maria

Icarus. 

“But she’s a girl, right?” 

Never a woman, just a girl. Because being a girl to them made it easier, or more enjoyable, and reduced you to a position of vulnerability. Just a girl? Is this what you have that is so valuable?

And then your uncle would show that sinister gleam in his eyes, place his rough hand on your shoulder or your back, in a falsely delicate touch, which you resisted just moving away from, and prepared himself to give the most intelligent answer he had managed to come up with in all those years, one that you heard almost like a mantra.

“It's because she doesn't have an ounce of fear of flying too close to the Sun.” 

And you flew very close that time, going against your own convictions and, damn it, your own sense of protection that made you survive all those years.

You knew why Alejandro was the first person you thought of when you found yourself most conscious. It was the pain, almost excruciating and cruel, that took you to more distant or sometimes more recent memories; you would give anything for one last stern look from him before he himself ended your agony. 

But he wasn't there. Nobody was. It was just you, a basement that bordered on isolation, the irremediable smell of blood and a pain that was slowly being healed in your ribs and chest. As soon as it happened, you could barely breathe, and you were writhing on the floor with your hands on your chest, grunting in pain as you felt the cold concrete against your face. Your head also hurt a lot.

In a rare occasion of affection, Alejandro had given you a book. It was something he particularly liked, perhaps, you couldn't be sure, but it was good in the early days, right when you got into that mess, when you just stared at any beam of light in that place with the hope that you would die soon. 

At first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white and slender angels who would save me; but then, all at once, there came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help.

The Pit and the Pendulum. Edgar Allan Poe. 

You didn't make a lot of jokes with each other, but the next time you saw him, you chuckled and said "I didn't know you were the type to read that", even though you weren't calling him 'not very intellectual', just someone who didn't connect with that kind of thing. You were wrong, of course; the content of that story, as well as the others that made up that tiny collection, reflected how Alejandro's life and world were limited to death, shadows and hopelessness, just like his own.

That day, he moved his lips in what seemed like a return smile, and you closed your eyes in relief at still having your mind in reality to remember that.

That wasn't how it was supposed to be, however. It didn't make sense, it didn't… encouraged any agreement. He promised you. Well, you made him promise you. That it would be quick, without reservations, and that he wouldn't look back, because killing you had no use for him, and you didn't deserve more than a second look if you were so useless. He didn't verbalize it. He didn't say "sure, whatever you want" or just an "I promise"; Alejandro almost never said any safe words to you anyway, so you figured he would just do it.

You wondered if your mother felt the same way you did; if she was taken to that basement, or one that was far away from the house so you couldn't see her anymore. You even wondered if being away from you was a type of torture for her, if they used it against her as a valid promise that they would kill you if she tried something, only to then put you in the same place and slowly subject you to the torture of a slow death. 

You had been thinking about her these last few days, more than usual. It was a sign that your end was near, with dreams filled with memories of her, or with subliminal messages that you didn't understand, or the consequences of fever, hunger or neglect.

You started to miss her more. When you accepted that it was what it was, you went to sleep every day thinking about the moment you would meet her again.

Suddenly believing in the afterlife wasn't so bad.

****

“How do you feel today?”

You still hadn't been able to decipher whether Dr. Salazar was just another person who submitted or conformed. He would see you every two days, even if you were no longer sure how much time you spent there, and you were always welcomed in a very bright, sterilized and inviting place. It wasn't a hospital, nor a doctor's office – these places didn't have two armed men at the door, or the irremediable smell of the sickly air freshener that the employees used throughout the house.

He always approached you with great patience, his attentive eyes that made you cling to a sigh of care, even if it was fake. When he was announced, and when you were taken away, you could always count on a caress on your forehead, where he would wipe your skin with a damp cloth and then, perhaps breaking a small rule, give you discreet sips of water, always looking back to make sure no one was watching.

He always seemed very tired and worried.

“... Tengo tres hijas, todas jóvenes. Uno de ellos incluso se parece a ti,” I have three daughters, all young. One of them even looks like you.

Because Dr. Salazar couldn't bear the silence of your pain, so he filled the room with little laments about his life outside the walls of that place. You never responded, mostly because you didn't know if you could still speak or if you were afraid of what was going to come out of your mouth, but he kept talking, and you watched his serene face as he did so.

Three daughters. A horse farm. A medical degree in Cuba. Swiss lemonades. A desire to get to know Spain.

Sometimes, when you were particularly emotional, you felt like saying that you thought about the beach, about those desires to be under the Jamaican sun without any worries, but you both knew there was no point in that, so you just remained quiet, watching him assess your bones, skin and eyes.

“Sin sangre.” No blood.

It was your response ever since you heard him mention the diagnosis to someone you didn't know. Menstruation was one of the first things that went away during torture, along with everything else that came little by little. You concluded that he was monitoring this, so when he asked you these questions, you only answered this: no blood. 

Dr. Salazar nodded positively, wrote something down in a notebook, then began the regular inspection. You were dirty; they had denied you a bath for a while. In addition to the smell, your nails were also dark, a mixture of things you didn't want to know about, and he always inspected them as if there was something interesting in it, or if he was just waiting for the day they would disappear. You expected it too, you wanted to say. You expected so much worse. 

He would give you some new medication and then that person you didn't know would come in, listen to instructions from him, and after that, over the next few days, someone would appear where you were and do something different to you: they would change your gauze, they would adjust the bed so that you didn't feel so much pain, they would choose another place to cut or kick or punch you.

It was senseless torture because they didn't ask questions, because nobody needed to know anything about you; it was recreational. A punishment, perhaps, that your uncle enjoyed having power over.

That day, after the usual check ins, Dr. Salazar hesitated before calling the person. He looked through the notebook, then placed it on a table and came to you, pulling your unresponsive body close in a hug, with the announced justification that he was just checking your physical stability.

“Ellos vienen. ¿Dónde estamos?” They come. Where are we?

It was whispered in your ear, his arms wrapping around your spine and pressing you against him as he pretended to be putting you on your feet. You blinked a few times, your hands falling to your sides without the strength to make you react physically, and your brain took a few seconds to process what that meant.

You thought it was a final test, something they wanted to be sure of so they could decide whether to kill you or not.

With effort, you raised your left hand and squeezed the sleeve of his coat, turning your head just a little so he could hear you whisper the answer against his soft hair. 

“Caracas. Muro de las Lamentaciones.” Caracas. Wailing Wall.

****

He made a comment about your nails with an amused smile on his face, pointing to your hands with the tip of his fork before using it to spear a piece of meat on his own plate. 

You couldn't move your arms. Since that invitation, you had been forced to sit there, at that full table, staring at a beautiful piece of filet mignon with mashed potatoes and carrots (your favorite dish) without being able to taste it, feeling, among other things, your belly twisting with hunger. He had authorized a shower after a session: one of your shoulders had been dislocated, and the other was bruised, so you were cleaned up by the person you didn't know, then dressed in a clean change of clothes, and set out for a private dinner with your uncle.

He spoke, and you heard one thing or another while blinking heavily, overcome by intense physical fatigue that he just didn't care about. You didn't even look at him: you knew that if you did, you would throw up what you didn't have in your stomach to vomit. 

