AN: This is the first in a series called The Scarf, which is basically one giant love letter to my favourite film and how much I love a friendship that we never got to see fleshed out. Bon apetit!
The first time it was coffee.
And a coroner's report.
The beardless look had, for lack of a better term, grown on him. As the doorbell rang, he set down his razor and wiped his chin with a towel. There were no stairs in this new home.
Dr. Kimble looked through the tiny window in his front door and stepped back. He blinked. He checked over his shoulder that the patio door was unlocked.
Then he turned the knob.
It was one of the hardest things he had ever done.
"Good morning, Dr. Kimble."
Richard took some comfort in the fact that Gerard looked as uncomfortable as he did.
"Not in trouble, am I?"
Gerard looked strangely wounded when he asked that. Richard itched to check for his phone. He resisted when he saw the U.S. Marshal's face. Though unseasonably warm for November, Gerard wore thick leather gloves and his signature red scarf.
Gerard cleared his throat. He held out his hand. "Coffee?"
Richard stared at the paper cup for a long time. So did Gerard.
"Where are my manners…?" The surgeon opened the door further. "Come in."
The other man did, his nose red as he scratched it.
"Nice place," said Gerard.
"Uh, yeah. It's new."
Richard knew Gerard already knew that. Ironically, he was closer to the U.S. Marshal's Chicago Office now. It was a modest bungalow, renovated yet cozy.
"Coffee?" Gerard asked again.
"What's that?" Richard pointed to a folder under the man's arm. "Coroner's Office?"
He recognized the stamp from his days in the morgue, getting enough money to pay the bills.
Discomfort left Gerard in the wake of his professional veneer. "I don't know if this will come as a comfort or a shock, but Dr. Nichols died in a penitentiary from arsenic poisoning. Looks like he bribed a guard to slip him some they used for rats."
Suicide? Richard certainly felt shock. It hadn't even been three months since he was retried and declared innocent. He was terrified to leave the house. Surely Charles couldn't have given up so quickly? He and Sykes had been put away for seventy years—for life.
Richard had felt no desire to visit Charles but guilt came swift and sudden. Gerard's eyes read the surgeon's face like a lie detector needle yet he said nothing.
"Thank you for, uh…" Richard ran a hand through his mop of hair. "For telling me in person."
Gerard nodded. "You are the first to be informed, Doctor."
Richard turned away to rub at a nick he'd given himself shaving.
"Would you like to read the report yourself?" Gerard extended it. "Thought it might help you sleep better, being a medical man and all."
"No. No, that's alright."
Silence again.
Gerard shuffled on his threadbare shoes. They left little tread imprints in Richard's new entry way mat. He didn't know how he felt about them—about everything.
Charles was dead but his influence wasn't. Richard started to sweat. A heavy weight pressed on his chest.
"Coffee?" asked Gerard.
The amount of time Richard spent eyeing it—and Gerard's face—was longer than could be considered socially appropriate. But Gerard held his hand out without batting an eyelash, even when Richard's brows dipped into a frown.
Richard didn't want anything Gerard had to offer.
He drove all the way here.
Without a word, Richard took the coffee. If Gerard noticed his sudden rigidity or the way he immediately set the cup down on the table as far away from himself as possible, he didn't say anything.
The marshal simply smiled.
"Have a nice day, Dr. Kimble. Good to see you settling in."
Richard waved and shut the door. He glared at the cup for a long time. He ended up draining it down the sink.
Any arsenic in the house was gone by the next day.
"Um…Thank you?"
Richard took the proffered card stock stub. He had no idea what it was for. Gerard stuck his head in the car's backseat.
"I was passing by anyway and saw a familiar shirt…"
Richard couldn't deny a pang of curiosity—small and sleepy as that part of him had been doused for so long—at a rustle of plastic. The morning was nippy. Their breath swirled in downy puffs and Richard shifted in place.
Gerard straightened. "Let me take this inside."
"Is that my dry cleaning?"
The U.S. marshal was already hopping up Richard's steps, opening his door, vanishing into his house. The doctor could only stand and blink. Several false starts later, he followed the man inside. Gerard hung the shirt and pants over a chair.
"Thank you," Richard repeated dumbly.
"I figured this is easier." Gerard looked at Richard for the first time in this impromptu visit. "You being shy about going out and all."
