The Thick and The Thin
Goose41
Summary: A case may bring Angie back, but what makes her stay?
Author's Note: Neither the characters nor the premise upon which they are based belong to me.
I'm merely using them to entertain myself and others.
Pairing: Venn - Oscar Vega/Angie Flynn
Category: Angst & Hurt/Comfort
Rating: Let's be honest, teens know more than adults about this stuff.
For reader's sake: Mature (Note: Injuries and some...um...fun later)
Maybe that's why we try
Maybe that's why we fight
Maybe that's why we give it all
To keep this love alive
Maybe that's why we try
"Why We Try"
Matthew Mayfield ft. Chelsea Lankes
When she arrives at a crime scene for the first time in months, he almost forgets to breathe; lungs seizing the moment she appears. Nostalgia hangs heavy with intimate memories marred by a violation of trust and stained deeply from too many words left unspoken. Her unexpected presence makes him anxious, and he briefly entertains the thought that his ribcage must be stronger than fortified steel for its ability to restrain his erratic heartbeat.
He is acutely aware of how he's missed the way his stomach trips over itself trying to keep up with her, and yet her sudden arrival stings like swift kick to his chest. It's simple and it's familiar, how her eyes brighten when they meet his, which somehow makes it all the more painful. Maybe this case is a chance to regain their rhythm after months apart. Her presence or her absence, each vying for his attention.
"Hey," she greets him softly, and the sound seems oddly foreign to his ears. "Can we talk? Not now, obviously," nervously continuing while toying with the ring around her finger, "but, you know, maybe -,"
Tucking his chin against his chest, Vega just stares wordlessly as she stutters through her request. "Later," he offers in hushed tones, with the slightest gesture of approval.
Nodding down to Betty as the redhead motions toward them, Angie slips her fingers into her back pocket to retrieve a pair of gloves while folding herself under the tape. "What's on the menu, Doc?" Angie asks, playfully smirking at him as she exhales into the rubber. Balloon fingers inflate gently until Vega reaches over to squeeze the glove, forcing Angie's breath back into her frowning mouth.
Betty observes them closely, somewhat taken aback by Angie's antics, which seem all too genial for her comfort. "I can't say for certain until I get her back to the lab, but she may have been raped like the others," the redhead gestures in a circular motion with the end of her ballpoint pen.
The victim's cloudy blue eyes stare up coldly into the canopy of maple and pine branches from beneath a swath of blonde wavy bangs. Save for the bruising across the cheekbones and encircling her wrists, the deceased displays no other immediate signs of foul play.
Cautiously stepping around the victim's long legs, Vega inspects his surroundings carefully. "Let me guess - No ID?"
"It's almost like you've done this before, Detective," Betty counters with a playful wink, bracelets tinkling softly as she makes a few more notes to her clipboard.
"I'll do you one better. Would you ever go on a hiking trip without proper footwear?" Vega asks, gesturing towards the conservative slip-ons adorning the victim's feet with his chin. Neither the cardigan, nor the slacks have stains other than traces of the surrounding dirt to hint at a struggle, suggesting her current location is merely a dumping ground.
"What makes you think I would ever go hiking?" Angie scoffs, before worrying her bottom lip in frustration. "Same body type; same MO; so this one makes three," glancing up to see them staring back at her.
In silent agreement with one another, Betty frowns as she peers down at the latest victim. "Three doesn't exactly strike me as a very lucky number anymore," the doctor remarks sadly.
The quietus of the daybreak is interrupted by faint chime causing the colleagues to exchange glances. A wave of dread sweeps down the length of her spine as Angie retrieves her mobile and reads the incoming message from an unknown number. Angst swells up on her like a tsunami, face awash in a blue tint, as she stands to walk away.
"Angie," Oscar speaks quietly as Betty turns to the crew of assistants. Trudging back up the hill behind her, he knows she's listening, but stays quiet a moment more until they no longer have an audience. The tenor of his whisper sends shivers down her spine. Without warning, her mind gets defensive as irrational thoughts scream out to her. She recognized some similarities back with their first victim, which has since grown into more than a simple coincidence. She doesn't need anyone pointing it out to her.
