#rusty galloway

For the years of jazz and nasty talking that has filtered through you from the streets of Los Angeles, it a does a number to you on your outlook of roaming humans from across a dining table.

A war that has scorched and ripped a piece out of everyone, to only replace in hopes it would toughen the skin and minds of people who wish to return in the comfort of loving hands; to fall in wasted fields for men to drag elsewhere.

The celebratory that rang through radios and bold printed newspapers, that no ones shock couldn't been able to handle to another soft cries for a missing warm spot on cushion seat. A promise made to all that the normalcy would now return and the hardening retrieved would disperse, once you set a foot back home.

And here you were, seeing those same men now loathing in spit drinks of a bar and feet propped on the stool.

You were no kind of woman to judge on civilian men, who clearly a needed a drink to drown out for what had plague them ever since, but you made a checklist of patterns that you unconsciously tick off once in while. And the reason you necessarily didn't judge so much was because you were just as lonely as them, seated in this same downtown jazz club.

All were searching for some keen connection, as for you and the constant denial of wanting one too. There was a jazz band that appeared on the clubs weekly performance. It was always the same band as you recognize their faces, just as they recognize yours. There a was booth you hogged each time from the back and would ask one or two drinks before settling on the singing.

A lady that usually wasn't the typical jazz singer for her odd stare and drinking she did, yet her ivory eyes held more authenticity than any you seen. The club wasn't new neither too old. It was most telling it was the hot spot to run off to once it gets dark and escape whatever the hell was going out there.

And the funny coincidence is that you found some familiarized faces from work you attend to. The typical officers and investigators that passed routinely by your desk. A police station where you were ransack in most of the time. You only work as a clerk, typically typing away on the sealed files and reports that most officers just throw on the whim after a day of the streets. A 9 to 5 that was suitable to leverage the necessities to bide your time but mostly observe the working men. Especially ones that were promoted in weeks pass. Some of them didn't say much as they saw you, a couple that clearly eye you up and down for a potential something but the slight grimace of your face told them off (if they ever got the hint).

You mostly stick to your desk and often chatted the other clerks, only women half the time and they were always pestering you if you gotten a man to take care of you. Not that you hated the idea but yourself had gotten accustomed to a single life in somewhat peace that dealing with another person in your vicinity felt consuming. Was it the slight fear of committing? Perhaps so. But, there was some denial that stir in your chest of finding someone in the packed city of lonely walkers, searching for the same.

In the beginning of the year, a traffic detective bump to your desk and he seem to humor a lot of the other officers as well. You seen him a couple times before, along another detective that appear by his side who was a little more serious. Not entirely, of course, but he had this flare of assertiveness and focusing on his job. While his friend more lenient on the jokes and always making the other detective laugh a couple times.

You were flickering through some reports you received in the morning, since there was shootout in the middle of night. You had expected they would dump it all on you: nose in the papers and hands scrambled on the desk with a pen.

A hand knocks on the wooden desk of yours and you look up to see the same traffic detective: the plaid of his blazer and green tie.

"You must be one of the clerks that sorts out all kinds reports and files? Lady in charge at least?"

"Is there something wrong, detective?"

"Oh, no, you're alright miss. Just had finished a case with my partner and, well, we had a long night and were curious to have a supported hand to help us out."

The eyebrow of yours perks and you settle the pen on the desk. "What unit are you in?"

"Traffic detective," He pulled a chair and smile, giving his hand for a shake. "Forgot my manners, it's Stefan Bekowsky."

You shook his hand back and begin to question on why a traffic cop was at your desk, all the while you dealt with the boring patrol officers that arrested people stealing fruits off from street markets.

"We deal with registrations of cars and addresses that all overlapped each other. As well sorting the timeline and witnesses we took the time to list."

"Seems you and your partner have it handled."

"Oh, Cole always writes down in that small pocketbook journal he has. Always scribbling some new clues that popped up or statements from witnesses."

Oh right. You had assume the other you had seen was Detective Phelps. The one who occasionally was printed on front newspaper for his talent of catching the whiff of a criminal; always ahead with the clues and a fedora low enough with a journal in hand. The most you seen of him was from his back and the side profile of his face, not that he was mysterious but from the rest he did poke out like sore thumb. He seem he always took care of the tedious trouble of filing out paperwork before it hits in any of the clerk's desk.