Though Richard kept the man's gaze, a tight flush crept up his neck. In the knowing pause, Gerard's eyes did a quick circuit of the kitchen. He nodded.
"Why did you come?" asked Richard.
"I wouldn't keep any pictures of my wife either if she'd been…well…"
Flustered at this statement and the fact Gerard ignored his question, Richard washed his hands in the sink for something to do. The familiar, pre-surgery ablution focused what little of his mind had stuck around today.
Gerard nodded again just as his phone rang. "Excuse me."
Richard waved him off and went to put the clothes away. Some part of him reeled that he'd been civil to his once-pursuer and that he'd left him alone in his house. Most of Richard, however, was too numb. He was past caring.
Another, even smaller part of him feared what would happen once he unthawed. No one was there to catch the drips.
Only one photo of Helen sat displayed in the whole house. He gazed lovingly at it now, on his night stand. He mirrored her smile. Her make-up free portrait was the most beautiful one he had. In a rush, Richard shook himself away.
"Sounds good. Be over in a few, Renfro."
Gerard smiled when Richard appeared again. Richard didn't know how he felt about that smile.
"Nothing like a fresh convict to apprehend on a Tuesday morning!"
Richard's lips quivered. He fought them. "Or a quadruple bypass surgery."
Gerard's hands stuttered from pocketing his cell. His mouth hung open. He seemed like he couldn't decide whether Richard was serious or not.
Finally he snorted. "I wouldn't know, would I? You have a nice day in that shirt, Doctor."
"I'll try."
For some reason, the sight of the surly marshal packing up squeezed Richard's chest.
Stop it, Richard.
He opened his mouth before he could stop himself.
"Coffee?"
Both froze. This time, Gerard threw his head back. He laughed all the way out the door.
The half-smile stayed on Richard all day.
He didn't even bother pretending. He just sat out on the steps.
Rooibos was nursed from a chipped K-mart mug. The arid morning certainly made the wait pleasant, even for November. Richard cursed the sun. He cursed it all. It was past lunch but Richard hadn't eaten all day.
When a blue sedan pulled up, Richard only took another sip of tea. The engine cut out. Dress shoes clopped along the asphalt. Grunting, a figure sat down beside him.
"You look fancy," said Richard.
"So do you. They did nice cleaning on that dress shirt."
It felt stiff against Richard's skin, but that was small cost to pay. Helen deserved the best. Sore in spirit, he nudged Gerard.
"Shouldn't you be at work?"
"Shouldn't you?
They were silent. A 'V' of geese flew by.
"I always dress well for royalty," mumbled Gerard.
The words had Richard blinking back a sudden tsunami of emotion. He hadn't cried in months and he didn't plan to now, in front of the marshal. It was a fierce battle to bite back the unthawed drips. Gerard kindly ignored him. Richard listened to their shoes squirm on the gravel.
"Purple is a terrible color on you though."
"I know," said Richard.
Richard blinked some more. Gerard took the cup from him and drained the rooibos. The slurping sound was oddly comforting. Richard felt his lips move of their own accord, acting without his brain's input.
"It's my wife's birthday today."
"I know," said Gerard.
A half-hour passed this way. Their shoulders rubbed and Richard wanted to get mad but he couldn't. The bitter anger left him like a schooner with a leak. Richard couldn't even find the pocket of animosity with Gerard's name on it.
"This is more important than work," said Gerard.
Richard finally made eye contact in his surprise.
Since when?
Gerard smiled wryly. "Things change, wives leave because their husbands work too much, people jump off dams, priorities shuffle."
Richard's lips quirked upwards in a real grin, one of the first since that car ride in the back of a police car. Gerard's shoulder had pressed against his then too. He remembered the feel of an arm draped over his shoulders and an ice pack against his bruises.
Richard smiled again. It felt good.
Gerard reached into his blazer pocket and took out a box of cigars. "They're no birthday candles."
"No, it's appropriate."
They shared a lighter. The smell was acrid against mulch and the domestic odour of someone barbecuing. The whole effect was rather fitting. Neither man fit in Normalcy's bosom.
Richard swallowed a few times. "To Helen."
Gerard's eyes were at his feet. He rubbed a grey wrinkle and then raised his cigar. "To the queen."
The fourth time it was donuts.
And a warning.
"Don't even think of it!" Gerard yelled up to him. "I worked my sorry behind to keep you alive and you are gonna stay that way!"