She comes to a stop by the hood of her Oldsmobile at the edge of the path before being overwhelmed with emotion. Angie exhales deeply, as if trying to expel the stale air out of her lungs as far away as possible. Almost as if she can erase the images in her mind by blowing them away like a dandelion seed. Under his scrutiny, she can feel Vega's gaze linger on her shuddering shoulders; observing silently while her chest rises and falls in an attempt to steady her anxious breathing. The only interruptions of her breathing are the pop and hiss of her cooling engine.
Against the vehicle's side panel, still radiating traces of heat from within, Vega leans back with folded arms across his chest as he stares down at a small stone he kicks from the trail. "Who is it?" he asks, referring to the message on the device gripped tightly against her palm. Reaching out to gently pry the phone away, it is as if the phone itself arcs a jolt of terror from her veins to his as his fingertips ghost across her wrist.
An unexpected anger flares up in Vega, standing by helplessly as Angie wrestles with swells of emotion. "It's not your fault," he mumbles as if speaking to the soles of his shoes. He can't safeguard her from her own thoughts, keep her vulnerabilities at bay. At this point, he's not sure what frustrates him more - his inability to help her or the fact that he still feels compelled to protect her after all she's put him through.
A hollow clang echoes as she slams her clenched fist on the hood of her car before turning back to look at her partner, echoing with the somber laugh that escapes from Angie's lips as she shakes her head in disagreement, "Like hell it's not."
Barely flinching as she growls, Vega swallows thickly as he witnesses how heavily she shoulders this responsibility. "We'll get him," he promises, watching as Betty finishes zipping the large body bag up over the face of their latest victim.
"Really? When, Vega?" Angie's frustration boils from within. "This woman now makes three."
Standing to his full height, Vega's head bobs in silent acknowledgement. Brushing his fingertips across her elbow in silent consolation before extending his open palm in Angie's direction, he wordlessly asks for her keys as her chest continues to heave. She likes power. She thrives off of having control. But right now, she has neither and he's not going to stand by while she recklessly endangers her life behind the wheel of a two-ton vehicle.
A mid afternoon lull blankets the precinct, broken only by the occasionally muted chatter amidst their colleagues, as Vega sits shoulder to shoulder with Angie in front of the evidence board. For detectives and police officers, their colleagues are hardly discreet with thinly veiled murmurs of her return. Other than appearance, there seems to be no connection between their victims. The only connection he can focus on is the light brush of her elbow against his as she fidgets beside him.
Upon arriving to the precinct, Angie turned over her phone to the tech unit to retrieve any possible data transmitted earlier. The message could only be traced to a burner phone, sufficiently rendering the device void of any possible information. Out of the corner of his eye, Vega watches a dry erase marker strain in Angie's grip, knuckles white with frustration. As it is, she's exhausted, and quickly becoming agitated.
She wishes the synapses in her brain would fire more smoothly, even leave streamers in her mind so she can follow one train of thought as it trails across and connects with another. The steady beat of the cap snapping on and off help to calm her frayed nerves, a soothing repetition that accompanies her numerous dead-end theories.
"Julia Deane!" an all too chipper voice announces from behind the partners as Lucas enters the bullpen. Setting a tray of take-out cups upon the edge of the nearby desk, he steps around Vega to tape a Xerox copy of an online profile to the board beneath victim number three's head shot.
Turning back to face the two more experienced detectives, Lucas' grin falters upon meeting Angie's gaze before widening confidently. Exchanging a tired look with one another before returning their attention towards him, Vega drums his fingertips against his chin as they wait.
"And...?" Angie finally prompts impatiently.
The grin begins to fade from Lucas' profile as he glances at the board behind him quickly, realizing that he's forgotten to announce some integral information. "And...," he draws out nervously. "UBC grad, toxicology department in the crime lab, recently turned twenty-six last month. Coffee, Detective?" he offers to her, subtly stepping back.
"Much better. Thank you, Lucas," Vega commends the proud young man. Standing to inspect the document closer and accept the beverage, he lightly claps a broad palm across Lucas' shoulder in encouragement to help shake his nerves loose.
