#mindhunt

The    room    glowed    under    the    dim    lamp    that    hung    from    the    ceiling ,    and    Arthur    stared    in    contest    with    himself    into    the    mirror .

The    riots    had    been    becoming    incrementally    worse    on    the    garbage - ridden    Gotham    streets .    The    sensibility    of    folks    was    growing    grim ,    and    the    precursory    scent    of    mania    lingered    distastefully    on    the    air .

And    Arthur    Fleck    was    at    the    centre    of    it    all .    Three    homicides ,    no    witnesses .    Just    the    dead    Wayne    Investments    ‘ prodigies , ’    and    talk    of    a    killer    that    looked    like    a    clown .

When    the    agents    came    through    the    door    to    his    left ,    Fleck    crossed    his    sinewy    arms    over    the    chest    of    his    sweater .    He    twisted    his    mouth    anxiously ,    avoiding    their    eyes ,    favouring    the    sight    of    the    cracking    leather    of    his    shoes .        ‘    I    really —    I    shouldn’t    be    here .    My    mom’s    in    the    hospital .    I    shouldn’t    be    here ,    ’        his    voice    cracked ,    tremulously .        ‘    How    long    is    this    gonna    take ?    ’

the   plane   was   silent .        merely   few   people   on  board ,     all   asleep   or  drawn   deep   into   the   lecture   of   a   paper   or   book ;          tench’s   cigarette   became   ash ,       embers   slowly   turning   grey .      the   flight   was   an   especially   peaceful   one ,     holden’s   head   leaning   agains   his  shoulder   brouhgt   him  comfort ,     safety .           as   he   ordered   to   glasses   of   scotch ;          holden   seemed    to   doze   off ,       mentioned   son   of   sam      once   or   twice ,    speech   slowly   descending   to  daydreaming    as   the   approached    new   york .         ‘    attica   correctional   facility … sounds   pretty   tame   for   SON    OF   SAM .      ’               voice   tame   and   almost   soft ,      gaze   gently   eyeing  the   exhausted   figure   of   his   partner .         ‘     nevermind .     we   have   a   lot   of   time   to   think   this   interview   over .      try   to   sleep   now ,    alright ?       ’            he   did   order   whisky   instead   of   lunch ,       downed   both   shots   as   if   they   were   medicine  .      

THEY’VE been holed up for days, fluorescent light washing their skin a color of sickly pale yellow-green, and gregg can’t remember the last time he tasted anything that’s not the shitty, watered down FBI coffee ( he could do with solid food but they’re already understaffed as it is, and bill and wendy went home hours ago )   ━  at this point, he thinks, he can hear holden mumbling to himself.

gregg  ━   A G E N T  S M I T H is not as unfazed by their cases as he used to be, but after four consecutive days of gory details, all while working through the latest interview, he can’t deny that a break seems pretty sweet as of now. or a breather. or something else than silence.

                  the cherry of her cigarette had burned bright with her inhale and it dimmed as the stick left her lips for the smoky exhale. she’d made mistakes with holden. they hadn’t talked about things that were among the most important in their relationship... and it had resulted in her hurting him. it had resulted in unforgivable doubts in him and an error that had been born of loneliness; neither of which were excuses. she wanted to give no excuses to him, that would be unfair. her intent had always been: to explain, not excuse. her kissing patrick was a mistake and though it had never been more than that, more than that moment? it changed nothing. not truly.

                   yet... here he was in her kitchen. pacing. posing questions. talking shop. talking work. it was like old times and, yet it felt... off.