"Afraid of heights, Mr. Gerard?"
The man in question grumbled and bundled himself tighter against the December chill. "You really don't have the best track record with heights. So no one can blame me."
Richard took his hands out of his jeans' pockets. He sat down on the shingles.
"Is this better?"
Gerard sniffed, hands on his hips. "No."
Richard pointed to a ladder on the grass below.
"Oh no," said Gerard. "If you jump, someone has to catch you. That or shield your crooked corpse from the children."
Though Richard rolled his eyes, it was half-hearted.
This is a bungalow, you drama queen.
"You could come down here." Gerard jiggled a plastic bag. "I have donuts."
"I thought donuts were a cop thing."
Gerard shrugged. "It's a broad stereotype. Especially on bad days."
"Is today a bad day?"
The marshal shrugged again. "You?"
"Why don't you come up here and find out?"
So long a time passed that Richard began to wonder if Gerard had left. From the high vantage, he could see people getting in their cars and heading to work. Mustard school buses trailed each other along the main drag. He felt like a robin watching an ant hill.
Then two rubbers ends appeared over the rain gutter. This was followed by grumpy muttering and a thrown bag of donuts.
"The things I do for you," Gerard groused. A white cast tinged his face.
"Here." Richard made room while the man gingerly eased himself down. He wrapped a hand around Gerard's bicep. "I won't let you fall."
The marshal looked at him sharply. His wan complexion dissipated. Rosy spots appeared in his face.
"How did you expect to get down?" he asked. "You kicked the ladder away."
Richard took a large breath and exhaled it through his nose. "I'm having trouble stepping foot in a hospital these days. Figured a broken leg or rib would do the trick."
Richard felt more than saw Gerard's crestfallen face.
Outpatient, after hours clinic work was the only practicum component Richard could bring himself to do. That and consulting for the WHO. For a while Richard had wondered at this, at his ability to treat a boy while on the run but have an anxiety attack now, when everything had settled down.
For now, Richard was content to muddle through the domestic sector.
Gerard opened his mouth and then snapped it shut.
He held out the bag. "Donut?"
Richard looked, really looked at Gerard for the first time since that night in the hotel. Grey lines framed eyes hollowed with sights too much for one man and infused with the glow of concern. If he squinted, Richard spotted compassion tucked away in there too.
The doctor grinned. "Nothing like a breakfast of donuts on a rooftop. Cheers."
"Cheers." Gerard popped one in his mouth.
The confections were slightly stale, white and saccharine like those best found at a truck stop. They emptied the bag in record time.
"Today…" Richard licked his fingers. "Today is now a good day."
His feet left depressions in the new snow. Silence blanketed the dusk. Richard imagined as he walked that he was the only man in the world. It certainly wasn't hard to visualize: no cars drove along the road and he met no other pedestrians.
The only sign of life was golden light spilling out of living room windows. Families gathered around fires and prickly trees. Richard stared at them. Then he moved on.
Cold footsteps carried him to the park. Only a trickle of water got through the ice of the brook. Standing on the arch bridge, Richard felt like that trickle, a thin line of life in the frigid peace. Somewhere a dog barked.
And then out of the mist came a gaunt figure. Richard watched him approach, the steam engine puffs of his breath trailing behind him. Something in him looked dead.
Richard sighed. "Gerard."
"Sam."
"What?"
"Call me Sam."
Richard started. Gerard just stood beside him, hands deep in his woollen pockets and craned over the wooden lip of the bridge.
"You and heights," said Gerard. But Richard thought he looked worried. "There are other ways to get thrills."
Richard lowered his eyes. "My spirit's too old for thrills."
"It's Christmas Eve. What are you doing here, Doctor?"
"I could ask you the same question."
"I asked first."
Richard rolled his eyes, but he felt warmer with the man's arm bobbing against his own. "Got nowhere else to be."
"That makes two of us. I, however, have a giant turkey at home and no one to eat it with."
Richard flexed his jaw. "Why are you here?"
"Didn't we just go over this?"
"No…I…no. You know what—forget it."
Wet flakes melted against Richard's ear when he spun around and marched away. Behind him, Gerard matched his pace.
Richard made it to a lamp post before he stopped. "Leave me alone."
Turning, Richard saw that Sa—Gerard—held a loose string from the famous red scarf. It had come unraveled as they walked.
Gerard winked. "No."
"I could call the cops."