When he falsely noticed the lack of contact with the plate of food, he asked if you weren't hungry, and then said you had to try the steak, which they did excellently, that the mashed potatoes was the same recipe as your mother.

You looked at him when you saw him lean over to you and cut a piece of meat for you. He was smiling like never before, sadistic, taken by God knew what and visibly out of his mind, and when he held out that piece of food to you, a feeling of survival passed through you. He opened his mouth, suggested that you do the same.

Good girl, he said. Isn't it delicious?

And it was. It was divine. It was soft, well-seasoned, mild, and the only thing you ate that night.

****

He had plans, he told you over dinner. That your gringo friends were starting to bother him, so he would have to disappear for a while; just for a while, just until he found a way to get rid of them. When you returned to your 'room' that night, weak in your legs and almost carried by one of his guards, photos of Matt, Steve and Alejandro had been laid out on the mattress. You stared at it for a while, kneeling at the foot of the bed, and knowing that he would be watching you through the camera on the ceiling, you picked up Alejandro's photo and imagined the look on his face as you ripped off a piece of paper with your teeth, chewing it with ferocity, fighting your stiff shoulders for the sake of a show. 

That's what you threw up later that night, alongside that single piece of meat. 

****

It was a bang: a big bang, as if something had been knocked over by a bomb. You woke up scared, the sudden movement of sitting on the mattress making you feel pain all over your body, and in an impulse to get out of bed, you ended up falling to the floor.

You could feel the ground shake beneath your palms, hear from afar what sounded like shouts of orders, and soon after, some shots started. It was all very far away, distant, almost imperceptible, and you decided you were hallucinating. You stayed there, lying on your stomach, curled up inside yourself, listening to the noises with your eyes closed as if you could materialize them if you wanted.

The door opened abruptly. Heavy footsteps came towards you and you waited to be pulled up, or a kick, or a punch.

Someone knelt down next to you, and you opened your eyes. It was black tactical pants, military boots of the same color and the tip of a rifle. It… It looked like… 

You felt a lump in your throat, but you didn't find yourself able to say anything. He didn't need you to say it. Then you deduced that yes, it was there, at that moment, that your life would end, and that he just came back to fulfill his promise. Just a small favour, something to make you die as you wanted to. 

“I want to take you somewhere.”

And as if you were a feather, he calmly lifted you, wrapped a hand around your waist and, without complaining, dragged you with as many steps as you could take out of that room. You looked around: there was blood, bodies, a characteristic dust. The noises were no longer there, but the screams and voices continued. His grip helped you stay upright, like Dr. Salazar's, and suddenly you wanted to ask where he was, if it was time for your appointment, or time for him to talk about something new in his life.

But it wasn't. No, it wasn't. You felt the vest pressing against your right side, the smell of gunpowder, the rigidity of a solid body; Dr. Salazar smelled like a fresh bath – he was soft, cozy.

You lifted your face and stared at Alejandro's profile. He was staring ahead, passing hallways and passages, filled with flashes of light or complete darkness, and you frowned in confusion.

He stopped walking. Calmly, he turned his face towards you and with those penetrating green eyes, he accessed the full extent of your lost expression. You stared at each other for a while, until you realized that you were in the front room, at the foot of the stairs of the house, and that just a few steps away from you was the vastness of the yard, the gate and the road. Outside, you could see Matt and Steve passing from one side to the other, giving orders, holding guns as big as Alejandro's.

Someone grunted at your feet.

Someone impaled him in the shoulder. It was a generous iron bar, and it was the way it was secured that prevented the blood from expelling from the body. He shouldn't be here, right? And not like that?

You moved away from Alejandro's body and hoped that he hadn't noticed your spontaneous action of pulling the pistol from his thigh, and if he had, that he wouldn't stop you. You didn't see anything else; you didn't see if he had left your side, if he was watching.

Your uncle was hyperventilating – he didn't have much time. When he noticed you, he raised his face as best he could, moving his legs in despair, mumbling a lot of nonsense things, mentioning your mother, giggling in shock, going on and on and on-

“Sabes que solo hice lo mejor para ti y me apuñalaste por la espalda. Cariño, puedo perdonarte. Podemos-”  You know I only did what was best for you and you stabbed me in the back. Baby, I can forgive you. We can-

It was a shot.

Just one, on the forehead. 

His head got heavy and he fell back, his empty eyes looking up at the ceiling. 

Your arm hurt like hell, more than any pain you could have felt since you got there, and it fell to your side as if the gun weighed a ton. Suddenly it wasn't just something that poked your waist when you wore it on your belt; suddenly, you watched as the blood finally began to flow into his eyes, ears and head.

Your head felt heavy, dizzy. Any micro strength you gained at that moment began to fade and you swung to the side with the weapon, your eyelids almost preventing you from seeing the exit. There were shadows, then. You knew that your unconscious efforts to stay alive were no longer necessary, that the evil had passed, and that you could go. You could.

The sunlight hit you hard, it burned you, and your legs almost couldn't take it, but you needed to get out.

You saw your mother. She was wearing that beautiful, chic dress, the one she was wearing the day she disappeared, with her face made up, her hair up. You always knew she fit the aesthetic of that house, so elegant and soft, full of secrets but graceful. She was calling you, wasn't she? Was that why she was smiling at you like that?

You've already had the tip of a gun pointed at your head, but this time was different. You would only need to press the trigger, just push your finger, and then everything would be over for good, and you would finally have an inch of peace.

Your eyes closed, but you didn't hear the bang of a bullet going through your head; the ice from the gun was still there, touching your head, and nothing came out. It was a click, a small 'tick' that yielded nothing; frustrating, pathetic, ridiculous. You felt a hand grab the gun, then lower it, then take it away from you.

He said something, didn't he? Take her? Help her?

Whatever it was, you soon felt a pair of arms wrap around your back, then your legs, and you were lifted into the air, this time without brutality, as if you were finally seen as fine china and not a sack of potatoes. You couldn't hold on to Steve, but he carried you without much trouble. With your head hanging back, you saw what you were leaving in that place, and what would become of it; you smelled the gasoline, saw the door open wide and blood begin to drip onto the floor beneath your uncle; saw the pile of bodies spread across the yard.

Alejandro was standing there, Matt finishing pouring the liquid around the room where your uncle's body was. He watched you disappear, almost in slow motion, and the last thing you saw was the small flame of the lighter in his hand. 

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.

****

He noticed you before he actually saw you. It was like a feeling, like a sensitive shiver when you were around, because you were trouble, and he knew how to sense one coming. Usually he would sort it out before he could feel it again.

It was clear he never did that to you.

You always wore a lot of dresses when you were still doing what you did, maybe to create a little sense of naturalness, which was stupid, but he also didn't tell you anything because it wasn't a bad look. Yeah, well, you had done that: you had given him something to appreciate in the midst of so much chaos.

Matt never hid where you were, but he knew better than to try and look for you; they both knew that Alejandro already broke too many 'ethical protocols' for you.

Seeing you that afternoon, Alejandro began to count details of your body as he did before, and as he did in the hospital, when he paid you a single visit while you were still unconscious, because you were stubborn and certainly wouldn't go more than two days without opening your eyes. There, you had two deep, dark eyes, your dry lips, your face dry from malnutrition; the horizontal cuts were made on your forearm, but he could see that they had done things to your chest, and if he could bet, he would recognize the shock burns on your nipples. The worst part was a cut along your navel that had become infected, and later he would discover that you ended up acquiring poor bone formation in one of your thighs due to an excruciating recovery from a broken leg.