"Seems he has done half of my job," You remark.

"Cole is one of hell work alcoholic and while he does spend most of his time here, I think we prefer someone to carry the weight…"

Bekowsky spare a smile at you and your head titled at him, a knowing smile in return for what he had implied.

"I won't mind the weight, but what would your partner would think?"

"I'll convince the man and don't you worry for that old war hero, I have good feeling he won't hate the idea."

Your mind had thought otherwise, but you didn't seem to question the trust, only gave in to see what could occurred.

A few days had passed from the small proposal Bekowsky had landed you in, and by then you spent the night on your desk. Your hands cramping from the amount of typing and pushing off files to archive. A body was discovered near a famous restaurant. Soon it was found out later the body was a once famous actor from recently released film, and the paparazzi buzzed around. All flies smelling the stank of material to write for the newspaper.

The police station was cramp and the phone lines were continuously ringing, either were answer or slammed down like some clerks and officers had done. It seem the whole place was called in such a late night, especially someone such as you who a lot of them had depended on, and you weren't the only one feeling the weight. You stood up to grab at least a cup of coffee and almost wobbled in heels for how long you sat there on the chair. The walk was short and somehow long, before reaching a corner and finding Detective Phelps rounding the same corner under his fedora. He halted at the sight of you and stopped before he could bump into you. The same brown ironed three-piece suit; a silent gaze and attempt of polite smile on his face.

You did the same, well at least formally. You blinked at him like some fool unaware to do.

"Cole, did you say yes to cream, or no to cream on that coffee? I might've dump quite a lot in there already."

You peeked behind Phelps shoulder and found Bekwosky with two mugs in the corner stop of the break room. Soon enough, Bekwosky sees you and brightened up as he called out your name.

"The whole party is here! I guess the LAPD is really on a bust tonight."

"A famous accidental death does that," Phelps said, glancing between you and his partner. "I suppose you were the clerk that Stefan had mention. I should introduce myself--I apologize for my poor manners--"

"Oh, Cole, she knows ya. Almost the whole building knows the badge number and name right from the tip of their tongue."

"And I guess a famous detective does that to police station," you stepped in and half recover on your daze stare on Phelps.

You hold out your hand with soft cough to clear the nerves, stating your name for a start. Phelps smile a little more friendly and shook your hand with a nice grip. The nice photographs of him on newspaper and drafts of files couldn't even recreate how he looked in front of you, enough to feel your chest to fasten and your eyes to linger.

"She's got a clear and organize way of reporting on files, as well storing them in case we need to do cross check for any similarities from past cases," Bekowsky sipped in his mug and busied himself in the break room.

Phelps had gaze at you and often would periodically dart for any movement, or what you somewhat thought could be the reason for the stare he had on you.

"That would smooth out a lot of the hard ends we keep missing for paper work, and it would be greatly appreciated to have your work on our files," Phelps remarked, "but I don't want to load it on you, knowing how most officers can rely a lot of their work mostly from you."

"Hasn't really stopped me before, Detective," You answered honestly. "Besides, you two did do a couple mistakes on the last case—for the lady's steal on the car."

"Really?" Phelps raise both his eyebrow.

"I believe Bekowsky can be a little less formal when it comes to criminals and final statements."

You half glance at the man near the coffee, with Phelps following your gaze. Bekowsky shrugged.

"The lady gave much more of a hard time for me and Cole. Besides a few words won't paint of how mouthy she was."

"What did you say?"

"Oh nothing bad, Phelps. Just--give the lady a chance," Bekowsky looks half past you and nodded. "She might be good recruiter."

"She already works here. Shes already the most qualified."

The statement was nothing but the truth and you had enough self confidence to know you can handle the work, but the firm words coming out of Phelps might've did a soft hurdle in your stomach.

"Phelps! Bekowsky!" Captain Leary enter in, barking for his detectives. "Doyle is waiting for you in the morgue with the body. Seems you two might have the murder of the week."

"Murder?" The two men utter out.

By then, Bekowsky down the whole mug as fast he could and ran out the nearest exit of the building for the car. Phelps seems prepared to leave (half forgotten of his cup of coffee), before falling a glance back to you. He made small salute and soft smile.

