Garrett checked his guns for the umpteenth time. Fully loaded and functional, cleaned out and re-cleaned a million times just an hour prior, and yet he always wondered if this would be the time they malfunctioned on him. Firearms were only machines, after all, manmade and capable of failure.

After lining up Olivia's story with her father's, they had hooked Adam up with a bug and sent him to his middle man. One meeting and coordinates later, the station was bustling with activity, Carver putting together a team of his best to accompany his brother and Aveline to the rescue slash drug bust. Carver himself was not put on the case, for which Garrett was silently grateful.

After over a decade in the police force, surely, Garrett would have been used to raids. The dread that came with knowing they would likely lose officers, the adrenaline coursing through his veins in place of fear, and the knowledge that failure was possible, however, were things he could never adapt to.

The SUVs were left a block away from the dilapidated old warehouse, and Aveline led their forces forward on foot. They split up, Adam following Aveline along with a select few officers, and the rest of their force trailing behind Garrett as they surrounded the building. Adam was their scapegoat, sent in with another bug, and Garrett waited silently and patiently for their cue to storm in.

He could see through a gap in the wood of the building. Inside stood a group of roughly a dozen people, seemingly all armed. The gang, at first glance, but a further look surprised Garrett with the observation that three or four of them seemed to be part of an entirely different organization. They were clad in gray and blue with a crest painted on the back of their jackets. Something about it stirred in Garrett's memory, but the light inside was dim and he could not make out details.

The hostage - Adam's wife and Olivia's stepmother - was tied up and sitting slumped over on the dirty concrete floor. Mary? Maria? Something like that. She seemed to be unconscious at first glance, but Garrett thought he could see her eyes fluttering slightly, as though she was blinking. She was alive, at least, and that was what mattered.

The whispering from inside stopped immediately as Garrett watched Adam step through the creaky old doors.

"Maddie," he croaked at the sight of his wife. Close enough.

"Not another step," came a woman's voice, one of the ones in the blue and gray, and judging by the look of distrust and betrayal on Adam's face, those people were not of the gang he had been associating with. "Where's the girl?"

"I - " Adam's voice was strangled, and he took a step back. Immediately, nearly every gun in the room was drawn on him. "I can explain!"

"Get in there," Aveline hissed through his earpiece, and he made a quick hand motion to the other officers as he approached the door.

Some moved to the back door of the warehouse, several settled by the broken windows, ready to shoot from there, and the rest followed him to the front of the building. Aveline was waiting on the other side of the doorway, pistol at the ready. Her other hand held a flashlight, wrists crossed so she could see where she was shooting and aim effectively. She was not the only officer that did so. Garrett, on the other hand, relied on the numerous flashlights already in use, and both hands were occupied with guns.

Inside, Adam was fumbling for excuses as a few gang members closed in on him. They were drawing closer to the door.

"Remember," Aveline whispered, both in front of him and through his earpiece, "if he dies, we're in deep shit, Hawke."

He gave her a thumbs-up, and she gave the most annoyed eye-roll she could muster before she stormed into the room, Garrett close behind. The remainder of their force stayed behind - their trump card.

"Kirkwall Police!" Aveline shouted at the top of her lungs, gun trained on the beefiest gang member in front of them. Garrett focused his aim at the other two surrounding Adam. "Hands where I can see them!"

The men in front of them faltered, and Adam took the opportunity to scamper behind Garrett. He could hardly blame the man - the captain was an absolute bear, far more intimidating than even Aveline, which was saying something. Only in the field, though, Aveline would tease him.

A voice raised in raucous cackling, followed by more mocking voices. Looking past the men they faced, Garrett found none of the sources were those in the gray and blue. Something about them nagged in the back of his head, but he ignored it in favor of focusing for the inevitable scuffle ahead.

"Two of you?" a man with a heavy gold chain snorted. He was likely the leader of the thugs, though whether he led the actual gang or not was a mystery. Next to him, the other group was silent. "The PD is really slacking these days, huh?"

Aveline scoffed beside him, and Garrett tried to nudge Adam to get him to leave before a firefight occurred. He did not take the hint.

"You told me we would have no interruptions."

The voice was cold, the woman from before crossing her arms and staring down her nose at the man next to her. Garrett knew without an inkling of doubt that she was the one in control of the situation. Her hair was dark and cut short, eyes a piercing icy blue. She was small, but the red paint - ink? blood? - streaked across her face and the air of superiority she held made her presence larger than any in the room.

