i know this hurts, it was meant to

Jon thinks back to those words now — how casual they’d sounded, but how absurd they’d felt to him then. The boy standing in front of him that first time his dad had taken him on a mission alongside the Batman had been only a year or two older than him. Torture had seemed like such a strong word, so out of place for a guy barely an inch taller than him.

So he’d dismissed it, chalking it up to the kind of random insane things his now (friendlier?) acquaintance said just to get a rise out of him — or to creep his dad out.

But now he realizes just how wrong he was, and wonders — in the same breath — how many of those insane things were actually true, had actually happened. Because the back of the other boy looked like all of them might be the right answer.

He shivers at the thought.

-⟡⋆˙-⟡⋆˙-⟡⋆˙-⟡⋆˙-⟡⋆˙-

consider checking me out :)

He lived alone, in an isolated area, but nearby and for long enough that he was operating within familiar territory. Physically large. Not much social life to speak of. Demonstrated a strong distrust of law enforcement. Seemed to be perfectly capable of understanding right and wrong. Not much of a criminal record, but criminal records only proved what incidents had resulted in convictions. Not what events had actually taken place in a person's life.

The longer the DeNova case went on, the more Miller and the others became convinced that this was part of something bigger. Maybe a serial, maybe something organized. Whatever it was, it took knowledge and precision to snatch a well-loved, stable college student right off campus and not drop a trace of evidence for months. No strong physical evidence, no loose lips at a bar, and — thank God — no evidence of a body or remains.

So the team knew, both from experience and pure gut instinct, that finding this perpetrator didn't just mean finding Vienna DeNova — though that was, of course, at the top of all their minds, the ultimate goal and current focus. But what it also meant was digging up a trail. Other women. Probably bodies, but maybe not. Hopefully not.

But first they needed him to talk.

The man had been turned in by, of all people, a gas station clerk. Apparently their suspect was a frequent visitor and the clerk watched the news enough to recognize his face. When he'd come into buy some more beer, the clerk had gotten his name off his ID and called it in. Just like that.

That's what Miller loved about this job sometimes. You didn't need big bold heroes or dramatic takedowns. Just a neighbor looking out for their community.

So after months of work and wishing and grinding, their prime suspect sat in the interrogation room down the hall. A final puzzle to solve.

Once they'd figured out his real name, he hadn't been at all difficult to find. He lived in a rural community about thirty minutes out of town. State PD had showed up at his house and brought him in.

Now is when the countdown began. For 48 hours, they could hold a suspect without charging them with a crime — because, to be sure, though he seemed to fit like a glove, they didn't yet have any solid evidence that this man had committed any crime. Miller and the rest were prepping to talk to him and fill in the blanks. Number one, above all: figure out Vienna's whereabouts.

There was a restless energy to the room they gathered in, like they knew the information they needed was just a few steps away if they were able to reach out and grab it. The group was intentionally small: Grant and Miller as reps for the FBI, two reps from the state police, Herring as a witness so she could accurately convey information to the public and Vienna's parents, God willing.

And Carver. For Lakewood PD. But Miller registered him as more of an afterthought.

Carver was not late for once in his life, Miller noted. When Miller himself walked in, Carver was talking to Herring. Bold move. Miller supposed he was trying to act like the incident where she'd dressed him down a few weeks ago hadn't happened at all. Easiest way to keep an ego intact.

"This all works out, you won't even have your television show," he was saying to her. Almost like it was a disappointment.

The television show. Herring had arranged, along with Vienna's tireless parents, for the primetime show Disappearance Files to cover Vienna's case, get even more eyes on it. The filming was coming up soon. Maybe.

"I prefer not to speculate," Herring responded coolly. "Let's stay present and get what we need here."

She was right, of course. As she almost always was. Still, Miller allowed himself the smallest, most infinitesimal moment of imagining Zander's face when he told him. We found her. He'd finally get to tell Vienna herself that they hadn't stopped looking. Not for a second.

Then he pushed the thoughts away. It was nearly time.

There was a live video feed of their suspect sitting in the interrogation room, his large frame almost cartoonishly outsized for the tiny chair they'd provided. That was part of it, of course. Small metal chair. Lights unnecessarily bright. Heat cranked up. Let him be uncomfortable before the conversation even begins.

The plan was simple: send in one agent to rile the guy up, then swap him for someone much more sympathetic. It was very similar to the method they'd used with Lester and some of the others, but it was tried and true for a reason.

Miller was chosen to be the first guy up, the one to get under the suspect's skin. It was a no-brainer, really; from what they could see from what the analysts had dug up so far, the man was as racist as the day was long. Having to deal with a Black man acting as an authority figure, questioning him? Having congenial white faces replace him would be just the shot they needed to nudge him in the right direction.

Miller's job, then, was to treat their suspect with as much disrespect and belittlement as he could while still maintaining control of the conversation. Not exactly a tall order, Miller mused as he looked at the man on screen. Even if he could somehow ignore all the evidence they'd scrounged up that this guy was a racist, misogynistic bigot, this very well may have been the man who had caused so much pain for the community. For the DeNova's. Zander. The department itself, really.

It wouldn't take Oscar-winning acting, in short.

After a quick debrief, Miller went in. The heat hit like a brick wall, but he was ready for it. He intentionally didn't make eye contact with the suspect for a moment, leafing through the papers in the folder he carried like it was more important than the human sitting in front of him.

"Hello?" The man said irritably. Miller held up a finger and continued looking at the papers. He could see the man shift in his peripheral vision. Not someone who was used to being kept waiting, clearly.

Then he let the lavender folder slap down on the table with a THWACK noise. The man didn't jump. Just glowered.

"I'm Special Supervisory Agent Colton Miller," Miller told him, voice loud and clear. "And you're going to be talking with me today."

He could see the contempt in the man's eyes when he finally looked at him. The man spoke.

"I have nothing to say. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Then this should be easy. I have to say though, using an alias when applying for official jobs? Not something I see a lot of innocent men do."

The man rolled his eyes and said nothing.

"'Jon Smyth.'" Miller said it with a smirk. It really was ridiculous. "You really thought you were doing something with that spelling, huh?"

"Last I checked, privacy isn't against the law."

"No," Miller allowed, "but you were going a bit deeper than privacy here, weren't you? Completely unreachable. Even with your face plastered all over the state."

Miller let the silence stretch, but the man simply waited, looking at him impassively. Almost bored.

"Almost makes me think you were avoiding us."

"I prefer to live off the grid," the man said. "I'd barely heard of this girl 'til you called me in."

"Is that so?" Miller's eyebrows raised. "A major crime takes place at the exact spot you worked at last year, and you somehow miss it all?"

"Like I said," the man said flatly, "off the grid."

Bullshit. Even if he'd somehow missed his own face popping up on the news — which Miller very much doubted — anyone in the area with access to a television or a radio or a phone had heard about Vienna DeNova at this point. He moved on, not wanting the man to get mired down in his own lies.

"Tell me about the Lakewood job."

The man tonelessly listed off only the bare bone facts: the dates of his employment, his responsibilities, his work hours. All matched what Miller knew to be true.

"And then you were let go."

"No," the suspect corrected, the slightest bit of irritation edging into otherwise monotone voice. "I quit. Moved on to other opportunities."

"'Moved on to other opportunities,'" Miller echoed, leaning back in his chair with a loose smile. "Is that what they're calling it? I thought you turned and ran once the girls started complaining about you."

He saw it, just the tiniest shift: the man set his jaw. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I don't know where you get your information, but I was never charged with a crime."

"And yet you fled."

The suspect's eyes darkened.

There you are, Miller thought, adrenaline starting to buzz. There's the real you. Come out and play.

"College students are notoriously dramatic. One person says something, and you suddenly have a witch-hunt on your hands. I enjoy a quiet life. So yes, I chose to leave. That says nothing about my character."

"You see, you say that," Miller said, eyes locked with the other man, "but you know we did some digging on you. Seems like you have a trouble holding down a job." The eyes across the table flashed again, and Miller pushed further. "And you know, I can't help but notice, brother, a lot of your exits seem to involve some 'drama' with women."

Color rose in the man's face. "What are you implying?"

"Oh, did it sound like I was implying something? I meant to say it outright. I think you have a problem with women."

Miller saw it, each little sign: the man's nostrils flared, his fists curled, and he got impossibly redder. Miller had found the button. He leaned forward.

"Now, don't go getting upset. I see a lot of guys like you. What is it? You impotent? Can't say I can relate, but sounds like it'd be tough."

The man made a choked scoffing sound. An intentional smirk crawled across Miller's face. That's right, let it all boil over….tell me something to prove how wrong I am….

"Mommy issues are a big one too." Miller's adrenaline jumped as he saw the man stiffen. "Oh shit, don't tell me you've got both?"

The man's face twisted and Miller could tell he was about to leap out of his chair. He shifted his tone completely, no longer mocking but utterly authoritative and in control. "You're going to want to calm down, sir."

Whiplash. Remind him he's still in an interrogation. Remind him that right now, he's small. Then bring in Grant and the good cop team and let him crumble under their sympathy.

The man leaned back, shaking with rage. Miller knew he'd put his finger on something. These guys really were all the same, weren't they?

Silence lay thick in the room as Miller let the suspect catch his breath. The man glared at him over his thick beard — one that he must have grown, Miller assumed, to distance himself from his old picture making the rounds — blue eyes piercing. Oh, he was pissed, alright.

"So." Miller's voice was silky and smooth. "Let's keep learning about you."

He opened the lavender file in front of him. It was stuffed with fake papers to make it look fuller than it was, but the ones on top were real. Miller looked at the first page where the man's real name was displayed.

"Not Jon Smyth. Stephen Jourdain. You prefer Stephen or Steve?"

"I prefer Mr. Jourdain."

"Really? I prefer Steve."

Jourdain exhaled hard through his nose but said nothing. Miller looked up as if the sound had caught his attention.

"You're sweating, Steve. Nervous?"

"It's hot in here." Each word was gritted out through bared teeth.

"Really? I feel just fine."

Miller reviewed Jourdain's information for another couple minutes, letting him stew in the heat and tense silence, until he heard a double knock on the door. The signal to come on out. Well, they must consider Jourdain primed by now.

Miller stood, taking the folder with him. "Well, Steve, as fascinating as you are, I have to get going. Someone's got to oversee your property being searched."

Miller let himself take in Jourdain's furious expression for just a fraction of a second before turning and walking out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The cooler air outside the interrogation room hit like a fresh breeze. Damn bad cop role had all the discomforts. Still, Miller would be lying if he said he hadn't gotten a bit of twisted enjoyment out of toying with the guy. And hopefully it was one stop closer to Vienna.

When he approached the table the team was sitting at, he Miller sensed the grim atmosphere immediately. It was as if someone had popped them all with a needle and deflated all the air out of them. Grant's shoulders were heavy, Herring stared down at the floor. Even Carver seemed more listless than usual.

"What?" Panic suddenly rose in his throat. "Don't tell me — a body?"

"No." It was Grant that spoke. He cleared his throat and continued, "No, nothing to do with Vienna. We just heard from Jourdain's lawyer."

Huh. It threw a bit of a wrench in things, sure, but suspects lawyering up was standard practice. That wasn't all. Miller waited.

"He's on his way, but there's not much to say. There's video of Jourdain at a town hall meeting on the evening of May 9th. It's time-stamped and everything. Never left his seat. Solid alibi" Grant looked at Miller. "Nothing out of order at his house. Nothing strange on his devices, except some conspiracy theories. There's….nothing."

Miller stared at him for a moment. The room seemed smaller than it had when he had walked in just moments earlier. The wheels in his head were grinding in slow motion as his brain forced itself to the conclusion they all already knew: this man, no matter how many boxes he checked, had nothing to do with Vienna DeNova's disappearance.

And just like that, they were back with nothing.

"Fuck."

"I know, it's —"

"Fuck!" Before he knew it, Miller's boot hit the wall next to him. The noise seemed amplified in the small space.

The room went very still. Herring looked stern. The look in Carver's eyes was almost vindicated, like he'd had a theory confirmed.

Miller's eyes briefly fluttered shut. Don't do this. Not here. Not now. Not with them. Not you, the only Black man in the room. When he opened them, it was like a different man speaking. "Excuse me. I…I apologize. I just need a moment."

He didn't leave time to look at any of their faces before he swept out of the room. Beige walls and grey floor passed in almost a blur until he'd weaved his way out of the building. Miller took in a deep inhale of chilled October air, letting him cool him to the bone.

Solid alibi……There's….nothing.

There wasn't even room for it to be a mistake. For one of them to pull something out, some shiny piece of evidence that said, But wait! There's hope!

It was just….done. They hadn't caught a mastermind, or a serial predator, or the kidnapper. He was just some asshole.

And Vienna DeNova was still out there. Still alone. Still suffering. And that, Miller thought, his head starting to throb, was the best case scenario. That was assuming, optimistically, that she was still alive at all.

