seat of the reporter’s car. Or maybe there was, and a thrill shot through her like a low voltage shock. Before he could say anything Layla leaned across the center console and captured his lips in a brief kiss before she was pressing forward again; she drew as close as possible and placed a hand on his cheek to keep him there, as she let the embrace continue until she was out of breath. 

Finally pulling away, she looked at him, blue eyes tracing the bruises on his face with a slow, purposeful recognition. Her gaze met his for a moment and then she was leaning in to press a gentle kiss to the blossoms of purple, careful not to hurt him. When she had cared for each one, Layla’s attention drew lower, looking down at his abdomen as she swallowed. She hadn’t expected to be so bothered by the injuries, having laughed off the information about the fight with more amusement than concern. But now, sitting here beside him, she felt her stomach twist with a medley of emotions that she was too tired to dissect. They remained silent as Layla reached down to pull up the hem of his shirt, revealing the line of stitches that was Doctor Moss’ handy work. She stared at it for a moment, and unable to resist, Layla brushed her thumb over it with a feathered touch. His skin was warm, almost hot against her cool hand, and she sucked in a breath, before shifting so that she could press a kiss against the wound. She kissed him again just above the stitches, where the skin had bruised, before drawing up again and letting his shirt fall.

“You better start listening to me, Ben Raleigh,” She said, placing a finger beneath his chin as she chastised him, and with an echo of his earlier promise,  “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

It was his turn to have his stomach twist into knots when the reporter’s unexpected show of tenderness was met with silence on the other line; Ben grimaced, already thinking of something to say to backpedal when the line went dead.

“Shit,” Ben cursed under his breath as a slight panic began to settle. He glanced at his phone, waiting to see if Layla would call back and tell him that she accidentally hanged up, but when not even a text arrived, a loud groan filled the space of the sports car as he debated on reaching out… except he really had no idea what to say as the embarrassment slowly consumed him.

Too soft?

Too much?

Too fucking cheesy?

Fuck. Maybe Layla won’t mind if he didn’t say anything about the abrupt ending of the call, the reporter thought as he prepared to leave. But before Ben could even turn on the engine, the reporter caught movement in front of the Seward house; he squinted, nose almost touching the car window when he realized it was Layla making her way towards him, barefoot and wearing an oversized shirt.

Ben quickly unlocked the door as an incredulous laugh escaped him the moment that Layla slid in the passenger seat; Bill was inside the house and could very well wake up at any moment and find his wife gone and that very thought was mind-boggling for the reporter. What was Layla thinking? What was he thinking? Ben was about to comment on her rain-soaked state when the redhead leaned in for a kiss that he eagerly accepted, parting his lips as her cold, damp hand rested on his cheek while Ben’s own hands rested on her shoulders.

When she finally pulled away, blue eyes fluttered open as a grin spread on Ben’s face; was this what he imagined would happen when he recklessly drove there in the early hours of the morning? Ben wasn’t sure, but Layla pressing kisses on every bruise she could find on his face left the reporter all ruddy-cheeked and warm– she had a tendency to surprise him with her softness.

And then she lifted his shirt, the sudden gust of cold on Ben’s midsection making the muscles contract; Layla traced a finger along the stitches, eliciting a soft gasp from him at the coolness of her touch. Ben watched her, swallowing a lump in his throat, as the redhead leaned in to press her lips against the injury, traveling upwards to press another kiss until Layla pulled away again, catching him with parted lips. She chastised him, almost sounding motherly that got Ben to crack a smile before her next words made him pause.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

Ben wanted to argue that there was no way to prevent that, not with the way he’s been running around in and out of Wheeler for a case; but he didn’t want to spoil the moment, fully aware that this was borrowed time. So the reporter nodded, his smile turning into a breathy chuckle as he cupped Layla’s face and pulled her for another kiss.

“Okay,” he nodded, as Ben spoke through the kiss; his hands slid down her arms and felt her damp clothing. “You’re wet, lemme just...” and without pulling away the reporter reached to turn the heater on high. His mouth traveled down her neck and Ben murmured the rest of his sentence against Layla’s skin.

“Oh is this what this is?” She asked, brows shooting up as she pointed her hands between the two of them. Their friendship had always had that hint of a flirtation with it, teasing one another at every possible moment, and then of course there had been that one time she woke up to find him spooned against her back on the couch after a night of drinking. She ended up cracking her head on her own coffee table at the discovery, trying to quickly slip out from under him without his notice, until she’d woken him up with a loud thud as her bottom crashed on her floor. All of those such instances were fairly subtle though, nothing that would have made her think he actually had a mind to do anything about it.  “And here I thought it was actually because you liked my company,” she rolled her eyes, “I’m flattered though that my ass is worth months of foreplay to try to bag.”

In the end she was thankful neither of them crossed that line, which would have made her current situation all the more complicated. Although depending on how she took his next statement that could be precisely what he wanted to do. Figuring it’d be safer to not follow that particular path, not to mention she’d been experiencing a renewed loyalty when it came to the very deputy she’d mentioned earlier, she stayed clear of that particular interpretation. “I guess it takes a group of murdering lunatics to figure fucking your ex again wasn’t all that crazy of an idea, who knew,” she shrugged her shoulders, before taking another swig of the beer still in her hands. Granted, she was doing a bit more than sleeping with Darby, not that Ben really needed to know that. 

