reckoner.

—

it had started with something as harmless as headline. a single column in the corner of the paper, way after the front page — something about mistrials, the necessity of a prison reform, sentences being commuted to community service — the bottom line: convicted criminals had been allowed to walk free. she didn’t see their names there, the ones she dreaded so terribly even just the sound they’d make would make her shiver — the article just mentioned “half a dozen gangsters involved in the 2016 el paso shootout”. that was enough to freeze the blood in her veins. that was enough to send the demons rushing back to the place they belonged to: herself, home of a million different types of hauntings. that had been four days ago — four days she’d barely slept, eaten close to anything, forced herself into a liquid diet of coffee and then whiskey to calm her nerves. the bright side — it had somehow put the mess that her love life was at the moment in perspective. in the face of all her terrible fears, whatever was going on with jay felt like it didn’t matter anymore. she’d take hundred years of tense silence and suffering: that was still a form of love. that was still just the downside of happiness, and she’d take it. 

but even that was in danger. the second she’d learned the two men she dreaded most in the world (her dear old uncle, her own personal lucifer opening the gateway to hell: and her loving husband, who’d crumbled her to a half-living corpse by the time he’d gotten locked up) were now free, everything she had received in the past three years, every bit of freedom and happiness she had acquired started feeling like it was built on quicksand. she’d felt the instinct to call jay right away, that day: needing him not just to touch him, know he was real and those demons couldn’t harm him — but because he’d know what to do. she’d gotten close to it, too — her hand had already picked up the phone when she’d stopped. no, she’d told herself. keep this far away from him. keep him safe.

so she’d turned to valencia instead. to what few members, unbeknownst to jay, she could call friends. the sunset found her outside st. peter’s, in the back alley, asking axel to keep an eye on things, as if something was coming — for her, most likely. she’d tried to make light of it, not make it sound too dramatic, despite the chain-smoking betraying her, or the trembling in her voice that was anything but calm. she’d laughed, too: an empty kind of laugh trying to find the irony in the panic that had now taken permanent residence inside of her. that laughter was still ringing, ominous-sounding, as she excused herself to return to work, the cigarette dropping to the sidewalk and stumped upon — and then bumping into him, right when she was least expecting him.

“hey!”, surprise replacing anxiety for a second, quickly followed by edgy nervousness — a quick glance to her back, the alley she’d just left, wondering how much he’d heard, how long he’d been around. how much shit she was gonna get, too. fred forced herself to crack a smile, knowing full well he would read right through it and yet knowing it was her only chance. but the instinct was the usual: go to him, hug him, kiss him. she kept her distance instead — not just the width of her secrets preventing her from getting closer, but how hard things had gotten lately, as if they’d both forgotten the secret language they’d invented with each other. her smile faltering, heart skipping a beat: fear, again, seeping back into its place. she was gonna have to tell him — fred swallowed, then quickly let herself melt into a more convincing smile. “what are you doing here? i wasn’t sure i’d see you today”. she couldn’t tell him — she was gonna have to lie.

--

Almost immediately he noticed the state of her -- frail, sullen features, taut skin that seemed to have lost its natural blush, its color and life, darkness rimming her sockets as she stared at him like deer in headlights, clearly caught off guard. Jake frowned, confusion coming over him and an intense curiosity as to who she’d been speaking to and what they’d been speaking of. Sliding his hands into his jeans (after seeing that apparently something as simple and once commonplace as a hug was still off-limits), he watched her as she tried to level the situation, bring a boiling pot to simmer -- but it was already too late, everything had spilled over.

He cleared his throat, letting a tension filled silence fill the space between them for a moment before he finally spoke: “Yeah ---- I figured you were working and I wanted to just stop by and see how it was going,” -- a lie, he wanted to see how they were going, he wanted to know where this all stood. His eyes trailed to the space by the alley that she had glanced to just a second ago, returning to her, his brows still cinched. “What were you doing back there?” He pointed with his chin, “I heard another voice.”

It felt like everything had changed in just the span of a few weeks. Smiles were rare -- I love you’s even rarer. And as each day went by where he’d see her only for a few minutes at a time, he wondered how long this would continue, his paranoia only growing with each passing hour: what had she been doing? Who had she been spending time with, if anyone at all? Was she just working -- pouring pint after pint of beer to throw away the hours she’d originally spend at his place, with him, even if it were just for a few hours at night when he’d gotten out of work , spending what time they did have talking, drinking and laughing the night away before it’d been time to sleep. 

Jake, usually relentless, stubborn and never taking no for an answer, would’ve confronted this days ago with guns blazing -- but something had been different this time. Perhaps it was that the job changed him -- cases being a good distraction so he wouldn’t have to face the overwhelming tension that had become Fred and Jay. Or maybe it had been the fact that he’d been so bloody paranoid -- afraid that if he were to have confronted her, it would make things worse, it would end in a way he’d barely give himself time to even think about.

So he did the only thing he could muster -- visit her at work and hope she’d be in an okay mood at the very least and maybe, maybe he could read her, observe, investigate whether or not in the past few days their relationship had taken a turn for better or worse. A woman had bumped into him on her way out of St. Peter’s, everything happening in just seconds: his eyes caught sight of the bartender, not seeing Fred but instead a man, then he heard her voice beside the building (part of him thinking that perhaps he had made it up, but no, that was certainly her laugh -- a desperate sounding one at that) and the words ‘gang’ and ‘thanks’. Weird. It all made him uncomfortable. And who was the man she’d been speaking to? He pressed his back against the wall, a relaxed posture -- not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he’d been eavesdropping -- hoping that he wouldn’t hear something he’d regret.

