#detective!reader

However, before you could pick up the phone and call your beloved Bruce, a knock was heard at the door. Who the hell could be here at this time of night? Despite your immense fatigue, you were sure your body couldn’t have gone to the point of hallucinating.

Well you weren’t imaging things, because lo and behold was all six feet and two inches of your husband standing at the entrance.

“You missed dinner, you know.” he said, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway.

He made his way towards your desk, his strides slow but formulated as always. The way he stalked towards you had the likeliness of a predator shadowing its prey. Somehow, the darkness of the room became even dimmer.

You weren’t scared though. Nervous, maybe, but this was your husband after all.

As much as he likes to parade the streets striking fear into the villains of Gotham, you know he was a sweetheart at the end of the day. However, if he couldn’t stand you staying late at work for one night, then he’d just have suck it up and deal with it.

“I know baby, but really, I have to get this done tonight.” you sighed, refusing to go down without a fight.

Stressed enough as is, you really weren’t in the mood to deal with Bruce’s antics right now. Closing your eyes, you put your head down on the pile of papers in front of you, hoping to subdue your worsening headache.

“Alfred even made your favorite.” A pair of large hands found themselves at your shoulders, “He was disappointed when you weren’t at the table, love.”

His digits kneaded at your traps, skillfully working their way into all the knots of the muscle. “C’mon darling, let’s get you back home and fed, ‘kay?”

You let out a deep groan, the tension in your shoulders had dissolved in an instant. Oh you already knew where this was going. 

You see, Bruce was a master at the art of persuasion, as if he had the secret ability to make anyone and everyone bend at his will. It was a power that even your eldest son Dick had picked up (to both your delight and disdain).

While you’d usually fall victim to his schemes, now was not one of those times. You were determined to wrap this case up, even if you passed out in the process.

Noticing your stubborn behavior, the dark knight leaned down and began nipping at your ear, “Damian was even hoping you’d make it back in time to say goodnight to him, you know.”

It was a compelling argument, you’ll give him that, but still you refused to submit to his tactics. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you started to get irritated. Why was it so hard for him to understand you were busy? 

“Bruce, seriously, cut it out. I gotta stay here and work my way through this evidence.” Lightly shoving him off, you picked up your pen and went back to sorting out the documents before you. Although the break was much appreciated, Bruce was proving to be no help at all.

Hoping he’d actually listened to you this time around, you jokingly made a last remark, “Since Alfred cooked too much tonight, how about you show me how much you love me and go grab me a plate.”

“How about I show you how much I love you right now.”

Before you could even question it, Bruce’s lips found themselves back at your earlobe. Except this time, his small pecks quickly transformed into open mouthed kisses.

His fingers went back to rubbing your shoulders, his workmanship more intense than ever. His fingers stealthily trailed up to your throat, squeezing at the area.

As you felt the pressure increase more and more, you finally became aware of what was happening. This entire time, he had been shadowing you like a wild animal.

And now he was ready to pounce.

“I see how stressed you’ve been recently,” He murmured against your skin, “Do you think I like seeing you exhausted like this, sweetheart?”

Eyes closed, you could do nothing but focus on how he sounds, how he feels. Your chest felt heavy, your mind felt hazy, and you couldn’t seem to get the words out to respond.

“Don’t know how to speak when your husband is talking to you? Guess you must be more tired than I thought.”

“No, Bruce I— ahh!”

Your voice was cut off as his hands began fondling your nipples, the hem of your shirt bunched up at your chest.

“Y’know how much I miss you on nights like this?” he spoke up again, leaving wet, languid kisses along your nape. 

“Waiting on our couch, laying without you in our bed, aching for you. Do you actually like leaving me alone like this?”

Your chest heaved at the thought, has he always been this desperate for you? As he continued to ravish you below the chin, your head moved against his lips, mimicking the harsh circular motions of an ocean wave.

Feeling his hand trail lower and lower, your breaths became more and more shallow. Case work be damned, you’d be an idiot to go back to working at a time like this.

“Bruce, this investigation was really important.” You mewed, “I’m sorry, baby.”

“If that’s the case, I think I deserve a little something in return, hm? Lemme look after you, angel.”

With that, you were pulled out of your chair and immediately brought to your feet. Strong thighs pressed themselves firmly against your bottom, leaving Bruce towering over you. 

His dominating aura was overpowering, and you were left heaving at the thought of all the ways he could take you, all the ways he could claim you.

All at once, he skillfully moved to pull at both your trousers and undergarments, leaving them pooling at your ankles. “Open your legs for me, love. I wanna see you.”

In all your glory there you were, lying chest down against your desk, pants to the floor, with your beloved husband practically rutting into you from behind.

You habitually arched your back, aching to be filled. Bruce sighed in pleasure, stepping back to take a look at his beloved spouse. Just the sight of you like this damn near made him go crazy.

His hands circled our waist, thumbs thoroughly messaging the small of your back, “I jus’ wanna help you out, baby. Would you like that? Hm? For me to fuck the stress out of you?”

“Yes Sir! Anything you want from me.”

As soon as the bedroom name hit his ears, Bruce let out an audible groan. As many cases you’ve solved in your career, you still didn’t have a single clue of the things you do to him.

Emphatically pulling at his belt, Bruce frantically released his throbbing member from his slacks. Violently spitting in his hand, he began stroking his arousal, lining it up with your tight opening.

He teased his cockhead around the swollen area, his pre-cum painting the heat between your legs. It was as though he was playing with you, as if you were some toy solely meant for his leisure.

Finally, after edging you for what felt like forever, he finally plunged inside of you. His sex speared into you with unrelenting vigor. Slowly, his shaft inched its way inside.

“‘M gonna fuck you so good that you wont be able to get up for work tomorrow,” his husky voice was leaving you in a trance, “Would you like that, angel? For this cock to take all your worries away?”

“Mhm, please sir,” your wanton moans were like music to his ears, as if the pearly gates of heaven were calling his name.

