A post-Redemption in Blood fic. I should mention the story starts to veer slightly from canon. Thanks to oddmonster for an insightful beta and for talking me down from the canon ledge. For hellocleveland, who has waited patiently. The manpain, it abducted me and sold me to a carnival. A carnival of pain.
And in the afterwards...
two
The grass was freshly cut, not-yet-withered clippings strewn over the neat edges of the white sidewalk that meandered past the house. The house Caitlin had bought, the house he didn't remember. He hadn't expected this... this sign of care. Wasn't sure he'd ever mowed that lawn himself, or if they'd paid a neighbor kid to do it. Didn't even know if he'd ever met the neighbors.
On the ride over, while Rico navigated the Miami back streets as detached as a taxi-driver, Sonny had tried to hold an image of Caitlin in his mind long enough to spark a memory - any memory - of the home they'd shared. Eating Indian takeout. Waking up entwined under the sheets, her hair tickling his chin. Even watching the damn tv. Nothing had come. He'd tried to blame it on the itchy exhaustion that had settled over him the third time a nurse had poked him awake, around three in the a.m., but even that didn't stick for long.
Miami passed by in a blur of glassy high rises and shambling bodegas, familiar as the lines on his palms. The city was the only thing left that he knew for certain, ingrained so deep that even when his brain went off on an unannounced furlough, the man who'd taken his place had still managed to navigate its layers of seductive corruption without thought. The doc had said that everyday knowledge - how to tie his shoes, the sound of a .38 cocking in the dark - would have remained undamaged, even as everything personal deserted him. He could guess what Rico thought about that little tidbit.
Sonny was dying to ask after the squad, to find out what had gone down while he was...missing. He must have had a half dozen open case files before the explosion. Had Rico inherited them? Maybe fobbed them off on Stan? Or had they fallen into missing-cop limbo? The words died before they had a chance to form. He'd settled for fiddling with the caddy's radio dial until Rico flashed him one too many silent, expressionless glances. No radio. He got it. So he'd sunk down into the leather passenger seat and ignored Rico right back.
Turned out that worked out just fine for both of them.
At this rate, the next coupla days were gonna be a barrel of laughs. Just after lunch (he'd only managed some orange jello, despite the nurse's cajoling) Castillo and Rico had shown up at the hospital for a meeting with Dr. Andresson, the neurologist, wearing matching frowns, though Rico's shaded more towards a scowl by the end of the conversation. Somewhere along the line they all forgot he existed, discussing their options as if he wasn't in the room. Since no one seemed interested in what he had to say he'd mostly stopped listening.
The doc wanted him looked after. And since there wasn't anyone else, Rico got volunteered by default. Sonny didn't bother protesting. Neither did Rico, though his opinion of the matter was plain to anyone who knew him. Guess they were both just too tired to do anything other than go along. Somewhere, down deep, this bothered him more than the headache, the stares, the not-knowing. They shouldn't be so damn tired.
Rico parked the caddy at the curb and sat staring out at the posh street, blank behind his sunglasses, hands still loose on the wheel. Cucumber cool in his charcoal grey Armani. The neat knot of his tie and the crisp creases in his slacks gave him an impenetrable air, like he was wearing some kind of high-fashion body armor. Sonny tried not to notice how itchy he felt under the hot sun, the grime that the trickle of lukewarm water from the hospital shower that morning hadn't washed away. Instead he followed his partner's gaze out to the surrounding street.
The neighborhood Caitlin had picked was quiet. Tastefully nondescript - not the digs you'd expect from a star on the rebound. The street was lined with tall, fringe-capped palms, the yards done up just so, as precisely manicured as Burnett's fingernails. Not the kind of place where the residents mowed their own lawns - so at least there was one memory he probably wasn't missing. The house was modern, with geometric lines and big empty windows, and set back from the road for privacy. A chest-high wall embedded with glass bricks shielded the front step, providing an additional buffer from the outside world. It shone bright white in the afternoon glare. Sonny squinted, but the house stayed just a house. Anonymous as the rest of the oversized boxes that had sprung up all over Miami in the past ten years. His stomach clenched and twisted. Maybe that jello hadn't been such a great idea.
"The lawyers give you a hard time?"
