Jake's been looking forward to this day for the past two weeks.
Which is sayin' something, seeing how Jake's spent the lot of the last five months lookin' back over his shoulder at That Day, thinking the answer to it all is gonna be there this time.
But today's a day for celebrating. Bambina's last day at the precinct, 'cause after years of hard work she's finally been transferred to the position that's been in her crosshairs from the get-go: Chief Prosecutor.
Jake couldn't be prouder of her – for more than just her promotion, really – and is treating her to the Dodgers game tonight to show as such. They don't get much time out together now, with Lana not too keen on straying from Ema for too long, but since the gal's away at some junior scientists' camp, they got the whole night ahead of 'em.
But yeah, however proud he may be, whatever happiness he's got stirrin' is tainted. It's a fair bit disappointin' that she's gonna be over in the Prosecutor's Office by her lonesome and not with Neil. He'd be pretty proud of Lana in his own right, having risen through the ranks with her, and bein' the prosecutor on the case that led to her first promotion, to Lead Investigator and Gant's partner.
He ain't gonna say as much though – don't wanna be selfish, or kill the mood. Just wants to take in the long hot summertime with her down at Chavez Ravine, then maybe visit that divey cantina near her apartment they used to frequent for dates.
Have it like it once was, if only for a few hours.
Lana meets him at his desk promptly at five-oh-five, all changed for the Dodgers game, bright blue t-shirt with her long red scarf showing her support. Her ponytail's swishin' out the back of the LA ballcap Jake bought her when they went to the Dodgers last spring with Neil and Little Ema.
He greets her by way of lifting her cap up enough to plant a kiss on her forehead, and she flinches like she always does when they're at the precinct and he decides them rules about interoffice relationships are more like "suggestions" and "guidelines".
"Y'all set?" He finds his own hat, which is the perfect match for the Texas Rangers jersey he's got pulled on over his usual work duds. Jake never really took to baseball, not like Neil did, but there ain't a better team name in all of sports so he made it a necessity to own this, for the few games he did go to.
"Well...I am, but..." Her gaze trails off with her voice for a moment, before she looks back at Jake with the same steadiness he's come to depend on. "Damon wants a word with you."
''Bout...?" Jake frowns, wonderin' what the shiny new Chief of Police wants with him that could be so important after five on a Friday.
"I'm not sure," Lana answers all too quick. "He didn't say. I'm guessing about the case you just wrapped up."
Which don't make no sense, because it's pretty open-and-shut, a rash of armed home invasions ending in the suspect gettin' his comeuppance when he didn't pay heed to the Beware of Dog sign at invasion sight number eight, blubberin' his confession while he got stitched up at the hospital.
And because it's not too often that Lana and Gant aren't sure 'bout what the other was thinkin'.
But as much as he wants to right now, you don't get away with sayin' "Nope, ain't got the time," when Damon Gant asks you to do something.
Might as well be walkin' into the Badlands. Not just because it's unpleasin' to the eye, with Lana's side of the office lights-out and shades-drawn makin' the shadows creepy and warped, and not just from that droning echo filling the room, courtesy of the organ pipes.
'S because when Jake makes his way 'cross the office, he's steppin' on Neil's last footprints too. It's the first time he's done so since That Day, his demands to investigate the scene being nixed on account of it being "too emotionally traumatic" for him.
Like there's some kind of expiration date. That now, five months later, he's s'posed to just waltz right in not feelin' all rotted-out in the heart and tight in his throat like he is as he takes a seat at Gant's desk.
"Good afternoon, Marshall! T-G-I-F, am I right? Just finishing up some paperwork for Lana's transfer!"
Maybe it's nothin' but the green-eyed monster of jealousy but he sure does hate hearin' a man more'n twice his girlfriend's age callin' her by her first name so...dearly. That's way down the ladder of things that rile Jake up about Damon Gant, though.
The top of the list would hafta be how all his investigations (especially the ones headed by Manfred Von Karma) were too squeaky-clean to not be coverin' a whole gully of dirt underneath – including the Darke murders.
But one thing he can't say Damon Gant's not is purposeful with his words and actions, and Jake knows he's showin' just what he thinks of "Lana" by callin' her that, 'stead of bothering with a nickname.
It also doesn't get by Jake that his own little nickname used to be "Jakey-boy." Which he hated, but really would prefer it to just bein' called by his last name, since that means there ain't another Marshall around to differentiate him from.