At your request, Bruce’s demeanor did a complete 180. His unrushed pace being switched out for something much more barbaric. Wet smacks could be heard throughout the room as his hips jerked into your swollen entrance.

The table shook at the force of his thrusts, leaving your pencil case to fall as a result. Papers were scattered about, some even sticking to the dampness of your skin. Your hands went to grip the edge of your desk, looking for something, anything to keep you stabilized.

“This is what you’ve been missing out on,” Bruce heaved, “This is what you could’ve had all those nights you decided to stay here and work.”

You practically begged him to slow down, the abuse to your hole was getting to be exhausting, “Bruce, mmn— ‘s too much.”

But your pleas fell on deaf ears, as his girth did nothing but continue its relentless assault. Your moans started to match his movements, pitch getting higher with each thrust.

“Shittt,” the hero groaned, “You're doing so good for me, sweetheart. Jus’ be good and lay there for me.”

His words were lulling you to sleep, that deep, velvety voice paired with his raspy grunts were more than soothing. Your lids started to get heavier by the second, you knew you were close. Any more of this and you were sure to tap out.

Your cheek was pressed against the surface below you. Eyes rolled so far back, it seemed like you could take a peek of your brain if you tried hard enough. It felt like your soul momentarily left your body as you started convulsing below him.

“Sir ‘m gonna, fuckkk, I’m coming!”

“There you go, love. Ease into it for me.” Although you were well over your limit, Bruce’s movements were still as vigorous as ever. 

You could tell he was close. As his thrusts got sloppier, your hips dug further into the edge of the desk, leaving marks along the surrounding skin.

“Broosh, please, I can’t ‘nymore. ‘M tired baby.” you babbled. Your barely formed words were only proof of how your consciousness was holding on by a thread.

“Shhhh. Just let me put you to rest, angel. Let your husband take care of you t’night.” Bruce’s cock throbbed, the thick appendage desperately looking for release.

Your entire body was limp by now, overstimulated beyond belief. It didn't even register how lifeless your legs were until you felt two arms scoop you up, hugging your midriff. You could just imagine how insane the scene must have looked, two grown adults humping over a table like a pair of wild dogs.

Eyes shut, you were nearly asleep at this point, the only sign of life from you were the light whimpers slipping past your plump lips. Your only purpose by now was to let your husband use you as he pleased, like some ragdoll.

Bruce couldn’t take it anymore. His movements stuttered as his senses came to a peak, “Mmm s-shit Y/N, just stay right there for me sweetheart, I got you.”

Once again, your insides fluttered as cum coated your heat. You felt his weight collapse on top of you as he tried to collect himself. Feeling him pull out, the thick, white liquid painted your skin as your hole throbbed from the aftershocks. 

Bruce’s member continued to pulsate, airy ‘ahs’ nd ‘mhms’ could be heard throughout the room. Bringing you down from you high, you heard a voice speak up from behind you, “You okay, darling? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“Mm-mm,” you rumbled, not having the energy to give a real response. 

“Don’t give out on me yet, angel,” affectionately rubbing at your exposed skin, Bruce moved to tidy you up, “Let’s get you dressed so we can go home alright?”

Grabbing some spare napkins from a nearby tissue box, your doting husband wiped you down. He made sure to clean up every ounce of the thick cream dripping down your thighs.

Kneeling down, he moved to pull up your trousers, softly kissing the expanse of your legs along the way. You could barely react to his touch considering how spent you were.

As you wobbly stood to your feet, Bruce quickly went to pick you up bridal style, your head slugging against his firm chest.

Honestly, you should have known you would end up in this position the second he walked through the door.  As resistant as you were in the beginning, you can help but feel appreciative of Bruce’s actions, the love you have for him growing by the minute.

Unbeknownst to you, however, there was a reason your husband decided to surprise you tonight.

The case you had been working on, well there was a reason the forensic reports weren’t matching up. There had been a new villain roaming the streets of Gotham, and while Bruce didn’t know who he was yet, he knew he was more than dangerous.

As he placed you in the passenger’s seat, Bruce’s mind traveled to all the innocent lives that had been taken by the hands of this corrupt individual. He surely wouldn’t be able to live with himself if you ended up one of them.

Although he admired your determination, the dark knight knew better than to allow the love of his life to follow a path of such evil. 

So if this little “distraction” was the only way to throw you off their trail, then so be it.

You tug at the collar of your formal attire, dark and fitted for a black-tie event. The weight of your gun rests heavily on your hip, hidden beneath your clothes. You wish you could stroke it, hold it in your hands, and count the rounds. The number of bullets inside the clip is branded in your mind, but the routine is grounding. But, your hands lie empty and repeatedly clench.

The night has worn on. This has been your service for the evening. You can excuse yourself on the basis that you’re needed back at your desk to study the recent string of crimes the Celestial Gang conducted. Surely that’s better spent time than standing here, stuck in fancy clothes that do little to make you more approachable.

The door. Your eyes have been returning to it constantly in the last hour. You could piece together what’s been eating away at you about the last rival gang slaying. What are the Celestial Gang building up to? Why suddenly strike so hard and fast at enemies? Do they simply have more confidence or is there something moving in the underground, dark and silent as a reaper?

This is enough. You’re going back to work. You step out of the shadow alcove you’ve lurked in all evening. Shoulders hunched as you begin to slip between oblivious attendees of the charity ball, you keep your eyes on the door. Single-mindedly, you weave towards the exit without seeing one face or hearing a voice in the crowd’s babble.

Someone emerges at the top of the grand staircase to the left of the doors. A familiar figure, tall and lithe and adorned in sun rays, descends the steps.

You stop in a crowd. Eyes drawn up, you stare at the police chief.

Eclipse. You’ve never seen him so sleek and sharp in a tuxedo of deep crimson. He fixes his bow tie with deft fingers, his eyes lifting to the crowd as if he’s lost something. His expression is intent, unsatisfied as he searches for the brief moment it takes for his gaze to swiftly land upon you.