"I am the cops. And you don't really want to do that. Nor do you want to jump off a bridge in this deserted park on Christmas Eve."
Richard didn't. They both knew it.
Gerard lifted the string. "Threads are a funny thing, Dr. Kimble. Pull one, however lonely, and it takes others with it. No one string is extra, periphery."
Richard felt silly, standing there before his once-enemy, holding a scarf like a martyr's sash. Yet the marshal's words made his heart thrum.
"The presents, the visits…" Richard, hoarse, cleared his throat. "Why?"
The marshal's eyes narrowed. They glittered by lamp light. "Because you pulled me with you, Doctor. Do you know how many fugitive cases I manage a year? Dozens. With yours…for the first time I can't close the door and move on."
Richard panted, even though he stood still. At some point Gerard's scarf thread had been dropped. It looked like a line of blood against the snow.
"I don't keep coming back out of guilt but because you deserve it. Your case changed my life, Dr. Kimble—you changed my life."
"Is this marshal speak for you 'going soft?'"
Sam barked a laugh. "Maybe I don't want to be a marshal to you."
Richard swallowed and feigned nonchalance. "Then what?"
"How about a fellow thread?"
Shrugging, Richard shuffled his feet. "I already have lots of friends."
"No you don't."
They both knew that too.
"You deserve more from me than justice," Sam said. "And truth be told, I get it. I get the stairs-less house and bad coffee and hatred for domesticity."
Moved beyond conscious thought, Richard laughed wetly. It was an awful, sad sound, if Sam's face was anything to go by.
"Threads can be cut," said Richard.
A fierce expression stole over Sam's features. "Not if I have anything to say about it. I wouldn't dare and if anyone knows me, they wouldn't dare either."
Tears and snowflakes fused in loose whorls on Richard's cheeks. If he was a thread, he had been fraying for a long time. His chest felt like fire.
"Forgive me," he gasped suddenly. Saying it doused the fire.
Sam's eyes widened. "What?"
"I should have said it a long time ago. Please…forgive me."
"Dr. Kimble, I am the one who hounded an innocent man."
Richard shook his head. "I have done nothing to accept you. In doing so, I have become the man the press thought I was. You have been nothing but kind, even when pursuing me. I pushed you away, even when you…You were the first person to…not care."
It didn't make any sense coming out of his mouth, but Sam must have understood. Both chuckled at the memory of that day in the water tunnel. Sam's mouth twisted into something yellow and warm, something Richard didn't recognize but instantly liked.
"Whadaya say, Dr. Kimble? Hot chocolate and a fire sound nice? There may even be a present for you."
"Richard."
"Whasat?"
Richard blushed. "Don't make me say it again."
For some reason, this made Sam roar. He thumped Richard on the back so hard he coughed. "You're a strange species, Richard, you know that?"
"Yes." Then something clicked. "Wait…a present? You knew I was going to say yes? What if I bolted? What if I had jumped?"
Sam went still. His voice was very quiet, very reverent, when he spoke several heartbeats later. "Everyone has to stop running sometime."
Samuel Gerard walked away and left the greatest fugitive of the twenty-first century standing by a snowy park bench, winded.
"Hey!" Richard shook himself into motion. "Wait up!"
And as he jogged to catch up with the marshal—it was only in that moment that Richard Kimble truly stopped fleeing.
Sam didn't say 'I forgive you' once that night: he said it over and over again through his gestures. Richard felt the words when a hot mug was pressed into his hands, when they bickered over which station to watch (the 'fire' turned out to be of the televised variety) but ended up watching NBA reruns, and when Sam presented him with a crudely-wrapped lump.
"Coal?"
"Shut up and open it," said Sam.
Soft yarn met Richard's fingertips. "A scarf?"
"Everyone needs a good scarf."
Extended family came and went as they visited Sam. They made Richard feel welcome with their jokes. Sam groaned as they regaled the doctor with embarrassing stories.
Finally it was just the two of them. The clock struck one o'clock and found the two men sprawled on the couch before a muted episode of CSI.
Richard fingered the scarf. It hadn't left his hands all night. The design was simple: shades of blue and red wound around each other against a dark background.
Hearing Sam's cloying rumble of laughter, Richard looked up. The U.S. marshal winked. "Don't unravel it."
The hollow spaces in Richard's Swiss-cheese heart filled. Richard leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Written in 2014. Thanks for reading!