Michael's first Chief was an old Irishman who seemed in a constant state of being hung over. He was overweighed and couldn't complete a sentence without adding some sort racial, religious or social slur into it (preferably as the noun.) Everyone called him Mick, even though his real name was Arthur, and he was quite content to be renowned as yet another racial epithet. He called Jack a homo, and had a laugh that was a cough and swear word all in one.
Michael hated him with a fierce passion but Jack adored him.
It was Mick that first paired Jack and Michael. Jack's idea. Michael had a reputation for being far too jaded for a rookie and much too straight lace for a cop. Jack, under Mick's watchful eye, had taken it upon himself to teach Michael all the nice little grays of policing. And as much as Michael was loathed to admit it, Michael learned more about survival and being a copper from that foul-mouthed homophobe and Jack then he learned in the years afterwards.
Mick was killed within five blocks of the HQ as he skipped out early. He had taken a very late dinner and was riding the clock. The shooter was an Arab youth hopped up on glue. No suspects. No names.
The funeral was an ocean of navy blue uniforms and black business suits. The Mayor made a touching speech, and the rabbi (turns out ol' Mick was a Jew) said something in Hebrew Michael was sure was touching in that transparent way all cop funerals are meaningful.
He remembered feeling vaguely guilty about not crying or feeling in the least upset over Mick's death. It had seemed natural to him, that old men should die, and old cops rarely were granted longevity. It was no more surprising or new to him then a change in departments.
In fact, the only memory he could really invoke from the funeral was the feeling of profound determination that he felt as he refuse to look over at his partner.
He didn't want to see Jack cry.
Looking across the car, Michael felt another swell of determination and vague guilt.
Vaughan's dark features betrayed no hint of any emotion apart from the classic guise of boredom that always haunted the man's eyes. But Michael knew better. Vaughan's face didn't show his distress, it was the soldier's hands. The man was gripping the steering wheel so tightly, Michael half-wondered if he could have broken it. Vaughan's eyes were settled on the old Antique shop like a hawk's. There was a solitary light in the upper floors, Olivia's loft by the reports, but it was dimmed. The store itself was abandoned and blackened.
A car hung by the curb. When Vaughan's eyes moved at all, it was from the light to the car and back again. His jaw tensed every so often, swallowing his anger. Michael shifted.
Michael's loyalty was another vague concept. It came from blatant acts instead of old-fashioned ideals of command and protocol. He protected Jack because Jack took a bullet for him once. He protected Vaughan because he fully realized that Vaughan saved his life more times then he would probably ever know. He did the same for Angie because she made sure he never walked into something blindly.
As far as he could tell, all Pearse had ever done for him is prove that not all monsters are invisible to mirrors.
"When you called Angie…" Michael drawled slowly. "She say if Pearse showed up yet?"
"No sign. Wasn't in today."
"Home?"
"We have someone there, nothing yet."
Michael counted to four in his head. "You think he's up there."
Both sets of eyes settled back on the dimly lit room. Vaughan looked away first. "Dunno."
"I could go up and knock." He waited. Not even a flexing of the muscles, Michael leaned back again and counted. This was a handy little trick he learned from Jack about interrogations. Jack had been an actor in school and knew all about beats. Two seconds for comedy, three for drama and four to get the audience really antsy. If they're nervous, they'll do whatever you want them too. "..what are the chances, you think? Of the Leeches' actually being involved in this and not some desperate old Bess? I'm sure, somewhere out there…is a woman who could maybe think Pearse's an attractive sort of…something."
Vaughan grunted.
"I bet it's the gray…"
"I don't believe coincidences."
"Neither do I…" Another pause, two seconds. "I did some checking before we left…" Another pause, and this time Michael sat up and adjusted himself. He even feigned a yawn. "You know, Ange is changing the medication for old Pearsey…turns out the first one wasn't working."
Vaughan flinched. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four… "If you have something to say, say it, mate."
"Why are we doing this?"
"It's not clear already?"
"…not really…see I was under the impression that in this line of work, compassion was viewed as a failing."
"A strange sort of compassion this is. Spying on him."
"What do you call it then?" Pause. Beats, and Michael counting in his head. Be careful. "What's this about, Vaughan, really?"
"They'd love to get at him."
"He's already proved himself to you…" Careful, Michael, this isn't just an interrogation. "Didn't he?"
"You've been on this since we left." Vaughan suddenly hissed. "Trying to make Pearse out to be some kind of traitor."