He could see the scar from your leg surgery peeking through the hem of your dress. It was a clean job, but it was still a scar, and it still seemed to clash with a lot of who you appeared to be. You went from one side to the other with a certain grace, even if with steps partially limited by your leg, and no one seemed to notice that you had marks, and everyone smiled back at you, and none of it seemed anything similar to how he found you years before.

Alejandro had been in Puerto Rico for two weeks. For two weeks, he accompanied you throughout your routine, and soon found you living in a discreet bungalow in a remote area of ​​the city, almost always in the company of a man who he discovered was called Fernando.

That night, after a day of being a very silent sidekick to your day, Alejandro saw you go to bed early: you took three different pills, treated your skin with some cream, and sat up in bed as if you were thinking or, perhaps, praying. You stayed there for a while, staring into space, until you turned your face towards the window and saw him.

The two of you stared at each other for a long time. After years, it was the first time you saw him and that he saw you face to face, and all you did was offer that tired expression, without the hint of provocation or natural cleverness that usually crossed your face. You had no fear, no joy, no resentment: you were just there, recognizing that he was there too, and that empty look was perhaps the only time that made him lie in bed thinking about you with a small churn in his stomach. 

You had become him.

****

Fernando was the one who answered the door, so you weren't surprised when he came walking into the kitchen with a sour face talking about a guy looking for you. You had been bracing yourself for this for a long time, and as you told Fernando to tell him to come in, you thought you were pretty confident that you could act normally.

And in a way, seeing Alejandro sitting at your kitchen table was… different.

He hadn't said much since he got there. He accepted the coffee you made and was sipping it, but you didn't know if he liked it, if it was to his taste at all, and Fernando kept glancing between you and him while he took a while to leave, as if he wanted to hear what the two of you would be talking about.

Eventually, you convinced him to go to work at once, that you would be fine, and that he shouldn't forget the oranges you needed for lunch. Alejandro watched the way Fernando patted your waist twice, gave him a severe look and then left through the side door; he just raised his eyebrows expressionlessly, scoffing lightly behind his back while sipping on the coffee. 

You leaned your back against the sink, crossing your arms defensively against your chest. It was just the two of you now.

“... Have you changed your mind?” 

Because it was the only first thought you could manage to spill out, even if in a low, pathetic voice, and to which he just placed the cup on your table before leaning back on his seat, still unimpressed. 

“No.” 

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?” 

He considered your face for a moment, then swiped his eyes around the room, accessing your belongings and his surroundings before tilting his head to the side. You hated yourself for still knowing what that meant. 

“Some things happened,” He excused. 

“Yeah, I know. Things like that take three years to end.” 

You didn't understand why you saw his mouth twitching, holding that smile he always hid, but you weren't attached to it. Heavens, you knew you couldn't. Of all the insistence for Matt to give you some idea of ​​where he was, of all the places you looked for him, you had the right (or the obligation) to feel offended by the fact that you still felt your heart warmed by that kind of thing he did.

Alejandro stared at you for a beat too long, those green eyes taking everything in, and suddenly you felt the need to cover yourself more, to hide. He took that in stride. 

“Who’s he?”

“A friend.”

“Like me?”

“No,” You squirmed a little. “You’re not my friend.”

“... Certainly.” 

If you felt half as witty as you did before, you'd be sending him out of your house, or at least using his mouth for anything other than treating you like an idiot, but God knew you didn't carry half of your personality from those years, and that the most you could do was to bring that offended feeling towards the fact that he was there.

You wanted to say that you missed him, that you had been missing him since you woke up in that hospital and he wasn't there; you wanted to speculate why he played with you like that, handing you a gun with a single bullet, and letting you believe that you could end it, just to watch you fail; you wanted to say that you didn't feel better, that Fernando was a good comfort, that he had no right to be there to make you realize that he was the one you felt true appreciation for. 

But you couldn't say anything because since he arrived, he only asked you two questions, and none of them were about how you were.

You turned your face to the door Fernando had come from when you heard him get up from the chair, and your eyes closed when he got close, very close, placing one of his cold hands to your neck and resting it there while he lowered his head just a little, merely brushing his lips on your forehead.

“Take me for a walk.”

****

That's what you told him the first time you met, when Matt introduced you as one of the trusted contacts he had. The two of you were outside the inn they were staying at, and you nursed a cigarette when you asked him to. Since that time, a lot of things had been weighing on your heads, but you lived on a different wavelength, so that wasn't what the two of you talked about that night.

Well, he asked why you were doing that, and at the time your uncle was merely an issue you were working on, not necessarily the epicenter of the problem in general. The two of you talked about Mexico, went over some information about the topic at the time (you talked, actually, since he didn't say much), and it was the closest you came to that feeling of delicious flirtation, the attraction starting to bubble inside you.

You had an independent spirit before; when the two of you walked, you were always a step or two in front of him, swaying your hips, having a more harmonious flow. Now, you had to unconsciously put your arm around his for support when there was a small incline in your path, because your leg was never going to do what it did before, and you didn't want to feel the shame you felt when he watched you do it. 

The two of you didn't walk much (you could go further, but you had spent the whole previous day circling around the city, so you were pretty tired) and sat on a more discreet bench near a path where you routinely walked.

“I'm still active, you know, physically,” You said, even though he didn’t ask. “I can't do cartwheels or handstands, however. There went my gymnastics dream.”

The teasing was supposed to clear the mood, and when Alejandro huffed, you felt like it worked, even if slightly. 

“You've been taking care of yourself,” He concluded, his arm slightly pressing against yours on the bench. “Has Fernando been helping you?” 

You couldn’t help but smile at that, glancing at him with a hint of amusement. 

“He’s not a threat.” 

“It depends on what threat he could be.”

Things changed, you almost pointed out as he looked at you with a calm but cold expression. You were no longer a pepper full of fire, nor a girl willing to enter into a possible contest of egos (which was definitely not the case) to find out who was the 'man' in your life. Since you stopped there, and even before that, you had been taking care of your own life, believing that you knew how to manage on your own, but nothing was the same as before, and when these ideals almost all fell to the ground, you just thought it would be prudent to count on a more qualified person to help you.

You didn’t know if Alejandro would impose that he would establish a presence in your life; you didn't even know what he was doing there, and that should be the first thing you should worry about.

“You’re tired,” He pointed out next, when all you could manage was a silent answer, and you sighed, brushing your hands on your face. 

That was the hardest part, if you could even put some level of difficulty in how things were going. You were doing well materially: you had a nice house, your body recovered well, you were basically retired if you wanted to. That was triple what many people who had been in your shoes got. Sometimes, or almost always, you spent sleepless nights dwelling on your privileges, remembering how everything for you was a matter of opportunity, how you took advantage of a system that you were supposed to help fight or just stay away from, how you pushed your luck every chance you got because you were an asshole.

You wanted to tell him that you had been thinking about finishing what you started that afternoon – that sometimes you stared at a river for a long time, or put your hand on your neck, and imagined that that wasn't where you were supposed to be, that you didn't deserve it. It felt like a gathering of many things you wanted to say but weren't saying; Alejandro should have known, he always knew.

“How is it for you?” 

He shook his head softly at that, averting his gaze to the landscape in front of you two. 

“Empty.” 

“So you don't feel anything?”

“I feel angry.” 

And you felt guilty. Dirty. Worthless. All very primal feelings, the kind that made you look at Alejandro with different eyes, or at least genuinely understand why he was who he was, or did what he did. You spent so much time playing a dangerous game that you didn't realize that death for some people was the only possible option.

“... Well, I am tired because I dream a lot, so I can’t exactly rest. I’m reckless in my sleep, I… It's been three years and I still feel like it was yesterday. I bought a bungalow so I wouldn't feel suffocated, but sometimes I can't breathe even though I'm here, in the open air.” 

It seemed like an outpouring of frustrations and regrets, but Alejandro didn't seem indifferent, because he was rarely when you got the things he wanted to hear. Although you didn't know if this was something he wanted to know, you just said it, under the excuse of it being a justification for a question he had asked.

“I also dream,” He offered. 

“With what?”

“I dream about you.”

Which wasn't at all difficult for him to say, as if it were a routine comment about life in general. You felt a little against the wall. If he dreamed of you, what would it be? Did his mind project the grotesque images that yours did, or was he more comfortable with his awareness of what he was doing all these years? Was it all deaths or all losses? With you, was your figure destroyed on or under a dirty basement floor, on a sofa or a bed in some apartment?

You opened and closed your mouth, then shrugged sheepishly. “... What about me?”

“Nothing, just you. Your face. Your voice. Your smile.” 

“It seems random.”

“I might have thought that at first, but that's not what I think now. You and I both know that you are an anomaly in my life.”

It hurted, but it was the truth, so you nodded. 

“You should have killed me when you killed my father.”

“It's been 20 years and you're still here.” 

You felt a cold breeze hit your face and you shivered; it was a psychological reaction, you knew, you were more sensitive to changes in temperature.

He didn't offer you his jacket, nor did he make any gesture of welcoming you.

In your world, him choosing not to kill you was some kind of proof of sentimentality that transcended the need for a warm hug – maybe it was the most romantic thing anyone had done for you, you couldn’t tell. 

What you could tell was that in three long and painful years, this was definitely the first time you truly felt happy.

Alejandro was back to you. 

It was a stupid thing, and only the time they had spent working together, which gave Nick the insight to spot a flaw in Benny, could, in turn, make Benny realize that it was a stupid idea, yet one that would seem plausible by his boss's own standards. 

But Benny wasn't worried. Perhaps he should have been—or maybe he would have been, a while back. Right then, he was annoyed. Because, beyond the silent accusation regarding something so ridiculous, he also suspected that Nick had followed him. 

It was the first thing he said as soon as the two of them left Gina's lab. 

“Since you two are so friendly–”

“Did you follow me here?”

His tone came out a bit harsher than usual for his conversations with Nick, but that had become the norm lately. It dated back to the Isla affair—or perhaps even earlier, to those moments when Benny would question the choices he’d made in life and, in retrospect, the loyalty he’d pledged to O’Brien all those years. It went beyond you, Gina, or anything else, yet it seemed clear that the two of you, in that combative stance, had struck a nerve. 

When Nick gave that wry little chuckle, as if he’d heard something pathetic, he felt small again. You know, truly small. Childish. Neck aching, looking up at old Uncle Armando scolding him yet again for crying because the boys had made fun of "Chubby Benny." Be a man. Be tough. That had been his motto for so many years—being the guy who faced things head-on without ever faltering—that what he called a midlife crisis felt more like a crisis of realization. What the hell had he spent years of his life pouring himself into?

“You heard what we were talking about, right?” Benny pressed on another subject, and usually it wouldn’t be a problem. Nick pointed that out. 

“What? Did you sleep with that girl once and now you're absorbing all her feelings?” He snorted, still thinking it was the ‘bro’ way to deal with stuff, teasing him about his girlfriends. “Connors had better not find out about this, or else–”

“Or else what?” 

O’Brien realized that Benny wasn’t joking—this was serious. Had he glanced over closely, he would have seen Gina standing near the lab door, quietly watching the scene with a mixed expression on her face. They weren’t far away, that was true, and at other times Benny would have made an effort to steer the conversation elsewhere; but perhaps a part of him wanted her, and everyone else, to hear, wanted those gossiping ears to know that, yes, Major Crimes really was in shambles, and he was tired of silently fending off the criticism. 

Nick sighed. “... You like her, apparently quite a bit. I’d just be careful with that; a woman can make you lose sight of where your priorities should lie.” 

He didn't even think about his answer.

“Yeah, we knew where it took us last time.”

****

It had a musky scent—relatively hostile. It wasn't something you were used to smelling on him. Unfamiliar. Then you’d push the thought away. Used to smelling it on him? Who did you think you were? But it was him. Of course it was. It hadn't been that long—even though it felt like, well, a lifetime. Yet the scent made him feel out of sync with your memories; it had been the very first thing you noticed that night—so much so that it took you a split second longer to make sense of him amidst your fury.

You pressed your face into your pillow and squeezed your eyes shut, as if wanting to go back to sleep even though it was already time to get up for the daily grind, and even though your dreams were steeped in the very things you were trying to forget.

Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity amidst the ordinary, the expected. The chaos you knew existed between you and your mother, the latent anger, the confessions piling up without you being remotely prepared to handle them. That was a night for rebellion—not for walking on eggshells, and certainly not for sympathy. Yet, in the impulse of his embrace—driven by an unconscious need for something other than the buzzing in your head or the face of that Dylan right in front of you, condescending and weak—you realized it was him. It was madness to still be able to feel the squeeze of his arms around you, to feel his shoulders sliding beneath your hands.

The apartment didn't feel very cozy that morning: the bathroom was freezing, dust from the floor clung to your feet, and the morning sunlight was irritating. You managed to get a shower, a proper breakfast, and decent makeup ready for the workday. You had never spent as much time thinking about what to wear to work as you did now: boots, low heels, dresses, or formal skirts. Your worn-out jeans and ancient shirts hardly fit the setting, even if you were technically allowed to wear them, but one of the things you’d promised yourself was that you wouldn't push your luck during such complicated times.

The apartment felt even more desolate. You would still stand in the kitchen and look toward the aquarium, only to find an emptiness that needed to be filled by some other ornament. Kojak was gone. And for some reason, you spent a night weeping as you remembered the changing color of his scales, the time he was alive, and a routine that was no longer yours. You didn't find yourself talking to yourself; you came and went in silence, occasionally remembering to let out an "ah" or an "oh," or to make a phone call, just to remind yourself that you still knew how to communicate. 

Because that was something you doubted you were capable of doing with your mother's things.

But that wasn't what you were thinking about that morning—curiously enough. Out of that whole conversation with Dylan—the choking, the fierce outburst of "get out of my face and never speak to me again," things that would usually leave you conflicted—the only thing you could think about was Benny. From the skirt you chose—long, brown, and vintage—to the snugness of the top, which was just a bit tighter than expected, to the boots on your feet that made an elegant sound as you moved about, you kept thinking of him standing there on the sidewalk, of his measured tone, and of the inconsequential cologne that didn't really represent him.

