Author: Ashley
Title: Live By The Sword
Rated R for violence
Summary: Not too distant future AU. Captain Arthur Castus of the LAPD has to investigate a crooked cop – his partner and best friend Lance Benoit.
Written for the "To fight or not to fight" challenge at King Arthur Fanfiction.
Disclaimer: not mine.
Author's note: I lived in Los Angeles so I can bash it if I want. wink
I do NOT do AU. I'm not sure where this came from. I hope it's not too OOC. I also realize this probably includes a lot of police type story cliches – sorry about that.
Feedback is welcomed!
Enjoy.
Captain Arthur Castus felt the sweat run down his forehead, dripping annoyingly off the end of his nose. The riot gear was heavy and hot, but had saved him more than a few times, so he didn't exactly mind.
He did mind what he was doing right then, which was hunting down a friend. In the middle of yet another mindless LA riot.
They happened almost every other week, which is why the riot part didn't really phase him. The noise from helicopters and police squads was so rampant he was able to almost ignore it, which was the only good thing about their frequency.
His small ear piece crackled, one of the three officers he had with him reporting no movement at his position. He smiled grimly. Despite the technological advance, radios were still radios, and they would always have static. He vaguely remembered his father bitching about the same thing as he drank himself into a stupor each night.
The meeting they were there to observe was long over, but the target hadn't moved. Castus stayed where he was, not wanting to leave without understanding. And he didn't – couldn't – understand what he had seen now, or what he had been hearing in whispers for the past few months.
The man they watched paced, the other three members of the PD reluctant to say anything to their captain; they knew how hard this was for him, but also knew they had been standing in the same watch position for a few hours, and it didn't look as if the target was going to evacuate anytime soon.
"Captain," one said finally, softly, so not as to jar anyone listening, "he's not going anywhere. Perhaps we should just withdraw."
"No," Arthur replied just as quietly, "I'm not going anywhere until I get things clear. You men stay put until I say."
"Yes, Captain," came the three voices, and there was radio silence again.
The target stopped walking, and hunched over, giving what sounded like a dry sob, and Arthur decided he'd had enough of waiting.
"Dagonet," he said into his radio. "Captain," the answer came immediately.
"Back me up. I'm going to talk to him."
"Sir."
The other two made sounds of protest as the tall, quiet officer detached himself from the wall a few blocks away from Arthur, and silently crossed to him. The large Ruger he carried was ready and deadly in his hands.
"Just watch. That's all. You'll know if I need you," Arthur told him, and the officer nodded, raising his gun and taking Arthur's position against the brick.
"Yes, Captain."
The warehouse they were watching was dark and dirty, and cliched enough to make Castus cringe as he entered the metal door that hung open, his own Magnum up by his face, the metal cool in his fingers. He didn't want to be carrying it. His father's gun. It still bore his badge number and unit name.
He made his way into the large empty room, and breathed short sharp air out of his nose. The target appeared to be talking to himself, his arms wrapped around his slender torso, the badge hidden by the leather carrier slapping his chest as he walked.
Arthur stepped forward, and reholstered his weapon. He heard Dagonet give a noise of disapproval over the radio, but ignored it.
"Lance."
"Fuck!" the dark haired officer turned, jumping about a mile, scaring the few birds that were roosting in the ceiling. "Arthur. Jesus. What the hell are you doing here?" he sighed, the tone resigned. He knew the answer to the question before he asked it.
The chop chop chop of helicopter blades drowned all noise out for a moment, and Arthur couldn't help but glance upwards even though he couldn't see through the building. The riot was well in progress by the sound of police action and screaming in the background, but he was so used to it he quickly forgot it. The warehouse was weirdly echoey and hushed compared to the madness they'd come through to get there.
"What's going on?" Arthur asked, approaching the other man. He flipped up the visor of his riot helmet, unstrapping the thing, taking it off with a groan of relief. "The sweat," he said by way of explanation, setting it down on a tiny table with three legs. He kept walking toward his friend.
"Why'd you wait so long?"
Officer Lance Benoit. Arthur's closest and oldest friend, and fellow police officer. Up until recently, his partner in all things.
Now a crooked cop, and a mob informant, according to rumor.
"Why, Arthur?" Benoit repeated, his curly hair hanging in his eyes. He shook his head, annoyance and hurt crossing his sharp features briefly. "You've known for what, a few weeks now?"
"Didn't want to believe it," Arthur answered, the last little bit of his heart dusting to ash at Lance's words. He hadn't wanted – hadn't been able to believe the things he had heard circulating about his friend.