Noticing the shift in tone, she followed accordingly, the grin on her face fading as she spoke up again. “Got shipped here when I was twelve. I never really liked the people, for obvious reasons, but I never thought the bible thumpers capable of anything like this.” 

“That ship has sailed, so you can stop feeling flattered,” he laughed. Despite understanding and sympathizing with the witch’s disdain for the locals, Ben found himself casually defending some of Wheeler’s residents. “They’re not all that bad, Mira,” referring to Penni and sure enough, Layla. “I mean, look at you. Ostracized or not, you’re part of Wheeler and you’re tolerable to a degree,” he teased.

The reporter didn’t bother finishing his drink and poured it out of the sink. When Amira had arrived so early, Ben was already dressed for work. “Not that I don’t appreciate the house call but I got work to do... you wanna meet up another time? I want to go through some of the books you have at home.”

The sound of his own name coming to him in a voice with an edge he hadn’t expected started the hell out of him. Jasper flinched, his body going stiff so suddenly he almost dropped the container of pasta on the floor. He managed to regain his grasp just in time, just barely. “Fuck,” he exhaled, the pace of his heart picking up half a beat faster. Enough to send a sick feeling down to his stomach.

“No, I promise I stayed put,” he said turning around, taking a bite of the pasta so he could at least maybe look unfazed by Ben’s unexpected reappearance. He rotated back around, away from the locked door. Ben moved towards him, wet hair shoved into a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. Because god forbid he let Jasper get just a flash of a view to appreciate. 

The joke was on the tip of his tongue. Something snarky that would make most people in town blush and stutter in a way that made Jasper feel powerful. 

Ben reached for a knife, laid carelessly on the kitchen island. The locked doors. The stern expression. The sudden demand for privacy. Shit. Jasper took a step back, further into the house. Further away from the door. “Bu-Ben?” he stuttered, eyes darting between the man’s face and his knife. There was no way this guy was about to go Ted Bundy on his ass, right? Jasper shook his head. “I didn’t. I was just here. I stole your leftovers.”

It was unclear if Ben was aware of how things looked to Jasper, with the way he held the knife in his hand and the vaguely menacing expression on his face as he continued to stare with a steely gaze as if the answer he’d been given wasn’t good enough; like he just knew that Jasper was lying and the reporter was only thinking about what to do exactly for punishment.

“Bu-Ben?”

“Jasper,” Ben responded calmly.

“I didn’t. I was just here. I stole your leftovers.”

It was silent for a few seconds with nothing but the rain outside muffling whatever screams that might come out of the house later; Ben closed his eyes, like the man needed will himself to not lose control as a drawn-out sigh finally cut through the building tension that may or may not be entirely one-sided.

“That’s fine,” Ben nodded, and whatever dark thought that possessed the reporter seemed to have passed, leaving no trace of it. He walked around the island counter, passing by Jasper as he dropped the knife in the sink. 

“There’s more I think,” Ben remarked, referring to the leftovers in the fridge as he began to wash the knife and place it with the rest of the cutlery. “You can take the rest.” He glanced at Jasper, blue eyes studying the boy’s pallor in concern.

“You look like you’re going to get sick.”

   The officer slunk back into her chair, staring into the dark liquid in the cup to draw her emotions back. While her coworkers had described the process different ways, of distancing themselves from their job, she came to think of it as a shower curtain reeled out and in whenever she deemed it best. Right now she wasn’t good at it, still working at it. She just needed to learn how to use the curtain effectively and to not soak the floor. If she stayed very still and stared long and hard at something, it tended to work. But often she couldn’t sit still. The difficulty in perfecting it evident in the breath she’d inhaled — the telling way in which her nostrils flared.    Did he know how hard it was to view someone alive, and then just as quickly dead? No, she doubted it, but she supposed she was lucky he hadn’t bled out in front of her. He was used to the morbidity of his job, and, inevitably, of life, because that was what he reported on. “Around two, the day before the body, hours after we bought that mouthwash.” Mere minutes after she’d fled from the mirror maze. Seconds after that semi nearly crushed her.    She swallowed once, then decided she would take a big gulp of her wine. It went down smoother this time, but burned nonetheless. Her jaw set so rigid that she could feel a headache coming on. She had meant to agree, tell him that he was homeless, blind, grimy, guilty, horrifying. Her chin flew up before she could, eyes swimming with terror. All because of his question. The shower curtain was not set up correctly, or maybe he was just trying to level her into tears? They were certainly building up in her eyes.    “Grave?” She repeated, having sat up and set the cup to the side. Her enchilada had still yet to be touched, fork and knife not moved. Her mind screamed ( she kissed a girl, she kissed a girl, she kissed a girl ), and she could not tell whether he heard it or not. “What do you mean by grave?” She couldn’t help but panic, driven back to the mosaic reflection she’d seen of herself in her parent’s wine rack remains, the warped reality of the carnival mirrors, even the deeply red copy of her face in the drink she’d just set down.

He could see the tension gather in her shoulders and Penni looked almost afraid, like there was something dangerous with them in the room that he couldn’t see; Ben wanted to desperately know what it was that was going through her mind at that moment, pale-faced and trembling--what happened with her and the headless John Doe? 

“Penni,” he called out softly from across the small dining table. “I was just...teasing.” Ben let go of the cutlery, and couldn’t help but feel responsible for making her spiral. “I don’t mean anything by it,” it certainly wasn’t his intention to make Penni review all the sins she’s committed in her life and have her worry if she would be targeted next.

“What’s going on, Penni?”