—

it dawned on her then, that if she was anything better than a daughter of chaos, perhaps she’d be able to salvage this. if she had any strength in her bones, any courage to face whatever bleak, sharp-teethed future was ahead of them, she’d find a way to clear the clouds each time he’d be home, to rub the tiredness off his shoulder, to kiss the demons away. but that was just fairytale stuff, right? that was the kind of stuff that happened in the novels she so shamefully adored — and he’d saved her, yes, but she was still broken. evil sometime seeped out of her like black tar, filling in the cracks he hadn’t been able to mend. in the span of a second, as she held herself steady against the counter, freddie’s fear turned to a sad realization instead — she loved him, her heart belonged to him the way it could never belong to anyone: and yet that wasn’t enough. not enough to save him. not enough to make him happy. not good enough to balance the bad he was drowning in.

her gaze dropped, far more comfortable with staring at the lines in the pavement than to stare at the gray-faced reality gazing back into her. her tiredness was weighing now, gathering at the far ends of her limbs, calling for her to give up the fight. sighing, she let her gaze follow him for a second: wanting to say something, to make it better. all she had was sadness, and the illogical, irrational prayer for him to come back, knowing that he couldn’t, that she had no strength to keep him from the shadows beckoning him. he was a soldier in a way, wasn’t he? devoted to chasing the darkness away. she… well, she had always been far more comfortable in the chiaroscuro. “can you give me a ride home?”, her voice soft now, stripped of all forms of conflict: just a tired, emtpy prayer. maybe a night away would help. maybe it would just give her time to mull over all of this — figure out where they could go from here, if anywhere. with a tired sigh, freddie rubbed her eyes. “i don’t think i’m good to drive yet”.

--

He couldn’t say that he was surprised at her request; she spent so many hours in the walls of his home that it was practically hers -- he could no longer enter and not see her in the furniture, against the wooden floors and tiled walls of the bathroom. She practically lived with him. And most days, he’d almost forgotten she had her own place. It felt better, having her here -- someone to come home to after hours of crime scenes, evidence and news on yet another missing person. But still -- he felt a bitterness stir in him when she asked him to take her home, almost not expecting it. He could understand why, of course, what with everything that had just happened...but he wished she could stay.

“Yeah, sure,” he sighed -- putting hope aside as he made his way towards the living room, fetching his keys and wallet from the coffee table they sat against. Truth be told, he probably had enough to drink that he shouldn’t have been driving, and as much as he wanted her to stay, sleeping in the same bed with her that night would’ve been awkward, tense -- and they were both far too in need of sleep (if they’d even sleep at all). 

He’d driven her home that night, silence making a home between them as he drove, stopping at red lights, taking turns when he needed until he arrived outside of the building. And it was then, with his hands on the wheel of his car, that he breathed and turned to look at her, the desire to offer her words that would make things better stuck in his throat -- unsure of what words he’d even use: “goodnight, maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow on my break.”

–

interest is immediately piqued     when evidence is slid in his direction ,     a keenness jutting out ,    projecting ,     let on less than it should have seemed a moment ago ,     once material is presented to him ,     encouraging a careful observation     as information of words are fed to him ,     poured into into the capacity of his mind ,     despite the lack of room in it .     scans eyes from left to right ,     takes it into careful hands ,     and simply absorbs      –     yet another interesting to note ,    perfect for speculation     of fact     and hopefully ,  not conjecture .

he looks up     before he can even finish his last sentence ,     taking leftover time to further ruminate ,     studying aspects of other things     besides pixels between the pinch of his fingers ,     knowing how hard     one must work to get here ,    at this point of day ,     to this time of night .     of course ,  despite meddling thoughts ,     he doesn’t let the center of subject go ignored .     “ sounds like someone created an alibi for ‘em  … ”     a beat of silence ,     already having been well - acquainted with his suggestion ,     though simply wondering ,    in this moment ,     if he should ask it .     “ –think it might be valencia ? ”     then ,     instantly regretting it ,     by the looks of worn down canvas ,     pure exhaustion ,     unsettles him and his own ethics .     a man such as himself     can’t help but take time     and labor laws     into account .     resigned ,     he takes a second glance at the photograph ,     this time halfhearted .     “ you know what ,     why don’t you just sleep on that one ?     maybe you should call it quits ,     i don’t want fred to start wonderin’ where you been  …     i’ll take things from here . ”

--

A medley of thoughts entered Jake’s head then: one being the idea of someone creating this alibi -- he rummaged through this as if there’d been a whole filing cabinet on the possibility; then, he thought of Valencia, and how he’d been sick and tired of their name, sick and tired of crime and gangs parading the streets, big-headed, arrogant, like they owned the bloody town -- which, whether he liked to admit it or not -- they practically did. Then, the name Fred. There it was. He was waiting for it. Maybe that was the reason behind Marr’s strange gaze in his direction a moment ago.

“Bit late for that,” he spoke tightly, leaning back against the hard chair, two fingers tapping mindlessly against the captain’s desk. He dropped his gaze, his eyes focusing against the dark, denim fabric of his jeans. He understood Marr just wanting to help, but it was one of two things: firstly, Jake couldn’t call it quits. He was stubborn, always having to finish the job he started (or been assigned to, in this case) and secondly, things were tense between he and Fred. “She’s not staying at my place at the moment, so, there’s really no one wondering. We, er--” he paused, sighing. “Yeah, she’s at her own apartment. Or at Peter’s, working a shift. I’ve got a lot of time on my hands.”