Eager. Zealous. Budding with potential. Lucas was going to make a fine detective someday. As soon as he learned how to harness his energy and enthusiasm. And despite the offering, Angie picks up on the younger detective's uncertainty. If she were being honest, she's waiting for someone to tell her she's no longer welcome.
Angie lets her palm mold around the coffee as she accepts the remaining cup from the outstretched hand as he bounces on the balls of his feet. Tucking the offering in close, Angie's eyelids flutter closed as the aroma and warmth radiate through her. It's not much in the way of consolation, but she'll gladly accept any semblance of comfort.
Teasingly, Vega's voice, light with an echo of laughter, breaks through her mental fog. "Would you two like a room?"
"The Honeymoon suite, actually. Preferably with a view of the ocean," Angie counters smartly. She doesn't say anything more, but his lighthearted jokes have always had a soothing effect.
"Only the best for you," he shoots back with a soft smile that makes her stomach flutter. "In the mean time, what's the affiliation between Deane," Oscar asks as he points to each of the head shots, "Schmidt, and Milton?"
The physical correlation between the victims was obvious. Blonde. Blue eyes. Tall and slender. Quite frankly, Angie could have been looking in the mirror. The women on the board could have legitimately passed for sisters.
"If I didn't know any better, they could be related," Lucas chimes in. "Obviously not legally, but...well...yeah," he trails off with a tone of doubt.
Almost immediately, the connections that Angie had been taxing her mind so hard to notice suddenly became clear. "Wait. What did you say?" she asks as she jumps from her chair, wheels scraping the tile under the unexpected movement. Mentally kicking herself, she has to shelve her pity party until later.
Taken aback by her agitation, Lucas stands quietly as his mouth struggles to find the words. Fortunately, Oscar steps in to assist the floundering detective. "Related?"
The words spill forth from Angie's mouth in a rush. "No, no. The other thing," she replies as she bounces off of her partner in a flurry of uncoordinated movement.
Popping the marker's cap off between her teeth, she moves across the evidence board quickly as she scans the information under each victim quickly, putting an asterisk next to items of importance. Bright eyes dance back and forth in rapid movement as everything falls into place. The thrill found in successfully completing a puzzle is at her fingertips.
"Ea-uhl!" Angie grunts incoherently, as her tongue undulates around the black cap still held within her teeth. Rotating the cap towards the front of her mouth, she's unable to retrieve the offending object with her hands full as she draws lines from one victim to the next.
Keenly aware of the struggle before him, Oscar reaches over to Angie's lips to rescue the marker's top. Shivering as her tongue brushes against the pad of his thumb; he nervously attempts to disguise his flustered expression by rolling his eyes and wipes the item off on his pant leg. He diverts the attention back to her upon rediscovering his strained voice; "Want to try that again, Chewbacca?"
"Legal," Angie tries once more. Witnessing her partner's veiled attempts to school his reaction to her touch causes her stomach to tighten. Blinking out of her daze, her scattered thoughts come rushing back. "Milton worked security at Blenheim Court Apartments; Schmidt was the responding park ranger to her dump site..."
The connection is seamless as her thought process is wordlessly broadcast to her partner, who effortlessly picks up on the loose end. "And now there's Deane, the toxicologist. Maybe she found something," Oscar concludes in hushed tones.
Snatching the case files of the victims off of her desk, Angie impatiently thrusts one into each of the men's hands. "We're looking for anything that stands out in the reports. Something, anything, that could have been easily overlooked the first time," she orders as she dials the extension for the lab downstairs. Her anxiety mounts as the phone continues to trill in her ear as no one answers.
Their close proximity is enough to make Vega's nerves tingle from Angie's nervous energy. A mere few inches away, he feels her huff of frustration as the sound meets his ears. The phone is down and she's broken into a jog down to the lab before he can stop her.
Seconds crawl by while the men scour the information in front of them for any perceptible evidence. The formulas and compounds jumble in Lucas' brain as he reads the report as if it is written in a foreign language. "High amounts of caffeine, choline, and suc-," Lucas stutters, frowning at a page of results in his hand as he stumbles over another chemical.