"It's two cops," the gold-laden man grumbled, casting his eyes away from her and toward the officers. Garrett held his breath, ready to fire the moment he was given the order to.

"Don't be foolish," the woman snapped, and, getting the attention of her fellow members, jerked her head toward the back door.

It took everything in Garrett's power not to swear aloud as two of them peeked out the back entrance, and, four resounding gunshots later, returned with blood splattered on their jackets. He knew it was not theirs.

"Shit," Aveline swore under her breath in his place.

"Maddie!" Adam wailed from behind him.

Alerted by the noises and their Aveline's outburst, the loud footsteps of their team sounded behind them, and Garrett knew there were officers standing behind them, guns ready. The woman curled her lips into a sneer and, before Aveline could get any orders out, whipped out a gun and shot the hostage in the back of the head.

"Our deal is over."

Garrett caught a glimpse of the crest on her jacket one last time before she and her comrades disappeared out the back door, and it all clicked into place in his head.

"Fire!"

But Garrett did not listen to Aveline's order, and he vaulted over the dead hostage and sprinted towards the back door as gunshots rang around him, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears. A bullet whizzed right past him and skinning his arm, but he ignored it, instead bursting outside and eyes roaming the area for any sign of the woman from before or a single member of her crew.

They had vanished.

Someone came up behind him and he nearly fired, but it was only Aveline, clamping a hand down on his shoulder and inspecting his arm. He hung his head and reluctantly holstered his weapon, pressing his lips together in a grim line. Aveline looked out towards the dark alleys in front of them.

"No sign of them?" she asked.

Garrett shook his head. Aveline rolled up his sleeve and took a closer look. He allowed her to do it without complaint.

"Looks nasty," Aveline commented.

"It's nothing."

"Let's get back to Anders. He can judge that."

They re-entered the warehouse to see two dead officers, a dead gang member, and the rest of the gang in cuffs. Adam was crumpled on the floor next to his dead wife, shuddering sobs wracking his frame. Garrett wanted to feel pity, but this was all the man's fault. Death of innocents was a direct result of affiliating with the people he had.

The crest of the Mafia appeared before his mind's eye once again. Why had they been there? What did they have to do with anything?

Anger beginning to boil in his stomach, Garrett found himself drifting away from his superior as she radioed in a cleanup crew. His feet carried him faster and faster towards the pathetic huddled man on the floor. Adam looked up at him with drooping, red-rimmed eyes, which widened only slightly before Garrett was curling his fists into his collar and lifting him off his knees.

"What aren't you telling us?" he hissed, eyes narrowing into slits, and Adam's eyes went wide in response.

"W-What?"

"The mafia!" Garrett's voice rose, and he shook the now trembling man, leaning down until they were nose to nose. Terror shone in Adam's eyes. "Why were they here? They have better things to do than some petty drug dealing! What did they want with you and your wife?"

"I d-don't know," Adam sobbed, trying to shrink away, hands weakly pushing at Garrett's chest. "Please - "

"Liar!"

There was red crawling across his vision, face hot and thoughts a swirling, furious mess. Why had he not noticed sooner? How could he have not connected the dots? They were right there,so close he could have taken one down and brought them in, but their unexpected presence slowed him. He had failed in taking what would have been a crucial step forward in his investigation, and it was all Adam's fault.

"Hawke!"

A painful whack to the back of his head was not enough to make him release his victim, but his head jerked forward and his thoughts scrambled. Garrett blinked slowly and stared down at Adam, noting the tear tracks down his face and the way he shook with unabashed fear, and guilt quelled the fire in his gut. He quickly allowed Adam free, who scrambled away, breathing hard.

"To Anders," Aveline snapped, her hand still poised to smack sense into him if need be. It was not necessary; it took everything in Garrett's power not to outright storm out of the warehouse, pushing a hand through sweat-dampened locks.

Just outside was the intense flashing of red and blue, and he raised a hand to signal all was clear before heading to the van where he knew Anders was waiting. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, pain radiating from the gash in his arm as it dissipated, and fatigue joining soon after. He clambered into the open side door of the vehicle and plopped down on the floor.

"Hawke?" Anders addressed uncertainly, surprised at the sudden intrusion. Then, seeing the blood on his shirt and the wound on his arm, he repeated himself in a far more concerned tone. "Hawke! You idiot, what the hell did you do?"

