𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 / 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑

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

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

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

--

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

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

Nothing was ever easy with cops. They always seemed to have another motive up their sleeves, and right now, he wasn’t an exception to the rule. “So you’re sayin’ I gotta snitch?” He knew better than that, “Look, I dunno what you heard but I ain’t doin’ shit. I’m just a mechanic.” He knew that was a lie, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t have Barnett sniffing around. “If that’s the only reason why you came to me, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.” 

Azul crossed one ankle over another, her face steeling as he spoke, in attempt to prevent any reaction to his words in the event that she did know something.  “Well, you know me, Cap.  I’m an open book.” A stone cold grin crossed her face as she reached over for their intake binder–one that the most intense cases never made it into.  “You can glance through here, there’s polaroids in there, that might help.  I keep’em in case we land in court.”  She slid the binder over to him, her eyes combing over his face.  “I’d be happy to let Detective Toussard glance through the dorms, too, but I can’t allow a man into their safe space in good conscience.”  

--

eyes drop to body language ,     the equivalence of a closed off blockade     now in his line of gaze ,     before they’re quickly prompted     to flick back up .     although skeptical ,     a matter of trust broken from bias coats over her every word ,     despite how much it desires to not .     when he nods ,     he smiles     faintly ,     like a wince on the face     that barely has the capability     to build muscle in that place .     and for that ,     it fades     as soon as it surfaced ,     like a ghost ,     focused on otherworldly things ,     like a reckoning ,     or the verdict behind the trajectory     of someone’s purgatory .     when he takes the binder ,     he figures what lies in there will build the path to such answers     --     hopefully .     “ thank you ,  miss , ”  he murmurs ,     taking a short glance ,     flipping a random page ,     until another thought emerges .     “ this the only binder you have ? ”     merely curious .     “ we’ve gotten more than one case     like this     in the past month     and     --     lots of cases like these tend to go through the system .     you’d be doin’ us a favor if i could just get an overview of your records . ”

the voice comes through to her like an echo — dulled by invisible cotton, half filtered. it loses itself, it turns into another’s voice. she remembers henry valentine, standing outside the school gates in second grade, so bitter at the thought of having to pick his daughter from school. is it the same memory? is she in trouble? she turns, catches barely a glimpse of the captain as he walks in. in a way, this feels expected: this feeling that’s been crawling along her skin, like dizzy ants, misplaced insects — this must have to do with all the buzzing. her panic is gentle, the fluttering of butterfly’s wings not in the stomach, like lovers’ would, but up above, where the blood is supposed to run and prompt oxygen around, flow symmetrically in gentle spirals, and hers instead is spiking, cuts itself off in floods and sudden downpours, and it’s never constant, and it’s a bit like drowning. 

treading water is self-taught: either way she has no excuse. stares at the cigarette between her fingers instead, finds a strange kind of resemblance with it: when it falls to the ground, mercilessly stomped upon by the heel of her foot, she finds herself thinking of voodoo. could she stomp herself out, too — stop the crawling over her skin? inside, she keeps her distance from his seat. two safe steps away, the tray in her hands resting against her thighs, like perhaps a shield. she doesn’t know why he should need her presence, of all — can’t imagine he’s looking for some ink, anyway. the meek, self-canceling attitude is set aside in favor of a safety mechanism: an eyebrow perked, she’s warily curious. “how can i help you, captain?”. it lacks the chirp in her voice, the silvery note of a sing-song quality. it’s just spiky. “— hardly looks like a good setting for an interrogation”.

--

even inside ,     his eyes resemble a hawk’s ,     in which pupils ,  tunneling surroundings ,     watches her carefully     from where he poses himself     to where she poses to be ,     him resting comfortably against booth ,     two seats down from the door ,    with hands busy     --     for more or less no reason besides the swivel of his wrist watch ,     the habitual twirl of a weighty ring finger against index and thumb ,     a menu     --     absentmindedly welcomed when it’s handed to him by hostess ,     which forces reason to spare a glance ,     a polite nod ,  nearly missed ,     but not dismissed upon his focus .     even then ,     he hardly seeks a picture ,     barely skims a line ,    not until he’s sure of the blonde’s whereabouts ,     certain that they’ll be heading one way     instead of the other ,     for she has every right to walk off .     it’s not like he’s going to arrest her ,     or rather can ,     for that matter . 

it’s not like he has the right to interrogate her either .     in fact ,  the word     bites into him like a tooth     or a fang     when she jokes ,     provoking him to look back up ,     acknowledge her presence as if it’s for the first time .     “ --  let this be on the record    --     this isn’t an interrogation . ”     perhaps others would defiantly disagree .     yet ,     he’s technically on break now ,  isn’t he ?     “ just a talk  ...  ”     eyes soft ,  he doesn’t let the inflection of his voice run authoritative     just when it nearly does .     puts his hand out briefly ,     gestures the seat across from him      as more of an offer than a demand ,     a choice she’s entitled to ,     agree or disagree to .     “ i don’t want you to feel uncomfortable .     i’m more interested in your workplace than i am with you . ”

“aw, look at you. all anxious like a lil’ kid”. the performance comes with its baggage of theatricalities: the vague pout curling her lips, head tilted in curious, yet somehow appreciative interest. she’s made a home out of this formation of a fracture they call a town — in her movie, each character is essential, a fundamental tarot card to stack the deck of her own personal pantheon. cue the captain, and he is the law — the belief that there is a higher power, in a way, something that means good can still, on rare occurrences, win. at night, sometimes, when the thought of jake being out in the field keeps pumping blood in her chest — heart attack in slow motion — the thought of marr watching over his detectives calmes her nerves. if this all was a movie, she thinks, he’d be the one striving ‘til the very last second to return evil to its hole in the ground. if evil can even stay put, to begin with. still she knows heroes need their fuel too, or off-script moments to unwind — or talk it out, air their demons out so they will stop rattling inside their skull — she turns to the liquor shelf, aims for a bottle, then stops midway and turns again, eyebrow perked in an inquisitive look: “— the usual?”

--

slack mouth is overcome     by a sneaking simper ,     and it curls mischievously     in the corner of his mouth ,     consciously relinquishing awareness to the swiftness in his step ,     the light skip among his heel     that charges him into the swivel of a stool ,     as if he’s been waiting to sit on one all day .     and perhaps he has ,     on this particular one ,     on this particular day ,     with phone calls ,  and reports ,     opinions and complaints ,     running hot and novice     as they breathe ignorantly down his neck .     he practically lives back in that office and ,     for that ,     it feels like any other home ,     where residing within those walls     for far too long is bound to make one reach a break     or a boiling point .     and so why should he feel guilt     for managing to escape from a slowly festering hell ?     to spare his life with some virtues     rather than to let the several vices of the world     consume him whole .     as his elbows rest against the bar ,     he nods in response ,     mentally stooping down to pleasantries ,     mimicking that look on her face ,     as if expressions are shares     and they have a way of being co - owned     among one another .     “ 'ay ,  make sure you grab another glass .     i don’t wanna drink alone . ”     it wouldn’t be a thursday night if he did so . 

“You’re right about that one, champ. I’m practically a king on the inside, aren’t I?” Not that he expected the good captain to know the social status he held every time he’d gone to jail. Then again, word does travel and he wouldn’t put it past him. In another world, they might be old friends and share a drink, with words of comfort or encouragement. Whatever it was normal people talked about on a day to day basis. Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending how you looked at it - they were on opposite sides of the spectrum when it came to a moral compass and the law. The likelihood of them seeing eye to eye on anything was slim to none, yet there they were, at the same bar having a drink. Amusing doesn’t even begin to cover the scenario.

The murders didn’t scare Axel, but it was something that stayed at the back of his mind. They were stirring the pot for Valencia, which meant he was involved whether he wanted to be or not. It also made it harder to run a business if no one wanted to go out at night or come to buy their products. “I’m plenty protected out here, not many want to cross my path anymore.” Axel thanked the bartender and dropped a bill on the table from his money clip. “What about you and yours? You all got the buddy system? Holding hands while you patrol around the city tryin’ to catch all of us dangerous criminals.” He smirked and raised the glass to his lips to take a sip. For a moment, he closed his eyes and savored the taste on his tongue. It had been a long day and he’d waited for the sweet taste that graced his mouth then.

--

consideration ,     then quick ,  lifeless huff ;     he supposes one could say such a thing .     but agreement doesn’t notify     the other in     confidence ,     instead is carried light     in mere subtleties ,     the drink in his hand ,     as he lifts from the bar     and takes a swig ,     ice shifting against lolls ,     brows quirking in surprise     when he finds himself     silently     concurring  ...     perhaps the inside is simply where axel belongs ,     as the cement of four walls     lure malices back into its hold ,     like maternal arms ,     under the care of a couple dozen guards     that could guarantee no harm     ( so long as they don’t fuss ) .     he then considers this ,     and how nice it would be     for pettiness of people like he     to be tossed ,     key turned ninety degrees     and thrown in discard ,     just for the sake     of a virtuous man’s own sanity  ... 

then ,     looks at him ,     upon next stream of consciousness ,     as if he could ever be interested     in what the other has to say ,     realizing such simplicities could never be for unreasonable cause     --     surely ,   not for talking too much .     

plainly ,     he hums ,     as flat as the lids drooping halfway down his eyes ,     a continuance of playing pretend ,     and a bad attempt .     just as he responds ,     his drink ,     still in the embrace of his palm ,     begins to wander back     to where all the toxins belong     --     on the inside .     “ well ,     i wouldn’t say we take practice in the technique of holdin’ hands     --     maybe clingin’ arms .     s’more efficent that way . ”     blatant sarcasm ,     upon deadpan front ,     succeeding in another swig ,     just as the glimmer in his eyes glance away ,     and he reflects ,     anything to make the next few minutes breeze on by . 

Justin perked up when he offered some sort of deal, if he was even understanding him correctly. Most of the time shit went in one ear and right out the other for him, “So you’d help me then?” That could work towards his advantage, honestly. “Like lets say, someone says I did some petty theft or y’know, wacked someone in the head. I could just go to you and you’ll make sure I’m not involved?”

“ safe to say i don’t trust a lot of people . ”     but in regard to trustees ,     he’ll mull  ...     for more than a moment  ...     perhaps the question itself is sensitive .     “ wouldn’t say i have lots of secrets to begin with .     i’m not an open book ,  but     --      what is there to hide ,  really ? ”     but of course ,     he won’t let himself be suspected of a lie .     “ guess first person that comes to mind is     -- ”     he stops ,     suddenly wondering the fragility of his answer ,     what this information could lead to .     “ --   well ,     how about i narrow it down ?     it’s definitely not a therapist . ”

what would completely break your character ? 

naturally ,  the death of a close friend.      when you’re out risking your life every day ,     the unpredictability     of loss     just kind of makes you desensitized ,     and funerals     --     going about them almost becomes like second nature .     yet ,  marr wouldn’t know what to do if he lost someone     he could’ve saved ,     let alone someone he had just seen the other day ,     or yesterday ,     an hour ago ,     having a conversation with them ,     sharing a joke ,     exchanging a smile     and growing convinced that the grim side of the world     could never drag that person down into the dirt     with the rest ,    just for a mere second . 

what is your favorite food ?

most likely ,     an inferior fucking up .     big time .     or even worse :  his entire task force fucking up ,     because police officers are only police officers for a reason    and they have room to still make mistakes .     it’ll never be anything personal ,  but rather always work - related .

but even then ,     he doesn’t go about such kinds of things     by yelling     and screaming     in their face .  no ,  marr doesn’t mind being dramatic ,     but so long as it’s in a way     where the message is sent and actually received     ( ie .  putting them in their place ,  embarrassing them in front of everyone else ,  real tough love shit ) . 

marr