she wanted to go to him. she could hear that note in his voice — sorrowful, far more vulnerable than he’d ever allowed her to see her. in a sense it was a victory, she believed: it had been months since he’d truly let her in, since he’d spoken anything true and honest, however gruesome and painful that could be. and yet — she couldn’t bring herself to bridge the distance between the two of them. not because she didn’t want him, quite the opposite — she knew if she took those two steps now, she’d want to kiss him, and hold him, keep his face close to hers and reassure him that he wouldn’t lose her, that everything would be okay. but nothing had been okay in the past month, and if this was the only chance they got to talk about it, to truly find a solution to this ever falling landslide that was pulling them down — then she had to allow this to hurt a little longer.

and fuck it, it hurt. it hurt enough that she had to hold herself against her own tears, the uncontrolled reaction each time emotions got the best of her. freddie kept herself leaning back against the kitchen, hands hooked to the edge of it, knuckles white with the effort not to go to him. her eyes, too, avoiding him: fixed on the edge of the table instead, lips shut tight in order to keep herself controlled a little longer. jake had been his salvation from the second she’d met him, far before they’d found the guts to admit it to each other — not just because he’d pulled her out of her old life, but because little by little he’d been erasing the cancer johnny had spread. where he’d left humiliation and grief, jake had given her new life: and losing him would mean lose that, too. as pathetic as it could sound, as stupid and hyperbolic — he was her strength, and she was afraid her knees would give out if she ever lost him.

“you’re not gonna lose me. i don’t wanna lose you, either”. eyes now meeting his, far more honest than before — clearer, the effect of the alcohol not vanished but subsiding in wake of the sobering talk they were having. but then laughter cut through her: bitter, echoing the first tears wetting her lashes — mournful. “you don’t think i’m not paranoid too? i didn’t want to make you angry, i didn’t mean to ruin this, i just — fuck”. freddie cursed in frustration, turning away from him to wipe a runaway tear with the talon of her wrist, trying so desperately to hold herself steady still. “i just don’t know what to do, jake. i feel like i’m losing you a little every day and i just…” once her gaze returned to him, hers was a sad smile: loaded with apologies, but honest grief, as well. fred shrugged, as if that could somehow make it easier to handle. “…i’m trying to hold on. i just don’t know how”. 

--

“Me neither,” Jake called out right away. Heaving a sigh, he lifted himself away from the counter he’d been leaning against and made his way across the kitchen, towards the dining room. He took residence by the sliding patio door, his hands in his pockets as he gazed out at one of the pine trees blowing in the quiet breeze that night -- there was almost a sense of jealousy in him at the scene; what he would give to be that still, so full of peace and solace the way the tree was and the breeze that caressed it. All his life, he’d known chaos, and he wondered -- what was it like to be still for once?

“I don’t know what else to say, Freddie. I don’t want to tell you something that’s going to hurt you, that’s the last thing I want,” he turned his head slightly, not fully looking at her (not able to, really), his eyes set on the counter she stood beside. “But I also want to be honest with you. And that means me telling you that I don’t know where everything is headed. I don’t know what my job will look like a day from now, two weeks from now, I don’t know how that’ll affect you, me, us. I just don’t know,” he paused, “I can’t tell you it’ll get better, because I don’t know that it will.”

—

“that’s the fucking problem. we don’t even argue anymore”. it came out of her suddenly, uncontrolled — a single breath slipping past her guard, as she stepped closer and let her hands wrap around the back of a chair for a need to hold onto something — vent the tension piling up inside of her and let it flow into her muscles, clenching around objects or else she’d clench around words, around meanings, around the assumption that this was just happening ‘cause they’d been doomed from the start. she ignored herself — ignored each sign that this was hurting her far more than she could see, that every time he spoke another word in that harsh tone of his it felt like blades cutting through vital organs — she ignored the stinging push against her nose to truly break down and melt away all this aggression. 

“we don’t talk, we don’t understand each other, it’s like we’re two different people, don’t you see?” but then her voice lowered, not shouting anymore — as if approaching the delicate heart of the matter, knowing how its survival depended, partially, on her ability to control her emotions, not swallowing him up in yet another storm of hers. letting go of the chair, fred stepped closer: eyes burrowed into his, for fear he’d turn away again. “you don’t even trust me anymore, what the fuck was that? like all i do is flirt with other people, run around chasing other men? do you even know how that makes me feel?” her laugh was bitter, disbelieving: barely a dam holding the flood that would inevitably come. “why are you so fucking angry about that? i laughed at a couple jokes, sure, fine. it’s never been an issue before, we’d argue, we’d fuck and forget about it. why the hell is it such a huge deal now?”

--

The truth hurt. It was bitter, unfortunate -- exactly what he’d been so adept at ignoring: his emotions, the way he truly felt about things if it meant involving having to face anything he didn’t want to, such as never speaking about the death of his family or how ridiculously long it took him to confront his past with Amanda. Ignorance was bliss -- until Fred came around. But he was grateful for her, grateful that she pulled out some of the best parts of him, even grateful she made him confront his past, but with that came a change in him, one he wasn’t so sure he liked. At one point, he was a flirt, extroverted, he laughed easier and now things had become a lot more serious, now, he cared again. Now he couldn’t be rash, impulsive and all the rest of it...cause then he’d lose her. Now, he was changed -- careful, deliberate, paranoid, exhausted.

And Fred, of course, was expert at pointing that all out -- expert at holding a mirror up in front of him: you don’t even trust me anymore; the words hurt him, hit him in a place and in a way he hadn’t known. And suddenly, he thought of Amanda. He thought of how paranoid he’d been after finding her with another man and how that made him shut off completely -- similar to the way he’d been as of late. Clearly, this had all been an effect of that -- his past heartbreak, creeping in, seeping into his relationship with Fred to sabotage that too, precisely why he’d been single for so long after.