"Succinic acid is elevated for Milton, too." Papers flutter haphazardly as Vega carelessly tosses the file towards his desk in his rush to catch up with Angie. Unwilling to wait for the elevator to return, he detours to descend down the stairs to meet her at the lab, unable to get to her fast enough.
Rushing out of the elevator, Angie stops to check about getting her phone back from the tech department. Admittedly, she feels a little lost without it, even if she doesn't understand half of its features, because of the simple fact that it helps her keep in touch with her son.
She doesn't want to worry Manny, but this case has her on edge and she feels the strong urge to reach out to him. There's been a hollow ache in her chest since he's been away as she wrestles with loneliness. It feels strange to be alone, and even more strange that she's bothered by it.
"Making any progress?" she asks when the lab assistant offers her a small wave.
A wave of confusion crosses over the shy assistant's face as Angie enters the sanctuary of his lab. "Um, no," he replies quickly. "I passed your phone off to Dr. Rogers. She offered to return it to you; said she was headed your way."
"Oh, thanks," Angie shrugs as heads down to the morgue in search of her friend. Poking her head around the steel-plate doors, she cringes upon watching as the doctor dives wrist deep into the chest cavity of their latest victim, returning bloodstained organs to their proper place.
"I can hear your grimace from here," Betty calls out to her, "come on in."
Sliding up beside the examination table, Angie watches intently as Betty sutures the chest closed with endless loops of stitching. The motion is hypnotic, repetitive as the doctor pulls a loop tightly against the skin, mindful not to tangle the thread as she pulls it up and away, and then plunges the needle back under the flesh. Angie briefly catches herself wondering if it is creepy that she finds some solace in the literal closure.
"Did you come downstairs to watch me work, or did you actually need something?" the redhead questions in forced amusement, knotting the end of her thread. For some reason, the joke feels contrived.
Shaken from her reverie, Angie blinks for a moment. "My phone," she states, "do you have it?" Peeking up at her friend, she watches as the only answer she receives from the ME is a tense nod towards the back of the room. Under the harsh lamp overhead, sharp shadows accentuate the doctor's deep frown. Stepping around the gurney, the tension hangs thick as she keeps a close eye on Betty, watching as she finishes with the body and heads towards the sink to wash away the death.
"It's on the back counter. While you're here, I have to ask...how long do you plan on sticking this one out?" Betty finally asks the unspoken question. As usual, she's blunt and to the point. "You know, so I don't get too attached before my best friend decides she is ready to give up and leave again," she adds.
Angie's bright blue eyes briefly widen in surprise before her gaze lowers in shame. The wave of guilt is immediate, assaulting her without warning, in light of the inquisition. She should have known she could count on Betty put her in her place. "Not give up; I had to let go of what held me down," she responds hoarsely as her vocal cords tighten with unshed tears. "I didn't want...I never meant to hurt anyone, but I did, which is why I had to leave."
Rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh, Betty feels incredibly torn. Her best friend endured the repercussions of a horrific mistake, and the aftershocks had reverberated through everyone around her. "Angie, you have no idea, do you? You left to protect us, to protect him," the doctor declares with a pointed look, "but all it did was cause more pain. I'm sorry, but you can't just 'let go', and not expect for us not to be hurt," words seething as she brushes past and through the door without another word.
For the first time in her adult life, Angie realizes how it feels to play the waiting game, rather than her friends chasing after her. Betty has often been her sounding board, but never once told her off so harshly. She's certain Lucas has no idea how to process her presence, and Oscar - God, she's been absolutely horrendous to him. The mercy he's shown is the closest thing to a religious experience she's had in a long time.
The still of the morgue allows for a moment of reprieve from the others, but certainly not away from her her conscience as it heavily condemns her, berating her for being a horrible excuse for a friend. Darkened edges of the room surround her, trapping her alone in an overturned bowl with only her thoughts of her best friend. She wants him to yell at her, utter nasty truths to her as he breaks anything fragile, to break the facade that masks the wounds she knows she's inflicted with her own words.