Cold steel bit his hands as he clutched the railing in front of him, bracing himself against the barrage of thoughts in his head.

He'd done the worst thing he could have done.

He'd let himself hope.

Not on facts. Not on reasonable expectations. Not on anything that, as an investigator, he'd learned was an absolute necessity in managing expectations. No, Miller had let himself hope out of pure desperation, on the longing to bring peace and closure to the DeNovas. To Zander. To the entire community. To Vienna.

He didn't know how much time had passed when the door opened and shut behind him. Grant.

Before he'd even fully turned around to face his boss, Miller was already apologizing, professional face back on.

"Listen, I'm really —"

But Grant just held up a hand. "No need."

And Miller quieted, because he knew he meant it.

Grant stood next to him, lit a cigarette. Times like this, Miller really wished he hadn't quit. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"….others' alright?" he finally asked.

"Disappointed. Just like you. Taking time to process."

Miller snorted. "That's what you call this, huh?"

"Absolutely, I do. And I'd rather have an imperfect human working for me than some emotionless robot, for the record." He glanced at Miller out of the corner of his eye. "You do your best work when you're invested. Even when it hurts."

Miller sighed heavily. "We were all just so sure…."

"We put all our eggs in one basket," Grant agreed. "Hell, I did it right along with you. I wanted this to be the one."

"Me too."

They both stared out at the darkened parking lot for a few minutes, the smoke from Grant's cigarette swirling around them like the tangle of thoughts in Miller's head.

"Going back to work tomorrow is going to fucking suck."

Grant barked a laugh at Miller's blunt statement, and Miller couldn't help but smile a bit at the sound. But thinking about tomorrow, about admitting to everyone that they were wrong, that they were back to square one, made the grin fade quickly.

"I mean….what the fuck do we do now, Grant?"

Grant clapped him on the shoulder, offered him a mirthless grin. "We keep going."

Miller managed to avoid the rest of the team when he went back in to get his things before heading out to his car in the lot. Grant had ordered them all home to rest, recuperate, and come back tomorrow ready to work the case just like they had been. It didn't take away Miller's feeling of a boulder on his chest. But at least they all had space to breathe, theoretically.

He flipped the radio on to fill the quiet. The DJ's voice filled his car, almost obnoxious in its chirpiness, but the words practically hit Miller over the head. He'd almost forgotten what day it was. He glanced at the clock — 8:07— then turned on his blinker and made a U-turn.

The Lakewood sport center parking lot was crowded. Made sense. Basketball was their biggest sport, after all. They'd had that big celebration last spring and everything. Just before….

Miller forced the thought out of his head as he turned his car off. Right now was not the time to be thinking about that. Wait until tonight, or tomorrow at debrief with the team. Right now, he didn't want a trace of grief or frustration of disappointment to show on his face.

The gym was, as the parking lot predicted, very crowded. Students wearing blue and green filled the bleachers. Some wore face paint of body glitter or colored hair extensions. Their world was still turning just as usual. In a way, it felt relieving. He had half expected to see a poster or two commemorating Zander's birthday, but didn't spot any.

Miller found himself a spot on the first level and leaned against the railing. He was late, unfortunately, but not by much — they were still in the first quarter, scores in the single digits, opposing teams trading the lead every few minutes. His eyes scanned the court until he found Zander, sporting his 86 jersey near the far wing.

Miller had never been a basketball player — football had been his sport, his outlet — but he knew enough about the game to recognize that Zander was, objectively, a good player. He was quick on his feet, constantly scanning the court, wasn't afraid to get into the thick of it. Played like a real team player, and earned himself plenty of high fives and fist bumps in the process.

He almost seemed like a different kid out there. He seemed somehow more….alive.

It wasn't until halftime that Zander bothered to look over towards the stands. He was grabbing a water bottle, and had just turned away when he did a double take at Miller. Miller just gave him a casual nod.

Ah, Christ. Miller felt a tug at his heart — Zander's eyes had absolutely lit up, just for a moment, just before he caught himself. The kid arranged his face back into a neutral expression and gave Miller a nod back before turning back to his team.

But Miller had seen it, as he did every so often, when Zander let him. A kid who just wanted someone to show up for him, to see him. And somehow Miller had become that guy.

God, it'd be annoying if Sydney was right.

The second half passed in a flurry of passes and rebounds and shots. Lakewood pulled further and further ahead, Zander sinking more than one free throw in the process. He never seemed to let himself celebrate much. Just nodded like he'd checked something off a to-do list and got back to the task at hand.