Rico turned toward him at the question and at first all Sonny could see was his own doubled image staring back at him from the other man's mirrored lenses. The sight stripped him bare. Left him exposed and floundering before his partner, before a face that after five years should have been as familiar as his own. It made him wish for his own shades - Burnett's hundred-dollar Ray Bans – lost somewhere between the bust and that other white, modern house - the one he'd shared with Celeste. The house he did remember.
"Gimme a hard time about what?" Rico was gonna make him work for it. For everything. He blinked, and the tension in Rico's jaw made Sonny realize he was grinding his own teeth.
"The keys." Sonny shrugged and tore his attention away, out toward the unfamiliar street. Tried to make it look casual. "Castillo said the record execs filed a lawsuit."
Rico pulled a slim keyring out of his pocket. Three or four keys jangled together, dangling from his partner's fingers. Sonny waited for some sign. Was he supposed to take them?
"They didn't change the locks," Rico said.
At what must have been another in a long string of blank looks - an expression with which Sonny's face was becoming revoltingly familiar - Rico closed his hand around the keys. "They're yours. You left them behind when you went under." With that, Rico stuffed the keyring back into his pocket, climbed out of the caddy and shoved the driver's door closed. The car shuddered in protest at the unfamiliar force.
They're yours. You left them behind.
Oh.
Rico was already to tile of the front stoop by the time Sonny caught up with him. Sonny's shoulders felt too loose without the second skin of his holster. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the tailored jacket that belonged to the suit he'd worn when the bust went down. The suit he'd been wearing for days, when he hadn't been dolled up in a backless gown. Burnett's suit, all sleek lines and dark, slippery fabric, barely wrinkled despite the beating it had taken. Even the gun Castillo had confiscated from him had been Burnett's - a matte black Glock. Stuck in that sterile, chilly hospital room with nothing to do but search the empty spaces where his memories should have been, Sonny had found himself worrying over what had happened to the Bren-ten. As if one lost gun was the worst of his problems.
Cheery orange and white clusters of lantana stood in trim waist-high shrubs on either side of the doorway, the scent like a pitcher of orange juice left out in the sun too long, thick and sweet. A pair of white butterflies twirled around one another before settling on one of the flowers. Two sets of wings opened and closed, the bodies appearing to widen and narrow in silent rhythm. It was all so... domestic. He had lived here?
Rico pulled out the keychain - Sonny's keychain - and then stopped short. Sonny fell back a step on instinct.
"The door's open." The keys vanished and Rico drew his gun. Sonny couldn't halt an aborted reach for where his own weapon should have hung. And he'd thought he'd felt naked before. Jeezus. He craned his neck, careful to stay out of Rico's line of fire, his heart thundering in his ears. The right half of a wood-framed glass double door stood ajar, as if Caitlin had just come back with the groceries, her hands too full to pull the door shut behind her.
"Anybody else have keys?" Sonny backed away another pace, giving Rico plenty of room. Rico didn't bother to answer, but how should I know - it's your damn house was written plainly across the stiff lines of his shoulders. Yeah. Right. His damn house. His keys in Rico's pocket.
His - Burnett's - gun locked in Castillo's desk.
His mind, full of gaps and sticky darkness. Or was that Burnett's too?
Rico followed his gun like a good cop and edged through the door. He didn't tell Sonny to stay put. Still knew him better than that, whatever else had happened. Sonny followed, careful, careful, hanging back, replacing the door in its jamb without a sound. For a few long seconds he saw nothing. He blinked, and an empty foyer came into focus. Festive Spanish tile under his feet. White walls, high white ceiling. Across from the entrance a set of steps led upward to a balcony. A big stucco vase stood guard near the stairwell, a single old-fashioned hook-handled umbrella leaning against the lip.
Rico slipped his sunglasses off with his free hand and stashed them in his jacket pocket. Their heads turned in tandem at a soft sound from the unseen depths of the house. A snick, like a door shutting. Sonny listened hard, filtering out Rico's breathing without thought. Footsteps. Someone in the house. Someone in the fucking house. Acid filled his stomach, his head, boiling up, nearly blinding. An intruder in Caitlin's home.