"See you soon with a report."

With a tip of his fedora, he follow Stefan soon out into late night streets--as you stood there not aware of what could come.

Stolen cars and addresses of suspects fall on your desk, with the casual accidental car crashes and filing any inaccuracies. Always catching Phelps out in doorway, and sending off any information that you caught from words and statements of patrol officers.

Detectives Phelps and Bekowsky work well enough to put in their reports, enough that Phelps had share his notes and evidence he collected through the case so it would be informative for the sealed report. It seem Phelps head was always on work and he constantly crack a case before it can even settle on file cabinet. Quick on his feet and badge to show he only ever meant business, however that never meant he was able to dodge the L.A. chaos.

His impressive record kept everyone on their toes and LAPD begin to promote Phelps in higher lengths, soon on the homicide desk and a partner carrying a silver flask. Even through the changes and constant murderers, he return back to you with the cases and had believed of the work being safely stored.

A particular early morning that return in your memory, that had cause Phelps and Galloway nearly slip in with wet dress shoes inside of the station. A handcuffed man being pulled by the arm from Rusty and looks tempted to throw a punch. The man squirm all around and cursing out loud to both of the men.

"Get your pig hands off me, I'm not the one who killed her!"

A couple turns of heads were listening on to the commotion, just as yours peeked in with your own wet pair of heels and soaked umbrella. Phelps sees you just as you enter and you weren't sure if it was you brain playing tricks, or his eyes stare at you with soft steadiness. He called out your name and approach quick.

"I need your help, a cross check with the case we have and another we did last week."

"Last week?"

"Right, it was the body we had found in Broadway Hollywood. Lady in her mid twenties and was a blonde--"

"And had that strange boyfriend that was our possible murderer to the case?" You finished off his sentence and Phelps nodded profusely.

"Yes, yes that exact one, but we might've found another man who could possibly link back to other case through the same manner of killing and related suspects"

You blinked about to respond but Rusty had thrown the arrested man to an officer, ordered to put him in interrogation room. "We don't know for sure, Phelps. For all we know this man could've been just as insane as the last boyfriend. All men unaware how to use their violent war nature on poor women getting the life time of mistreatment."

"It wouldn't hurt to try, or least cross any kind of possibilities to go further on your investigation," you explained.

"And that's why you're the clerk for a reason."

"Detective Galloway," Phelps push in and nearly glare at Rusty. "If there is chance to clear out any possibilities—it is our responsibility. Just as hers."

"Oh come on--"

"Take care of the man, Rusty," stated Phelps firmly.

You blinked how quick Phelps took the time to defend you but you hanged away the umbrella near the entry and signal Phelps. "This way!"

Phelps follows you through quick, leaving disgruntle Rusty on his own. Phelps was steps behind your wet footsteps on the fresh clean station floors, and soon to the downstairs basement of quiet offices and file cabinets. You went to a locked door and kicked around a plant vase with the hidden key underneath.

The door was unlocked and creak open to a thousand more file cabinets store away in the dark. Phelps switch the lights on and observe the packed room.

"Too much crime for the City of Angels."

"Too much webs and dust in this place," You added.

Phelps begin to walk through the isles and took the lead of searching for the name, finally found with the letter and initials. Phelps stare half confused inside the cabinet and you subtly reach close to him beside, flickering through.

"It's right here," the file came out smoothly and Phelps opened it, reading the content inside as fast as possible.

His hand fumble around his suit pocket and he took out brochure pin. You knitted your eyebrows but he held the brochure to you and a photo tucked inside the file: the victim wearing the same kind.

Your eyes widen meeting his, and he nodded now—determined and almost hint of excitement.

"I thought the station didn't want to push it."

"It seems to me we should've," Phelps push the sliding cabinet away and genuinely smile to you. "I owe you this one. I know any officer and clerk would've miss this one."

You nearly smirk. "Go off and solve the case, detective. Your compliments are filled to the brim."

Phelps smile a little wider, noticing the tilt of your lips and looks at you once more before running off upstairs to throw the man into prison for life.

The slight boredom you had previously with the other officers was gone and your head was already on work before you set anywhere near from it. Now daze on what new findings you search for and tad pieces that work of Phelps.

The priority subtly move without you consciously doing so, and you only realize once you look at your desk of the awful sight of papers piled in.