“Because it matters now, Fred,” he sighed, propping an elbow against his forearm that had been folded across his chest. He rubbed the space between his brows, shutting his eyes for a moment before continuing. “Because what we have matters -- that’s why it’s such a huge deal,” he looked at her, arms folded again. “Arguing then fucking to move on doesn’t cut it for me anymore,” a half shrug, “this means something to me and I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose you. That’s why I get upset. And I’m being frank, that’s why I’m paranoid. It just…” he swallowed, his eyes finding a spot against the floor of his kitchen. “It honestly just feels like everything I have, everything that’s important to me just gets taken away,” or dies, he thought. “And I have to do everything in my power to hold onto that, meanwhile, there’s this stupid voice in the back of my head that says no matter how hard I try, I’ll lose it anyway cause that’s just how it all goes for me.”

—

freddie hated this. all of it — even through the haze of the wine (not nearly as intoxicating as he believed it should’ve been), she could feel the cutting grip of just how much she loathed this argument, and it made her skin itch with nervousness, with a need to step away, get her things and spend the night back at her apartment, away from his blame. and perhaps in another instance she would’ve been packing her things already, walking out in outraged anger — but even through the arguments, even through the incommunicability they were experiencing as of late, freddie knew she loved him. enough to face him with this anger in his eyes. enough not to shy away even if he was mirroring it right back into her.

“you’re ridiculous. you’re fucking unbelievable — ”. half in disbelief, her laughter was hollow, it sounded more like a wounded animal’s threat for retaliation — she held her feet firmly planted on her side of the kitchen, as if somehow all her body had forgotten what motion was supposed to look like, in the wake of such an off-putting argument. she could barely understand him. jealousy had always been a part of their dynamic, yes, but she’d never intentionally flirt with anyone other than him — let alone in front of him. and that was the part that hurt the most — not that he could get angry for something she thought harmless and irrelevant. but that he still thought she could wound him like this. at the end of the day, maybe he just didn’t trust her enough. maybe he did back then, but she’d underestimated the distance they’d put between each other.

right then, her anger focused in a single thick, heavy core of resentment. aimed at him: because he was looking for excuses to push her further away when it seemed they were already on different planets anyway. because he’d decided she was to be blamed for needing nothing but a fucking moment of honest cheer. because he didn’t realize that all the times he was slipping out of her hands — maybe she’d been slipping out of his, too. crossing her arms, freddie tensed. gaze avoiding him, and when she finally looked back at him, her tone was stone-cold. “if you need to make up reasons to fight me ‘cause that’ll make you feel better, alright, do your thing. but if you think this —”, an index moved, aimed right at him. “— is gonna save our relationship, jake, i can tell you it won’t”.

--

It seemed that all life was in recent months was stress from homicide after homicide at work, missing person after missing person showing up dead and then coming home to an environment tenser than a bloody crime scene, where everywhere he looked, everywhere he turned -- a new argument. Jake wasn’t even Jake anymore. Sometimes he didn’t even recognize himself in the mirror -- not the way he used to, at least. There were so many times where he’d say a certain phrase or do something that was so out of character, even he’d turn out confused. 

After wrapping the bread in a kitchen cloth, he turned away from her gaze (once again) and placed the jar of homemade vinaigrette in the fridge, slamming the door shut in reaction to her latter words. Save our relationship? So they were having an argument, why would she even mention saving it? He knew things had been tense but really? Did it really get this far? “Why save?” He asked suddenly, turning to face her again, his hands finding the edge of the island. “What makes you think we need saving? We’re having an argument. That’s what you do in relationships, isn’t it? -- you argue. Doesn’t mean we’re breaking up for christ’s sake.”

—

what playful mockery had been coming over her, a sort of defense mechanism deployed to keep things from escalating — there it went, him stripping it off of her with each word that left him (too harsh to not catch her off guard, too tense to not get a mostly irrational, uncontrolled reaction out of her). freddie blinked once, twice, furrowed eyebrows and her mind fumbling over his words, not truly grasping why the fuck he was suddenly so riled up. this wasn’t even just jealousy — it just suddenly felt like all the steps they’d taken to know each other, all the battles they’d fought against one another’s demons in order to truly see one another: it just seemed like none of that mattered anymore, and they were back at square one, speaking different languages on opposing sides of a barricade.

“what the f— flirt? i was flirting with him?” mouth agape, half in shock, half in amusement: he just couldn’t be serious. michael was, at best, a fair weather friend — if she’d laughed at his jokes that was nothing but an innate attitude to smooth the edges of a rough, more often than not clumsy personality. she’d tried hard to make tonight pleasant. tried to fight the overwhelming gloom with maybe excessive cheer — but fuck it, she’d just wanted them to have a good time, for once.

her mind struggled to catch up with him. the wine sure didn’t help: she let the glass down by the sink, her gaze avoiding him at first, then rising again to find his back turned on her — fred swallowed, tried to hold herself steady against the anger she could feel piling up, white hot against her skin. “i don’t know what it is you think you saw, but i wasn’t flirting with him”. arms crossed, freddie spoke slowly, much too controlled to sound calm. “i didn’t flirt, i didn’t feel him up — what the fuck is this? ‘it’s nothing new’, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, jake?” there: right there her voice rose, anger trickling out of her. her mind forced itself to not dwell on the implications of what he’d said — the last bit, burrowing itself into her brain. it’s nothing new. biting her lip hard, freddie breathed out a long, steady breath. “will you look at me when we’re talking, please?”

--

“It’s nothing new, Fred, as in you’ve done it before. You drink until you lose control and then you go around and flirt with anything that has legs,” he half shrugged, bringing a board of half-eaten sourdough bread across the kitchen. He sighed at her heightened volume, the new height in tone her voice took every time she’d been upset -- angry, more like it. Here she was, flirting with some bastard and she was angry at Jake for calling her out. It could’ve been worse, he thought -- he could’ve been worse. He could’ve yelled, shouted, left and slammed the door, but his voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. Tired.