Your lips part for an inexplicable reason. To call out to him. To explain why you’re making a beeline for the door. Say hello before you tell him goodbye. You have no answer. No words slip from your lips as he holds your stare as if you were the only person standing in the room.

His canary yellow optics brighten. His hands fall, softly opening in a gesture that seems to invite you closer. The police chief tilts his head. He finishes descending the steps as you push through the crowd—not to escape the ball but to meet him at the foot of the staircase.

He says your name softly in a manner you consider dangerous.

“Eclipse,” you greet, though it’s unnatural to say his name while the two of you are very much not alone. Yet, the crowd leaves you two in a pocket of privacy, unaware and unconcerned with a commanding officer and his subordinate.

Music pulls on strings, echoing in the air. Dancers begin to meet and pair behind you on the polished dance floor. Eclipse’s eyes briefly stray to the live music conducting the beginning of a couple’s dance, but his black pupils return to you. 

“Where are you going?” He reaches out and touches the sleeve of your clothes, smoothing down a non-existent wrinkle. 

“Out,” you answer, almost shoving it between your teeth. “I have work to do.”

His grin tightens like glass crunching in on itself. His fingertips slip further down your arm, trailing carefully over the sleeve that’s far too stiff for your liking to loosely encircle your wrist. He keeps you in place.

“You are expected to remain for the entirety of the charity ball; the same as every officer in attendance.” He speaks with the firmness of authority.

You narrow your eyes. He meets you unyieldingly. Your fist clenches just underneath his large, dark hand.

“I need to go over the case files from last week. I can’t stand here all night.” You look out over the band playing, accompanying dancers as they step and twirl. The bodies are organized yet chaotic in their colors and energies. A few people are laughing and others are stone-cold serious, focused on the rhythm while others kiss their partner.

“Detective, you can last one night at a social event.” His voice gravels low, almost touching a note of mirth.

His thumb slides down the bones of your hand, caressing your skin softly. A shiver subtly works its way up your spine. You turn back to face him. A stubborn argument crawls upon your lips but you stop short.

The police chief is strangely quiet. No, distracted. His eyes roam up and down your person. You stand frozen under his inspection. You dressed appropriately. He can’t fault you for improper attire but you can’t unravel the motive for his silence. His expression deepens into something soft. His optic lights dust you gently with his attention.

The strange exchange prompts your study of the police chief. He’s never been one to slack in his appearance nor fail to dress for the occasion. There is an undeniable charm to how the tuxedo looks on him. His fingertips are soft against the pulse on the inside of your wrist. The deep crimson color compliments his maroon and indigo sun rays.

A beat passes. Eclipse finds your eyes again.

“You look exquisite, sweetheart.” The note of affection in his tone sends a weakness into your knees.

“I’m not staying,” you say. Eclipse knows better than to charm you—though you must breathe to regain the feeling in your legs. “Even if I will miss seeing you look so sharp and spiffy.”

“Thank you,” his voice is low and gravelly. It echoes him finding you late at night, working at your desk, and walking you halfway to your home. A voice greeting you first thing in the morning with a cup of coffee. A question of concern, wondering if you’ve had enough sleep lately.

He holds out his other hand. The hold he has on your wrist is loose, soft and so unlike the coldness of handcuffs you’ve experienced before. You’re reminded again of his relation to the Celestial Gang mob bosses. Though what happened to separate Eclipse from his brothers and lead them down such different paths eludes you. You don’t pry. You won’t ask him to give it all up. 

He is not his brothers.

“Since you must stay here, we can make use of your presence.” His fingers unfurl. His dark digits and silicon palm wait before you. Like an offer of hope. Like an invitation to sneak away, just the two of you. His optics are lower in light. “Won’t you dance with me, Detective?”

You stare at the offering. A weak stirring begins within you. You tilt your head back to hold his gaze.

“I can’t dance.” You have the bluntness of a hammer. He knows this. He has always known this.

Eclipse’s grin remains unwavering. 

“I’ll lead.”

The music swells to a final jazzed ending. Couples drift apart and shuffle, and others stay perfectly together, waiting for the next song.

This is dangerous. Your hand falls into his. Him leading you deeper onto the dance floor to lose yourselves in the crowd and yet, find all the privacy. 

“Stand on my feet,” he says.

“You’ll regret this,” you warn him gently for his own sake. You fix your shoes upon him, scuffing up the shiny black polish but Eclipse doesn’t even glance down. His optics are firmly fastened on your gaze.

He chuckles low within his metaphorical throat. The first twirl begins, and you are perfectly safe upon his footwork. If anyone notices that you’re not truly putting in effort, allowing Eclipse to lead and put in all the moves, no one says anything. No one truly looks at you. All the politicians officers and city workers are engrossed in their dramas. You almost feel as if you were alone with Eclipse.

The music slips over you. The string cords and the waltz rhythm of the instruments tug you both along. Eclipse effortlessly weaves and carries you through the people, his attention tilted down to hold you in his vision while the room spins at the edges. You stare into his optics. Yellow with pinpricks of black. His smile is softening at the edges, his sharp teeth less visible in his focus.

“How do you know how to dance?” you ask, your interrogation voice coming through full force.

Eclipse tilts his head. A glint in his gaze gives way to something you can’t help but find unusual for the police chief.

“Personal interest and a need to fulfill certain duties a police chief must uphold such as appearing at public events. Especially for an animatronic,” his voice is gravelly.

To be charming and capable in every manner, to have to give even more than a human would in his position. Your hands clench his as he cuts through the space, leading your clasped hands like a wedge through the masses. Your grip tightens upon him. A burn sets in your chest, hot and spitting.

“You don’t have to dance,” you say, “Not with me.”

“I know,” he says softly. His voice lowers. “It’s a shame I don’t see you like this more often.”

You grimace as you glance down at yourself.  “These clothes are too stuffy. Who could chase a criminal down in this?”

Eclipse’s smile is poignant as he remarks, “It’s a very good thing you’re not on active duty tonight then.”