"You gotta be kidding me," you mumble under your breath.

"Is everything alright sweetheart?" Linda asked quietly, beside your desk on her separate typewriter and stacked of reports.

"Yeah, I just assume the files would be less for the ugly weather today."

"You begin to wish so but even the weather can do so much dearie," She stopped her typing and glance, "you would like some help? I don't have a lot of work on my own."

"No, no, you're alright Linda. Just--let me get settle in, with coffee at least--"

Your named was called out and by then another drop of file hit your desk by the patrol, yet they pass by without saying a word to your face. The two were speaking over plans of near bar.

"Excuse me, you know can bring the file at least to my hand instead of throwing to my desk like a fetching dog."

The officers turn around mid halfway of their laughing and raise an eyebrow, almost tick off a woman had called them out.

"It's no biggie, you always finish them right up in few minutes. Always have something to complain don't ya?"

Your face almost turns. "Complain?" You repeated.

The men in blue police uniforms nearly snicker and begin to chuckle out of some sick amusement.

"Oh come on, don't give your pretty face some wrinkles, you wouldn't like looking like miss Linda here."

They cackled once more and shove each other as they left. The door closed and the background noise clear up the stank of their voices. You glance back to Linda on her desk, only lowering her head and typing away.

"Linda, ignore those two bit men--"

"I'm not in the mood and you should listen to them too," her chair scrape the floor and she stood up, with a frown. "Do your work."

She walked out and by then you slowly slumped on your chair; rubbing the negativity on all the papers stacked.

The day stretch out and the place was emptying out, with only a couple night dispatchers working on the landlines. The lamp was warmly lit on your desk, that casted shadows across the large room of empty desks.

You huffed out a breath on the open tan file and the doors somewhere in the back open. Your instincts flare and you straightened up from the chair of nearing exhaustion. You were glued to the seat but slowly reach out for the drawer, hoping any of the officers lack of securing weapons.

A figure appeared walking and through the dim light of passing windows, you catch the face of Phelps.

"Detective?" Your voice carried through the room and soon he turned, surprised he sees you in this hour.

Phelps walked in further and soon his face falls under the warm light, his eyes catching the exhaustion warning on your face and the leftover work spilled on your desk.

"Aren't you supposed to be out? Or at least home?" Phelps looks up at the clock above placed on the wall. "It's Friday night and someone such as you shouldn't even be working at all."

"I guess the night is young enough for making up work of incompetent police officers."

The words slipped out before keeping them to your thoughts and the regret face planted onto you. Yet, Phelps slightly grin, the kind that seems apologetic but also good nature.

"Seems they did catch you at the right time, and unfortunately I seem to do as well."

Phelps slipped out a file of case report; one that he most likely had cracked and solved tonight. You took the file off his hand: just as your hand grazes his.

"Solve another one. Quite on a roll," You smile tiredly.

"Just doing my job. Gotta keep L.A. safe one way or another."

"Well, that in itself has to be done through miracle worker, but knowing you I might as well think you are one."

Phelps fixed his fedora and contain a prideful smile but his contemporary humbleness drew him back. "I ensure you, that I'm no angel of some sorts, only help the city as best as I could."

"You came all this way to return the report?" You asked, taking a glance at the window. Dotted city lights and dark sky above, all vehicles speeding for whatever kind of luck.

"Really didn't mind coming back here. The place is always empty with night dispatchers and all, as well avoiding drunk officers."

"Drunk officers?"

Phelps took a seat near your desk and peek at the cases on your desk. "Rusty was supposed to be with me but he was caught up with other detectives and officers that were thirsty after a days of work."

"Funny, a couple patrol officers had dropped a file on me to escape for some drinks."

"Sounds like it could be them knowing their behavior," Phelps tilted his head and skim through papers. "A robbery on wedding store?"

"Yeah, they had to stop this mother and daughter. They cause quite the wreckage," You commented, now leaning back in comfort of your chair and Phelps near by.

"For a wedding dress? Isn't that exaggerating a bit?"

"Not if the dress is made out diamonds. Apparently the daughter was caught in affair and her fiance was attempting to gain back his financial spends, that meant also the arrangements of the weddings, and I believe that didn't sat too well on the lady."

"And the mother came in to support her?"

