AN: This is the fourth work in "The Scarf" series but it isn't necessary to read the others first. It's set after the movie's sequel U.S. Marshals, or about five years after the first movie.
"Richard?"
"Back here."
Samuel Gerard slid sideways between a set of vintage Morgan tires and the shelf of scattered tools.
The hood of said Morgan was popped high. Sam glanced at it with a quirk of his brows—they climbed higher when he spotted his black-clad friend bent into the forest green convertible's bowels.
Gerard drew flush beside him. He hummed a curious sound in the back of his throat. "For another client?"
"Nope," said Richard, torquing something with a wrench. "This one's all mine."
Gerard did a spin. "So you sold the model T."
Richard straightened with a huff. "Never. It's parked out back."
And then they just…stood there. Shoulder to shoulder. Both wearing all black and bags under each eye.
From the corner of Sam's vision, he saw a grease smudge on Richard's cheek, the only sign he'd been waist deep inside a car. His heart skipped a beat.
For reasons too close to home, Gerard slowly pulled the wrench from his friend's wiry fingers and threw it far away. When it clattered to the cement floor, Kimble seemed to take his first breath in hours.
"I'm sorry."
Sam grimaced and wished he had something else to throw. "Aw, Doc, shut up. You didn't do anything wrong. You weren't even there."
"Exactly." Richard swallowed. "I could've stopped the bleeding or—"
"I'm not a surgeon and even I know that's not true. I did everything you taught me. Nothing would have been enough."
A strange hush enveloped the world. There weren't even any dogs barking. No cars. Gerard landed heavily on a nearby stool with haunted eyes.
"He bled out in under forty seconds," Sam finished from behind his hands.
Neither man breathed for a long heartbeat. All was still in the way that dawn gets or just before an old man passes from this life or a child the day after Christmas.
Sam still had his eyes closed when a soft pressure landed on his knees. The slight grip on his pants grounded him, kept his mental movie theater from replaying the reel of blood all over his palms, from curls splayed on the wall, from young eyes full of surprise.
It was the one emotion fiction writers never understood or left out—one was always surprised to get shot, no matter the circumstances and no matter how long you stared down the barrel.
When Gerard finally worked up the courage to open his eyes, it was to see Kimble still crouched in front of him, unmoving and seeping something profoundly sad and calm. Compassion, maybe.
Richard didn't say 'we're going to be late for the funeral' like Gerard's ex-wife would have. He didn't offer any 'he's in a better place' platitudes.
He just rested both hands on Gerard's knees and nodded. Waited. Ached along with Sam.
"You lost a son," Richard whispered.
Sam snorted. "Tell that to his parents. Hardest phone call of my life."
"I won't tell them," said Kimble. "But if I did, I think they'd understand anyway."
After that Kimble stood to pace, to tie and retie his neck piece. Gerard scrubbed a hand through his hair. He'd already caught Biggs weeping in the stairwell. Cosmo had come in to work with red eyes on more than one occasion but never said a word. In fact, his lack of noise concerned them all. Poole was content to drink her boys under the table with granite face and proud eyes.
Gerard was the only one who sat alone at home, watching musicals and weaving his fingers through Noah's range jacket. It was selfish, he knew—he'd given the family everything back but that. Now that he'd shot the one responsible, fulfilled justice…he wasn't sure how to go about suturing this flap in his heart.
Kimble stopped, and it was this alone that brought Sam fully present. He suddenly wondered if he should be prepared to catch the shaking doctor.
Richard put a hand over his mouth. His voice wobbled too. "We lost our boy. We lost our boy, Sam!"
It hit them both in a rush, like it wasn't real until Richard spoke it out loud. The syllables were a slap in the face. Gerard saw stars. Neither's features changed but Sam gazed at Richard's pooling eyes and knew the doctor saw his own soul moan, saw it tantrum and wail and punish itself.
Their youngest, theirs…snuffed out.
He might have been beloved by his parents, but on Sam's badge: Noah Newman belonged to them.
