"What? Who's there?"
"It's me."
The two words that always opened the doors between them. The diamonds soften to charcoal. Click, clatter, clink. Hands he knows drag him inside, in an instant before protest he is hugged, breathed in, crushed by Knott's powerful, forgiving arms.
"Dammit, boss, it's good to see you!"
Adrift from reason in a sprawling, spiraling moment, his arms slide in a daze around Knott's chest. He leans in, leans deep, tries to mesh with the last friend he remembers having, apart from Fletch.
"Jeff? Hey, Jeff, whozzat? What brain-dead Jehovah's witness knocks on the door at two in the--" A deep, phlegmy yawn "--fucking morning?" Fletch appears, blonde, rumpled, pale in the dull light from the hallway. He stops as he sees the half-taboo before him.
Good-cop, bad-cop. Hanging on a razor blade, suspended almost in time.
Fletch's head snaps hard to one side, as if to clear it.
Anderton slides from Knott's grip, body reluctant, mind cleaved in two. He sees the toss-up happen in Fletch's child-blue eyes, sees the shine of some decision.
"Boss." So soft he can hardly hear it, but it's there. "Boss. We wondered where you'd got to."
Knott is cracks his knuckles, gives them both a surreptitious glance, ready to step in should things get ugly. Back to normal, indeed.
"Nowhere special," he replies, skirting the issue.
Blue warms from the winter sea to a calm summer sky. A hand reaches out to his arm, a faint touch, a smile. "Come on. I guess I'd better make some coffee, huh?"
They laugh. They all laugh.
And Fletch makes the coffee, like he always did before, and they sit around an enormous silver pot of the stuff like members of some bizarre cult.
"You broke up with her." It's not a question. They've been through this routine before. Over and over. Knott pleading, Fletch beating.
"Yes." He feels like something under a microscope.
"What now?" Fletch growls, swirling his coffee moodily.
Anderton lies back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't know quite what started it this time. Arguments, broken glass, the loneliness of a narrow couch. He covers his eyes, the one that works and the one-not-quite, speaks slowly. "She's pregnant."
Silence. Unfamiliar here. Mag-levs buzz outside, a sotto hum in the distance. Through thin walls he can almost hear laughter, honeymooning lovers in the night. He peers cautiously from the protective cover of his arm. Knott is looking at the floor with a deep frown furrowing his forehead. Fletch stares off at nothing, still as stone, but in the next instant, a furious cry of rage and frustration escapes him and he leaps to his feet.
"You stupid fuck! Jesus Christ, are you insane?" The man kicks him, hard, in the leg. "Get up and look at me, dammit!"
He tries. He does. And Fletch kicks him again, then stalks off around the room, striking walls and fixtures as he goes. Knott just shakes his head.
"Gordo--" he says softly. "Gordo, stop. Before you hit something sharp."
A string of whispered curses drift to Anderton's ears.
"FuckingcocksuckerofahalfbuggerednitwitgethimselfscrewedoveronemoretimeIdontknowwhattodoohthatgoddamnseersuckingmoron..."
As Fletch rounds the near corner of the room, the curses drift off again into the ambient noise of the city. Somewhere police sirens whoop and wail, but they are far, far away from here, or sound like it.
Anderton sits up, hugging his knees to his chin. All of a sudden he feels alone, apart from these two. Where has he been for three months? In his posh apartment in Baltimore proper, making love to a wife he thought he missed but isn't so sure of now. Fletcher and Knott are...different. They all are. Where is the safety line that once he was bound to? Where is the camraderie of a job well done, the adrenaline rush fading in the afternoon sunlight, in the early mist, in the moonlight?
"It's me."
The two words that always opened the doors between them. The diamonds soften to charcoal. Click, clatter, clink. Hands he knows drag him inside, in an instant before protest he is hugged, breathed in, crushed by Knott's powerful, forgiving arms.
"Dammit, boss, it's good to see you!"
Adrift from reason in a sprawling, spiraling moment, his arms slide in a daze around Knott's chest. He leans in, leans deep, tries to mesh with the last friend he remembers having, apart from Fletch.
"Jeff? Hey, Jeff, whozzat? What brain-dead Jehovah's witness knocks on the door at two in the--" A deep, phlegmy yawn "--fucking morning?" Fletch appears, blonde, rumpled, pale in the dull light from the hallway. He stops as he sees the half-taboo before him.
Good-cop, bad-cop. Hanging on a razor blade, suspended almost in time.
Fletch's head snaps hard to one side, as if to clear it.
Anderton slides from Knott's grip, body reluctant, mind cleaved in two. He sees the toss-up happen in Fletch's child-blue eyes, sees the shine of some decision.
"Boss." So soft he can hardly hear it, but it's there. "Boss. We wondered where you'd got to."
Knott is cracks his knuckles, gives them both a surreptitious glance, ready to step in should things get ugly. Back to normal, indeed.
"Nowhere special," he replies, skirting the issue.
Blue warms from the winter sea to a calm summer sky. A hand reaches out to his arm, a faint touch, a smile. "Come on. I guess I'd better make some coffee, huh?"
They laugh. They all laugh.
And Fletch makes the coffee, like he always did before, and they sit around an enormous silver pot of the stuff like members of some bizarre cult.
"You broke up with her." It's not a question. They've been through this routine before. Over and over. Knott pleading, Fletch beating.
"Yes." He feels like something under a microscope.
"What now?" Fletch growls, swirling his coffee moodily.
Anderton lies back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't know quite what started it this time. Arguments, broken glass, the loneliness of a narrow couch. He covers his eyes, the one that works and the one-not-quite, speaks slowly. "She's pregnant."
Silence. Unfamiliar here. Mag-levs buzz outside, a sotto hum in the distance. Through thin walls he can almost hear laughter, honeymooning lovers in the night. He peers cautiously from the protective cover of his arm. Knott is looking at the floor with a deep frown furrowing his forehead. Fletch stares off at nothing, still as stone, but in the next instant, a furious cry of rage and frustration escapes him and he leaps to his feet.
"You stupid fuck! Jesus Christ, are you insane?" The man kicks him, hard, in the leg. "Get up and look at me, dammit!"
He tries. He does. And Fletch kicks him again, then stalks off around the room, striking walls and fixtures as he goes. Knott just shakes his head.
"Gordo--" he says softly. "Gordo, stop. Before you hit something sharp."
A string of whispered curses drift to Anderton's ears.
"FuckingcocksuckerofahalfbuggerednitwitgethimselfscrewedoveronemoretimeIdontknowwhattodoohthatgoddamnseersuckingmoron..."
As Fletch rounds the near corner of the room, the curses drift off again into the ambient noise of the city. Somewhere police sirens whoop and wail, but they are far, far away from here, or sound like it.
Anderton sits up, hugging his knees to his chin. All of a sudden he feels alone, apart from these two. Where has he been for three months? In his posh apartment in Baltimore proper, making love to a wife he thought he missed but isn't so sure of now. Fletcher and Knott are...different. They all are. Where is the safety line that once he was bound to? Where is the camraderie of a job well done, the adrenaline rush fading in the afternoon sunlight, in the early mist, in the moonlight?