"More or less. The mother seem too old to even know how to drive a car, even less to be a getaway driver."

Phelps couldn't help but chuckle and flipped over the pages, clipped with photos of wrecked wedding store and car hitting a street traffic light, as well the droopy mugshots both the mother and daughter.

"Wouldn't had mind for this to be my case."

"Yeah, the case of wedding dress snatchers does smell like Detective Cole Phelps scent signature on it."

Your eyes are drawn to his hands spread out and his movements assess his kind of ease. His fingers folding halfway the corners of pages and his eyes skimming through words in silence. A glint of light appeared below the lamp of yours—you caught a band on his ring finger. There was a pause to your breathing.

"Wedding dress snatchers sounds more appealing than pestering car snatchers trying to convince you of doing no wrong," Phelps replied calmly, closing the file and seeing the couple left of reports for you to overlook. "How much to go through?"

His question retrieve you from the agonizing pause you got hit. A couple words were stammered and you shook your head. "I--well, I got--a little bit more to go through. Maybe two or three at least."

The stammering was caught through but Phelps didn't push and merely thought it was your exhaustion kicking you through now.

"Would you like some help?"

The offer was tempting and sweet, and a small part of you did want to accept it but you shook your head.

"No, you don't really need too. Got enough work under you badge, and besides I'll just do them tomorrow," you picked up the papers to be neatly tucked away. "I got it under my control."

You shuffled around: putting away bleeding ink pens and wasted paper off to the trash can. Phelps follows your movements and stands up, swallowing dry in his throat.

"Not even one? It's no sort of problem."

The rustle of paper stopped. You nearly scoffed—your eyes settling on him.

"Why are you always so nice? Usually the cops don't paid no time on me?"

The question seem accusatory more than it should be and even Phelps seem to not expect of what could be hostility in your tone. And somehow Phelps didn't see it as manner of rudeness.

It was silent longer than it should be and he recognize through your face you wouldn't do anything until he spoke.

Phelps takes a second longer of his gaze on you, moving around and clearing his throat to think.

"I suppose I'm not just any cop--a detective for the matter," He insisted. "And any detective would know a look of help from someone who's too scared to ask, and I want to help. No games or schemes to win for my pride, just…here."

The hands of yours gently pressed on the wooden chips of the desk. The defense slipped off like an ice sheet melting.

Phelps nervously twitch with his hands. "I--I'm sorry I didn't--"

"No," you quickly said and shook your head, the corners of your eyes being soften. "I shouldn't have spoken that way to you. I'm sorry. Just so much time is spent here you expect the worst kind to be hit with."

Phelps stood there and lower his head, his fedora covering his eyes before raising once more.

"If it makes you feel better, most of those men don't even know what they're doing half the time. Drinking and staying at bar for hours? Sounds like lost men to me."

There was gentle shake to your head but a quipped grin. He notice and carefully smile back through dim light.

The feeling repeating even once he left that night from the station, a soft goodbye and polite salute. And only for it to repeat again on your own.

The homicide desk couldn't hold no weight of Detective Phelps, or at least there was something going on more than you were let on. He was reassigned to the vice desk and you were told by Rusty, who only wander the hallway with his new partner being Bekowsky.

"Now, it isn't our famous clerk?" Rusty was the first to see you and Bekowsky smile at you once you came into his view.

"Now that's duo I wouldn't half expect."

"Two partners left by Cole, that's who we are," Rusty grumble.

"Oh, don't tell me you actually felt sentimental after him leaving ya," you tease the old man and he swats your arm lightly.

"Best not to believe it," Bekowsky said. "Might mean he might leave you as well to us."

New station, new people, and new clerks were now in his freshly famous promoted life. It didn't really hit you until Bekowsky mention.

"That's work, I suppose," you shrugged and walked along with them, a face that had withdrew away for half a second.

Rusty tilt his head to you and deducted your face. "Might do us much better. Don't put all your morale on him, kid."

Your eyebrows furrowed at his statement and you hadn't stopped thinking what he could've meant by that.

Even here on the table of yours inside the jazz club. Spent out through your threads and hands that ache of soreness of slow typing; to replace a nice cold glass in your hands. Yet not enough to rub away the familiarly of all the men in here.