Had Rico been here before? It would be better if one of them knew the layout. Surely he had... Caitlin turned to smile at him over her shoulder, her short hair mussed, her skin glowing in firelight. "Don't you move," she said, lilting voice curling with playfulness. She rose to her feet and pulled on the first thing she found - a wrinkled dress shirt, robin's egg blue. His shirt. He reached-
A hand grasped his wrist - Rico's hand, holding him back, a wordless rebuke in the thin press of his mouth. Rico dropped the contact as soon as Sonny fell into place behind him again. They moved forward through the empty foyer and into an empty living room. Amorphous white-draped furniture stood like solemn sentinels before a blank marble fireplace. Sonny went cold. The fireplace. Caitlin painted gold by the flames, lips spread, laughing.
Caitlin in lacy white, sheathed in long black gloves from the tips of her fingers to her elbows and-
Running water. Sonny shook his head but the sound remained, coming from just beyond the living room. A faucet. In the kitchen? A hysterical thought broke free, even as he tried to squash it - maybe it was Caitlin, doing the dishes. Had Caitlin washed dishes? Or had they hired someone to take care of things like that?
He hadn't asked how Caitlin had died and no one had volunteered anything. He'd heard the doc tell Rico and Castillo (as they listened, Rico's frown turned dubious, Castillo's considering) that it was better to let him remember things on his own. But every moment was laced with hidden tripwires, and when something came back - like that flash of Caitlin by the fire - it returned fractured and senseless. And every time he tried to grab hold it dissolved like chalk in his hands. Flour. Flour on his face. His white reflection filling a round mirror, and he was made of moondust-
Jesus. Get a grip, Sonnyboy.
While he'd been on his little vacation from the here and now Rico had moved down a short hall lined floor to ceiling with windows and turned toward the the next room, his dress shoes nearly soundless on the tile. The running water cut off and Rico ducked through the doorway, gun braced in both hands. Sonny kept his back to the wall and hurried after. There was a clatter and a gasp from the room beyond, then Rico swore and his arms dropped, the gun dangling at his thigh. Sonny pushed past his partner into - yes - a kitchen. Only it wasn't Caitlin washing up the dishes. It was -
Sonny blinked. "Caroline." Barely twenty, she grinned up at him from a dog-eared, rain-spotted snapshot, and he held on, held on to her, to the thought of her, while he traced her ponytail with one grubby finger.
His ex-wife stood behind a small island in the center of the kitchen. One hand was still half raised in surprise, the damp rag she held dripping suds onto a counter top littered with cleaning supplies. A clear plastic spray bottle filled with blue liquid, a squat white bottle of bleach, a box of Kleenex. A little orange box of baking soda. Two rolls of paper towels. What looked like the remains of Chinese take-out.
"Sonny," she said, dropping the rag. "God. Sonny." Caroline left the counter behind, started towards him, and then came to a halt, something odd in her expression. Something-
Rico shifted next to him, cleared his throat before he spoke. "Sorry about that, Caroline. I didn't expect-"
"The cleaning woman. Yeah, I got that from the gun." Caroline tucked a flyaway curl behind one ear and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. The movement pulled her water spotted blue tee-shirt tight over her chest and belly and Sonny felt himself staring. Things shifted in his head and then time contracted, because despite four years of divorce and four months out of his mind he still knew her body as his own. And the edges of his vision dissolved into white.
"Sonny?" Caroline's voice and then he heard Rico swear; but Rico was... Rico was...
he heard Rico descending into the cabin. didn't move. the tumbler was solid and warm in his hand and his head swam to the rhythm of the rocking water. he cradled the glass to his forehead, barely aware of the sharp whiskey fumes. Rico stood there, looking at him. his head was too heavy to lift and even if he could have he wouldn't have because Rico was looking at him and he didn't want to see what Rico carried in his face. in his eyes. the phone rang and
The backs of his knees hit something hard. Hands on his shoulders shoving him down so he struck out, blind, until his arms were pinned to his sides and the voice in his ear penetrated the white haze. "Dammit, Sonny, goddamn it, just stop-" But even after he quit struggling he couldn't get any air, his lungs working but nothing coming, and the hands forced him forward so that his head was between his knees. A field of plum stripes blurred and solidified. His eyes were open. Inches away from Rico's shirt - Rico was kneeling on the floor, holding him by the shoulders, holding him in place. His fingers found wicker and the cloth of cushions. A chair.