It was the morning of his birthday, after all. Was this how you would dress to celebrate it? Would you even celebrate, after all, if none of that were so harshly awful?

You realized that he had been your only anchor of normalcy since… well, the divorce. It was even strange to think that, just months earlier, he would’ve been nothing more than a guy Nick worked with.

You wanted to be more than just a messy memory to him.

****

“What’s that?”

Marion walked past you, a small pad of Post-its in her hands, almost as if she were fleeing your presence. You had just arrived, and you were certain you weren't late. Young and somewhat shy, she turned toward you with a look of recoil on her face, and you glanced around to see if anyone had said anything to her. It was just the two of you in the room.

You read the piece of paper stuck next to your keyboard. Theodore.

Theodore?

“I insisted that you would be busy all day,” She rushed to add. 

Oh, right, there was that, too. You didn't quite know how to handle that aspect—you know, having someone acting as a secretary. She actually managed the entire department, organizing schedules and answering calls for everyone in key positions. An intern, sure, but highly qualified. It surprised you that she took the time to leave you a message in such an old-fashioned way. You barely had one of these things in your work routine, and judging by the way she just rattled off the words to justify herself, it wasn't a routine informational update.

“Is this a meeting, or…?”

“It's a phone call. Mr. Park said to ask you to call back; he said it was important.”

Of course it was. Everything about him was significant. You had already blocked his number after he insisted on calling you again following the incident at that coffee shop—just as you had erased any traces of his family. It didn't seem like the sort of thing that would normally make someone anxious, but seeing ‘Mr. Park Lavigne’ name in Marion’s handwriting made it clear that he hadn't been very… pleasant. And it certainly didn't sound like the behavior of someone in a manic state—or at least, it suggested someone trying to appear less intrusive by refraining from other forms of contact after you had cut ties completely.

He used both surnames… Asshole.

“I understand, Marion, thank you. I'll speak with him,” But just as she was turning to leave, you added: “Don’t hesitate to tell me if he treated you badly.”

That face.

You could recognize that a mile away. 

****

He was going bald.

And, well, that definitely wasn't the first thing you should’ve noticed. The place, for instance, was a dive bar on the fringes of high society. The surrounding stench was appalling. Your toes ached inside your boots. But you were attuned to details—as he always said—and you had the time, the inclination, and the eye to spot him sitting at the counter, head down, fiddling with his phone, and to notice the light reflecting off the thinning strands of hair on the crown of his head.

It was a somewhat familiar place, but you didn't want to dwell on that. It was already stifling enough to have accepted that proposal—whatever the nature of his urgency to speak with you might’ve been.

“That’s classy of you.”

He turned toward you rather abruptly, making you realize he hadn't had much time to mask his dejection. Deep-set eyes. A weary expression. There was a spark of life there, yet you knew him well enough to see that the facade would pass for an outsider. You wanted to consider yourself an outsider, too. Come to think of it, it was a stupidly idiotic thing to wish for. After a life together, it wasn't as if it could just be, you know, erased. But you still wanted it to be.

“Is it not to your liking?” Theodore was careless with his words, though not harsh—just inarticulate. Perhaps he was revealing signs of social detachment to the only person around who would notice them.

You noticed the untouched glass of bourbon in front of him and took in the décor of the place. It wasn't all that bad.

“I don't know, I should’ve suspected that the crackhead who approached me outside wasn't the host, but I was still giving this place a chance.”

He snorted, but you didn’t feel like giving in to a ‘clearing the mood’ situation. After a brief shake of his head, he drained his glass and stood up. He was well-dressed, the signs of the incident no longer as obvious as they had been at the coffee shop. And he wasn't drunk, either—which was great.

“This isn't where we're staying. I didn't want to assume you'd agree to go to an Italian restaurant with me without some gesture of peace.” 

A crack den was his sign of peace toward you? Yeah, fair enough. It probably was.

He paid with that black American Express card and walked out the front door with you. With both hands in his pockets, you strolled from block to block until you stepped into a charming little hole-in-the-wall. There was indeed a hostess there, and the moment you stepped inside, you wished you’d gone back to the previous bar. You didn't say it out loud, but he gave you a sidelong glance as if he knew.

There was a reservation for a corner table with cushioned benches and the aroma of fresh wine, given its proximity to the cellar. Then came another awkward moment: he asked if you’d like a Cosmopolitan, and you emphatically declined to the waiter. Water, please—biting your tongue to keep from adding "just tap water" when the young man asked if Voss would do. 

“Taking it easy?” Theodore asked as the guy stepped away.

“Should I be drinking alcohol for this conversation?”

“Maybe. But I might be overreacting. It hadn't really crossed my mind that you might’ve changed your habits.” 

“Like me drinking when I'm anxious,” He shrugged at that, and you nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, I'm leaving alcoholism in the past. Something new.”

“Is there a name for that now?”

“It’s curious that you don’t know that; if I recall correctly, you were the one ready with the good news about my mother.”

He didn’t flinch, as if he had been expecting that kind of tone, and that disappointed you a little. There was an element of surprise you would have liked to introduce—perhaps for the sake of your ego—but for now, you would’ve to settle for the lack of hair resilience. Theodore let out a low, stifled chuckle and turned his attention to the menu resting to his right. He glanced over it and couldn't help himself:

“And how is she?” And before you could come up with some acidity, he added, glancing at you over the top of the menu: “No, I didn't ask my mom.”

Huh. 

“... She’s fine.” 

“Oh?”

“I’d say… quite open to facing her own demons.”

“Like you, I suppose.”

“Well, I’m here.” 

He considered you for a moment, then glanced over the menu a bit more and closed it.

“I'm going to order a fish fillet. They have one with a tangerine sauce that's great. Wanna join me?” Which, once again, would’ve earned him a sharp retort, so he got in ahead of it. “Right. I forgot that you don't eat fish. But you can order anything else.”

You ought to say no, but at that point, you were far from turning down a good meal—even in Theodore’s company. He would pay, of course, and you were always too self-conscious to order expensive dishes when with him, even if you could afford them. You decided to indulge yourself just a little. Whatever the urgency of the matter, it would be easier to swallow with a decent meal.

Without saying much, you obliged by looking at the menu—bound in armor-plated hard covers—and spotted a Tagliatelle with ragù that seemed acceptable to your modest palate. It was what you had asked for. It was simple, looked delicious, and followed your rule of always choosing the next most familiar option to avoid embarrassment. The waiter insisted on a glass of wine again; this time, you just gave a small smile and said you’d be happy with the water. He served the two of you—wine, Voss water. You couldn't resist making a biting, sarcastic comment about how that water seemed to be the best thing you’d ever had since the water from your home filter.

“I could take you to McDonald's if I knew you were so resistant to a little indulgence,” Now Theodore seemed a little over the edge, and you could find some happiness in that. Temporary, but enough to put a teasing smile on your face. 

“It’ll pass. You know, once you finally say what you want.” 

“Are you in a hurry?”

“I am, actually—a little. Your own mother said I was in quite a rush to divorce you; you don't think I'd have any patience for a second encounter, do you?” You watched him sip on the wine. 

“She asks about you.”

“That surprises me. As far as I know, she doesn't think about me all that much. I, at least, don't think about her.”

