A/N. So during the break between seasons 6 and 7, I started thinking, what would be the perfect curse for Lady Tremaine to cast, to keep Rumple under control? Separating him from Belle is a total bust, as Regina and Fiona found out; yet, Rumbelle together is a dangerous combination to anyone who wants to preserve a curse. So, what if Rumple's family isn't intact, but he thinks it is? A contented Rumple is a controllable Rumple, yes? Happy Halloween, Oncers. There's a tiny Trainspotting reference too.
My eyes practically bug out as I bring my newfound treasure in for a close inspection. My heart's knocking against my ribcage. Can it—is it—I turn the phone over to examine its case and sweet sassafras, it is, it is, it's Det. Weaver's personal cell. Personal, not the HHPD's issued one. I set the phone down carefully on the bench—wouldn't do for me to break it in my excitement and blow such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I scour the gym, the locker room, the showers, the john; I ask around, but he's gone for the day. Signed out about twenty minutes ago, after his work-out and a quick shower. Not expected to be back until mid-day tomorrow.
Wow. I rub my palms against my sweatpants. Wow. I pick up the phone and make a nest for it in my gym bag, tucking it in among the clean clothes. It'll be safe and comfortable as a newborn in a bassinet as long as it's in my care. Det. Weaver's gonna be so pleased, he might even smile as he thanks me. Dollar signs dance before my eyes as I scurry from the locker room back to my desk. After this, I'm sure to win this year's Weaver Kitty. I've already scored three times this year, earning two points for an eyebrow raise and a "thanks" from him when I brought him a cup of his favorite java one cold morning (I'd got lucky there, too, happened to be in Aksoy's Grocery, ordering a kofte sandwich, when Weaver popped in and bought a coffee. None of that fancy-pants stuff for him; we've never seen him go into a Starbucks, so we never knew where he bought his coffee. But I know it now, and I know he prefers knock-you-on-your-ass Turkish coffee.) That combination eyebrow raise and "thanks" scored me two big ones, and later that same week, I scored another point for a friendly nod when I returned a pair of sunglasses he'd left behind in the cruiser. That was a banner week for me. It took another two months before I scored again, and for a while, it looked like Duke Snyder was going to beat us all, because he had the unfair advantage of walking the beat in a neighborhood where most of Weaver's favorite informants hang out. But through dint of attentiveness to small details—Weaver's a details man and respects that quality in others (even those he arrests)—and simple hard work, I earned additional nods and half-smiles throughout the remainder of the year. With this find, Weaver's personal cell, the Weaver Kitty's sure as mine. There's 182 dollars in it now: whenever one of us beat cops scores a point with Weaver, the other fourteen of us have to drop a buck (or more, depending on the rarity of the reaction) into the kitty. When I return this phone, I might even score the most coveted prize of all, one that no one, not even his partner, has ever received: Weaver calling us by our first name.
For Weaver's the kind of guy who's hard to score points with. More importantly, Weaver's the kind of guy you want to score points with. Cunning as well as focused, doggedly determined with the patience to match, well connected with both the criminal element and the mucky-mucks, but yet a little intimidating to both sides, he gets the job done even where no one else can. He can talk your ear off with stories of the baddies he's known; he can send you home with nightmares from those stories. You'll walk out of the gym or the break room thinking he's your buddy and you know him so well, only to realize, when you slide down off your cloud, you don't know the first thing about him, not even his first name. When you try to check off boxes on your list of personal Weaver info, you'll see you probably know more about the station's night cleaning crew than you do about this guy who's dragged in the worst of the worst and got his cases to stick against them in court. . . this guy who's probably saved your bacon a time or two. He has mine.
I set my gym bag on my desk and fire up my desktop to retrieve Weaver's home address from the files. "R. Weaver." So I'm one letter closer to unraveling one of the many secrets about the guy. Birthdate is left blank. How'd he get away with that? The captain's a stickler for us filling out forms competely. The address is, surprisingly, in Renton. Too "Pleasant Valley Sunday" for him, I'd've thought. I'd have expected him to prefer something more blue-collar. Then I remember the two framed photos on his desk and I figure it out: he chose Renton for them. The wife (from the photo, we think she's a lot younger than he is, but then, who knows how old that photo might be). The kid (in the photo, a toddler). He's spoken of them enough that we know their names: Belle and Gideon. For a guy so closed-lipped about himself, he talks kind of freely about them: Belle's job (part-time travel agent), her failure as a cook and her success as a mother; Gid's fascination with cetology and his achievements in basketball. He's fond and proud of them, that's obvious. In the fall, Weaver and Gid have season tickets to the SuperSonics. In the winter, Weaver wears a scarf that Belle's knitted. I can't remember ever meeting them, though, or even speaking to them on the phone.