"...released him this afternoon. I was just bringing him by for some clothes." Rico spoke over his shoulder, clipped, like he was pissed. "How'd you get in?"
The butt of a revolver, nestled in the molded leather holster clipped to Rico's belt, was just visible under the spread tails of his jacket. Sonny focused on the gun until his chest eased. "Lemme up."
"Gina called me. I thought... well, the lawyers covered up the furniture, but they just left everything else. It's been months." Steel in Caroline's voice that didn't fit her words. She hadn't answered Rico's question.
"Lemme up, Rico," Sonny managed, pulling against his partner's grip. Rico turned back around and released him, sitting back on his heels as Sonny straightened up in the chair. The room tilted and then swung pendulum-like until it settled back to normal.
Caroline hovered by the kitchen island, still hugging herself, wan against the bright blue tee. The swell of her belly closed Sonny's throat. He swallowed and rubbed his forehead. The skin felt cold and distant against his hands. Rico stood and faced Caroline, a challenge in his stance. What had happened? The silence stretched on and on, so Sonny let out the first question to come to mind.
"When are you due?"
Caroline flinched, like he'd slapped her. Rico just stared at his shoes.
"New Years," she answered, meeting his eyes, her back straight. Which made her... five months along. Give or take. He pushed away from the chair and rose to his feet. His legs had gone numb. He should really... he should get what he'd come for.
"Where's the bedroom?" he asked. The words felt too large for his mouth. They both stared at him. He was getting used to the sensation. Caroline responded first. "Upstairs. Second door on the right."
"Sonny. Sonny, wait-" Rico's voice was edged with strain. Sonny paused just beyond the kitchen, where the hall was flooded with light from the bank of windows, but Rico didn't continue whatever he'd meant to say.
He didn't make it as far as the bedroom. The first doorway he came to turned out to belong to a spacious full bath. He shut the door behind his back and left the light off; but the room remained bright - a frosted skylight over his head diffused the afternoon sun. He ran his hands over gleaming chrome and pale green marble. There was nothing personal here, nothing of Caitlin. Nothing of himself.
The quiet was broken by a raised voice, muffled by the walls. Easy to tune out. Sonny stripped off the suit jacket and let it slip to the floor. Rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled shirt. The slim polished knobs of the faucet turned in his hand without a hint of friction. He opened them fully, until the rush of the water into the shallow bowl of the sink drowned out the voices from the kitchen. Let the lukewarm water run over his hands. Leaned over the marble counter top and scooped up a handful to splash his face. He wanted a shower; but the thought of stripping naked in this place that was supposed to be his home ratcheted up his headache about ten notches.
No towel. Sonny shook the water from his hands, reached for his discarded jacket and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The vague shadow of a body - someone watching him. He whirled to find himself nose to nose with a slump-shouldered man wearing Sonny Burnett's threads and Sonny Crockett's eyes. Water trickled down the other man's face and neck, soaking into the rumpled white collar of his shirt and dotting the loose silk of his tie. A fist flew towards his face. He staggered backwards, far enough to take in the framed border of the full length mirror hanging from the back of the bathroom door.
The marble room rang with harsh echoes of his breathing. Shit. Shit. His hands were in right balls; when he uncurled his fingers the flesh of both palms was embedded with pale half-moons where the nails had bitten the skin.
He abandoned the jacket and fled to the hallway. "...under investigation, Caroline. IAD wanted him pulled in last night but Castillo put his foot down. If the neurologist hadn't found anything..." Rico and Caroline must have moved back into the open room below the balcony.
Second on the right. Two steps away. The recitation of his impending doom faded behind another closed door.
More white phantoms where furniture should have been. A wide expanse of bed, what could be a double dresser, and a low armchair with ebony feet. The folded rice paper and bamboo ribs of a Japanese lantern perched in a corner of the wood floor. A tower of cardboard boxes was stacked neatly in another corner. Unlabeled. Caitlin's? Or his? And what about the stuff from the St. Vitus?
Sonny sank down onto the bed, the sheet-draped mattress giving under his weight. Looked down at his open palms, watched the marks his fingernails had made fill in and turn pink, until there was nothing left but smooth skin. He searched for Caitlin in the scrawl of black calligraphy covering the brittle paper scroll that hung over the dresser. She'd grown up in Glasgow - why the Japanese theme? He stood up again and pulled the sheet from the bed. Smoothed his fingers over the black lacquer of the headboard.