"Why? Shouldn't be a surprise," Lance barked a laugh, and scrubbed a hand across his face. There was dust there, tracked with wetness from his eyes. Arthur tried not to jump forward; the gun in Lance's hand was held with carelessness that he didn't normally see from his friend. He especially wouldn't bring it anywhere near his own eyes.
"You are not your family."
"I am now," he answered, his voice high and tight. He brushed past Arthur to the door opposite the one Arthur had come in, peering out.
"Looks like the usual action," he commented, "damn riots." The set of his shoulders told Arthur he wasn't hearing his own words.
"Lancelot," he said quietly, unassumingly, using the man's whole name. "Look at me."
Benoit let out a shuddery breath, his eyes closed as he turned. He didn't move from the doorway. "Arthur."
"You didn't have to do this."
"I did. There's no escaping it. I tried. I tried for 28 years. It's too hard, Arthur! I can't just have no one. I'm not strong." His eyes opened, and they were flat discs that reflected nothing.
Arthur bit his bottom lip until blood ran into his mouth, snapping him out of his sorrow. He walked slowly to Lancelot, until he was only a few feet away.
"You are. You're the strongest man I know. You walked away from your history, Lance. From generations of violence. You made yourself your own person, without them. Don't do this – don't shit on all your work. You deserve so much more."
Lancelot's resolve wavered, and his eyes ticked from the door to Arthur. Arthur saw the fourteen year old boy he had known in the man's face, and decided to push it. He stepped closer.
"Down! Down on the ground!"
They both jumped, then looked at each other again, both smiling at their reactions. Police were everywhere in the area; one of the reasons Benoit had had his meeting here. No one would be expecting to see him.
No one except one person.
"It's over, Arthur. Done. I'm ready to accept the consequences. At least they sent you," he mused, his hand toying with the doorframe, one of the set of guns he wore wavering slightly in the other.
"You don't have to do this, Lancelot," Arthur murmured, moving still closer. He could have reached out and touched the other man. He could hear the intake of breath from his officers on the earpiece; he knew they could see what he was doing on their monitors, but he also knew they wouldn't do anything without his okay.
"Relax," he added, to both Lance and his waiting officers.
"Too late, Arthur," Lancelot said, the sound robotic and defeated. "I've proved to myself that I am the product of what my family made me. There's no escape. I can't live with myself doing this anymore. Not with you looking at me like that. Not with you knowing I'm dirty. Not with the rest of them," he gestured with his pistol, and Arthur tried not to flinch, "knowing as well."
"No one cares," Arthur tried to soothe, "least of all me. I know what you went through to get away from them, and I know you. This is not the man I know. You can make a break again, Lance. You are not. Them."
Lancelot laughed again, the bitterness of the sound etching itself into Arthur's ears. He would never forget it, not as long as he lived. It was like having glass ground into his skin to see his friend reduced to this.
"Maybe you could, Arthur. But … I'm not you. I never was, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself I was. No one could be. You're like this…unattainable thing – like a shiny gold block behind the bars at Fort Knox." He laughed again at the comparison.
Arthur felt something on his cheeks, and raised a hand to them. He stared at the wetness on his fingers like it was something foreign, something he'd never seen before. He wanted to say something, anything to stop his friend from doing what Arthur thought he was going to do. But his tongue was frozen inside his head, all the moisture leaking out through his eyes, leaving his body dry as a corn husk.
"Jesus, Arthur," Lancelot said, "don't waste tears on me. The Benoit family won't miss me – you shouldn't either. I became what I knew I would." He began to move backwards, pushing the door behind him open further.
"Dagonet, Tristan," Arthur said, and he heard the movement of two of the officers on his radio.
Time and vision slowed, Arthur focusing on small, insignificant things, like the color of the trees outside when he followed Lancelot through the open door, the distant pop of gunfire, the smell of the fires burning in Beverly Hills.
There were police grouped at the edge of the street, all in full gear. They all turned to face the warehouse as Lancelot exited, a few of them jumping in surprise at the sight of the gun in his hand, a few pointing to Arthur who was obviously pursuing him.
"Captain!" one shouted, and they all seperated, all of them drawing their weapons, two going for Lancelot, who's back was to them. He didn't spare them a glance when they roared; Arthur knew he was beyond hearing anything but the yelling in his own head.
"Don't!" Arthur managed, but as he caught sight of Tristan and Dagonet rounding the corner, he heard the distinct coughing sound of someone's weapon discharging, and he knew it was over.
"Nonononononononono!" he cried as Lancelot's body jerked, turning at last, his eyes dark as the blood coming from his mouth, his hand dropping to his waist to pull his second gun from it's holster. Both were drawn and firing before Arthur could move.