The band had finished a song and couple of people had clapped, and you mindlessly did the same while you were still in your thoughts. The smoke of cigars seem to cloud your vision and mind.

"Miss, would you like a refill on that?

A waiter had appeared and you nodded back with tilt of your chin. By now he left with the same order you took, and you heard another song starting with the piano. Your legs shifted and you had forgotten the newspaper pushed under them.

The newspaper was slipped out carefully by your hand and you smooth out the wrinkles on it, eyes drawn to the tabloid on the front newspaper.

LAPD DETECTIVE CAUGHT HAVING A LOVE AFFAIR WITH JAZZ SINGER ELSA LICHTMANN.

The news spread quick. The suspension and demotion barely took place last night, and now the rest of the city had knew the tight knit secret of Phelps.

You hadn't seen Rusty or Stefan. You had wonder if they had heard as well. Most likely, but if anything the two were quiet for the better. And you felt obligated to do so, but the man that had saw your potential and keep you company of long nights on your desk, the kind of man who defended you with this confine trust with no verbal restraint—was somehow the same man who took the bruise and fallen for someone.

The door gently open and a dark figure through the smoke had crossed the club. Your head was stuffed in the newspaper and a hand planted above the glass cup. The music swelled all around you and people were entering and leaving, just as waiters were taking checks or ringing them.

You folded up the newspaper and lean back in the booth of yours. The figure already pass the booth, sitting at a table in the corner. A couple of men at the bar raise their heads and seem to whisper to take a look beside you.

The waiter came by again and placed a fresh new drink. Just as the welcome man in corner of his table raise his head and peek behind the brim of his fedora, eyes recognizing you.

The same waiter that had attended you had now walk up to the corner table.

"Anything you would like sir?"

You were thoroughly done with your glass as you down it. The ice rattle inside of it and you were preparing the leave; standing up from the booth, setting down the money on table, and face away from the photograph on the newspaper looming on the booth seat.

Two men begin to bicker loudly on the bar and one even left in rush, fuming out of his ears and bumping into you. You manage to get out of the way and stumble back, observing the men cursing out at each other but the odd silence from the table in the corner had caught you. The plains of your shoulder tense.

Phelps sat there on the crooked stain table, the one that's barely clean or acknowledged in the establishment. A distance away from the table, the other wall had the only light to see him and his face, as the maroon wallpaper had edges peeling.

Phelps stare at the glass in front of him, and eventually, glance with no thinking—finding you there staring at him.

He didn't look away as you would expected and continue to stare as he pushing himself away to the corner to not be noticed.

Your hand curled up beside you. An empty seat in front him: a quiet and fear invitation.

Your feet had a mind of their own—you walked.

The both of you were seated there. Waiters pass by with trays and cleaning off near empty booths, and the both of you stick to your eyes on the glasses in front of you: enough for you to engulf the tension Phelps carried.

You make up the courage to glance at the view of him. Phelps was sluggish against the chair and almost his whole weight being carried by the wall behind his chair. Usually he would taken off his fedora, but tonight in public club such as this, he stuck to it and covered his eyes. Squared in his shoulders and his fingers running against the glass cup's design.

You observe for a silent moment.

"How much have you drink?"

His fingers stopped a second, before meeting your gaze. "One glass."

"Not so much of drinker?"

"I suppose not," Phelps looked at the other wall beside the table and let out gruff sigh. "I hope I would've been tonight."

"Can't push your luck on alcohol, only turns you sore loser on wasted drinks."

"And I'm already halfway on the mark," he pick up the glass and took a sip, a brief glance of his face under that croon in saddened wrinkles.

You didn't reply or deny it. You watch him take the sip and lower his head, wiping his mouth from the back of his palm and laid his hands down the table.

The silence perch in.

"Where now?"

"Where what?"

"Unit, Phelps. Which unit now?"

"…Arson."

"Arson?"

He nodded and continue, "They didn't want to fully push me out. I was suprised they didn't but I assume my past records hold enough significant weight for me to stay."

"But, Arson is the lowest rank."

"The lowest rank for me to fit in."

"…Fire burns quick. You won't find any murders or criminal activity that is present. It be all ashes by the time you get there."

"Might ease my mind. Might give me a rest," Phelps said quietly.

"You want that?"