“So we can leave our mothers out of the equation here. It has always been very clear that we aren't… good at using that common denominator.”

Did you know Theodore had issues with his parents? Yeah. Always did. In fact, you two met because he was in detention for putting firecrackers in the classroom trash can to "teach his parents a lesson." Well, you picked up on that right away. He was the public school "rich kid" who wasn't smart enough for private school—or at least that’s what he claimed—and back then, his ego wasn't quite big enough to stop him from admitting he was a potential failure who couldn't handle pressure. Not to mention that you paid close attention to him. He had lent you a pencil in math class, and you had never forgotten it. All in all, you two got along well because you bonded over your shared sense of detachment. Even though you had a father, he was always so visibly passive and... well, from the outside, it seemed to work. You didn't want to pity him too much.

“How’s Kojak doing?” He tried out again after your beat of silence. 

“Good, I guess. Just flushed him out in the toilet one of those mornings.”

“He died?” 

“Mm-hm.”

Theodore opened and closed his mouth at your clipped tone. “... And are you okay with that? You used to love that fish.”

“It wasn't my best morning, not since–”

A thought occurred to you—one that had been dogging you since the night before, one you’d avoided all day, but which suddenly became clearer, more intense. You stopped speaking and noticed the restaurant lights, the suggestion of a Cosmopolitan. The figure sitting at the bar, waiting for you. It wasn't your worst morning since the night before—since the near-confrontation with your mother and Benny’s unexpected presence on that sidewalk. Suddenly, it was that sense of sorrow washing over you again—that longing. That pleasant night by the beach, the conversation, the company.

You blinked a few times and cleared your throat.

“I kind of saw it coming. It happened at a really inconvenient time, so I’m just, you know, upset,” You almost drained your cup of water, then made a point of rolling your shoulders. “So, what is it that you wanna talk about?” 

He sighed. Perhaps he wanted to beat around the bush a bit more, to be more evasive, but you could surmise that you weren't giving him much of a chance to prolong the pleasantries for very long. Theodore looked around, as if expecting another interruption from the waiter, but since the restaurant—despite being expensive—wouldn't serve elaborate dishes in under five minutes, he found himself with no choice.

“... I’ve been making some strategic decisions at the firm. You know, politically speaking,” He said calmly, but you could tell that it wasn’t something easy for him to come up with. “I’ve weighed my options and am selling my shares back to my dad. I mean, I plan to do that.” 

That caught you completely off guard. Theodore wasn't exactly one to cherish things—a trait largely stemming from an upbringing defined by excess—but that usually applied to tangible matters like objects, plans, or, in the cruelest of scenarios, certain people. You were proof of that. Yet, that company was one of the few things he truly valued; it was as if it stood as the ultimate proof that he could handle everything on his own—even though he never seemed bothered by the fact that his father had funded almost the entire venture. It had been a vote of confidence, and his greatest achievement was making his mark despite his family lacking significant clout in the modern startup landscape and all that entails. One of the things you would never have imagined seeing him do was give that up. If he sold the shares, he would lose decision-making power, because the CEO role on its own would still entail a professional and personal hierarchy involving his father, one that he definitely wouldn't be able to maintain in a healthy way.

So you noticed a bit more of his physical exhaustion and interpreted it to mean that something seemed to be going on, or that something had started happening after the incident.

“Why?” You asked, out of pure curiosity and shock. 

“It’s the right move. I have other investments that are working out, and I plan to do some things in Europe… I want to reinvent myself. Things have been a bit stifling these past few years. I made some wrong decisions,” He measured you during that last part, and you could feel your neck burning. “I’ve been paying the price for these things for a while now. Maybe that attack was karma.”

You had your chance to consider it. It didn't seem right. Karma? He didn't even believe in that sort of thing. And you doubted he actually thought he was suffering any direct consequences for mistakes he might have made. 

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say the things you think I wanna hear,” You replied sharply, your eyes set on his expressionless face. “You're gonna sell your share of the company, so what? What does that have to do with me?” 

Theodore knew he didn't have much time. You were restless, ill at ease. Such persistence and scrutiny regarding something that had little to do with you before—and barely concerned you at that moment. You remembered Marion and how frightened she had been by his approach, how wary. All this for… what? To say he was having an identity crisis and wanted to 'give up' on everything? That had little to do with you ever since he decided he no longer wanted to be your husband. And maybe even before that.

Even so, he tried to approach the subject from a different angle. Leaning slightly across the table, he licked his lips and spoke cautiously.

“... I felt terrible when I found out what happened to you at the hospital,” You scoffed at that, but he kept going. “Honestly, I didn't imagine you'd show up. Nor that everything would play out the way it did.”

“You didn't imagine I might run into your girlfriend at the hospital where you were admitted?”

“We were no longer… a couple. She was there more out of stubbornness and because of a few things that were going on at the time.”

Resentment was a truly hostile feeling. Ugly. Heavy. Yet, you struggled to find anything to appreciate beyond Theodore’s mediocrity—because that was something only you acknowledged. The world around him revered him as a genius in certain respects. Judging by his tone and his admission, things between them weren't working out even back then. Emerald had referred to her as "that child," and while you hadn't exactly expected support from her, it was clear that Aileen wasn't welcome, given how they were treating her. You suppressed a smile and tightened the corners of your mouth, as if holding back a more sarcastic expression, even though your tone had betrayed your feelings. It wasn't wise to declare victory prematurely.

“Don't tell me your girlfriend, fresh out of puberty, didn't want you anymore when she saw you’re going bald.” 

“What? I’m not–” He raised one of his hands to the top of his head unconsciously. “I’m not getting bald, it’s the light.”

“Of course it is.”

Theodore sighed. “What I mean is that it was a mutual decision.”

“Such as?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is.”

He stared hard at you for a moment—right in the face—and only looked away when he saw your hand raising the glass to your lips to take another sip of water, bringing the coffee burn scar into full view. It was no longer as prominent or unsightly as it once had been, yet traces of the incident remained on your skin; perhaps that was what truly opened his eyes to the reality of the situation, going beyond the mere attempt to appear sympathetic about your visit that day.

Theodore took a deep breath and leaned back against the upholstery.

“Aileen became pregnant.” 

Boom. Just like that. Pregnant. 

You opened and closed your mouth. He didn't want children. At least, that’s what he always said. You didn't want to dig too deep into the details of whatever plans the two of them had, but children? She would have to be a total badass to change his mind about that—though perhaps it was presumptuous of you to assume so, given that he only… put you through certain things for her benefit.

And perhaps he realized that you—even without any aptitude for motherhood—felt a very specific, dormant pain: the sense that, despite everything, you might have been so ill-suited for it that he decided he didn't want to have children with you. You were, of course. Still. It was unconscious. 

“The kid isn’t mine. Or wasn’t.”

“... What?”

“She had an abortion.”

“No, not that. You–” You raised a hand to collect your thoughts. “She cheated on you?”

“You can laugh.”

That made you snort, then raise a hand to your mouth to prevent the sound from coming out loud. When you dared a giggle, then a proper laugh, it was surely from a place of relief. It got excitingly better than you expected. 

He let you finish laughing before continuing.

“You done?” 

“I think so, yeah. Now I can forgive your urgency to speak with me. Heavens, that made me feel much better.”