I weave in and out of the traffic as I make my way over to Renton. It's way out of my way—as I drive, I call home and let my significant other know I'll be late for supper (again). I don't mind the inconvenience; even apart from the Weaver Kitty, it'll be worth my while just to get a gander at Weaver's house. As I dodge a city bus, my heart starts pounding all over again as it occurs to me that I might just score the unimaginable, the motherlode of all Weaver scores: what if Gid opens the front door? What if Belle invites me in for a coffee? Oh my Lord, what if I catch R. Weaver in his slippers?!
I have to lift my foot from the gas pedal. I'm getting too excited, driving too fast. I slow it down: this is worth the wait.
It's after dark and all the little houses are shining their porch lights to greet weary returning workers home from their daily grinds when I find Weaver's block. Yup, this is a "Pleasant Valley Sunday" neighborhood, with weekend-trimmed lawns, two-car garages, dogs and swingsets in the backyards. I shake my head as I draw up to the curb, pulling even with the mailbox ("Weaver," it announces). On the Weaver house, the living room curtains are drawn but I can see a crack of yellow light peaking through a gap. There's a boy's bike, a shiny new one, parked inside the open garage beside Weaver's ancient Barracuda. Maybe Belle takes the bus to work.
I cradle the gym bag as I climb out of my Camry. This is it, I crow to myself as I march across the lawn. I'm going where no cop has gone before. I'm going to make dang sure he lets me inside, even if I have to make up a fib to do it. I turn on my cell phone in my coat pocket: I'm going to snap some photos of the interior of this house, if I can get Weaver to turn away for a few minutes. I knock and wait.
Inside, the theme from a TV show is playing. I hear, "I got it. Back to your homework, Gid."
Oh, boy. Oh, boy! I dance from foot to foot as I hear heavy feet thud across the living room to the door. The porch light flips on. The door yanks open. He's not in slippers, but there he is, standing in the entrance, the living room lights lighting him from behind, the night darkness shadowing his face. He squints at me. "What're you doin' here?"
To prove to him I'm not intruding, I hold up my gym bag. "You left your phone in the locker room."
His face clears of annoyance. "Oh." I make no move to open my bag; he realizes he's going to have to let me in if he wants his phone back. He steps aside, props the screen door open with a stockinged foot. I step in and as he kicks the front door shut behind me, he calls, "It's Bellamy, from the station. We'll only be a minute, sweetheart."
I listen but there's no reply, only a voice, a gravelly one, from the TV. "There's just one more thing." I use that noise as an excuse to glance at the screen (an RCA console from the '90s. The rest of the furniture in the living room is old too. Is Weaver a collector or just a cheapskate?). A hunched-up guy in a raincoat is poking his cigar at another character. Having determined the source of the voice, I now have an opportunity for a quick scan of the living room. Tidy, but a bit dusty. A Nintendo (more 1990s!) on top of the TV. Newspapers on the couch. A pile of paperbacks and a steaming cup on the coffee table. A basketball jersey draped across a rocking chair. Boots, three pair, various sizes, on a mat at the front door. Some sports trophies and knickknacks on shelves. I smell chili cooking from what I assume is the kitchen.
"Sorry to interrupt," I murmur, setting my bag on the rocking chair. A chill creeps up my skin, despite my coat (which he hasn't suggested I take off, so I suppose there'll be no supper invitation). Something's off, here. I unzip my bag, taking extra time at it so I can think.
"You came all the way out here for that?" Weaver tilts his head toward my bag, which is now open. "You live in South Park, right?"
I wonder what else he knows about me. But it's what I'd expect from Weaver, a walking encyclopedia of insider information about everyone he comes in contact with. "Right." As I bend over the bag, I sneak a peek at the jersey hanging on the back of the rocking chair. Awfully clean for the garb of a basketball star. Awfully sweet-smelling. . . and there's a price tag attached to the collar. Okay, so a busy basketballer needs a new jersey. No big deal.
I fish out the phone and zip my bag back up, letting my peripheral vision take in more information. No photos on the walls or the desk. Huh. Why wouldn't a dad proud enough to display his boy's trophies have a few photos on the wall? At least a wedding photo.
"Appreciate the trouble you took," he murmurs.
"No problem." I can't delay it any longer. I straighten and hand him the phone. He powers it on, glances at the screen.
I've been here about four minutes. Why hasn't Belle come out to meet me? Why hasn't Gid taken advantage of my intrusion to abandon his homework? I didn't come all this way for a murmur. "Hey, uh, Detective, it's a long drive back. Mind if I use your john before I go?"