"Nothing," Garrett replied, far lower than he wanted to sound, and he winced as Anders immediately went to rinsing his wound. "It's not that bad."

Anders did not address that, instead choosing to continue to fuss. "What do you mean, nothing? You got shot!"

Garrett cast his eyes downward, hiding his shame. Anders noticed his silence and faltered, curiously scrutinizing his face.

"I got shot for nothing," he spat bitterly.

Anders was silent as he bandaged his arm.

.

"How could you let them get away?"

Carver's voice was harsh, accusatory, and Garrett did not know whether to flinch away or shout back at him. His head had started up a harsh ache, his arm was sore from where the bullet had grazed muscle, and he was craving coffee like none other. He was not in the mood to argue with his shithead brother over something he was already beating himself up about.

"Let it go, will you?" Garrett snapped. It only served to outrage Carver further, standing and kicking his chair away.

"Let it go?"he repeated in a low hiss. "Maybe you've forgotten, Garrett, but some of us are trying to get our missing sisters back!"

For the second time that day, Garrett fisted his hands in someone's collar. Carver, however, was not a sniveling mess - the fury in Garrett's eyes was reflected in his own, a challenge sparking between them.

"You think I don't regret it?!" he snarled, shaking his brother slightly. He knew he could be rough, that Carver could handle it, and perhaps he took too much advantage of it. "What do you care?! You never even knew them!"

There were people gathering now, few willing to intercept. He could see a new recruit, Feynriel, fluttering nervously on the sidelines. "Sergeant Hawke," he tried feebly to get Carver's attention, but it was far too late.

"And yet, somehow, I'm not the undedicated failure here," Carver said, a tone of finality in the words as he turned away from his brother.

It took three officers to hold Garrett back when he lunged, wanting nothing more than to sock Carver right in his ugly mug. He struggled briefly against their grips as Carver stared at him with a mixture of shock and anger.

"Hawke - both of you! What the hell is going on in here?"

In yet another display of deja vu, Aveline's voice snapped him out of his rage in an instant, and he fell still. The arms holding him back did not yet relent as all heads turned toward their lieutenant colonel. Shame threatened to flood Garrett's face with a red hue, but he was still seething just enough to prevent it from happening.

Neither of the brothers had an answer, and Aveline rubbed her temples wearily. "Captain Hawke," she barked out briskly, and a lesser man would have jumped at the way she addressed Garrett. "You're taking the next two days off."

"Aveline - " Garrett immediately began to protest, but she shut him up in an instant.

"I'll finish up your report," she said. Her tone left no room for comment. "You're to get some rest and come back when you're feeling more sociable. And Sergeant?"

"Yes, ma'am?" Carver replied, not taking his eyes off his brother.

"Get back to work. Now. You're going to pick up the captain's slack while he's gone, even if it throws you into overtime." Aveline offered an eye roll, and motioned for the officers to release Garrett. They cautiously obeyed, relieved when he did not immediately leap onto Carver. "It's not like that's anything new to you, anyway."

Unlike Garrett, Carver did not protest. The mere fact left the elder Hawke seething, as though his little brother was rubbing in his face how much better of a subordinate he was. He was always doing things like that, trying hard to outshine Garrett, and today it had crossed over from annoying into infuriating.

"Hawke," Aveline said, a little more gently, but with a sharp edge that was not to be questioned.

Letting out a frustrated growl, Garrett snatched up his coffee and jacket and made his way to the elevator. Nobody joined him on the ride down, not even Aveline, and it gave him a moment of solitude to breathe and attempt to calm himself. It had been ages since he and Carver had butted heads so intensely.

But then, it had been even longer since they'd had a lead, and Garrett had absolutely ruined their opportunity this time around. Still, as if Carver needed to rub the already intense guilt in his face, as if he did not blame himself enough.

Maker, he could use a drink.

It was probably a terrible idea, blowing out the front doors of the building and making a beeline across the street to the Hanged Man, but Garrett did not care in the slightest. All he could see was Carver's stupid face, hear his biting remarks, feel his judgmental gaze on his skin, and right now Garrett did not give a flying fuck what Carver would think.

If he was going to disappoint his brother, it may as well be on his own terms.

The bar was nearly empty at this hour, as most of the station had not yet gotten off work, but it was growing dark outside and Garrett was hoping that he would see a head of pretty white hair behind the counter. Unfortunately, it was the owner, Corff, instead, and with an angry huff Garrett threw his jacket down on the back of a stool and plopped down.

