A/N: Soph--you're closer than you think to the truth... ;-)
Paul handed the detective in front of the counter a tall cup of coffee, staring at him in alarm. Bobby's lean face was rough and furrowed; there were hard lines around his mouth and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that Paul hadn't seen there before. He accepted the coffee silently and hunched over a table in the plaza, swallowing his coffee in slow, exhausted movements.
Flicking off the switch on the coffee maker, Paul weaved his way around the scattered tables to Bobby's seat. "Bobby, man, you look like you've seen a ghost or something..." The detective gave a hollow, dreary laugh and did not answer, looking off into the distance instead. "What's up?"
"What's up?" Bobby stared back at him, his coal-gray eyes burning like embers. He'd grown to know Paul well after Eames got shot last year; the three of them still kept up a battle of friendly banter and insults every morning. Bobby now found himself pouring out his story, his words overflowing as he released the deluge of confusion and anxiety he'd felt over the past week.
When he'd finished, Bobby expected some sort of joke or sympathy-or a combination of both-and became unsettled when Paul stayed silent. "What? What is it?"
"Bobby... what was your last case about?"
"My last case?" Bobby cast around in the flickering shadows of his mind and fished out a couple of loose memories. "A homicide, an eighteen-year-old guy, university student. His friend confessed to killing him while he was high on heroin."
Paul was briefly startled. "Pace?"
"No, Yeshiva."
"Oh, OK..." Paul relaxed slightly and continued. "How have you been feeling lately?"
"What...? What is this?" Bobby snapped defensively, blustering at him. "What do you mean, how..."
"Hey, Bobby, just answer me, please? Before this all started, how were you feeling?"
"Before the... the intruder?" When Paul nodded, Bobby slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. "Bored, I guess. I missed Eames, the cases were mind- numbingly repetitive..."
"In other words, not good."
"Yeah... so what?" Bobby raised his eyebrows at Paul. "What does this have to do with anything?"
Paul fiddled with the frayed cuff of his jacket sleeve before answering in a low, hesitant mumble. "Your apartment could be haunted."
Bobby spewed out a burst of loud noise, something like a snort and a laugh and a groan all muddled together, along with a mouthful of coffee. "What? What the-- Are you high or something--"
"No, no--Bobby, come on, hear me out! I'm serious!" Paul raised his hands, palms flat, fingers spread--a gesture of defensive recoil. "Just listen for a moment, OK?"
"You--you're crazy--"
"Bobby, shut up!" Surprisingly enough, Bobby subsided into an unsettled silence. Paul continued, defiant but determined. "Just listen to me. I've read about these things, they happen. There are documented cases. A poltergeist haunts a place or a person by feeding off their negative energy- -"
"My negative energy," Bobby interjected sarcastically.
"Your bad feelings, your boredom and loneliness and anger," Paul went on doggedly. "It's like possession, a bit, but it definitely goes under the class of a haunting... Poltergeists are angry spirits, ghosts with a bad attitude. They're known for breaking things and trashing places... "
"You're saying this guy--the student who got murdered--is now a poltergeist, and he's haunting my apartment." There was suddenly no trace of either cynicism or fear in Bobby's voice; it was merely quiet and neutral. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place in his mind... and yet it was so absurd, so unbelievable...
Paul shrugged. "It could be. I don't know, that's what it sounds like."
The cell phone in Bobby's pocket shrilled, and he dug it out. "Goren."
"It's Deakins," the voice on the other end of the line crackled. "I've got a statement from the officers and Mr. Russell."
"Thanks..."
"Wait a moment. You haven't heard the best part yet." Deakins paused for a moment, and Goren's hearing picked a strange noise--he couldn't match it to anything he'd ever heard in his life--echoing distantly in the background. Before he could figure it out, Deakins was speaking again. "We worked with the firefighters to comb your apartment. There's no trace of an intruder, and get this--the firefighters checked the wiring and the heat sources, as thoroughly they could, and apparently your matches spontaneously combusted."
"...That's impossible," Goren said softly, in the same neutral tone.
Deakins blew out an explosive sigh. "Look, Goren, I admit it. I'm stumped. I have no idea what the hell is going on here. Do you?" When the detective stayed silent, "Goren?"
"No. No, I don't."
"You're staying at a hotel, right?" Again, those odd sounds filtering through the static. "Goren? Goren, answer me--"
"Yes, I am," Goren ground out between his teeth. Paul rose in silence and retreated back to the coffee stand, refusing to look back at the detective as he went. "I'll phone you when I get there. 'Bye."
The hotel he booked into was clean and spacious, its rooms light and airy. Goren, lugging his bags behind him, moved mechanically, slowly and stiffly; his legs gave out just as he reached the bed, and he collapsed on top of it. The worn-out, weary wreck of a man fell into a deep sleep.
Unseen by the dozing detective, the lamp on his bedside table scraped its way across the surface, paused as it teetered on the edge, then lifted into the air and smashed against the wall with a crack.
If anyone was wondering, Pace and Yeshiva are both excellent universities in New York City (Paul, my favourite original character to write, attends Pace).