He felt his breath caught in his chest, barely reaching his throat, oxygen trapped in him, unable to let go -- the way he was unable to, it seemed. --- “What?” He had just finished placing the board against the counter, and he turned to face her. “We’re talking and I’m looking at you -- what?”

—

    obliviousness, surely, was one of her vices. sometimes, when reality took on an ugly face and she couldn’t bear to have a dialogue with it, she’d find ways to craft her own — close her eyes to the blemishes, pretend she could control what remained. and things had been hard lately: she knew this, but pretend she could go on without addressing it. that over time, the cracks in their union would fill themselves again — that whatever disruption was causing a rift between what had been effortless synchrony right from the start (and she knew what it was, the thought haunting her each night) would leave again with the turn of every new day.

    so now, again, she pretended she didn’t see the tension in his muscles, or the grave note in his voice. she, instead, kept herself close to him: letting go of him just so he’d have the freedom to move around the kitchen, but gravitating around him still, in his space — deep down, fearing physical distance would only make it harder. and yet instead of listening to his concerns, the anger no doubt was rising in him, she decided taking it as a joke might, perhaps, de-escalate the situation enough to let her reassure him. “oh, come on, are you for real?” her tone was playful still, a teasing look from the corner of her eyes, as she reached to the cupboard for a glass and followed it up with red wine.

   with an overly dramatic sigh (mostly a joke, her attempt to mocking his rage in the most harmless way possible), fred leaned back against the counter and sipped her wine, her gaze never really leaving jake, even if just via the comfort of a side glance. “i was just being nice, you know — like a good host.” head tilting, freddie smirked. “you don’t have to get so alpha male about it, you know?”

--

Almost instinctively, he laughed -- it was sour, resentful, and it tasted like scorn, scorn at the term alpha male. What the hell did his masculinity have anything to do with the way he felt? He was a jealous man, sure, but so was she. God forbid he bloody smiled at another woman, Freddie would lose her mind and far quicker than Jake had that night. It only took several long, agonizing hours of she and Michael laughing, Freddie placing a hand on him in ways that stirred an anger in Jake so primal, all he knew to do was walk away, sit out on the patio, use the excuse of ‘I’m just cleaning up here,’ several times through-out the night. The bloody wine wasn’t even doing it for him. 

Whatever. She was drunk, that was the excuse he’d tell himself as he finished putting things away from the dinner that night. He almost -- almost -- wanted to go; head down to Violet or even Lewis’ and have himself a drink, maybe even flirt with another as payback. Yeah, he thought, I bet she’d love that. 

“Okay,” he crossed his arms, leaning back against the island, watching her drink that stupid, fucking wine that barely made an impression in his mood. “If I were to invite over a friend, a woman, and I laughed and joked with her all night, felt her up, touched her forearm at one of her stupid, fucking jokes -- how would you feel? If I told you I was just being a good host, what then? You had a lot to drink and you were flirting, Fred.”  He sighed, turning again to finish clearing the table. “I mean, I guess it’s nothing new, right? You always flirt when you've had too much to drink.”

she became aware of it slowly — that jake hadn’t joined in the conversation, that he’d kept a metaphorical distance from every line they exchanged. couldn’t be because he didn’t know michael: she’d introduced him to plenty of her friends and, when they couldn’t hit it off right away, he’d still been able to pretend well enough to leave them enjoying his company. no, it was something else — he was broody, and maybe he’d been better at reading her than she could read him, in the beginning, but by now she’d picked up his same skill: on a good day she could almost beat him at his own game. it was blatant he was pissed, though she had no fucking clue why — she’d hoped a night in some enjoyable company would take his mind off things, that cooking would reignite some sort of love of life and pull him out of the thick, dark swamp of his cases. maybe he just loved that swamp too much to step out of it, anyway.

by the time michael left (a few pleasantries exchanged over the threshold, a hear warming embrace right before he went, promises to keep in touch, maybe hit the movies together in the coming week), freddie had become aware of two notions: one, she’d actually succeeded in shifting the gray, foggy mood his house had been trapped in for a while. however, two — things had changed for the worse. or maybe they were changing, and there was still a chance to reel him back in — cautiosly, freddie walked back to the kitchen, to the back he’d turned against her as he did the dishes. 

“hey. the food was amazing”. her voice a sing-song, mellow sound turned smoother by the wine, she leaned back against the kitchen counter by his side, leaning over towards him to leave a delicate kiss over the side of his neck. then, as if she couldn’t feel the tension coming off of him like radiating heat, she let her head rest over his shoulder, a curious look observing him — she could’ve asked what was wrong. part of her also suggested perhaps she wouldn’t want to hear the answer. instead she let herself closer to him: somehow thinking physical closeness would make up for the unspoken distance between them. her fingers hooking up to the belt rings of his pants, holding on to him close enough that — she hoped — she’d be able to clear out whatever sour mood had come over him. “i think mike was really happy, you know? i know i was”.

--

He almost wished they carried on that night, paying him no mind -- and he’d go and shower, head to bed, wake up in the morning, early, and head to work. Then, at least, he wouldn’t have to face the tension (how he hated it, hated what he and Fred had become), to face exactly the moment that he had found himself in, hearing the front door of his home shut and Fred’s feet carrying her towards him. He could feel how nervous he’d become suddenly, his breath shallow, throat tight. And then he heard her voice, soft, a lot less strained than he imagined it would be. And even with all the bullshit between them, it managed to ease him still.