He raised a hand for a drink, but Corff held up a finger, shaking his head. "My shift just ended. The next guy'll get you," but Garrett barely listened, only grumbled a wordless response.

Across the bar, he saw a small gaggle of women with a variety of colorful drinks at a booth - he was sure Corff hated mixing those - and sitting at the short end of the counter he found a couple of younger men, probably college age, quietly joking and laughing around. The normalcy of the tenants was surprising, considering the run-down haggardness of the bar, but Garrett supposed it was a fun hole-in-the-wall joint when it was not full of cops.

"Hawke?"

The voice was laced with both surprise and something akin to wariness, and Garrett looked up with a start. Pretty green eyes were narrowed at him, and Fenris crossed his arms, staring him down as though sizing him up.

"Funny seeing you here," he said, something accusatory in his tone, and were it any other day, Garrett would have apologized. Instead, he shrugged, and grumbled out a response.

"I guess it is."

Fenris eyed him for a long time, perhaps far too long, and reached for a small glass. "Rum and coke?" he asked, and Garrett shook his head.

"Whiskey."

A cocked eyebrow. "It's seven."

Garrett wanted so badly to snap out, did I stutter? Instead, past a barely restrained eye roll, he raked a hand through his hair and managed, "I know."

"On the rocks?" Fenris questioned skeptically. Annoyance had Garrett's hands curling into fists. Would he just get him his damn drink already?

"Fuck the rocks," he answered, a little too forceful. Fenris, unfazed, clicked his tongue at the officer and set a glass bottle of amber liquid on the counter with an overly loud clunk.

"Help yourself."

It was surprisingly generous, and Garrett faltered. Fenris walked away before Garrett could thank him properly, going to ask the college kids if they needed anything, and he hesitated before grabbing the bottle and pouring himself a glass. He threw it back quickly, gulping it all down and relishing in the way his throat burned.

Two beers sliding over to the students later, Fenris was back, leaning his forearms against the counter. "So," he said slowly, quietly, sharp eyes zeroed in on Garrett, "why are you here?"

It was confrontational, and Garrett very much did not like it, but he supposed he owed the man an explanation. He poured himself another drink and took a hefty gulp of it before answering. "Aveline's put me on leave for two days."

Fenris canted his head slightly. "Good," he replied. "You can stop avoiding me and talk, then."

Garrett downed the rest of his glass. A pleasant buzz muted the warnings in the back of his mind. "I shouldn't," he said quietly. "Carver will kill me."

"Carver?" Fenris questioned, and gave a disgusted scoff. "Do you always do what your little brother tells you?"

"Only when he's right," Garrett answered bleakly. Fenris was quiet a moment before he moved to refill Garrett's glass once more.

"How is he right?" Fenris slid the glass over to Garrett, watching as red started to bloom in his cheeks. "What's so bad about me that you have to dance around me for days, hoping I'll give up?" Garrett blinked slowly at him, and he scoffed. "What, did you think I wouldn't notice? I'm not an idiot, Hawke."

"I can hardly afford a distraction from work," Garrett said after a moment, surprising himself. Perhaps it was the abundance of alcohol loosening his tongue - his cheeks were getting warm and his tie was starting to feel too restricting. Perhaps that was Fenris's plan. He found he barely cared. "I have a job to do. I don't need a pretty face to keep me from it."

Did he really just say that? Garrett downed his glass again to hide his shame, but Fenris only briefly smiled, not commenting on it.

"Then I won't keep you from your job," he said simply. "It's not as if you work twenty-four hours a day, Hawke."

"Not officially," Garrett muttered. Bitterness seeped into his tone. He reached for his glass and frowned when he found it empty. He did not want to think about his brother, but he could not avoid it. "We - Carver and I - we have a side project. A very important side project, and I've gone and fucked it up. I'll have to work overtime for weeks before I'm back in his good graces." He smiled sardonically. "He already doesn't like you. If I went chasing after some guy after that . . . well."

"How did you fuck it all up?" Fenris prompted, and Garrett involuntarily winced. He reached for the bottle, but Fenris laid a hand over his, shaking his head. "Talk first."

Trying not to show how flustered he was at the simple touch - damn the alcohol, making his mind fuzzy and loosening his tongue, completely destroying his self-control - Garrett rubbed at his face. Should he speak? Why was he even telling Fenris all this? Carver was already going to be on his ass when they got home for earlier's events, but knowing he was with Fenris after . . .