Happy holidays! :-D
Paul handed the detective in front of the counter a tall cup of coffee, staring at him in alarm. Bobby's lean face was rough and furrowed; there were hard lines around his mouth and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that Paul hadn't seen there before. He accepted the coffee silently and hunched over a table in the plaza, swallowing his coffee in slow, exhausted movements.
Flicking off the switch on the coffee maker, Paul weaved his way around the scattered tables to Bobby's seat. "Bobby, man, you look like you've seen a ghost or something..." The detective gave a hollow, dreary laugh and did not answer, looking off into the distance instead. "What's up?"
"What's up?" Bobby stared back at him, his coal-gray eyes burning like embers. He'd grown to know Paul well after Eames got shot last year; the three of them still kept up a battle of friendly banter and insults every morning. Bobby now found himself pouring out his story, his words overflowing as he released the deluge of confusion and anxiety he'd felt over the past week.
When he'd finished, Bobby expected some sort of joke or sympathy-or a combination of both-and became unsettled when Paul stayed silent. "What? What is it?"
"Bobby... what was your last case about?"
"My last case?" Bobby cast around in the flickering shadows of his mind and fished out a couple of loose memories. "A homicide, an eighteen-year-old guy, university student. His friend confessed to killing him while he was high on heroin."
Paul was briefly startled. "Pace?"
"No, Yeshiva."
"Oh, OK..." Paul relaxed slightly and continued. "How have you been feeling lately?"
"What...? What is this?" Bobby snapped defensively, blustering at him. "What do you mean, how..."
"Hey, Bobby, just answer me, please? Before this all started, how were you feeling?"
"Before the... the intruder?" When Paul nodded, Bobby slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. "Bored, I guess. I missed Eames, the cases were mind- numbingly repetitive..."
"In other words, not good."
"Yeah... so what?" Bobby raised his eyebrows at Paul. "What does this have to do with anything?"
Paul fiddled with the frayed cuff of his jacket sleeve before answering in a low, hesitant mumble. "Your apartment could be haunted."
Bobby spewed out a burst of loud noise, something like a snort and a laugh and a groan all muddled together, along with a mouthful of coffee. "What? What the-- Are you high or something--"
"No, no--Bobby, come on, hear me out! I'm serious!" Paul raised his hands, palms flat, fingers spread--a gesture of defensive recoil. "Just listen for a moment, OK?"
"You--you're crazy--"
"Bobby, shut up!" Surprisingly enough, Bobby subsided into an unsettled silence. Paul continued, defiant but determined. "Just listen to me. I've read about these things, they happen. There are documented cases. A poltergeist haunts a place or a person by feeding off their negative energy- -"
"My negative energy," Bobby interjected sarcastically.
"Your bad feelings, your boredom and loneliness and anger," Paul went on doggedly. "It's like possession, a bit, but it definitely goes under the class of a haunting... Poltergeists are angry spirits, ghosts with a bad attitude. They're known for breaking things and trashing places... "
"You're saying this guy--the student who got murdered--is now a poltergeist, and he's haunting my apartment." There was suddenly no trace of either cynicism or fear in Bobby's voice; it was merely quiet and neutral. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place in his mind... and yet it was so absurd, so unbelievable...
Paul shrugged. "It could be. I don't know, that's what it sounds like."
The cell phone in Bobby's pocket shrilled, and he dug it out. "Goren."
"It's Deakins," the voice on the other end of the line crackled. "I've got a statement from the officers and Mr. Russell."
"Thanks..."
"Wait a moment. You haven't heard the best part yet." Deakins paused for a moment, and Goren's hearing picked a strange noise--he couldn't match it to anything he'd ever heard in his life--echoing distantly in the background. Before he could figure it out, Deakins was speaking again. "We worked with the firefighters to comb your apartment. There's no trace of an intruder, and get this--the firefighters checked the wiring and the heat sources, as thoroughly they could, and apparently your matches spontaneously combusted."
"...That's impossible," Goren said softly, in the same neutral tone.
Deakins blew out an explosive sigh. "Look, Goren, I admit it. I'm stumped. I have no idea what the hell is going on here. Do you?" When the detective stayed silent, "Goren?"
"No. No, I don't."
"You're staying at a hotel, right?" Again, those odd sounds filtering through the static. "Goren? Goren, answer me--"
"Yes, I am," Goren ground out between his teeth. Paul rose in silence and retreated back to the coffee stand, refusing to look back at the detective as he went. "I'll phone you when I get there. 'Bye."
The hotel he booked into was clean and spacious, its rooms light and airy. Goren, lugging his bags behind him, moved mechanically, slowly and stiffly; his legs gave out just as he reached the bed, and he collapsed on top of it. The worn-out, weary wreck of a man fell into a deep sleep.
Unseen by the dozing detective, the lamp on his bedside table scraped its way across the surface, paused as it teetered on the edge, then lifted into the air and smashed against the wall with a crack.
If anyone was wondering, Pace and Yeshiva are both excellent universities in New York City (Paul, my favourite original character to write, attends Pace).
Happy holidays! :-D