𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐧 — 𝒘𝒐𝒆𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒄 💍
summary: love is just another word for hate in manhattan streets, where obsession is a ghost and words are complete meaningless... but you love to read between the lines
characters: chase devineaux, carmen sandiego (mention only), minor oc's...
tw: gun violence, blood, mention of terrorism
author's note: this is an ambitious fic for carchase, i wanted to explore their relationship as former partners and friends, and the bad terms they ended up. somewhere i read that the true "enemies to lovers" trope involves darker feelings (i personally don't believe that but i wanted to try write carchase in a mature/violent way) i don't pretend to romanticise any of this. i may have misspellings cause' my mother language isn't english, is spanish so every correction is appreciated. enjoy! :D dividier by @v6que
chapter one — mental kenopsia
Steam escaped from the bathroom, seeping into the cheap hotel room where he'd been holed up for the past 14 hours. His thin stream of thought was cut short by a stabbing pain in his leg. He'd tripped over what he thought was a metal drawer that for some reason was lying on the carpeted floor. With a movement more abrupt than he cared to admit, the detective Chase Devineaux slammed the door behind him, completely blocking the path of the condensed mist that floated above his head.
Water from a hot shower ran over his face and bare back, droplets clinging to his taut, battered skin. Many of the scars on his back were recent, from just last month during a case in the Lebanese border area, a case of monument theft.
His migraine only intensified with the mental image of one woman in particular. It doesn't matter. He swallowed bitterly and let it pass.
The towel hung over his tired shoulders, and he didn't bother using it until he turned on the television.
The silence bothered him a lot lately.
The glow of a local infomercial illuminated the man's semi-dressed body and the mess that was the room.
On the still-made bed were his gun and badge, buried under folders he still had to sort. He hadn't slept well in weeks and had been on his feet since the hotel cafeteria closed. He has to be on duty.
He scanned the dusty carpeted floor. There were papers and documents everywhere, torn photographs, and furniture on the floor.
This kind of mess —and violence— wasn't typical of him... He wasn't a violent man.
He'd been frequenting these kinds of places recently because the furniture was ordinary; it didn't matter if he scratched it, punched it, threw it, or destroyed it. He still earned enough to cover the replacement and a little extra for furniture fines.
It was childish, even cruel for the poor employees who would be doing damage control in the morning, but he needed something to control.
He picked up the remote control as he ran a towel over his head, the projected lights changing from a deep violet to a garish yellow as he randomly browsed the available channels. His sore knuckles protested the bending and his head throbbed, but even with all this things, he was better than yesterday.
It was almost dawn. He had to report by 7:00 a.m.
He landed on the news channel, somewhat indifferent to the report about the Plaza Mayor being declared a historical monument.
His carefully ironed white shirt was taken off the hanger. There will be always work to complete.
One... Two... Three... Four buttons.
Where in the world is his fucking tie?
The morning briefing continued. The prime minister donated a few thousand dollars to the student fine arts fund. There was a traffic accident last night after a streetcar collided with a car in Missouri. The tolerance polls were reopened in northern Brooklyn. Everything seemed to be in fast-forward, while Devineaux's only concern was a piece of patterned fabric. After a decent search among the pile of clothes in his suitcase, he found it.
"And in the headline news, the infamous masterthief Carmen Sandiego struck again this morning."
His vision snapped to the external sound source, unwittingly deafened by the name.
"The full report right now, this is Matt Jiggs, and my colleague Denisse Fletcher."
A good looking brown-haired man held a stack of papers as he introduced his forum partner across the table, a pretty blonde in a mauve suit. Both reporters gestured briefly to the audience before continuing.
"Early today, February 21st, the robbery of the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC, was reported. This infamous lady has made another appearance after nearly a month of silence. The most recent sighting was along Route 495 on the east side of the Lincoln Tunnel, which connects New Jersey to Midtown Manhattan. Sources believe her next target could be anywhere from Lady Liberty to one of New York's many central museums."
The man in front of the television simply listened, his face was a mask of astonishment that was beginning to contort with rage.
"That's right, Denisse. Authorities have received a message from Sandiego, along with its appearance in the security booth footage at the end of the Lincoln Tunnel. It's believed it could be directed at someone from the ACME Detective Agency or even a specific agent."
On the screen, to the left of both reporters, a video box appeared showing footage from inside the booth, with what looked like a business card pinned to the inner window.
The paper was damaged, but he had no doubt it was deliberate; the corners were burned, and in the middle were the words 'Double Caesar'.
"Since the theft of the monument to Our Lady of Lebanon in Jounleh, Lebanon, an important pilgrimage site whose theft symbolizes an attack on the faith of the parishioners of Harissa and a crime against Lebanese cultural heritage, there has been speculation that the intense rivalry between the master criminal and ACME's star detective, Agent Chase Devineaux, may have escalated to a personal level..."
"The international thief had kept her distance from the headlines ever since."
He wasn't a violent man... but his arm was raised, his body slowly drawn in by her magnetic gaze.
The covered face in the police mugshot was defiant, steeped in cynicism, with that damned twisted smile on her lips; he could still feel her on him... inside his head.
Then, a flash followed by a horrifying explosion silenced the television forever. Above the smoking bullet hole, Chase's severed reflection shimmered in the sudden darkness of the room and the cracked glass of the screen.
The adrenaline rush that had been clouding his ears vanished, replaced by the frightened screams of a woman and other tenants from the floor below.
Deep down, for a split second, he only wanted those screams to be hers.