A sound between a huff and a growl escapes your mouth. Eclipse twirls you in a motion that leaves your head spinning slowly until you remember to focus on his eyes. His light is constant through the movement of his practiced swaying. 

You fight the urge to close your eyes and rest your head on his chest. His height gives you the perfect advantage to rest against him. You might be tired. The entire social event has sucked you dry and now you’re stuck in a slow whirl with the police chief. It’s difficult to remember that you wanted to leave only a few moments ago.

“Eclipse, I have to go,” you say over the ringing of the music. You’re getting distracted. You feel weak, held up by him so tenderly. His hand presses into the small of your back as he shifts you in his arms. 

“Would it kill you to spend an evening with me, looking so fine, and dancing?” His eyes burn low. You can’t look away.

“Maybe.” He doesn’t let you loose, so you must grit your teeth and admit, “I dance and wear nice clothes only for you.”

Eclipse grins. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, and his movements grow stronger. 

You cling tighter to him. Held flush against his chassis and fine suit, you watch the room twist upon itself. Eclipse draws you in and out, and he carefully stops to gently set you back on your feet. You immediately freeze like a wild animal set in a civilized place. Before you can succumb to your failure of not knowing a single dance, Eclipse takes your hand and lifts your arm above your head. Pressing your shoulder softly, he guides you into a soft spin upon your toes. You almost stumble. He holds you steady.

Then he takes you by the waist, holding you tight as he dips you low. You’re parallel to the floor, parallel to the police chief's smile as he hovers above you. You both hide below the crowd. The music swells.

His mouth has never been closer. You don’t realize how much your chest heaves, your heart alive in your ribcage as if amid a shoot-out, but it’s him. It’s only him. A smokey-amber scent fills your senses. He’s so close, and you drown in him.

Eclipse gently lowers himself closer. His optics flash between your eyes and your lips. You breathe out. Your eyelids flutter close—

And gunshots ring out.

Your eyes fly open and Eclipse’s optics flare. People scream. The stringed instruments cut off with abrupt notes souring the air. In a blur of a second, Eclipse pulls you back onto your feet. You whirl around, your hand upon your gun and freeing it from its concealed holster. 

The doors are wide open, held by men in dark attire as more shots ring out, thrumming out of Thompson machine guns. Gleeful criminals stare down at the panicking charity ball. You step forward. Eclipse's hand falls on your shoulder, pulling you back just as a politician in a suit dashes right in front of you. Eclipse’s grip tightens on your collarbone.

The gangsters glance around, lowering their weapons. Screams of panic ring out again but the gunfire stops—they have everyone’s attention.

“Eclipse,” you utter. Your finger is careful on the trigger. There are too many civilians. The boldness of crashing a party in the heart of the capital building leaves you seething.

“The Celestial Gang,” his voice lowers. He knows. You both know.

Henchmen step aside and hold open the doors to the dark, cool night. Dressed in fine suits, sharp and oily as finger-rubbed gold, the mob bosses of the most feared gang in the city step into the ballroom. They hold guns in their hands, gleaming cold and dark. Their eyes, gray and pale, and red and black, cut through the panicking people. 

Eclipse is half-frozen beside you. He steps forward, placing himself between you and the mob bosses. His brothers.

Your eyes dart around the room. The people have crowded against the far wall. Other officers have drawn their weapons. You glare down the animatronics bearing the themes not unlike the police chief, one of a pale yellow sun, and the other of a dark and silvery moon.

“Oh, Moon, I hope we’re not too late to the party,” Sun announces. His fingers stroke the trigger of his gun. His mouth curls sinisterly. “It’s so nice to see all the elites of this rotten city celebrating their charity.”

“Look, brother,” Moon tips his dark hat at you. “We’re just in time.”

You grit your teeth where you stand, and glare back.

“I think you’re right.” Sun laughs, cold and chilling against the marbled columns. His attention rests on you, hungry with avarice.

There’s a brief pause. You used to worry that Miller hated you, but you’ve since learned he’s just as moody with everyone. You just happen to be exposed to it on a higher frequency than most. It's also possible that he does hate you- you've decided the feeling is somewhat mutual.

“Okay. Okay. Yes, I’ll come say when I’m going to school. Am I three years old?” Ellie puts down the phone and looks at you. “Lieutenant Miller will see you now. He’s in a mood.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

“Hey, tell the chief I’m doing a good job? I’m gunning for a raise.”

“You got it, boss,” You grin. You shrug off your thick jacket as you pass your desk, frowning at the mess that greets you- the version of yourself that works late nights clearly hates you. You’re lucky the chief, Tess, couldn’t give less of a shit so long as you keep buying her a beer at the end of a Friday night shift. 

Miller is sitting behind his desk when you step into his office, pretending to look over case files. He always likes to act as if you’re interrupting something every time you walk through his door, despite having likely arrived no more than ten minutes ago. He’s just a dick like that.

“What is it?” 

“Got that nose job I was telling you about.”

“Nice try.” Almost every morning, you walk in and try to make him look up from his work. Your most recent success was the tiny mannequin you wrapped up like a baby and stuck a radio into- Ellie helped out with the sound effects. “What’s the issue now?”

“Well, please don’t be so inviting,” You say, taking a seat opposite him. “Might file a complaint with HR.”

“Is it about the Samuels case?”

“...Not exactly.”

He glares, finally abandoning his paperwork and taking off his glasses. “Not exactly?” “Well, I think it’s connected. Look-” You fish around in your bag for a few moments, eventually depositing some newspaper clippings on his desk. “Two cases in Montana, same MO as Lou Samuels and Brodie Hill. It’s got to be the same guy!”

Miller sighs as if it’s a great burden to be presented with new evidence on a case he’s personally been supervising. “An MO of strangulation on a few cases- one of which was twenty-two years ago, by the way- doesn’t prove correlation. And I thought I told you to leave this case in the office last night.”

You shrug. “I was doing unrelated reading, it isn’t my fault I happened to see a pattern.”