He waited but nothing more of her came to him.
The dresser held six drawers, stacked in two columns. Sonny let the sheet that had covered it slip to the floor and laid his hands flat on the top surface. A little bowl carved from alabaster held a tangle of loose earrings and thin gold and silver chains. Three glass perfume bottles stood shoulder to shoulder behind the bowl. Which had been her favorite? A brass Zippo marked with a paratrooper's insignia sat near his right hand, the first damn thing he'd recognized as his in the entire place. He flicked it open with practiced ease and sparked a flame. Let it die. The lighter shut with a snap and he slid it into his pocket.
The top drawer on the right side of the dresser held neat piles of men's tee-shirts and underwear. His size. Sonny pulled out two handfuls and dropped them onto the bare mattress. He found a pair of threadbare jeans in the bottom drawer. And all at once he couldn't wait to get to Rico's and a shower - he toed off the dress shoes and stripped off Burnett's black slacks and then pulled on the jeans. The unravelling holes lined up with his knees. He reclaimed the Zippo and yanked himself free of the black and white silk tie. The damp dress shirt went next, replaced with one of the tees from the bed.
Burnett's clothes sat in a pile at his feet, crumpled like a shed skin. The lighter was in his hand again, flame bright and blue-hot at the center. Don't be an idiot, Sonnyboy. Right. Setting fire to his clothing wouldn't exactly help him get back into Rico's good graces, now, would it? Besides, arson would just give IAD more proof.
More proof of what, exactly?
When had his internal voice started to sound like Cliff King? "Shut the hell up," he muttered, startling himself. He slammed the open drawers closed and turned to the closet, which was larger than Billy's nursery had been, back in that first house with Caroline. Most of it was Caitlin's - sparkling gowns in clear plastic covers, a double arm's span of slim tailored jackets. At the back of the closet stood an open set of shelves, a rainbow of shoes lined up two by two. A wad of dark fabric stuffed into one of the sandals caught his eye. Slippery in his fingers as he pulled it free of the shelf - a single silk glove, long as his forearm, the purple so deep it was nearly black.
A roar, the sound like some natural force, beating back even the amplifiers nearest where he stood. He stayed at the shadowy edges, careful not to get caught in the beams of light. She was outlined in silver so bright he had to fight not to look away. One of her arms stretched out toward the crowd, the fair skin of her shoulders glowing against the dark silk of the glove that covered her from fingertips to -
"Sonny?"
white lace scratchy under his hands
"Sonny?"
His hand clenched around the silk glove and if he'd had his gun he would have fired without thought, without taking aim. Caroline stood framed by the entrance to the closet, wrapped in a sweater her mother had knitted ten years ago. His back hit the shoe rack and Caroline went still, hands open and loose at her sides. "Hey," she said. Her eyes were too big, but she stood her ground. He tried to swallow. Found he was holding his breath. The tee-shirt stuck to his shoulder blades with cold sweat.
"Yeah," he managed.
"I have to get back. I'm staying with Bob's mother." Bob. He blinked. Nodded like he understood. Bob's mother... her new husband.
Right.
She waited a moment, her lips pressed together like she was holding back what she wanted to say. Then she sighed. "Rico has the number."
Just before she slipped out of sight he found his voice. "Caroline."
"Yeah?" She turned and warmth had replaced the wariness in her eyes.
"Thank you."
A rigid pressure he hadn't noticed in his chest released when she was gone. He grabbed a black leather duffel bag from the closet floor and stuffed it with a few linen jackets that were obviously his, then added the underwear and tee shirts he'd left on the bed. Didn't look for toiletries, even though a peek through the room's third door revealed a master bath. He'd ask Rico to stop at a market on the way.
Rico whirled at the sound of his footsteps on the kitchen tile. For a moment his partner's expression twisted with something like confusion; but as soon as Sonny thought to wonder about it Rico closed down tight, and whatever it was he'd seen was shuttered behind a veneer of professionalism.
"Got what you needed?"
Sonny hefted the duffel in answer. Rico nodded and Sonny followed him to the front door. Neither one of them looked back.