“I believe you.” 

“Oh…” You leaned back, shaking your head in amusement. “Who was it? Mm? One of her professors? A guy from her yoga classes? Oh! Her personal trainer?” 

“I don't know who it is. That doesn't… What matters is that she's no longer an issue. Period. I own it. I made a mistake. I was deluded. You were more valuable than her.”

You lost the fun in your attitude and stiffened up at his crude tone. He really was an asshole, wasn't he? And you were a fool for trying to find some reasonable middle ground to talk to him. Maybe you should be a bit more like your mother—kind of selfish, abrasive, and unapologetic about what you thought. At least you wouldn't feel so humiliated all the time.

“... I know all of that. That’s why we got divorced.” 

You didn’t, not for sure. But you were on terms to get there. 

“Yeah, well. You were right.”

“I know.”

He withdrew further, and a silence settled over the table. You stared toward the far side of the restaurant, mostly in the direction of the bar. A waitress was pointing at your table while listening to instructions from the bartender; neither of them glanced your way, even though they had noticed you watching. Perhaps they had overheard the gist of the conversation. Perhaps it was about to become the night's hot piece of gossip. You clenched your jaw and shook your head slightly in frustration. What the hell were you doing there?

Only about two minutes must’ve passed when you felt a small folder being slid across the table toward you. You glanced at it and then saw Theodore shrug after handing it over.

“What’s that?”

“During the divorce, my parents took some legal precautions regarding the two of us. And about the company,” He said. “I had listed you as a partner in our marital contract. 2%.”

“2%? Of what?”

There were few things you felt you couldn't handle, and money was one of them. It had always been that way. You were wary—perhaps even stingy about certain things—which had always been a point of contention between you and Theodore, who had money to spare. The fruits of his company and inheritance afforded you plenty of comforts, but you didn't... well, it was strange. It wasn't yours, strictly speaking. And Emerald was so possessive about such matters that the thought of having any claim to it never even crossed your mind; the offer of the house had been enough for you. You knew that changing things would require an investment of time and money that was virtually impossible, and that they would come out on top.

“They made me hide the documentation showing you had a stake in the company. I was supposed to let that slide, let the divorce go through, and then I could continue as CEO.”

The color drained from your face, and a chill ran down your spine. You had been pushed to the limit for months. You had medical bills you were still paying off. They even took away your home security systems and made you sell your clothes. And now… 

“The correct documentation will arrive at your brother's office tomorrow morning. That shows the amount I'll be transferring to you as soon as the sale of my shares is finalized.” 

You opened the folder and came face-to-face with a contract. Right there in the first paragraph—in the very first lines—zeros kept appearing, seemingly without end. 

“I’ll make my lawyers available so you have legal backing, but I don’t think my parents will—”

A pleasant scent wafted around the two of you, and a woman's voice echoed in the air. You snapped the folder shut and felt your eyes well up and your mouth go dry. Your hands suddenly turned ice-cold.

“My dear, I don't think this is the best time for–”

“What?” You snapped your head up to her, who seemed challenged between you two. Theodore muttered a small ‘are you okay?’, but you fixed your eyes on her face, then on the single cup of milk on a tray. “What is it?”

“... The gentleman at that table.”

With your mind elsewhere, you lacked the time—and even the breath—to grasp exactly what she was talking about. You glanced at Theodore and saw him turning his face away, eyes closed, shaking his head in denial. Only then did you follow the direction the waitress was pointing, and…

No. 

No. 

No. 

Not now.

What was Mathias doing there?

****

The moment he noticed you had realized what was happening, your body moved almost automatically—rejecting the offer, pulling away. You wouldn't have been able to do that had you remained frozen in the initial shock of Theodore's proposal; yet, before you knew it, you were grabbing your purse and rising abruptly from the table, bumping against it and rattling the glasses and cutlery.

He was coming toward you and Theodore was calling your name, but all you did was keep going. Your feet were hurrying and your mind was a whirlwind. A tear rolled down your cheek and you knew there was no turning back—that you were going to break—and your life flashed before your eyes like a movie. 

You stopped on the sidewalk and felt the cold wind hit your face hard. With stiff hands, you gripped the strap of your bag and took only a few steps away before stopping and feeling your knees give way. You didn't actually fall, but you had to crouch down, bracing yourself against the wall, just to catch your breath. It wasn't as if you could just duck into a restroom right then: if you stayed inside the restaurant, you’d be trapped not only with Theodore but also with Mathias—and… what was *he* doing there? What the hell was going on?

Another two or three minutes passed, and a hand touched you, accompanied by a familiar voice—causing you to get up, swat the hand away, and point a finger right in Theodore’s face.

“Don’t touch me!” You barked, your face wet with tears. “Don’t you… fucking touch me!”

He had raised his hands in surrender and seemed a bit spaced out, too. In the background, you could see Walsh standing at the restaurant exit—looking somewhat concerned, perhaps, but certainly masking it well with an expression of growing curiosity.

“I know I made a serious mistake, but I want to fix it. Please, let's talk calmly and–”

“Fix it? Do you have any idea how much shit I had to go through? How long did I had to wait for your damn guilty conscience to kick in before you decided to do something about this?!”

“I know–”

“You don’t! You fucking…” You used a harsh hand to dry your face. “You kept playing cat and mouse with me. You and that fucking narcissistic mother of yours! Do you have any idea what happened to me afterwards? Did it cross your mind that things wouldn't be easy for me?!”

“I want to redeem myself somehow! You achieved those things with me, I know that! Please, believe me!” 

“How do you want to play this? Huh?! Using my mother to play your little games?! She has an illness—did you know that?! And she needed just a little bit of help! You didn't have the guts to stop your mother from being disrespectful about it! And now… now money? Money that was always mine, which you hid?! What did I ever do to you?!” 

Your head began to feel like it was doubling in size—or at least, that’s how it felt. It throbbed right across your forehead. When he offered no reply, your shoulders slumped, and the indignant fight within you began to drain away. Almost—of course—because before it fully vanished, you saw Walsh approaching with softened steps. 

“I see I've heated things up a bit here,” You rolled your eyes and averted your gaze as he said so, using a hand to massage your forehead. “It was just a joke.”

“Don't flatter yourself so much, Walsh. Get out of here.”

But he wasn't actually going to do it, was he? Whether it was a fucking coincidence running into each other or just a provocation, Walsh didn't have the constraints of professional bureaucracy holding him back. He’d already managed to screw things up when he *did* have those constraints—imagine what he’d do without them. 

“Sheathe your claws, kitty; you don't have your little friends from the LASD anymore to rub your tummy and give you warm milk after a hard day.”

You turned to him with rage. Theodore argued a little bit, said that Mathias (Matt) should keep it to himself, that it wasn’t the time and place for such things. But you could see your composure going to the trash – those eyes and that tone wasn’t doing you any good to keep your cool. 

“I don't know what the hell you're doing with her here, but I'm definitely going to take the chance to tell that bitch a few home truths. She screwed me over at the DEA because she's so damn uptight… I got suspended for two weeks after that. Couldn’t take the heat and went running to her owners. The ones who probably did their rounds on her.”