The same fire burned in Richard's eyes.
And then the world was a blur of colours and it took Gerard almost ten seconds to realize Kimble had retaken his kneel. He got right into Sam's space, urgent.
"Do you blame me?" Kimble growled. His face looked like a storm but his brows rippled in that way only Sam could read. It seized the air in his chest. "Do you resent the fact I wasn't there?"
This position reminded him, abruptly, of that day on the dam, facing off an irate and agonized widower. They hadn't been this physically close but it didn't matter—the messy swirl of intensity was exactly the same. So was the illusion of anger that masked something far worse.
Gerard's silence stretched far too long. He knew it did.
It was confirmed when Richard shook one of his biceps. "Sam…I resent me right now. But I need to know if you do too."
Never, you fool.
"I got shot," came out of his mouth instead, voice a breath.
Richard drew back. He looked like he'd taken a curve ball to the face. "What?"
"That day in the bayou," said Gerard, voice stronger. "I took a slug to the vest."
"I know. I set those stitches myself. It was Noah who called and told me."
Gerard pushed a little at Richard's chest and the doctor shuffled back on his dress shoes. Sam shook his head, unable to verbalize as always. Unable to say what he needed but able to read it so well in others. He tugged at a button on the doctor's shirt and the backwards motion stopped.
"You came," said Sam. It was the most important thing in the world at that moment, that Kimble understand how much his steadfastness meant to them. "You came when I got shot. You're a healer. You always come."
Richard stared at him like he'd sprouted antlers. "Yeah. That's my job. I treat people after the trauma. I'm just sorry I wasn't there when lives were on the line."
Gerard shook his head again. "Protecting Noah was my job. I'm the agent, remember? I was his backup and I failed."
Then his chest bucked, a sudden jolt neither man expected. His vision became a flurry of something pulsing and vibrant. Richard stood and made sure his back was to Sam. He only came back to wrap a fleecy blanket around Sam, tucking it into the cold folds of his shirt, hand large and warm where Sam's neck met his shoulder.
Gerard angrily brushed the falling drops away. He didn't deserve an outlet.
Richard's eyes were far away, facing the open garage door. Out in his driveway a blue jay pecked at insects.
Gerard must have hazed out because then a steaming mug was being squirmed into his hands and he jumped at the sensation of too much heat. Kimble held the bottom steady until Sam had a firm grip on it. A decaf tea bag bobbed on the surface, air bubble rolling like a drunken sailor. Sam's stomach rolled with it.
He took a sip—orange pekoe. It helped. His insides finally started to settle.
Richard had wandered back to the car and he tapped the hood with his screwdriver. "Can't get it to start. It's a nineteen-sixty-two vintage Morgan with original paint, in pristine working order down to the headlights, but the darn thing won't turn over."
Sam let out a quivering breath. "Do you want it to?"
Richard shrugged.
Something in Gerard shivered. He put a hand over his face.
It had been two weeks since Noah was shot. It was customary to postpone the funeral until a case was closed and the need for autopsies was no longer a factor.
Now, fifteen days later, a crowd gathered under the willow trees to listen to the final prayer as Noah Newman was lowered into the ground. Gerard and Kimble arrived in time—early, actually—and none of Sam's three remaining team said a word when they joined the huddle. It was cold, October frost unforgiving, but everyone bore it without complaint.
Noah deserved the world. Since he couldn't have that, they'd pay him all the honour they could.
Only when the ceremony was over did Cosmo do a double take at Gerard's red face and sigh in relief. "Thank God. Finally." He nudged Richard. "Thanks, Doc. We owe you one. Well, another one."
Kimble blinked fast. "For what?"
Cosmo's mouth thinned. "For getting Sammy to do what we couldn't. You're a life saver like that."