It surprised him -- how calm she seemed at his side, placing casual kisses against his skin, leaning into him as if nothing had been wrong. He was grateful, on one hand, that she wasn’t upset with his...lack of interest in Michael and his jokes, in their easy conversations that night -- something that she and Jake had at one point, when all of this was fresh and new and lovely, simple, before Rorschach and all these cases. But then again, anger rose in him, a bitterness, a sense of resentment. He couldn’t quite place it -- the jealousy -- until he heard her say his name again -- Mike. 

“I’m sure you were,” he placed a large, ceramic bowl against the dish rack, more forcibly than he intended. Shutting off the faucet, he dried his hands with a kitchen towel that had been laying against the counter. “Seems you both really enjoy each other’s company.”

where: jay’s place, 9:20 pm. status: closed / @jacobsgraham​.

the scene, all in all, wasn’t an usual one. a friend coming over for dinner was as good an excuse as any to unplug — let the focus of the night, for once, be the menu and not the latest bulletin from the news segment. laughter ringing where pregnant silence would’ve been on a regular day — and it was mostly fake, yes, as thoughts of killers and blood could barely ever leave fred’s mind, let alone jake’s. but maybe it had been the wine — maybe the scent of the food jake had cooked mixed with the gentle breeze touching them, the sweet aftertaste of broccoli still lingering on her tongue, the candles lit to liven up the back patio — she’d managed to escape, even if just for the span of a couple hours. she’d managed to laugh, too: lean over towards their guest (a friend of hers, the only other bartender the day she’d started working at st. peter’s — he’d been her mentor, in a way, a much needed ally in a hard, precarious time of her life), a particular spark of interest as she let her chin rest over her fist and listened closely to his recounting of his hike across the pacific crest trail. 

she, of course, was not aware of the ways she’d let herself loosen up just a tad too much in pleasant company. her default was pleasing, as if making herself tempting in any way would make people turn a blind eye to the cracks and the blemishes — it wasn’t a conscious effort to rub proverbial salt in the wound (because as meaningless as this conversation was, it was still warmer than the cold fog that had seemed to wrap her relationship with jake lately; as harmless as her chirps and laughter were, they still looked livelier than the tense, controlled silence that surrounded her time with jake as of late). it was escape, pure and simple: forgetting, for a second, that there were demons they’d forgotten to exorcise, still haunting their home. 

laughter ringing to one of michael’s jokes (not a dirty one, just not a harmless one either), freddie pulled back in slight embarrassment, smiling a tight smile to hide the hint of blood flushing to her face. blame it on the wine — she poured herself another glass, then leaned back on her chair, sipping slowly. “you should bring jake along on one of your trips, sometimes” — her voice a sugary, harmless joke, one glance thrown jake’s way with a hint of puzzled curiosity — he looked tense. in an effort of compensation, her smile grew brighter. “he’s got the whole… angry bear vibe going on, he’ll help you scare off predators”.

--

What he noticed, above all, hadn’t been what this person did for a living, what they wore, the marks along their features, tattoos and scars, but Freddie’s laugh, the easiness in it, but it wasn’t without the aid of the next thing that had stolen his attention that night -- the way they brought this out of her with no attempt, it was easy, effortless. Perhaps the wine helped, who knew -- but the way she so simply loosened up around him, leaned into him and listened to some bullshit hiking story. A hiking story -- Fred paying attention to it as if it’d be the most fascinating tale in existence. A fucking hiking trail.

His finger toyed with a bread crumb that had fallen near his plate as he listened and watched them (his eyes glancing from the crumb to the scene in front of him, partly not even wanting to be in the room). The crumb had stuck to his finger and as he dusted it off, watching it fall towards the hardwood floor of his dining room, he could hear Freddie’s laughter ringing at what he assumed was a joke. His name from her lips caught his attention -- he didn’t even hear the joke; had no idea what they were on about.

Jake threw them a false smile -- quick and simple. He could barely think of anything to say. He could barely think, truth be told. He was half-drunk, but the sort of half-drunk that felt as if there hadn’t been any point in drinking; the booze wasn’t hitting him the way he wished it was, and this whole scenario between Fred and Michael was almost unbearable. So instead, he stood and collected all the empty plates. He heard Michael ask if he wanted help (brilliant guy, wasn’t he?) -- “Don’t worry about it. I’m good here.” and then he brought them over to the sink, washing them as slowly as he could, regretting ever making the bloody meal in the first place.

—

“jesus christ, jake —”. she couldn’t pretend a part of her hadn’t been looking forward to this. a part of her always lurking, endlessly repeating this bond they shared, that was, most of the time, the safest haven she ever hoped she could find — it wasn’t meant to last. not for people like her, who tried and tried but could only bring chaos to the table, strife, some form of fun that soon turned to danger. and in a way, he was proving that: preventing her from helping, from trying to repay the countless times he’d saved her. she couldn’t save him. deep down, somehow, she’d always suspected it.

and yet that was just a voice. the rest of her fought teeth and nails to claim her place by his side — in that very same bed. so even if the instinct was to slide out of it, get out on the porch to smoke and calm herself down or worse, head back to her own home — she didn’t. freddie sat up right instead, letting the bed sheets fall off of her but feeling not the midnight breeze over her arms, but the still gentle, yet constantly rising heat of conflict.

“i want to talk about it. i wanna be there for you, dammit. i’m just scared, it scares the living shit out of me, but i wanna be there for you”. hands planted against the mattress, she leaned over just slightly enough to truly lock eyes into his: she needed him to listen, truly hear her, and hear that she wasn’t trying to push him away the way she’d done a hundred times before — it was the opposite she needed, and now that she was on the other side of this game of push and pull, it was driving her insane. “if you can’t trust me, if you can’t open up to me about this stuff, then —”. she paused, feeling her voice too close to cracking, needing herself to keep her cool, still: to say the things she meant, without frustration derailing them. freddie sighed, her gaze drifting off for a second, then returning to him with her voice much lower than before: “— if it’s not you and me facing these things together, then what’s the point of …this?”