"She said you wanted to speak with me."
"Yes! I don't wanna keep you too long. Heard you two are going to the Dodgers game tonight! I'm more of a Giants fan, myself. Went up to catch a few games last year. Even took a kayak out in McCovey Cove!"
"That's great."
He's got this whole charade figured out – Gant always wantin' to lead the conversation, and when it don't go down that path, just pull out that penetrating stare he's got fixed on Jake right now. Jake likes to think that he's one of the few officers that don't end up shiverin' like a calf out in the rain when under it. However long Gant wants to stare him down, Jake aims to stare back at least one second longer.
"Anyway!" Gant claps his hands together once. "I just wanted to see how you've been, that's all. Rough go of it the past few months for all of us."
Jake's got his doubts Damon Gant has given any mind to what the past few months have been like for anyone other than hisself, but he nods, eager to be done with this meeting.
"We – Lana and I, that is – we want what's best for the department, for everyone here. And Lana especially, she wants what's best for you, you'd agree with that, hm?"
"Sure," he grits out. Gant's always talkin' to Jake like he's got nothin' underneath his hat but hair, but if there's one thing Jake ain't, it's stupid.
Yeah, in comparison to Neil and Bambina and all them lawyerly sorts, he'll fess that much is true, when it comes to booksmarts. But Jake notices things, even when he'd rather not. He picks up on words, on what's bein' said and what's not bein' said.
And right now, there's a whole shitload not bein' said, with Gant supposedly doin' the talking for two. That ain't how it used to be, before. Lana'd always speak her mind – s'what drew Jake to her, one of many things.
"After talking with her, I – well, we – think it might be better for you to have a less stressful position and there's-"
Jake's steely poker-face falls, dissolving into disbelief.
"-an opening at the records security room! Need someone monitoring those cameras. Very important work. It'd be perfect for you, Marshall. Whaddya say?"
Gant's eyes glint behind his shades, that he don't look too different from the rattler-snake Jake's always thought of him as. Cold-blooded when it counts.
"I'd say that sounds like a demotion." He knows how to keep his voice from betrayin' how gobsmacked he is by all this, but he don't know how to stop his heel from tappin', trying desperately to stomp stomp stomp down the anger that's flaring up.
"No, don't think of it that way. You're just going where you're needed most! I mean, the pay would be little less and-"
"-And I wouldn't be workin' crime scenes?"
"Ah, well no, this is primarily a desk job. I can't really go into it all now, you know. Don't wanna make you and Lana late for your game! But you'll have your training starting Monday. If you want a little overtime you can come in tomorrow and move your things over to the guard station."
He knows he sounds all broken, the way he keeps swallowing to stop from flyin' off the handle. From lunging across the desk and closing his fingers tight around Gant's neck, get him to quit yammerin' on like they're just bendin' an elbow at a saloon together. "I...kind of had...plans, but..."
"Oh, come now! It'd do you good to get out of your apartment every now and then. And that's another upside to this new job! You'll get to work weekends, overtime! It'd be good for you, help you move on. You need to put this behind you, son."
Funny, only Lana knew that's how he spent most his weekends: at his new crawlspace-sized apartment starin' blankly at whatever was on the public access channel and downin' whatever swill beer he'd kept stocked in the fridge.
Wasn't nobody else's business, certainly not Damon Gant's.
'Til she made it that.
He stares back at Gant, the only words he can manage bein' the absolute truth. "I see." Because he sure fucking does.
"I'm glad you do, Marshall."
The way Gant says it so quiet and casual-like, unblinking and deliberate. They're the words that soak in, stick like burrs, scratch and dig deeper in the more Jake tries to shake 'em off.
Same as that night five months ago. When Jake arrived at the precinct, after a phone call from Gant 'bout some "incident" in this here office, and asked Gant why couldn't he just talk to Neil 'bout this incident.
"Oh, well, I'm afraid he's dead."
Gant waves his hand dismissively, like Jake is nothin' more than a pet for him to command. "Now, go! Have fun at your game!"
Jake doesn't need to be told twice – even though he's not 'specting too much fun tonight, game or otherwise. He hightails it across the office, ready to get out of this place Neil never did, and is a few steps from the door when Gant calls out to him.
"Oh! Marshall?"
He turns, a flash in his mind of Neil alongside him doin' the same.
"Could you bring Lana her water bottle? She left it on her desk."
What he'd really like to do is spit in Gant's face.
"Sure can, Chief."
So he quicksteps over to Lana's desk, and his breath near leaves him entirely when he sees what's on the wall, hidin' away under the shadows of her abandoned post.
Gant, and Lana.
And 'tween them is Neil with his award – from That Day.
The sourness in his mouth, the weight in his stomach like he's been socked in the gut, the agitation crawlin' all over him from head to toe, just like That Day.
Bambina had never said anythin' about this photograph - never mentioned anythin' to Jake, that maybe he'd like a copy of the last picture of Neil. Maybe he'd even like to come up sometime and have a look-see at his brother the way he always saw him in his mind: all sure of hisself, determination in his eyes and very much alive.
He ties it all together with a sure hand: Why it's here, why she'd never said a peep about it to him.
Must've not meant 'nuff, just meant to collect dust here 'long with her stationary and textbooks. She could forget 'bout where she came from, and who was 'long side of her the whole way real easy s'long as she got what she wanted. Where she wanted.
And everyone else got what-for and where she wanted 'em too.
Gant's still at the desk, head bowed as he scribbles through that paperwork.
"Marshall, do hurry along. Don't leave a lady waiting."
He doesn't reply, not trustin' himself to do anythin' but rain a tide of cuss words if he opens his mouth.
As he rushes down the fourteen flights of stairs, too damn pent-up with a burning ire to stand still in the elevator, the rest of the puzzle begins to stitch it self together so very seamlessly.
Boy, he'd really like to think it's all an elaborate ploy on Gant's part, sayin' how this is Lana's idea too. A set-up, to keep Jake from mouthin' back about his demotion – he wouldn't go against Lana – but when he rounds the corner and sees her still waiting at his desk, with her unreadable expression...
He knows.
The good days. A Saturday when they'd both helped Little Ema with her homework and then ordered out Chinese food and watched some goofy superhero program Ema liked. And for an afternoon, the part of his feeling that kept getting sliced away returned.
The not-as-good days, Lana helping him move out of his (and Neil's) old apartment and into his crappy, cheaper new one and never questioning him for tackin' the wall up with Neil's Dodgers pennants and Lakers posters and a buncha other things Jake never cared a lick for past the fact that it was somethin' Neil liked.
And the really bad days. Her taking 'way and gettin' rid of the half-empty bottles of whiskey that weren't his – were Neil's - but someone had to drink it, he said. Might as well do it all at once – go big or go home, like they did in Texas.
All those days, she'd been there with him, and listening – listening so quietly and attentively when he would go on and on about how he couldn't believe Neil'd gone out this way - it'd been because she wasn't there for him.
This whole time, she was with him for Gant.
To shut him up.
Well, she's not done that, not by a long shot. Only thing she's done is prove him right. And he can't believe he's wasted all this time searchin' for answers by lookin' backwards. He shouldn't have been usin' hindsight, shoulda kept his eyes peeled on what was right in front of him.
She speaks first – thankfully, because Jake doesn't know how you start a conversation with your girlfriend about how she just sold you down the river.
"Ready to go?"
"No." He shoves the water bottle at her, starts to gather up a few items from his desk he'd rather keep at home than in his new prison.
She's so remarkably calm, cool. Not saying a word, and finally the silence becomes too much.
"I'm goin' by myself. Don't think you and me goin' together would be what's best for me." He retrieves some of the order-out menus from his desk drawer, throws 'em in the trash. Not gonna be able to afford to eat out for lunch too often now.
He aches for her to argue – to put up a fight, provin' everything he's just uncovered ain't so. That's her way, that's how Lana was, scratchin' and clawin' to the very end until things were settled. That's what made her one of the best detectives the LAPD had ever seen, and such a fine partner for Neil when he was only a tenderfoot.
Instead: "If that's how you feel, Marshall."
Now she's doin' it too – not carin' to remember there was another - and that's enough. That's the end of it for him. He doesn't even bother with a goodbye, just turns tail and leaves.
It's while he's drivin' through the blasted LA traffic, hungry for a Dodger Dog and to goddamn their bullpen up and down just like Neil used to do, that it occurs to him maybe it didn't matter none that Gant – and now Lana - wouldn't bother to separate him from Neil.
Two of 'em ain't all that different now, really, seein' how they've both been stabbed in the back.