"I don't have a choice here," Phelps firmly states, his body rigid of leftover of stress and anger.

"No, you did, but you decided to sleep with another and throw your career on the stake."

That instantly made him shut up. It seem what you had said in front of his face, with the affirming voice he remembers of yours—it made him sink in his loathing.

He stares at you, almost unblinking. As if he remember you and the desk of files as he always found you beforehand. And you did the same, for the jazz singer in the back to sing a lullaby to comfort him in his falling.

Even you, as well.

You suck up some shaky inahle and vision fogging in warm tears held in your eyes.

"Jesus, Cole," you lightly shook your head at him. "Just—why?"

He only kept staring at you with no response. You looked away, ashamed and almost regretful of the tears you were about to shed.

You closed your eyes to keep the composure.

A chair spine creak snd you felt the table shift from absent weight of arm.

Only to feel a hand nervously being gentle as to reach for yours, fingers brushing and soon loosely holding the shaky hand of yours.

You blinked open your eyes with tears falling off from the brim, but you had looked back--finding him tilt in his fedora and holding your hand with the same shakiness.

Cole raise his head and found your gaze in the same state as his—tears he hadn't wish they fall right when you were in front of him.

Your cheeks became damp and soon Cole lean in, as he brushed your hand once more.

In the back of club, where everything is nearly dark and have reason to hide, he found himself pressing his lips inside of your palm and the back of it.

Ralph

Third youngest out of a total of 6, with Ralph being one of four boys. There's an even two year gap between each of them.

Father is firm, but fair. Mother is a free spirit who never lost her show stopping confidence and her flapper days.

Birthdays and especially sacred. Like, I'm talking all-hands-on-deck to make sure the guest of honor has a special day.

But a few days before it's their Mother's turn in the spotlight, a distant relative from Pasadena passes suddenly, which puts the actual funeral on the morning of her birthday. Thankfully, the kids are permitted to stay home.

12 year old Ralph thinks it's honestly bullshit to have to go to a funeral on your birthday, so he shoves one of the dining room chairs into the kitchen to try and take the helm himself. Cake can't be that hard to make, right?

Narrator Voice: It was, in fact, much harder.

Thankfully, 16 year old Agatha Dunn gets home from her part-time job just in time to prevent a flour and vegetable shortening coated Ralph from burning the entire house down.

"Jesus, Ralph. Mom's already got one funeral to deal with, don't make her have a second one!"

The kitchen ends up getting an emergency deep clean to hide the evidence, which, ironically becomes an even better present for Mom to come home to.

In an ironic twist, Ralph now has quite the nose for household cleaners and can pick up even the smallest whiff when he's tasked to secure crime scenes.

Stefan

Despite the stereotype of the large, Polish Catholic family, Stefan grew up an only child. But he wasn't necessarily his parent's only child.

Before immigrating to the States, Inga and Karl Bekowsky had two other children, both of whom tragically passed away before they reached the age of 5 due to scarlet fever.

This made Stefan basically the 'miracle child', which made Inga *very* protective of him.

"Stupid tie..." A 12 year old Stefan huffed, trying to loosen the brand new neck-tie his mother had knotted around him for Easter mass. He had gotten permission to walk over to the Dabrowski's house to give his classmate Gabe the catcher's mitt he'd borrowed over the weekend, only to find Gabe getting pummeled into the dirt by a trio of 7th graders in the empty lot near the playground.

"Hey!" He reached for the nearest hunk of gravel before whipping it squarely at one of their backs. "Get the fuck off of 'em!"

Poor Inga almost faints on the spot when Stefan returns home with a bloody nose and dirt all over his church clothes.

["What on earth happened?!"]

Stefan tries to walk past her, only for her to hold steadfast onto his shoulder. She lets go as soon as she sees him wince.

"...Gabe and me climbed a tree and fell into some mud." Stefan muttered, keeping his eyesight scarce.

"Mud?" She balks. "Stefan, it has not rained for weeks! Where would you have found such a thing?"

"Stefan." Karl kneels down to his level, holding out a damp washcloth. He hesitates a moment before taking it, his small fist curling around it.

"...Gabe can't stick up for himself 'cuz he's smaller than everybody else. I was just trying to get them to leave him alone."

Surprisingly, Inga doesn't cry. Instead she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, in and out. When she opens them again, she cups his cheek and wipes away a bit of dirt with her thumb.