His legs unfroze, and he was flying toward his friend, his father's gun dropped, his arms going around Lancelot's torso, taking him down. Something whizzed by him, his neck suddenly burning, but he ignored it, gathering the other man up in his arms.
"Let me go," Lance struggled with him, one gun falling from his fingers, the red liquid pouring from his lips staining his throat and his shirt front, the leather case his badge rested in flopping with the harsh movement of his chest as he tried to breathe.
"Stop fighting me! Dag!" Arthur guttered out, "Ambulance. Now!" Dagonet was already on with dispatch, the big man speaking calmly as he stood next to the fallen men. The police that had shot at them were stock still; they had only been reacting to what they thought was a volatile situation. Arthur didn't blame them. They hadn't known Lancelot was a cop.
"Three minutes, Captain," he said. Arthur nodded wildly.
Lancelot coughed, and as Arthur watched him, spots of crimson fell on the other man's cheeks. "You're bleeding on me," he laughed wetly, and Arthur raised a hand, his fingers coming away with blood coating them. "Scratch," he said, and Lance smiled. "You always were a lousy liar."
He could hear the sirens in the distance, and brushed the other man's curly hair away from his face. "Don't do something stupid like leaving me. The EMT's are almost here."
"Sorry," Lancelot replied, his voice weak. It sounded tinny and far away to Arthur, and he blinked, a wave of dizziness taking over his senses for a moment. "Captain," Tristan said at his shoulder; Arthur felt a soft cloth touch his neck. He put a hand over it to try and staunch the bleeding.
"The bullet caught your artery, Captain," Tristan said again, the urgency in his voice making Arthur pay sudden attention. He felt funny, like he'd had too much beer or hadn't slept in a few days. "What?" he asked, clearing his throat, hoping he was making some kind of sense.
"You're bleeding out. You need to hold still."
"Can't," he answered, "have to watch him." He pointed down at Lancelot, then smiled a goofy smile. "He's my brother."
"We know, Arthur," Tristan said gently, and tried to pry Arthur's hand off Lancelot's torso.
"Please, Tristan. Don't," Arthur looked at the officer with rapidly failing eyes, and the other man backed off.
" 'm your brother?" Lancelot said, his words slurring and twisting. Arthur wound a hand into his dark hair, and smiled as best he could. He wanted to do nothing but lay on the ground, but he had to be strong, like he always was, for Lancelot. For his partner.
"Yes. My soul," he added. "Don't doubt it."
His friend's teeth shone white against the vital fluids that marred his angular face. "I don't. Mine too," he added, raising a hand slowly to touch Arthur's throat and his wound, his fingers painted with Arthur's blood. He slapped his hand downward, crying out as the digits came into contact with the hole in his chest.
"Blood, now," he gasped, rubbing his fingers in his wound, "our blood." Arthur sobbed out only once, his body tilting forward til his forehead met the other man's. "Don't," he begged, his skin prickling; God, but he was cold.
" 'm sorry, Arthur," Lancelot apologized, his eyes fluttering, "I'm too tired."
"Fuck! No, Lance, don't do this to me, God, please," Arthur's mind was suddenly coherent enough to realize what was happening, and he dropped the hand from the wad of cloth over his neck to shake Lancelot. The blood pulsed out from his wound in time with his slowing heart.
"Captain! Let us help."
And suddenly the EMT's were there.
He was too weak to fight the hands that pulled him away from his partner's body, his chest heaving from the fight to suck air into his lungs and the fact that he couldn't seem to stop the tears coming from his eyes.
"Wait!" he said weakly, and Dagonet was at his side. "His badge," Arthur asked, and Dagonet nodded, returning a moment later with the leather holder. Arthur ran his fingers over the smooth outside, allowing himself to fall over finally.
He kept the thing in his bedroom. It stayed in a drawer, buried beneath tshirts, but Arthur always knew where it was. It almost hummed through the wood of the dresser – Arthur's eyes moving to the furniture first thing when he woke every morning.
His retirement the next month was a huge affair.
Afterward, he drifted through the city in a haze, his badge and that of his friend's in his pocket.
He kept walking until he couldn't see the haze of the city anymore, the smoke and helicopter noise a memory now.
The Canyon park was a place not many people went anymore; that's why he chose it.
I failed you. I didn't share your fate – like I promised I would.
The night breeze calmed his nerves, and he buried the two pieces of metal in the soft ground, marking them only with a rock.
His father's gun barked once, and was silent.
end.