Roy went with the patrolmen who went to inform the newly widowed Mrs. Phelps that her husband had died in the line of duty. He didn't tell anyone he was going; Donnelly would have killed him, and so would Biggs, but the men who were supposed to be there didn't dare send him away. Mrs. Phelps had no reason to think he didn't belong there either. He just said that he used to work with her husband, said nothing about his part in the publicizing of the affair, said nothing about his role in the company Cole had shut down with his final acts. He didn't say much of anything at all, really.
While she cried into the officers' shoulders, wailing that she had no idea what she would tell their daughters when they got home from school, Roy wandered through the home. He hadn't had any real reason for being here, to be honest. It had just felt like something he should do. After keeping a close eye on Cole's career for so long, the fact that he hadn't been around when it ended made him feel...off. Like he needed some sort of closure.
Not that he deserved it, considering what he'd done. But Roy had learned long ago not to let his conscience dictate his actions. That's the kind of thing that gets Vice cops killed.
He ended up in the room that he supposed was now Marie's, that had been hers and Cole's before Elsa. Roy glanced around at the bed, with its matching sheets and pillowcases, at the framed wedding photos still sitting on the dresser, at the family portrait that seemed to have been taken soon after Cole came back from the war. A corner of Roy's mouth turned up slightly. He'd really had the picturesque life most people dreamed of, and he must have hated it. There was something about the way that Cole threw himself completely into his work that alluded to problems at home, though Roy had no idea what they might have been.
He took a few steps forward and pulled the wardrobe door open. The closet on the other side of the room was slightly ajar already; he could see the distinctive floral patterns of the wife's-the widow's-dresses peeking out from behind the doors. Here, though, here Roy saw the suits Cole wore on the job. He recognized the brown pinstripes from the day he'd first seen Cole, all eager to start work as a real detective. Roy smirked slightly as he remembered.
He'd seen some of the others as well, although he hadn't been around Cole during much of his time in the force. But Cole had a tendency to land himself in the papers. There were plenty of photographs in the archives. And then there was the suit Cole had worn during his time in Vice.
Roy grinned as he lifted one of its sleeves, turning it so he could see the jacket more clearly. He'd given Cole a lot of shit for wearing this. It wasn't even that terrible of a suit, really, but it was fun watching him squirm. A lot of Roy's comments verged on flirtatious, and Cole's not knowing how to handle that was hilarious. The grin faded as Roy caught sight of the jacket hanging next to it. He pulled the other wardrobe door open to let the light of the room fall onto it.
This jacket had been one of his. Light gray, with the contrast sleeves Roy was known for. He'd thought Cole might like the blue. Roy had given him this jacket, even offered to pay to get it tailored-"anything to get you out of those professor's clothes," he'd said. Cole had seemed grateful at the time, but he'd only worn it once, presumably to humor him. The next day, the two-toned gray jacket and purple tie were back. Neither of them ever mentioned it.
I should wear it to the funeral. He didn't know where the thought had come from, but it felt right. He pulled the hanger from the wardrobe, closed its doors, and left.
He left without a word, walked out the back door holding the jacket, said goodbye to neither the grieving woman in the living room nor the policemen trying to comfort her-they'd see that his car was gone when they left.
He let the thing hang next to his desk at home as he wrote the eulogy, stared at it as he memorized the words he'd say.
It didn't fit him anymore, of course. Cole had been slimmer than he was. Roy didn't let it bother him as he spoke to the people in the church. There were surprisingly few of them-didn't people care about Cole? But somehow he felt he should have known that he had been too private a man to have many close friends-and most of them latched onto his words as he praised the dead man for his merit. That was the kind of thing Cole used to get when he was the LAPD's rising star. Maybe that wasn't what he should have gotten now, at this last speech given in his honor. Elsa certainly seemed to think so, walking out and making a scene.
Roy watched her leave, watched Biggs follow her and place a consoling arm around her shoulders, felt the tightness of the fabric around his own.
He took the jacket off as soon as he got home. He briefly considered trying to return it to Mrs. Phelps, but he decided against it. It would be difficult to explain why he had it and why he was bringing it to her. He hung it up in his own closet instead, but at the end instead of in the place it used to rest. He kept it separate from the suits he actually wore. After all, it wasn't really his anymore.
The problem was, it wasn't really Cole's, either.
A/N: The Chicago Lightning suit isn't actually the same one Roy wears to the funeral, but they are awfully similar. Similar enough that I can imagine this.