--

Jesus christ, Jake -- the words sent a sense of defeat through him, like he’d been holding onto a ledge with nothing but two fingers, losing his grip. That’s what this all was, wasn’t it? Jake losing his grip, Fred losing hers. The two of them losing what seemed like gold, this union, the deep love they shared for each other. And christ, was the gold hard to mine. Only for it to turn to liquid, slipping from their grasp. How could he hold onto it? How could he alchemise it, turn it solid again? Save it?

“Of course I trust you, Fred,” he said suddenly, bringing two hands to rub the sides of his face. All this talk of him not opening up, it just made absolutely no sense -- he had opened up, so many times before, and each time he did, he sensed the resentment in her any time he talked about his job; why on earth would he continue to bring up cases, to bring up the pressure of the job, if every time he did, all he ever got was a sigh, a roll of her eyes and a few words to mask the bitterness she felt? He could see right through it all.

“I just don’t think you’re getting what I’m trying to say here,” he sighed, swallowing hard -- swallowing an argument, swallowing the need to defend his position, instead, wanting the exhaustion to carry him off into sleep. “Can we just talk about this tomorrow? Please? If we keep going, this’ll blow up and I don’t want either of us to go to bed angry. ---- I’m just, tired.”

time pleads to be a standstill     —-     or rather this man himself pleads for time to stand still .     he gauges down at documents ,     files ,  records ,  mugshots ,     and keeps arms lain out across mahogany ,     fingers curled ,     practically empty     sans the pen held idle on the right ,     while nothing is scribbled or written or circled ,     while limbs are left useless ,     to no devices    besides contraction ,     muscles faintly stiffening     against the subconscious weight of stress .     perhaps something so little as a click ,     inflicted by thumb every now and again ,     but nothing else .     nothing else ought to be done . 

the answers are there .    yet ,  it’s the questions that don’t give the empathy to let up ,     the mystery of it all ,     while it stirs the stomachs of townsmen ,     while it keeps little ones up at night ,     accompanying restlessness among their wary mothers ,     while it drags on the backs of weary soldiers ,     swelling ruthless knots in the flesh of their shoulders ,     like his own ,     and     —-     his .     

when the detective enters ,     the man from behind his desk slowly addresses ,     almost dumbfounded ,     nearly forgetting to answer     in light of the other’s presence     when he gawks ,     lost in thought ,     until discretion forces his muscles to let go ,     loosen tension .     yet , they still reinforce in preparation     no matter how much     he tries to relax     —-     at this point ,     anything could be directed back to rorschach .     but he doesn’t point this out to his confidant ,     to either avoid the high hopes     of a new lead     or to prevent the concerns for another add on of a problem ,     which he isn’t so sure .     

all he does is recline     in comfort of chair ,     directing an inquisitive nod in the other’s direction ,     simply asking ,     “ whatcha got ? ”     internally musing ,     it better be good .

--

Jake couldn’t help studying his captain’s expression; the way he moved (or didn’t, really), his almost absent gaze, as if he were looking at something but not seeing it -- his gaze peering right through it as if it were a veil with something not quite visible on the other side, inciting curiosity. In a way, Jake could relate. He could hardly count on one hand the amount of times Fred had found him in the exact same position, with the exact same expression, his body present but his mind elsewhere.

He ambled toward the desk, sitting against one of the old, tarnished chairs on the opposite side of where Marr sat. “So, the case about the man that disappeared from Lewis’ two Saturdays ago, no evidence of anyone kidnapping him, no evidence of him ever leaving on his bike?” Jake turned the sheet of paper Emily had printed out for him just a moment ago, sliding it across the table -- a security camera still of a burly man with long, dark hair seen speaking to their missing victim -- their victim, Michael, clearly frightened.

“This was taken from a highway camera. Weird part was that no one had seen this guy in the bar that night. By witness accounts, Michael had been at Lewis’ for about two hours, went out for a smoke -- supposedly, even though all his close friends mentioned he never smoked, no idea if that’s just witness claim or Michael lying, but, anyway ------ this guy’s new.”

—

there it was. she’d known this was coming — for how in tune they could be, so overwhelmingly bound to one another, there’d always be a moment where their thoughts got mismatched, their fears clashing with one another. she hated those moments. realizing suddenly they couldn’t read each other’s thoughts anymore: that the connection had been lost. freddie let out a sigh, turning on her back with a hand rubbing the bridge of her nose, exhausted already — it felt like she’d been chasing after him for weeks, and now that she was close he was slipping again.

“i’m not asking you to be miserable”. she tried her best to keep her voice calm, hold herself against the tension she felt was growing and didn’t want, had no place in that bed. “i’m asking you to be real with me. to tell me what’s going on. to not fucking keep me in the dark about everything — like i don’t see that you’re pretending to be fine”. words coming out of her in hushed, strained breaths. when her eyes met his again, there was just a dull note of pleading in her gaze. “i’m just asking you to not lie to me, jake. just be honest with me”. 

--

Pretending was a heavy word. Sure, she may have had a point, but he wouldn’t have said he was pretending. Pretending meant avoiding what was real and right in front of you -- all the anxiety, the pressure, the bullshit from the job got to him far too much for him to turn a blind eye to it; he wasn’t ignoring it, he was ignoring the conversation around it. Jake didn’t see a point in constantly talking about all the horrors he’d see on the job and anyway -- every time he did, he could see the sheer lackluster look on her face, an expression that always said ‘here we go again’, so, what was it then that she wanted?