"Anytime." Kimble wanted to feel embarrassed but all he did was nod. "Anytime…"
The five didn't budge, even when pastoral staff shuffled back to their cars. None of them wanted to move. It was Poole, of all people, who broke the stalemate. She walked up to Noah's white headstone and set her dark fingers on it. Just a brush. Then she closed her eyes. The sound started in the back of her throat, up to her nose, vibrating the closed lips.
Richard didn't know the tune she hummed but he teared up anyway. Droplets fell into the two tone scarf around his neck.
Biggs came next. The casket would be buried tomorrow, so the portly man thumbed a gold badge from his pocket. He ran a finger over the U.S. Marshal's stamp, pressed it to his heart, and then lifted his eyes to the grey sky.
"Keep on keeping the peace, son."
And Biggs threw Noah's badge into the grave.
Cosmo apparently wouldn't move without assistance, which is what prompted Richard, driven by a pang of pity, to place a hand in the small of Renfro's back. The two of them slowly walked towards the headstone. Richard felt the wind leave his lungs. This was the first funeral he'd been to since Helen, and he hadn't even realized until now.
Renfro straightened his shoulders and stared down at the dash—too short—between Noah's dates. His nose twitched. The curve of his mouth did all sorts of knots and twists.
"Cosmo?" asked Poole, eyes wide.
Biggs frowned too. They'd all been worried about the tiny agent.
Renfro looked like he might sob or punch someone.
But then he barked a huff that steamed into the air. "I know you were the one who kept stealing my fries, kid. Not to mention all of my office supplies. I also know you braided Poole's hair to the chair that time."
The four stared at Cosmo, even Gerard who'd marched to Kimble's side. His eyebrows disappeared into his hair line.
Renfro didn't break from his far away stare at the headstone. "You were young and irritating and so compassionate for other people it hurt. Every time Sammy got mad at us for being late I covered your hide because you always had to stop and buy lunch for that homeless mother downtown.
"I don't even like pastrami on rye but eating it made you happy, you dork, so I did. You managed to have a soft heart at a very harsh job. Yet you also knew how to look at facts." He jabbed a thumb at Richard. "You confided in me that night that you thought this brother was innocent. And you were right. Okay? I said it—you were right."
Richard knew Renfro had become a functional mute since Noah's death: now that he'd started, however, he couldn't seem to stop.
Shock hung thicker than the clouds. The other three marshals were open mouthed. Fresh colour had rushed to Sam's face. Biggs and Poole dealt with this fresh bout of craziness the only way they knew how.
They joined in.
It became a chatter hurricane of stories swapped and stupid moments shared, like that night at the bar when the case officially closed. Soon the other three were off laughing, maybe crying a bit, and wasn't it all the same in the end?
Sam's shoulder brushed Richard's.
"I don't blame you," said Gerard. "Not one ounce. I'm grateful for how you've…how you were there for us."
Richard side-eyed the surly marshal. "I don't blame you either."
Sam's mouth did some twists of its own.
"And you shouldn't blame you either," Kimble added. "You weren't Noah's backup. You say that now because you know Royce was dirty. You didn't know that at the time. You thought Royce had his back. Ergo…"
"Ergo it's Royce's fault," said Sam. "I know, I know. It's just…"
"Hard," Richard finished. He smiled. "I know."
Gerard elbowed him. "Don't parrot me."
Richard's eyes sparked. He listened to the three agents talk over one another and contrasted it to the even breathing pressing against his side.
"This has turned into a celebration," he said.
Sam smiled, not hiding the escapee tears that ran down his jaw. "It's what Noah would want."
Gerard clapped his friend's opposite shoulder and Richard saw a future at the end of this tunnel, a way to move forward. He wrapped his own arm around Sam.
"Tea is not strong enough. Care for a drink?"
"Only if you're buying," said Gerard.
Richard shook his head with a fond smirk.
When he went back to his garage that night, mellow and buzzed and needing something to do with his hands, he sloppily inserted the key into his Morgan and what do you know—
It started.
Richard sat back, listening to it purr. He took off his newsboy cap and tipped it upwards. "Until next time, Noah."
Written in 2017.