“Ain’t your fault, my ass.” He reads through the clippings, and you study the wooden desk so you won’t think about his glasses and how he looks in them. Miller’s unfortunate good looks rarely distract you from his dogshit personality, but you’re only human; you get caught off guard sometimes. 

“And those can’t be the only ones. They were a couple months ago, and now we’ve got Samuels four days ago. Maybe our guy’s doing some kind of fucked-up road trip, right?”

The lieutenant doesn’t like it when you’re enthusiastic about cases (or anything, for that matter). He gives you a look that says as much. “This ain’t proof of anything- we’ll send somethin’ to their local offices, but don’t get your hopes up. Strangulation isn’t unique, kid-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“-Someone gets drunk, gets mugged on their way home, loses their life over it. It happens.”

“It doesn’t happen here. And you’re simplifying it on purpose just ‘cos you don’t want to talk to me right now; you know the rope isn’t normal.” You frown, crossing you arms and leaning back. “Both the people in those newspapers were killed the same way- or, at least, strangulation is listed as the cause of death. What if it’s the same? I mean, rope left on a victim’s neck? It’s weird.”

“We can’t operate on assumptions here, you know better.”

“But what if?”

He rolls his eyes. “If it is, we’ll get the feds comin’ in here and taking over.”

“Cool.”

You both look up; Ellie’s standing in the open doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s too good at sneaking up on people to be employed by a police department, but she’s Miller’s kid and only works the desk when Maureen, the usual receptionist, can’t come in. You’re the last person who’s going to file a complaint.

“Hey, kiddo,” Miller says, softening immediately. You rarely see the two interact except over the front desk phone, and you don’t know what to make of the version of Joel Miller who shows himself when he’s around Ellie (and occasionally the families of victims). It’s unnerving. “You heading off?”

“Yeah. Jesse’s outside, so…” She scuffs the toe of her sneaker into the carpet. “Is the FBI coming?”

“No,” He says, at the same time you shrug. You feel his glare without turning around. “You don’t need to worry, alright? ‘Sides, what did I say about eavesdroppin’?” She lolls her head to the side cluelessly. “Don’t repeat anything to your friends?” “Don’t do it, period. And don’t repeat it to your friends, you got it?” “I got it,” She nods. “All my psycho killer theories will come purely from my own theorizing. If you’re on the lookout, there’s this one really creepy kid at school who I think is probably-”

“Better not leave Jesse waiting,” Miller interjects firmly. “You got lunch money?”

“Duh. Bye,” She says, and disappears. You turn back to face him, amused by how quickly he’s reverted to scowling. 

“I can communicate with other state departments without needing to go through the feds, right?” 

You feel vaguely embarrassed about the question- reminders of your comparatively new career as a detective always feel like you’re asking people to patronize you. You’re one of the youngest in the office, having transferred here following three years as an officer, after realising you no longer wanted to be near anyone from your hometown. You like being unknown; you hate that most people deem you incompetent the minute they meet you. Despite his shitty moods and questionable attitude towards respecting proper processes, at least Miller never dismisses you purely because of your age. He’s taken the time to find an extensive list of other reasons. 

“Right. I’ll get the autopsy reports, let you know.”

“So kind to me. You’re like Mother Theresa, seriously.” He is unamused.

“Just finish doing that paperwork pilin’ up on your desk before you work any more on this case.”

“And he’s concerned about my organisation? I hit the lieutenant jackpot,” You say sarcastically. 

“Out.”

“You got any spare coffee for-”

“Out. Christ.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

You only get halfway through clearing your desk before you find something more interesting to do- listening in on the chief’s meeting with Miller. You purposefully claimed the spot closest to her office windows, not that they’re ever less than soundproof. You settle for shitty excuses. 

“Hey, chief, thought you might want some coffee,” You say. “Oh, sorry- were you in a meeting?”

Servopoulos glances at her full jug of coffee. “Sure was, but that’s alright. Actually, this is perfect timing.”

“No,” Miller says firmly. “No.”

“Any way I can help,” You say sweetly, ignoring him. 

“Someone needs to be Lieutenant Miller’s deputy on the Samuels case, get some more info from the circle of friends who were there that night. How much paperwork do you have to do?”

“Almost none,” You lie. In your defense, there’ll be plenty of time after you clock off tonight. “I’m available for anything. Almost anything- I won’t listen to country music in the car. I know how you Texans are.”

Servopoulos smirks. “I’ll leave the two of you to fight that battle yourselves. Grab the files on these guys, look for a story first and inconsistencies second; they were probably all drinking, we’re unlikely to get a clear minute-by-minute.”

“Well, Miller would know all about being drunk,” You tap the small print-out of his twenty-year-old mugshot that Servopoulos has pinned to her corkboard. Upon finding the records of his public intoxication misdemeanor in Texas from two decades back, you charitably printed out a copy of his mugshot for every staff member in the office and anonymously deposited them on each desk. Tess is the only person Miller couldn’t intimidate into getting rid of it. 

“Sounds like an admission of guilt to me,” She looks pointedly at the picture. You look as innocent as you can.

“What, the pictures? Me? I’d never disrespect my lieutenant. Honestly, chief, I’m hurt.”

Tess chuckles, and Miller gets to his feet. You can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. 

“Don’t have too much fun out there,” She tells you. “I’ll need the statements from his friends and the bar staff by the end of the week. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Yep,” Miller grunts, and leaves the office without looking at you. 

The trees crowding the mountains around you point to the sky as if in warning; there’s a storm coming. The heaters make the inside of the car windows fog. You fight the urge to ask Miller for a sip of his coffee to fight the drowsiness hitting you. You pass two yellow schoolbuses and imagine what it’s like to spend your entire life in this part of the world, cold fog and crisp forest air and the same town of just two thousand people. You’ve spoken to some older folks who’ve only left once or twice on trips to Seattle.

You glance at the digital clock. It’s only nine. Without any intention of breaking the habit, you regret staying up working last night, and stifle a yawn in the sleeve of your jacket. 

“Tired?” Miller says, smug bastard. 