"My boy does not need his Mother's arms to prop him up if he has a strong pair of his own to carry him, then." She smiles softly.

["But you did win, didn't you, son?"] Karl whispers with a wink.

Stefan gets a bit more freedom from then onward. So long as he promises to at least try and keep his church clothes clean.

Rusty

Finbarr was very much an accident child. By the time he was in elementary school, his two older brothers were already married and out of the house.

His father was a dockworker, mother was a seamstress. After a debilitating knee injury, Mr. Galloway took to the bottle. Mrs. Galloway began taking overnight shifts in order to keep the household afloat, which often left Rusty alone to his own devices.

He often played hooky, getting into smaller skirmishes with other gangs of neighborhood boys after the sun went down. Rusty had a reputation of having a mean right hook, which earned him quite a few admirers. And rivals. Mostly rivals.

There was always a sense of tense awkwardness when he would see them in the pews the following morning at mass while he was an altar boy.

Although his rough and tumble reputation did end up netting him his first girlfriend in junior high.

Roy

Similar to Rusty, Roy's father was fond of the bottle. His mother was fond of gambling. Neither of them were fond of each other.

Not that Roy was a perfectly behaved child, either. Being a textbook latchkey kid likely didn't help.

While most families decorated their walls with family photos, Roy's childhood home was pocked with holes in the drywall.

By the time he was 11, Roy was basically used to the rotating cast of 'friends' that would be hanging around the house while the other parent was out.

In fact, every new bottle of high end perfume or gilded compact of face powder that ended up on his mother's dresser would often spur some kind of fight, as would the faded lipstick stains on his father's dress shirts.

Roy ended up becoming a bit of a crack shot with a slingshot that summer. Whenever the shouting and door slamming got to be too much of a headache, he's fish out a few of his old man's empty pilsners from the garbage and use them for target practice behind the garden shed.

Once you get into a rhythm, you didn't have to think much.

By early fall, the fights started growing more volatile, often with his mother storming off into the night and not coming back until the next morning.

While his pride wouldn't let him ever say it out loud, sometimes Roy wished she'd take him with her.

One day, after an especially vicious bout the night before, Roy decides to take the long route home from school.

To his surprise, the front door was already unlocked. Usually neither of them would be home until after dark.

The first thing he notices is that the drawers and cabinets are open and emptied. Roy gets a sinking feeling in his chest that they've been robbed, until he see that the tin coffee canister where all of the spare change gets tossed is untouched.

No. No way.

She couldn't have been serious. His mother was vain, and short tempered, and called him a brat more than his first name, but she always came back.

He runs down the hall to the master bedroom.

There's nothing but empty drawers.

In fact, the only thing left on the dresser is a single bottle of perfume, with barely more than three drops left in the vial.

As he silently sets it up behind the garden shed, he realizes that it's his most challenging target yet.

But not for the reasons you might think.

He pulls back the drawstring.

Once you got into a rhythm, you didn't have to think much.

Herschel

Biggs was one of the oldest boys out of his rather large pack of siblings, but was outnumbered by sisters.

Their own father was rarely home, working overnight in the rail yards. Their mother was chronically ill and often bedridden.

With so many mouths to feed, Herschel dropped out of school roughly around the 8th grade in order to help support the family.

Herschel was always a bit of a shyer, soft spoken child, but was often far more responsible and mature for his age. Especially when it came to taking care of his much younger siblings.

He was the voice of reason, a mediator when it came to squabbles, and a gentle helping hand whenever anyone got nicked by scrapes or bruises.

In a way, Herschel became a secondary father figure.

But that often left little time for *him* to play and act like a real child, making quiet moments where he could be the one to decide for himself an uncommon treasure.

One of his favorite pastimes, when he could find the time, was to try and check in on all of the strays in the neighborhood, feeding them scraps when he had some to spare.

While he didn't mind dogs, for whatever reason Herschel seemed to resonate with cats a bit more.

Calico, black, ginger, tabby, didn't matter what kind of cat or its personality, every one of them was his favorite.

According to one of his older sisters (who secretly followed him to see just where exactly Herschel was wandering off to) he often talked to the cats in the same way he did for his younger siblings when tearing up food scraps: