Reinstated
Setting: Pre-Season
I tap the tab for soda water, fill my cup up to the top. When it's full I take a long drink, refill it, add a little more ice. Crunching on a cube, I turn to see they've found a table near the windows.
By the time I get over there, Batista's already popped the cap off his cream soda and has started chugging it down. Doakes' bottle is sitting untouched, already sweating onto the table, while its owner glowers out the window.
"I grabbed us some napkins," Batista says, setting down his soda. "And some extra sauce."
"Thanks." I smile at him and sit down. He smiles back, setting his wrists on the table.
A half an hour ago I was sitting in Pascal's office. And even though we'd talked before I got there, I was still nervous as we sat there with LaGuerta's old desk between us. I'd thought of a hundred different reasons that she might delay my reinstatement, or even deny it altogether, thought up a hundred churlish responses, but instead she just asked me if I was sure. After we talked for awhile we got up and shook hands, and she welcomed me back. And just like that, it ended. As of Monday, I'm off leave. I can finally start putting this whole thing behind me.
As I was walking out of her office I ran into Doakes and Batista, and they invited me to join them for lunch. Five minutes later I was sitting passenger side as my old partner pulled out of the lot, exchanging small talk, like everything was normal, like nothing ever happened, like I'd never left.
At least, as much as it could.
"It's gonna be a relief to have you back, Morgan," Batista says. "It's been way too quiet around the station without you."
I feel a slight flush of embarrassment, resist the urge to hide behind my cup. "I'd only been there a couple months," I say, waving him off.
"Well, we got used to you."
"He's right," Doakes rumbles. "You were the flesh blood the department's needed."
I want to ask why, what makes him say that, but the burn rising up my face stops me. Instead I just say, "Thanks," take a long sip of water. And as I drink I find myself studying him again, briefly.
Something's changed between me and my old partner, something I can't really define. I haven't seen or talked to him since that night at the hospital. And maybe part of it is that I'm still angry about what he said about my brother, whatever the hell it was he was insinuating just moments after Dexter saved my life.
But the other part of it is that he was one of the only people who saw me on that table, him and LaGuerta, and I still feel so fucking ashamed of it.
But the tension feels more like background noise than anything, kind of distant and unimportant. Ignorable. And if there's anything I'm sure of, it's that Doakes isn't going to mention it. It'd be way too fucking touchy feely for the hard-ass, ex Ranger.
Thank god.
"So how has it been going around the station?" I ask when I finally set my cup down. "What's your take on Pascal?"
Batista shrugs. "She's kind of hands off. Spends a lot of time with LaGuerta."
"She seems distracted," Doakes says, reaching for his soda. "I don't think she was prepared for the change in politics coming downtown."
"That's right," I say, fishing out a memory. "She was transferred in."
"Yeah. From Fort Lauderdale." He unscrews the cap, takes a sip. "She was promoted after she took a bullet while protecting a bunch of civilians. That gas station stand off."
I nod. "Yeah, I remember." That was right around the time I'd started the Brandy gig for Vice. I think I was up in Hollywood when it happened. I remember overhearing the news from a radio in a botanica where I'd been buying myself some crappy lunch. It was a pretty big deal— a sergeant getting shot, one of the guys responsible dead, the other dragged into custody.
"She was off for like five months or something," Batista says as Doakes drinks again. "Came back, got promoted, was happy to sit behind a desk. Or so I hear."
For some reason I can't think of how to respond to that. "Oh," is what I come up with. I drink some more water, exhale as the gas pushes up my throat.
"But like I said," Batista continues. "She's pretty hands off. She's been easy to work with."
"Sounds good to me," I say, leaving the rest of it unsaid. I'm honestly relieved that it wasn't LaGuerta sitting between me and reinstatement. If it had been, I'm not sure I'd ever have been able to come back, now or any other day.
And now that I'm thinking about my old LT, I can't help but grin. "So how is LaGuerta taking being back in the pen, anyway?"
"Actually, pretty well. Surprisingly well. Maybe staying is just her way of giving Matthews the finger."
Doakes grunts, and I glance at him. I think he's the only one in the station who truly considers her a friend. But whatever it is he's thinking, it doesn't look like he wants to share.
"But we are talking eventual hostile takeover, right?" I lean back. "There's no way LaGuerta's gonna let Pascal continue warming her seat."
"Well, I'll tell you one thing." Batista shrugs. "If she is, I'm staying the hell away from it."
Doakes smiles with all his usual surliness. "Maria's been eying the directorship for as long as I've known her. No one is getting between her and that ladder."
I want to ask him to elaborate, but I already know that he's not going to say any more. And, frankly, I've never really had any desire to get involved in department politics anyway. Like Batista, I'm just going to stay the fuck out of whatever inevitably happens.
Though that doesn't mean I'm not gonna savor getting to watch her kowtow to somebody else for once from my newly reinstated front row seat, for however long it lasts.
I find myself grinning again. For the first time in a long time, maybe since before I walked onto that damn boat, I feel a lightness, a sort of uncomplicated bliss, and it suddenly hits me how glad I am just to be sitting here. I have a job again, my friends, a path back to a future that's beyond this shit hole I've been stuck in. And a fat fucking brisket sandwich on the way.
For the first time in a long time, I don't feel so afraid.
"Like I said," Batista says, "staying out of it."
Doakes is still smiling to himself as he sips his soda. As usual, it looks weird on his face.
As I open my mouth to comment on his mood, a call from behind interrupts me: "88!"
"That's us." Batista is already getting up. I move to follow, but he holds up his hands. "I'll get it."
"Alright," I say, settling back.
He nods, then shuffles away, adjusting his hat as he goes.
Doakes watches him go, then turns to me. "I didn't get a chance to say," he says quietly, "it's good to see you, Morgan. I'm glad to see you're doing okay."
Immediately, my smile starts to fade, but I force my expression to stay even. "Thanks," I say. "I'm just glad to be back."
He looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can Batista is walking back over with a couple of trays, which he sets down on the table. "Think this is yours," he mutters to Doakes, shoving one of them towards him. I pull mine to me as Batista takes his seat, then glance at the two additional plates on the detective's tray.
"What the fuck're those?" I ask, pointing at them.
He grins at me, then picks up the plates. "Fried pickles," he says, setting down the first one. "And the chicken wings." He sets that down too.
That sounds as good as it does appalling. Doakes is already plucking up a handful of pickles, which he dunks into the accompanying dip. As he shoves the lot in his mouth, I grab one for myself and dip it into the mystery sauce, which turns out to be ranch dressing. Shit, it's good.
"So how's Auri doing?" I ask as I take another pickle.
Batista's smile broadens. "Oh, she's great. I have her for the weekend. I'm gonna take her to see that Terabithia movie tomorrow."
I flash back on the endless amount of TV I've been watching lately. "Oh, yeah. That's opening today, right?"
"Yeah."
Doakes pauses halfway through a wing. "Doesn't she die of cancer or some shit?" he asks, brows wrinkled.
He shrug. "I don't know. It's a kids movie."
He harrumphes, peels some meat off the bone with his fingers. "I remember reading that when I was a kid."
I snort as I grab two pickles and drown them in ranch. It's hard to imagine Doakes as a child. All I can really see is a miniature version of him, still somehow mustachioed, running around and calling people assholes.
Batista glances at me, then back at the sergeant. "I'd never heard of it. But it looks cute. And, besides, it's not like I can take her to Ghost Rider."
"I'm pretty sure she dies," he says. "She's hit by a car or gets cancer or something. It was a sad book."
"It's a Disney movie. How sad can it be?"
"I don't know. But it was sad."
Batista looks at me. "You know anything about it?"
It's my turn to shrug. "I think Dex is taking Rita and the kids to see it too. I'm sure Auri will like it."
He looks back at Doakes with a "See?" expression, but instead of listening to the sergeant's response I pick up my sandwich. Even cut in half the thing's drippy and falling apart, and I'm not really sure how to eat it politely. After a second's thought I give up and take a bite, let half of the meat fall onto the plate.
They're still arguing about the movie as I restuff the sandwich, pour some of the extra barbecue sauce inside. By the time I've taken another bite the conversation's shifted over to Ghost Rider and whether or not it's going to suck. The only thing I have to contribute is that I liked National Treasure.
By the time the topic concludes I'm stripping my second wing with my teeth, already starting to feel full. I'd forgotten how good this place was. Batista and I went here for lunch once before when we were working the ITK case, I think back when we were chasing Neil Perry. Maybe I'll drag Dexter here at some point. Or someone else.
"Anyway," Batista says, holding up his huge-ass, half-eaten sandwich, "Morgan, you have any plans for the weekend?"
I set down the bones, wipe my fingers on a napkin. "Laundry, probably," is all I can really think of.
"Well, you're welcome to join us at the bowling alley," he says. "We're playing the Alley Cats on Sunday."
I have a vague memory of my brother saying something about that. "Maybe another night," I hedge. "I think I'm going to try to go to bed early on Sunday." Though of course the truth is I think I'd rather fry and eat a bowling ball than spend the night watching Dexter, Masuka, Batista, and Jimmy bowl against a group of realtors or whoever the fuck it is this week.
Doakes catches my eye for a split second, and I feel something mutual pass between us as a big, cheese-covered glob falls out of Batista's sandwich and plops onto his plate. Grinning slightly, I reach for and eat another pickle, which is unfortunately already getting cold. Doakes starts stabbing at his coleslaw.
"Your brother's great," Batista continues, scooping up the meat with his bread and fingers. "I don't think we've ever played so well. I thought we were screwed when our old fourth fell through."
"I didn't even know Dexter knew how to bowl," I say, picking at what's left of the half of my sandwich. "Dad took us a few times when we were kids, but I don't think he's done it since he died."
"Well, he's a natural. I don't know if he's been taking my advice about projecting his intentions to the universe, but somebody seems to be listening to him."
Doakes grunts but doesn't say anything. And even though I can sense Batista wants to elaborate, or maybe because of that, I decide not to ask what the hell he's talking about. "I'm just glad he's got something to do," I say instead.
"Yeah, he doesn't get out much, does he?"
I snort. "I can't name two places he's been in the last couple months besides his apartment, his girlfriend's house, and work. Somehow I forgot how fucking boring he is."
Doakes glances at me, his brows dipping slightly. But if he wants to say anything, he's silenced by someone's phone going off. I start reaching for my purse, but Batista's already got his cell out of his pocket. "Hablando de Roma," he murmurs, glancing at the screen before sticking it to his ear. "This is Batista," he says.
I eat some more of my sandwich as he talks for a few minutes with who I'm guessing is my brother after the detective mentions something about a blood report. When I glance at Doakes, he's gone back to his coleslaw, looking uninterested in the phone call. Whatever it is, they're probably not working on it together.
"Uh huh," Batista says finally. "Alright. Thanks for letting me know."
I reach for my water as he hangs up. "Bad news?" I ask before taking a sip.
"Eh," he exhales, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "I've got this domestic case. Pretty sure it's the husband, but your brother's saying it was somebody shorter. We've been hunting this guy for a week now, so I don't know why he'd run if he's not guilty."
"Maybe he's dead too?" I offer helpfully.
"Who fucking knows." He reaches for and drains the last of his soda. "This case was a mess from the start."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." He sets down the bottle and looks at it for a beat. "I think I need another one of these. I'll tell you about it in a sec."
"Alright." I idly grab a napkin and start rubbing it between my palms.
"Want anything?"
Doakes and I shake our heads.
"I'll be right back."
Nodding slightly, I polish some dried sauce off a fingernail, though I know the only thing that's going to get the stickiness off is a trip to the bathroom. Across the table, Doakes has refocused on his sandwich with renewed gusto. For as full as I am, I can't imagine how he's still hungry. Then again he's like twice my size.
"You catch anything interesting lately?" I ask him, not really wanting to sit in silence.
He shrugs. "Same old, same old."
A random thought crosses my mind. "Have you been partnered back with LaGuerta?"
He pauses, sandwich halfway back to his mouth. "Yeah."
"How's that been? I know you said you used to be partners."
For awhile he just chews. "Maria was never big on field work," he says eventually, lowering his wrists but still holding onto his sandwich. "But we always worked well together. It feels like old times."
I nod, wondering if that means I'm going to be partnered back with Batista. "Good."
I want to ask him something else just to keep him talking, but he's already eating again. Instead I grab my water and lean back, drink, catch and suck on an ice cube. Despite the AC and overhead fans, it's warm in here.
Within a couple minutes Batista comes back, fresh soda in tow, which he's already opening as he takes his seat. When I prompt him for details about his case, it occurs to me that if we are partnered up again, come Monday this might end up being my problem too. The thought is oddly reassuring.
And as he talks it finally seems to sink in, settles over that jagged thing inside me, that maybe everything really can be okay again. That I won't always have to claw for every inch. That I can just sit here and listen to this fucked-up story about years of documented domestic abuse and some dead codeine addict and not feel like the world is disintegrating under my feet.
And exactly that much is right with the world.