“Bored, actually. Aren’t there any cassettes in this thing?” You examine the glove department again, but no dice. Apparently detectives only drive in moody silence. “How do you usually pass the time?”

“Thinking.”

The drive to the first friend’s house is almost two hours. Surely Miller can’t stay quiet that long. 

“Well, don’t hurt yourself, man,” You sigh. “...Have you heard back from the Montana departments?”

“In the last forty minutes? No.”

“You don’t need to sound so enthusiastic about it.”

“Do you need to be this goddamn sarcastic?” “Yeah.”

You watch his jaw working. “Fuckin’ kid.”

“Speaking of kids- don’t call me that, by the way- how’s Ellie finding school? She said she kinda hated last year.”

“You talkin’ to her about school now?”

“She’s technically my coworker. We chat.”

Miller’s hand flexes around the wheel. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, forearms browned and littered with tiny white scars. Jesus Christ. You look out the window. 

“She’s doin’ fine. Gets good grades, she’s smart.”

You nod. He’s right; anyone would know that from one conversation with Ellie. “Is she gonna join the force?”

“Hope not.”

“Why’s that?”

Miller couldn’t be more obvious about not wanting to have this conversation, but you care very little. It’s the first time you’ve discussed anything but work or how irritating he finds you. 

“She’s good at drawing. Real good. I’m tryin’ to convince her to try out for some art schools, do somethin’ she actually likes.”

“She doesn’t like this stuff?”

“I don’t think it’d be right for her. She’s been through too much to be stuck dealin’ with this shit.”

You know as well as anyone else in town that Ellie’s not his biological kid. If calling him by his first name wasn’t enough of an indication, she told you a while ago that she bounced around the foster system for fourteen years before he adopted her. That’s enough information to understand why Miller feels the way he does. 

“I get it. Did she do the pictures you have on your desk?”

He looks at you, albeit briefly, and you think it’s the first time it’s been out of something other than exasperation. Maybe it’s odd that you’ve noticed the few frames on the lieutenant’s desk; you suppose it’s mostly because he doesn’t have any family photos, so the two pictures- butterflies and a giraffe- stuck out to you. 

“...She did.”

“They’re beautiful.”

As if it’s a strain to say the words, he says, “I actually agree.”

“Do they mean anything? Like-”

“No.” He interrupts. Like a sheet pulled from the line, whatever peace had entered his expression drops away, returning it to his usual frown. “Focus on directions, I don’t know where the hell I’m goin’.”

You know that’s not true, but you also sense you’ve crossed a line without meaning to. Consulting the map seems like the best option. “Uh, you stay on this highway… kinda forever. At least another forty minutes.”

“Alright,” He says stiffly. “Keep an eye on it.”

“For forty minutes?”

“Until we get there.”

Silence fills the car again, and this time you don’t break it. 

Lou Samuels’ friend, Adam, spends your entire introductory spiel staring at your chest. You must clear your throat at least seven times, to the point where his mother asks if you’d like a cough drop, but eventually you decide to pretend he’s just interested in your police badge and get the hell on with it. 

“Lieutenant Miller and I are only here to get our background figured out- you aren’t in trouble, but we’ll record with your consent,” You explain as kindly as you can. You have to keep him comfortable, that’s what the briefing says. “We’re so sorry for your loss, Adam.”

“My- oh, yeah, Lou. Yeah, he was a nice guy.” Adam’s eyes shift briefly away from you to glance at Miller, then back again. “You’re super young to be a detective, right? Like, our age.”

“Were you close?” Miller says, ignoring the comment. 

“Kinda. We had the same group of friends, but it wasn’t like we were hanging out one on one. I’m still sad he died, though,” He’s quick to add, before returning his gaze to you- he does you the courtesy of pretending to look a your face, this time. Small victories. “Uh, I haven’t seen you around much. Where are you from?” “Out of town.” You smile politely. “But- if it’s okay, we’re here to talk about Lou. On the night he passed, did you-”

“We don’t have to talk about Lou right now, though,” Adam gives you what he clearly considers to be a winning smile. “I just feel like I don’t even know who you are, is the thing.”

“Sorry, Adam, if we could just-”

“No disrespect, of course,” He says, glancing at your chest again. You fight the urge to zip up your jacket. “Just don’t know how I missed a pretty face like yours around town. Do the rest of the police get any fucking work done?” He laughs, clearly expecting you to do the same. “Maybe we could go talk about Lou over dinner, or something?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m sorry-”

“Would you go and ask Adam’s mother if she needs anything?” Miller interrupts you. You stare at him. “I think she was in the kitchen. Let Adam and I have a few words.”

“But-”

“That’s an order, detective.”

Without speaking, you stand, skin burning with embarrassment and anger. You feel like a stupid rookie again, new to the department and constantly pushed aside in favour of your male counterparts. One of the main reasons you’d wanted to transfer to the department of this town was that it’s chiefed by a woman; nobody’s ever given you the type of shit Miller just did. 

Adam’s mother, Mabel, is a sweet woman who provides you with no information aside from her opinions on the new supermarket being built in town (she thinks the all-glass storefront detracts from the mystique of seasonal fruits and vegetables) and several photo albums filled with photos of Adam and his friends as kids- she spends at least ten minutes talking about a so-called 'striking resemblance' between Adam and Lou, which is obvious only to her. You’ve only one thing to abate your frustration, and that’s the three cups of coffee she readily gives you. 

When he and Adam are done, Miller downs a cup himself and thanks Mabel for her time. He’s remarkably polite for someone you’ve spent the past thirty minutes convincing yourself is satan incarnate. You fight the urge to shout at him all the way to the car.

The moment he shuts his door, however, you round on him. “What the fuck was that?” At least he doesn’t do you the disservice of playing dumb. “He wasn’t focusing with you in the room. We needed information on that tape, not some fuckin’ boy trying to make a move.”

“And that was my problem? I had to be banished to the kitchen with the other woman? Fuck off.”