By the time the final buzzer blew, Lakewood won with an easy 84-68. The stands erupted in whistles and applause and cheers. Miller clapped along, the centuries-old weight in his bones feeling temporarily lifted. There was plenty of joy in the world. Plenty of good. He had to remember that.

Most of the students filed out of the building to return to their dorms or, more likely, afterparties, but Miller lingered by the exit. What, like he could show up and not tell the kid happy birthday?

A short time later, Zander came out with a few teammates, showered and in fresh clothes. That same expression came over his face when he saw Miller again, shock but a definite degree of excitement.

"Hey — I'll catch up," he said to the other guys, stopping by Miller's side as they nodded and move along.

"I don't mean to keep you from your friends. I know it's your birthday. And, hey, happy birthday."

"Nah, we're doing the birthday shit over the weekend. They've got class and stuff in the morning."

Miller had never known college students to use class as a reason not to party, but he let it slide.

"So…" Zander ran a hand through his damp hair. "You came."

"Of course. Had to see if you could back up all that trash talk." Zander huffed a laugh and looked down at his feet. "Turns out I don't have much of a leg to stand on."

Zander looked up at him with a little grin, and Miller was glad to see what he hoped was pride in it. Before Miller could say anything else, though, Zander practically blurted, “My parents didn’t come.”

Oof. Miller could see the immediate regret in Zander's expression, the urge to stitch back open the wound he'd just opened for Miller. So he kept it cool. just shrugged. “Their loss. You played hard.”

Zander swallowed. “…Thanks.”

Miller clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm, grounding. “Don’t thank me, kid. Just keep showing up.”

He let it hang, hoping it would stick in Zander's brain. Let tonight just be that. He doesn't have to know about dead-end leads or Herring's concern or anything else tonight. Just…keep showing up.

"Now, Mr. Twenty-One, let's go get you a beer. Legally."

And when he saw Zander's smile, bashful but undeniably delighted, he knew he'd made the right choice.

It was about a week later, back at work. Returning after the final lead fell through was, as Miller had predicted, pretty excruciating, but they managed. They'd had to put out the news that their person of interest had been identified but then dismissed. This had led to the typical barrage of disappoint and criticism, the accusations that clearly the team was not doing enough, that they were overlooking obvious clues, or that there may be a grand conspiracy coverup. The usual.

Telling Vienna's loved ones had been the worst. Herring had returned from her meeting with Vienna's parents with a drawn expression and promptly shut herself in her office for the remainder of the afternoon.

Miller had taken it upon himself to tell Zander. It didn't feel right to let him hear about it on the news. He'd expected a blow-up, but Zander just stared at him for a long time, then nodded numbly.

"'Kay. Figures."

Which, to Miller, was worse than any shout or kick could have been.

Now, they were focusing on the upcoming TV special. Disappearance Files was going ahead. A portion of the broadcast was going to be dedicated to their search for the person of interest, but now that this was old news, they were putting together a brief profile to share with the public.

Miller's phone rang. Front desk. He picked it up with one hand while continuing to type with the other.

"Miller."

"There's a young man out here who'd like to speak with you."

Was this not routine yet? Usually Zander just walked back.

"Yeah, we're just letting him through lately, as long as I'm in the building I don't mind—"

"I think you should come up." There was something pointed in the voice that Miller couldn't quite place. His fingers stilled on the keys.

"I'll be right there."

After hanging up, he sighed and ran a hand down his face. Now what? Were Zander's feelings finally bubbling over? Was it one of the cleared suspects back to chew him out?

As he made his way to the front of the office, Miller's mind was only half present. With the leads fallen through, there seemed to be an impossible amount of work to do but also a vast expanse of nothingness in front of them. So much ground to make up. So little tools to do it with.

But when he walked by the front desk and saw the young man standing there, the present hit him in the face like a bucket of cold water. Because it certainly wasn't Zander. Or one of the suspects. Or anyone Miller could have expected to see here, in this place, right now.

It was Conor.

Conor in a way were Miller almost couldn't place him, still quite thin but well-groomed: clean clothes, fresh haircut, shaved face. He looked….good. God, he actually looked good.

He looked at Miller with an uneasy, almost imploring smile, and without warning Miller only saw his little brother looking for approval the same why he had when they were kids.

finished commission for @whumpologyy of their OCs Vienna and Alec!