He seems lost in thought, distracted by the phone. "Course. Down the hall, on the right." He waves vaguely. No big deal; this is a small house, two bedrooms, I'm guessing, no study. I give him a small nod of thanks and wander off. The room on the left side stands open. I check over my shoulder: he's absorbed with the phone, probably catching up on his messages. I poke my head into the bedroom. It's small and plain, same secondhand-store furniture as in the living room: one nightstand with a study lamp and clock, one dresser, one double bed. No photos. I dare to step inside. The bed's unmade. Shoes (men's) and a pile of rumpled clothes at the foot of the bed. A damp bath towel draped over the footboard. On the dresser, a hand mirror and matching hairbrush (lady's), a pocket comb, some change, his badge and wallet. A small closet contains a man's dress suit (black, off-the-rack), some coats, a few skirts and blouses, a shoe rack with women's shoes. Those shoes are unscuffed. There are price tags on the blouses.
I duck out before he can catch me and pop into the bathroom across the hall. I wasn't entirely dishonest; I do need to use it. But can I help it if, as I'm washing my hands, the mirrored medicine cabinet swings open? Toothpaste, floss, aspirin, aftershave, shave cream, razor blades. Band-Aids. A tube of Clearasil. A lady's razor, a bottle of Exclamation perfume, and a box of Midol—none of it unwrapped. I dry my hands and stroll back out into the hallway for another hasty glance into the living room. He's gone, the phone resting on the coffee table. I hear a clink from the kitchen; he's in there, then, probably finishing his cooking. His cooking, not theirs. I hear him talking and wonder if I should answer him, but I can't make out what he's saying.
I have another minute or two, then. I glance into the room next to the master bedroom, hoping I'll find Gid there. It's not a bedroom, more like a study of some kind, but without a desk. Books line the walls. An old-time spinning wheel sits beside the window. Some toys (two stuffed animals, a Millennium Falcon, a baseball, Tinker Toys) are in a chest in the closet. More price tags. I examine the room next to the bathroom. I'm relieved to find it's a teenage boy's bedroom, with gaming and sports equipment and clothes strewn about, posters on the walls: SuperSonics, The Matrix, Cindy Crawford. A cell phone and some ticket stubs on the nightstand. The room smells suspiciously fresh, for a teenage boy's abode. My stomach clenches. I walk out, closing the door behind me.
In the living room, a curl of steam rises from the coffee cup and a Match dot Com ad has bumped the raincoat guy off the screen. I hear more clinks and footsteps in the kitchen, then Weaver grumbles, "I promised you when we got married that I wouldn't bring work home with me." He pauses, then sighs. "Yeah, all right, just this once."
He's tossing a sauce-stained dishtowel over his shoulder as he returns to the living room. He gives me his patented half-smile, the one that warns you it can just as quickly become a sneer. His head's cocked a little to the side. "Belle has reminded me that it's a cold, wet night and the least we can do is to offer you a warm dinner before you have to leave." There's a slight pause in between each of the last three words of his invitation; it's clear he's signaling me that I have to leave.
Yeah, I do. I really do.
"I, ah. . . .Thanks, but. . . ." I start backing away.
"We're having chili. Old family recipe. My family, not hers." His eyes sparkle at his little joke.
"I appreciate the invite. Any other night—" I call out toward the kitchen: "Thanks, Mrs. Weaver, but my fiance's expecting me. Some other night, maybe?" I'm not surprised when no one answers me. "See you tomorrow."
"Sure." He walks me to the front door. After I've opened it, he holds out his hand and for a moment, I'm puzzled: does he want me to give him something? Then I realize he's offering to shake my hand (five points! Weaver hardly ever shakes hands with anybody.). I accept the handshake. It helps me regain some of my balance, reminds me why I came here.
"Thanks, Chris. See you tomorrow." (He spoke my first name! The Kitty's mine!) He calls over his shoulder, "Chris can't stay, sweetheart."
In that second as he's looking away, I grab my phone and snap a photo. I don't know what I'm getting in the photo; it doesn't matter. Whatever's visible in the picture will be proof enough I was here.
"Good night, Officer Bellamy." He watches me take the steps down from his porch.
"Good night, Detective." The door closes.
I walk across the lawn, mulling over what I saw in Weaver's house—and what I didn't see. Whatever he's got going on back there, it doesn't interfere with his job. On the contrary; probably sustains him through the job. An Internal Affairs investigation would only mess us all up.
Weaver's a hard guy to score points with; I have a feeling that, after tonight, if I keep my mouth shut, I'll have all the points I could ever use with him. Not that I'd want to take advantage like that. He's a brother-in-arms, a brother who's saved our bacon time and time again, a brother that this precinct can't afford to lose. A brother whose respect is worth a hell of a lot more than 182 bucks.
As I slide behind the steering wheel, letting the engine warm up, I admire my prize. I have a clear, colorful photo of Weaver's blue-and-black striped socks. A photo that, now that I'm thinking straight, I probably took in the locker room as Weaver was changing into his workout clothes.
A photo that's got to be worth two or three points. Those are some wacko socks.