Miller narrows his eyes. “Did you want me to kick out the witness instead?” “I wanted-” You make a sound of frustration through your teeth, hitting the dash with both hands. “Fucking- I wanted you to give me some credit! Don’t fucking- dismiss me like that!”

“You’re yellin’ because I dismissed you?” He says, disdain obvious. 

You scoff. “I’m yelling because you’re an asshole, Miller.” You take a breath, hating the feeling of being the more upset of the two of you. “I’m capable. I could’ve handled it. You may think I’m fucking- fucking green, annoying, emotional, incompetent, whatever, but I’m a damn good detective and you can’t treat me like shit in front of a witness.”

He pauses. You don’t even know what you want him to say, what you want him to do. You’re mostly just mad you aren’t somebody the first fucking witness on this case could take seriously. 

“You’re right,” Miller says finally. You blink. “It wasn’t right, how I went about it- I’m sorry.”

You swallow, nodding jerkily. “Apology accepted, I guess.”

Slowly, he pulls out of the gravel driveway and back onto the road. You examine the tape recorder he’s put between you- he got twenty-six minutes of footage. You pull it onto your lap and exhale, rolling your shoulders back. It’s never helped your I-can-handle-it cause to be emotional in front of a colleague. 

“I’ll do the transcription.”

“It’s my job, fuck off.”

“I’ll-”

“No.”

“Fine,” Miller agrees irritably. You fall silent again, unused to a lack of argument. The car is only just starting to warm up, and you hug yourself. Sometimes the damp fog blanketing this part of the world feels as if it’s wrapped itself around you, an invisible and biting second skin. You tend to prefer the cold; still, there are times you think you’ll die if the sun doesn’t appear soon.

He reaches over and turns up the heat. 

“Thanks.”

“Sure,” He grunts. You look at him, see the tension lining his broad frame and the grey threading his dark hair. You’re no photographer besides a few high school projects, but you’d sort of like to see if you could capture the way he looks at things. There’s so much in every shift of muscle, everything contained in his dark eyes. “What is it?”

You turn away. “Nothing. Did you get anything good from Adam?” “He left before the rest of his friends, said he didn’t think Samuels was any drunker than usual.”

“But the blood reports-”

“-Showed unusually high alcohol levels, I know. Adam claims he rode his bike home around eleven-thirty, putting Lou’s death twenty or so minutes later.”

“That’s not a long time to get a lot drunker.”

“Exactly. Time of death wasn’t up for debate, though.”

“Who was working the bar? They’d remember how many drinks they had, whether there were any issues with other customers.”

“One of the out-of-towners. Left a couple days ago; Te- the chief paged me while I was interviewing Adam to confirm.”

“Shit,” You swear. The bar in town brings in a lot of people from out of town, backpackers passing through who want a few days’ work. “What do we do?”

Miller exhales heavily. “The chief’ll want us to track her down, interview her. Might be an overnight trip.”

Whatever Miller salvaged with his apology, you’re by no means excited at the prospect of a road trip. You’re pretty sure he feels the same way.

“Nobody else can go?”

“We were assigned this case,” He says flatly. You cross your arms. “If you have an issue, take it to the chief.”

“I don’t have an issue.”

“Uh-huh.”

You press your lips together, determinedly not rising to the bait. The resolve doesn’t last long. “Do you have an issue?” “No.”

“Right. Thought not, seeing as you’re always so nice to me.”

“Ain’t my job to be nice.”

“What is your job, again? Inspirational speaker?”

He glares at you sideways. “Would you give it a rest?”

“Hey, you wanna know something weird?”

“Probably not.”

You roll your eyes. “About the case, asshole.”

Miller nods his assent reluctantly.

“Adam’s mom showed me all these photos of them as kids- Lou and Adam, I mean. All the way from when Lou’s family moved here, to middle school. Then…nothing.”

“What, you think they had a fallin’ out?”

“Not if they were together the night Lou died. But something changed after Adam moved further away. He didn’t just stop taking photos with Lou, he stopped taking photos with anybody.”

“Did you ask his mother about it?”

“As in, was I too overcome by womanly emotion to do my goddamn job?”

“No. You know that-”

“Yes, I asked her,” You lean back in your seat. “She gave me nothing, said it was just boys growing up and growing apart. And they were together just the other night, there’s no evidence they didn’t work it out.”

Tiny pinpricks of rain start hitting the windshield and trickling in long lines down your window. The surrounding forest blurs into a mass of green and brown, water turning dirt to mud and evidence to nothing. It rains almost perpetually, here; whatever shreds of truth might cling to the body and surroundings of a victim can be washed away within hours. 

You imagine Lou Samuels as they found him, lying face-down in the narrow space between two buildings with a water-swollen rope tied around his neck. If one of the shopkeepers hadn’t been cleaning her gutters, it could’ve been another day before anyone discovered his body- maybe more. You think of your own dingy apartment, your solitary life outside of work, and wonder how long it would take anybody to find you.

“For the record,” Miller startles you out of your morbid line of thought, “I don’t think you’re incompetent. On the fresh side, sure, but you’re not stupid.”

It takes a few seconds for you to understand that he’s attempting a compliment. “...Uh, thanks. Look, I know I’m younger than you, but I’m not naive.”

“You’re what- twenty-four?” He glances your way. “I don’t think you’re too young to do good work, so you can stop gettin’ defensive. All I’m saying is that there are things you learn on the job- things you can’t pick up in just a few years.”

“Like what?”

“Respect for your elders, first off,” He says pointedly. 

“Of course.”

“There are other things,” Miller shifts in his seat. “How to handle guys who won’t stop starin’ at your- at you, is another one.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“Did I say it was?” When you don’t reply, he continues, “You didn’t want to make him mad by callin’ it out- that’s fine. But you came across as nervous. You apologised twice, asked for his permission to return to the matter at hand.”

“The briefing said to keep him comfortable.”

“That doesn’t mean letting him think he’s in charge. You gotta learn the difference between the people you stand up to, and the kind of people you allow to think they’re steering,” Miller says firmly. “That’s the shit that you get with age.”