“What is he–”

“Oh, is that what you sent the milk for? Is it like one of those shitty American Pie jokes that only you find funny, you wimp?” You spoke through gritted teeth, taking a step closer to him. Your fists were clenched. To your left, Theodore placed an arm around your waist to stop you from getting any closer. “You're a piece of shit. A scumbag piece of shit who couldn't do his own job. You almost killed a witness and acted corruptly to snatch the case from the LASD because you needed to prove yourself to your boss, didn't you? Because you don't know how to keep your mouth shut?”

“I didn't think you minded mixing your personal and professional lives, sweetheart. When was the last time you banged Borracho before bailing on LASD because you were a failure?” He bit back. “Because that's the thing, right? You opening your legs for the first guy who protects you. It's almost the same thing as that little brat Isla. I didn't even need to put in much effort with her, I'm sure the girl will start soon–”

You didn't know which was faster—the punch or the spit that flew from your mouth straight into his face. What you did know was that it hurt—and badly—only realizing later that you had hit him in the nose.

Theodore was somewhat torn between helping him and understanding what you had done. Even so, when the police arrived, he didn't hesitate to go to the station as well.

Now that was looking like your mother.

****

Someone looked you straight in the face and asked, "Aren't you with the LASD?" and you just nodded and said yes—but not anymore. That was stupid. Theodore looked at you as if it were. If you’d just said yes, maybe they might’ve gone easy on you—or at least convinced Mathias not to press charges, or kept you from having to spend the night there. That was the real folly, you wanted to say, but he didn't ask you anything.

They mentioned bail. Theodore didn't even let them finish speaking before saying he would pay for it. You weren't about to refuse; given the circumstances, it was the least he could do, and your pride was no longer an issue. You were furious. Heartbroken. At least you had stopped crying, which gave you a bit more dignity.

“Look, that's fine, but either way, we only accept cash.” 

It wasn’t as if there were ATMs scattered all over the place, right? And Theodore was a guy with money—people like that didn’t walk around carrying hundred-dollar bills. He was torn about leaving and letting you be alone, since they were already taking you to a holding cell. You didn’t point out that a few hours there would be better than the whole night, but honestly, you weren’t even sure you wanted to see Theodore’s face again.

You sat on the concrete cot and watched him hurry out. There weren't many promises made, which was a good thing. In that regard, he knew how to keep things in perspective. In the neighboring cell (because at least they’d left you alone in one), a pervasive stench of alcohol and filth filled the air. You turned and saw a man—no older than thirty, dirty and somewhat disheveled—snoring away on the floor, a bundled-up shirt tucked under his head to serve as a makeshift pillow.

That’s when the urge struck. It was a bit early to say you could identify it so well—you know, automatically—but perhaps it was your self-awareness of the revelation that gave you some sort of clue.

You sat a bit further away and started pressing your fingers against each other.

A police officer walked past you in the hallway and paused for a few seconds before leaving, as if he had seen a wild animal.

****

He placed a hand on Theodore's arm, and the next instant he was looking for you. It was a slow process of realization: one moment you were sitting there alone, waiting, and the next Theodore appeared with the money in hand, just as Benny slid across the counter to stop him from handing it over. Perhaps it was the delay. Two hours. At some point, you had given up hope that he would return—especially since the revelations from that dinner hadn't exactly left you inclined to believe he would go out of his way to do you any favors. It was his right, perhaps. Emerald had her own arguments regarding the raising of their children, enough so to give them this… perspective.

Benny scowled. He looked at the officer at the desk and asked why you had been put in a cell—did you happen to look like a criminal? Theodore watched the scene, somewhat confused, with the money between his fingers, and you wished you had an answer that could explain how Benny had ended up there. Regardless, he was there. And he was furious.

There was a bit of conversation, then the captain on duty went over to speak with him. Handshakes, a familiar air of confidence—it gave the impression that they knew each other well. Of course. LASD, LAPD. It made sense. Maybe. You were confused enough to make sense of what was happening.

About fifteen minutes later, they let you go. Theodore had tucked the money into his wallet, and you were a bit unsure of what had been decided; but before you could ask anything, Benny broke off his conversation with the captain and hurried over, cupping your face in his hands to check for injuries. You let him. His palms were rough yet comforting—delivering a touch so gentle it made your eyelids all but relax. He didn't ask in words if you were okay, but checked for himself and concluded that only the hand used to throw the punch had been affected. A bit swollen, somewhat sore—nothing serious.

He pulled his hands away but stayed close. Theodore looked at the two of you with a certain curiosity.

“So, won't it be necessary to take any legal action?” Theodore cleared his throat and asked, glancing between the captain and Benny. 

“No. Not this time, at least. I suggest you choose less physical methods the next time you go about solving your problems, young lady,” To which you nodded absently as he gave you a once over. “If Mathias Walsh poses any risk, do not hesitate to file a formal complaint for harassment.” 

That didn't work out very well last time, you wanted to argue, but all you did was nod again. He invited you to step outside, and the three of you walked to the parking lot in silence.

Then things started weighing on you with less rhyme or reason than before—if those two hours of silence in the cell had actually brought you any clarity at all. The numbers from that piece of paper came crashing into your mind like a heavy, sudden wave, forcing you to stop walking right there in the middle of the parking lot. Staring at the ground, your fists began to clench again—which hurt—and you listened to the two of them stop walking. 

“I met Theodore because he wanted to tell me something very important,” You raised your eyes, staring straight at our ex. “He hid something really significant from me and had a moment of realization about it. Didn't he? Maybe after his little girlfriend cheated on him. That same girlfriend who cost me my life with him and our entire marriage. Who left me sick. Without even a fucking security system in my house as I was living alone.” 

Benny didn't move, but he was also staring at Theodore while you spoke through gritted teeth. Theodore, on the other hand, clenched his jaw and averted his gaze for a moment, as if he didn’t want to bring that up in front of someone else. Or at all. Of course. 

You felt like crying. You certainly wouldn’t have cried if you’d been drunk, but at that moment you lacked the boldness and the steely edge that alcohol puts in your system, so you faced it the way you faced Nick: coldly.

“You know why I punched Walsh? Because one of the last times we spoke, he was humiliating me in front of everyone—all because of you. Because the two of you were buddies, swapping notes on what a terrible person I am. No, not just a person. A terrible woman. Bitter. Nasty. Sour. And that is your fault, because you always knew I didn't trust him and knew what he was like. You let it happen.” 

You took a couple of steps toward him.

“That money you owe me, because you do owe me now, is the least you deserve to lose. And the worst idea you had was bringing it up to me, because even if you change your mind now, I’m gonna make sure I get every single cent you withheld under the false illusion that I ever owed you anything.” 

He looked back at you with a certain regret and, at best, guilt. That was what you had become—largely because of what he had done to you. You loved that man so much. You had loved him for a long time. That same man who had sought you out, who had once made you happy… the same one who filled your thoughts, who comforted you with his touch, listened to you, and helped you. It was no longer him looking back at you. And perhaps it was somewhat ironic that he had broken you through the heated intensity of passion, for in the silence of that confrontation, you felt a hand lightly grasp your arm and heard a voice that made you recoil.

“Let’s go home.”

And that would have cursed you forever, but when you looked at Benny, you saw that you were wrong. The person who made you feel all those good things was, in fact, right there.

You just had to look the other way.

“And you better send Marion a breakfast basket too.” 

****

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