“Okay,” he sighed, barely able to keep up with the conversation -- on one hand, he was feeling reeled in by the spirit of sleep, and on the other, her words started feeling like he was going down one avenue, only to run into a dead end and turn onto another. Maybe they were both coexisting on the same plane, making it hard for him to just...get it. “I don’t understand how you’d like me to be honest. If I come home in a bad mood and I mention what happened at work, I just get this look from you like you don’t want to talk about it. So I move on and try and cheer up the air between us and now I’m pretending? I just don’t get what you’re asking of me…”

—

she was silent as he spoke, half-fragmented thoughts floating around in her mind and no way to let them out. it would be too many of them — a flood of words and they’d come with tears, the sign that whatever control she still had over her feelings had been lost. so she kept herself quiet instead, her gaze fixed on the sewing of his pillow, and each time a word, a concept from his lips sparker a harsher feeling in her (sometimes resentment, sometimes fear), she’d pull her gaze up again, meet his, remind herself that no matter what, the promises they’d made would have to be enough. enough to survive this. enough to get over this moment where it felt all the could do was slam against the same wall, over and over, caught between the devotion he had for his job that the devotion she had for him.

“i can’t stop worrying, jake”. her voice quiet, afraid to startle the delicate balance keeping them in the moment. her eyes were locked into his now, even though it wasn’t easy — even though she felt the tension gathering around her stomach, squeezing, and her fear was a drizzle tickling her skin, craving the way he could embrace her and melt it away, and yet knowing this time that wouldn’t be enough. fred breathed slowly, giving herself the time to navigate her thoughts before translating them in words. “i wish i could not worry so much, i wish i could not be paranoid, but —”. how? how to let it all out without it being some sort of curse, some sort of binding to keep him tied to her fears, detached to his job?

freddie sighed, gaze trailing off to an empty spot of the mattress. when she spoke again, her voice had lost its confidence — cracking slowly, abandoning its strength.  “every morning you leave, i have to ask myself if that’s the last time i’m gonna see you. sometimes a cop will come to the bar and i hold my breath, like any second they’re gonna tell me something happened to you. but i’m… i’m okay with that. i’m okay with the fear, because then i come home and i can see you, and i can touch you, and i know that you’re here. but when you act like nothing’s happening, like everything’s, okay, it’s like…” the smile blooming on her lips was an unconscious decoy, the sign that this self-performed exorcism of hers was excruciating in a way. “— it just feels like you’re not there. like i’m alone with my fear and i’m either going insane, or losing you already. it just feels fucking lonely”. a laugh, bitter, and fading off just as quickly as it came. “and i miss you”.

--

Jake could hear what she was saying, the words painting pictures in his mind, telling stories he hated listening to -- he heard it all -- everything, and what surprised him the most was the tiniest sense of resentment that rose in him. Her pain was practically tangible in every sentence -- sometimes a cop will come to the bar and i hold my breath -- what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to even say? She knew what he did, she knew this was his work, hell, that was how they met. But what did she want? Did she want him to quit? Leave the force?

“I miss you too,” he lifted a hand to rest between the side of his head and his pillow. “But what am I supposed to do then? Just...be miserable and mope around? It’s not me ignoring it. I’m just trying to be positive and lighten the only amount of time we do have together.” He sighed, “why spend the time we have with each other miserable? I have enough of that at work.”

It seemed these days Jake had seen more of his captain than he had his own girlfriend. When he did see Fred, though, apart from all the awkward tension, all the words unspoken between them -- hanging in the air, waiting to be confronted -- things were nice, normal, how they once were until it became an argument, until words turned sour and bitter. Jake hated talking about it though, always found himself distracting his thoughts with research and cases and straying conversations about his relationship to something more comfortable, bearable.

“Thanks for printing it, Em,” he smiled kindly at the receptionist before making his way down the hall, finding the door to Marr’s office. Knocking twice, the door creaking open and revealing a small gap between him and the room, he entered cautiously, “new lead. Not Rorschach, unfortunately. But, there’s new evidence on that case about the missing kid.”

—

    hazel eyes fleetingly swept over her current companion, pupils flittering back towards the rivals up ahead. a small hum of amused acknowledgment was offered toward his comment. “ it’s not a common occurrence around here, it seems, ” veronica replied, gaze flicking toward the male as a subtle simper captured the corner of her mouth. his following question, though, she paid a momentary contemplation to. in truth, the brunette had resided in various edges of the earth. well, most notably, several districts within london. “ now, there’s a question, ” she stated, a mild laugh jingling at the end of her words. “ knightsbridge, mostly. though i did grow up in camden town. ” as she reflected upon her admittance, the faintest glimmer of nostalgia ghosted across her features. though, luckily, she was able to shake off the distant memories — a talent that veronica had mastered long ago. “ and you? from where do you hail? ” the brunette asked, her tone tinged with a certain ease that was indicated in the subdued smile that embellished her cherry lips.

--

“Knightsbridge?” Jake’s brow rose, situating himself comfortably against the seat (or as comfortable as one could get against hard plastic), thinking of the woman’s upbringing in a place he could hardly afford to even look at. It was interesting -- Knightsbridge to Camden, both so different. He wondered, for a moment, about her history, not able to help his investigative streak, but it was only for a moment before a loud ringing, indicating the start of a fight, stole his attention.

Glancing ahead, he saw the two men dance around one another for a few seconds before hoisting their arms with a few swings. Turning back to the woman, he replied, “Battersea, all my life until I moved out here. Been in Red Ridge for about ten years, so far.” He paused, wondering himself what he was about to ask -- “You ever miss England? Red Ridge is so different. I mean, America in general is so different, but going from London to...a desert, y’know? Quite a change in scenery.”