Groaning under the weight of the stainless steel door, Angie hears the hinges protest with her back turned, sighting deeply as she prepares for another emotional battle. Clapping the flat face of her phone's display against the palm of her hand and struggling to find just the right words, she finally decides to keep it simple as she swallows thickly. "No more excuses," she sighs, emboldened with her back turned.
Goosebumps race down and across her skin as she listens to the echo of light footfall approaching. Without warning, a tight grip upon her wrist sends her spinning; her phone skittering across the tile as she stumbles into Betty's desk and attempts to regain her footing. Hissing loudly against the pain, Angie flicks her head back in time to recognize the face of Drew Taylor, a trusted city employee and affiliate of the department in the crime lab. Angie struggles to fill her lungs with quick, shallow breaths, chest tightening upon acknowledging her assailant. Their movement has spun her so that her back is to the door, and she can just make out Vega's face upon the display beneath a spider web of cracks branching across her phone's display as it momentarily buzzes with life.
"Detective Vega, how nice of you to join us," Taylor sneers over Angie's shoulder as he kicks her phone closer to him across the floor, blindly crushing it beneath his heel. Playing with the safety on the pistol gripped tightly in his fist, Taylor trains his weapon on Angie's face before continuing; "Pull up a chair; I know you're dying to know why I did it." Confidence radiates from Taylor as his lips curl in amusement at his morbid joke.
"Believe me, I'm not going anywhere," Vega confirms as he steps up beside Angie, fingertips ghosting across the small of her back. The touch is feather light, and she briefly wonders if she's imagined it, but the unexpected contact makes Angie jump, mind reeling with guilt while her heart beat roars in her ears. The frightened detective's movement seems to startle Taylor, and Angie has no time to react before she catches a glint of silver in the faint light as Taylor's fist recoils, then swings back against her partner's face with a sickening thwack. Choking back a gasp as she sees his face explode into a flash of crimson, Angie pants in fear, unsure how he miraculously remains conscious despite falling upon his knees.
It takes all of her willpower to fight against the instinct to reach out to him, and help him to his feet. The next few minutes stretch on for an unbearably long period of time, broken only by the labored breathing of their oppressor and his victims. Watching intently as her partner attempts to regain his bearings, Angie's nerves come alive as he climbs her frame like a ladder in a strained effort to steady himself. Still bent at the waist, she chokes back a sob as she watches ribbons of blood curl around the ridges and creases of his knuckles as he coughs violently. Angie's attention is no longer trained on their tormentor, distracted as her clumsy fingers tangle in his shirt, then down across his crouched back.
A sinister laugh overlaps the muffled breathing as Drew Taylor's agitation bubbles to the surface while watching the two detectives. "This is why I killed the others," he announces, gesturing to the contact between the partners. "If I couldn't have you, I thought maybe I could settle for the others. But they just weren't you," he explains as he glares at Angie; "They were easy targets, and were supposed to bring you back to me."
With a tiny pang of guilt, a fleeting moment passes where Angie genuinely feels like Taylor could be the most prominent victim. She quickly realizes, however, the only capacity in which she knew him was the passing irregularity in which they would briefly interact at a crime scene or in the lab. In spite of his delusions, she never once had an opportunity to lead this man on.
"Succinylcholine is a wonderful drug, Detective Flynn, metabolizing nicely so as not to arouse too much suspicion. As a paralytic, the drug did all the hard work for me against those women as their own bodies killed them," the killer continued, smirking wistfully as he recalled his conquests. Lifting his gun to aim at Angie's chest, he lowers his steely gaze to stare down the barrel as his finger twitches near the trigger.
Frozen with fear, Angie briefly wonders if this is anything like how the victims felt when they realized they couldn't fight back. Clenching her eyelids closed tightly, her heart beat roars in her ears while she wonders if the drug rendered the victims unconscious before their imminent demise so they did not have to endure the unwelcome sting of death.
Hope you're willing to stay tuned...
More to be posted when I get another free minute. Have a good one, folks. Enjoy the premiere, Canada!