Fuck Carver.

"There was a raid." He was not about to go into full detail, as he was far too tipsy for that, but he supposed he could spare a little. "Me, about a dozen other officers. A hostage and drug bust, at first, but there were mafioso there. I tried to catch them, but they just - " He waved his hands a little, a lost expression crossing his features. "They fucking vanished, Fen, into thin air!"

"Fen?" the bartender echoed, amused, and Garrett had the decency to look absolutely ridiculous for a moment before he forced himself to shut his mouth and pretend he was not mortified at his slip of the tongue. Fenris dropped it, thankfully. "How is that your mistake, Hawke?"

Garrett stared at him, mind only static at the question. "Are you serious?" he asked dumbly. Fenris only waited for his answer, and he fumbled. "What do mean, how is it my mistake? I let them get away!"

"Weren't there plenty of other cops there?" Fenris countered, raising an eyebrow, and Garrett fell silent. "A dozen cops, and you're the only one at fault for their escape? Where's the logic in that, Hawke?"

Garrett met his eyes, shocked at how earnest they were in forest green depths, and felt a small flush crawl up his face. Fenris pushed the full glass of whiskey forward. When had he filled it? Garrett had not noticed. His urge to drink his sorrows away was starting to fade, and the glass sat, forgotten, on the counter.

"I wish Carver felt that way," he heard himself say in a whisper of painful honesty, and he rubbed at his face with one hand, looking away from Fenris. The man frowned, hesitating, and there was a light brush of fingers on Garrett's wrist that made him look up once more.

"Who the fuck cares what Carver thinks?" Fenris snorted, and in that moment, he looked like a saint.

Shocked at the harsh words, Garrett let out a baffled laugh, and it split Fenris's face into a smile. Garrett covered his eyes with one hand to muffle his mirth. He was beyond lightheaded at this point, the whiskey really starting to kick in, and the idea of Fenris telling Carver off was just far too funny in his alcohol-addled brain.

"I'd love to see you tell him that," Garrett finally managed, and he could have sworn he saw Fenris puff up like an angry chicken.

"Say the word and I will," Fenris said challengingly, but his smile softened it. Garrett felt lost in that smile, the alcohol making his world spin, but not around himself - around the cute bartender.

He shook his head suddenly, and Fenris cocked his own inquisitively.

"No. I can't ignore my job."

"I'm not telling you to ignore it," Fenris replied seriously, voice lowering. "I just think people deserve to think about themselves, sometimes, too."

Garrett shook his head again. Fenris's advice seemed so sound, but he stubbornly chalked it up to his pent-up rage at Carver and the fact that he had downed far more alcohol than was healthy. Thinking about himself was something he had not done in years, decades, even, with naught but a brief lapse that had left his life in shambles. He could not afford that happening again. He knew he would not be able to handle Carver's smugness if it did.

And yet, somehow, that one sentence echoed relentlessly in his mind, persistent and refusing to be ignored.

At Garrett's silence, Fenris backed off. He took the now empty bottle and Garrett's glass in one hand. "I think you've had enough." Garrett only answered by dry washing his face and grumbling something incoherent. "Do you want me to call you a cab?"

Rather than refuse, Garrett muttered past his hands, "Lyft is cheaper."

There was a soft, amused huff, and with the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes Garrett heard the bustle of the bartender tossing the bottle in the trash and washing the glass. Tiredness was starting to set in. The day had been long, tense, and stressful, and Garrett was ready to go home and pass out.

Fenris moved around the bar some more, presumably assisting other patrons, and before Garrett knew it he was in front of him again. "Your ride's here." How long had he been sitting there? Had he dozed off some? "Beige car waiting right out front. Let me know when you get home."

Garrett slid carefully off of the stool, suddenly extremely conscious of how the world was moving without him. He grabbed clumsily for his jacket and pulled it on. "Thank you," he said genuinely, and past the haze he caught one last smile from Fenris before he made his way out the door (somewhat gracefully, he hoped).

Sure enough, his driver was waiting outside, and he clambered into the back seat and rattled off his address to the driver, tacking on an apology. He thought he heard them say it was fine, but by that point he had forgotten why he was apologizing in the first place. Standing up had really made the alcohol hit.

It was not until he was in bed and falling asleep, having already texted Fenris that he had made a safe trip, that Garrett jolted back to near-sobriety, feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment tinge his face pink with a sudden, jarring realization.

Fenris had paid for his Lyft home.