You don’t know what to make of his tone, the smugness you search for but cannot detect. Is he genuinely trying to help you, or is this a patronization? You're bemused, and you don't know where to start figuring it out.

“So which are you? Do I stand up to you, or let you think you’re steering?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You watch the way you talk to your lieutenant.”

You head to the diner over lunch to transcribe the recording, cringing at your own apologies and stammering at its beginning. You hate to admit anyone else is right- especially Miller- but you get what he was saying. By asking Adam for permission to get back to the matter at hand, you were telling him he was in charge. That doesn’t stop you from feeling a wave of frustration when the lieutenant orders you to go to the kitchen.

You hear the door click closed over the tape, and a brief silence. “Why’d you tell her to leave?” You can hear the smirk in Adam’s voice. 

“Listen to me,” Miller says, so quiet you have to turn up the volume of the tape in your shitty headphones. “You keep trying to make a fuckin’ move on my detective, I start feelin’ a lot less sure that you’re the kind of guy who we want to keep comfortable. You want me to bring you back to the station to talk to Chief Servopoulos, or you want to do this in the comfort of your own home?”

There’s a pause, then Adam audibly swallows. “We can do it here.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, tell me everything you did on the sixteenth.”

Huh. 

You pause the tape, draining your coffee. Should you be more annoyed? You’re pretty sure this counts as fighting your battles for you, something you’re opposed to on principle. Did he do it so you’d listen back and feel guilty for yelling at him? No- he said he would do the transcription. 

Frowning, you tap the end of your pen against the notebook. This makes Miller confusing- and he’s not supposed to be that way, he’s supposed to be an asshole, plain and simple. 

“You want anything to eat, hon?”

You startle at Edna’s voice- the owner of the diner can be counted upon to appear at the exact moment your stomach starts grumbling, whether you’re aware of it or not.

“Uh- yeah, actually, could I get a number three?”

“Yeah, you-”

“Sorry, can I make it two of those?”

“Sure, hon. Who's the lucky person?"

"Just my coworker," You reply, perhaps a little too quickly. Edna smiles knowingly.

"Any coffee with those?”

You sigh. “You must know the answer to that one.”

Mouth watering at the smell of the two bacon and egg rolls tucked into your bag, and identical coffee orders in a brown cardboard tray, you walk the five minutes back to the station. Your notebook and the tape are tucked away, protected from any rain, but you still take off your waterproof jacket and cover your bag just in case- it’s only partially out of fear of a soggy bread roll. 

Miller looks unsurprised to see you entering his office, but that quickly changes when you drop lunch onto his desk alongside the tape and transcription. 

“What’s this?”

“A bomb. What do you think?” You sit in the chair opposite him and slide the coffee across the table. “Did you know we have the same coffee order?”

“Why would I know that?” He takes a sip, eyes on yours. “How do you know that?”

“I happen to be incredibly observant. I did the transcription, by the way. Interesting.” 

To your satisfaction, Miller is about as good at pretending he doesn’t care about that as he is at pretending he doesn’t like the coffee you got for him. 

“You want an award for doin' your job, kid?”

You ignore the name in favour of taking a bite from your own lunch, tipping your head back. “Oh my god. Thank you, Edna.”

He's so rigid it's almost awkward. You grin. “Are you here for a reason, or just to distract me?” 

You cock your head. “Oh, I’m distracting you?”

It’s easy to act like it’s funny- it comes naturally- but you want to ask him what he means almost as badly as you want him to think you couldn't care less either way.

“Irritating me, more like,” He says stiffly.

“New for us,” You reply, relaxing a little. “Any more intel on the girl behind the bar?” “Her name is Cheryl Hui, she’s a nineteen-year-old on a gap year. English.”

“Do we know where she is now?”

“Some of the other staff think she was headed for Seattle, but she had a friend from Aberdeen.”

“That’s where we’re going, then.”

He nods, running a hand through his hair. “Seems that way. Did you fill out the paperwork from the interview today?”

“No, seeing as I wasn’t permitted to conduct the actual interview,” You snark. His expression pinches, and you groan. “I’ll get it done.”

“You do that. And pack an overnight bag.” There’s a lull, and you keep eating your roll until he clears his throat pointedly. “Anythin’ else?”

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“Then what the hell,” He asks (rudely), “Are you still doin’ here?”

You walk out backwards just so you can glare at him. 

next chapter

credits for the beautiful dividers to olenvasynyt :)

Your fingers curled around your own glass, untouched. You weren’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t part of the mission. You should have already been gone, moving onto the next lead, following the trail of evidence that was supposed to bring you closer to Specter.

But for some reason, you weren’t leaving.

For some reason, you were still here.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Jake’s lips, and before you could second-guess yourself, he lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Cocky bastard.

Your grip tightened slightly. You had been chasing him for so long that it was unnatural to see him like this. Not a shadow slipping through alleyways, not a whisper at the scene of a crime.

Here, he wasn’t a ghost.

Here, he was just a man.

And that was dangerous.

Jake tilted his head slightly, an unspoken challenge lingering in his gaze. You’re already here. You might as well come say hello.

Your body moved before your brain could catch up, legs carrying you across the lounge with a steady confidence that didn’t match the pulse pounding in your throat. Every step felt deliberate, like walking across a tightrope with no safety net beneath you.

By the time you reached him, Jake was already setting his drink down, his smirk widening just slightly.

"Didn’t think you’d actually come," he mused, his voice smooth, easy—too familiar, like you had known him for years instead of knowing him as the man you were supposed to arrest.

Your nails dug into the palm of your hand. "I thought I’d see what kind of lies you’d tell me to my face."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he reached for his glass again. "Lies? No, sweetheart." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that it sent something sharp down your spine. "I only ever tell you the truth."

Liar.

And yet—

You stayed.

The city outside pulsed with movement, a chase still happening somewhere beneath the skyline. But here, in the quiet hum of the lounge, in the space between words neither of you were saying—

It was just the two of you.

Waiting.

Watching.

Seeing who would make the first move.