"Isn't that what you're afraid of?"
"No!"
"Then what…"
Vaughan looked away. Trapped. Michael knew that look too. He saw it in Jack's eyes at the funeral and in the countless eyes of suspects from across the table. It was the haunted look of a man who clearly saw the ending and hated what he saw.
"Vaughan…tell me why you're fighting this hard."
No response. Michael cursed under his breath. Any moment now, he'd start rattling off his name, rank and serial number.
"You don't understand…" Vaughan muttered, mostly to himself.
"You're right." Michael rebuked. "I don't. What do you think he's up to, Vaughan? What are you afraid of…and don't act like it's nothing. I need to know if I'm going to help you…"
Vaughan looked at Michael for the first time that night. Silence filled the air for such a long time that Michael wondered for a moment if he was about to be punched. He was certain he'd deserve it too. Instead, Vaughan continued to speak in a whisper. "Was the first one who said 'I believe you.' He was the first one to explain…what happened. Why. He fought this longer then I have…hates them more. Can't let him fail. He didn't let me."
The words were simple, in halting speech and
choked out as if they were some kind of bedroom secret Vaughan had
never told another soul. Before he could reply, Vaughan suddenly push
open the door and disappeared into the night air.
Michael cursed and hit his head against the back of his seat.
It was then he realized the light in the bedroom had flickered off.
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Vaughan had taken several steps out of the car before he became aware of the voice from behind him. Smooth and honeyed, it was greatly amused and jarred with each step the speaker took. Vaughan turned around as soon as he recognized it, sliding one hand into his coat pocket.
"You don't have the speed, Mr. Rice and I don't have the desire." Colm held up a hand. There was that smile from the shop plastered onto the man's face. Somehow it was darker, menacing in the moonlight. Vaughan removed his hand. "There now, see? We can be civil."
Vaughan glanced at the car.
"I wouldn't." Colm warned. "Your Father is with my mother, and I doubt you'd wish something bloody to befall the dear one."
"He's not afraid to die."
"Is that a courage you share, however. Are you quite prepared to see your dear one fallen victim to the war he always knew he'd lose?" The smile widened; bone white teeth brandished against the black night. "O Captain, my Captain…" Colm glanced behind him. Content in the knowledge that he had all the cards. "My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. My father does not feel this arm. He has no pulse, nor.." At this another grin, and a small chuckle. "nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound. It's voyage closed and done. But I with mournful tread…walk the deck where," Colm bowed his head. Laughing.
Vaughan palmed his gun again.
"It's a timely poem you should look up, if you are ever given the occasion to recite it. I think your priest would enjoy it. It has all the right sorts of angst and foreboding." Colm reached one delicate finger up and scratched his nose. "You know, I know why you are here and in a way, I'm very much relieved. With mother's constitution and reservations, I had worried this would be some long drawn out affair…but you're arrival, and no doubt report will hurry things along nicely. How grateful I am that this doesn't have to be some black cape, Bela Lugosi affair…" He smiled, and bowed his head as he began to retreat. "Now, tell me, Mr. Rice." Colm drawled quietly. "Have I answered all your questions?"
Vaughan turned and ran back to the car.
Pearse had appeared by the time he hit the car's driver side door.
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The shop's door opened and for a moment the
night's quiet was shattered by a duet of laughter.
Pearse was stumbling forward, a smile over his face, and his feet
rebelling under his command. Michael saw his hands clutching those of
the woman who tottered behind him, laughing and humming as they
walked. She swung into his arms and there was a pause as they stood
face to face, only a breath away from each other.
Pearse was watching her eyes before smiling again, a little heavier this time and pulling away.
Michael saw Pearse seeing him and cursed. He pushed out of the car, and leaned against it, bowing his head and waiting.
Pearse had frozen in his place in the middle of the street. Over the older man's features was a blank, opened mouthed expression that resembled-despite all outward indication-anger. There were several moments that passed where the Father simply blinked and pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat. Behind the woman had stepped back, frowning nervously.
If Pearse was aware of her continual presence,
he could care less. He stalked towards Michael like an avenging
angel, jerking a finger to the car.
"Get in." He hissed. "Office now."
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If she was a little more aware of her surroundings, Olivia would have felt cold. Instead, she stood with her arms folded around herself and watched the car disappear down the street. Had she any tears left, she would have cried. Instead she stood and stared at it with a sorrow that surpassed tears and breaking hearts. There was an ageless resolve in her stance, in her eyes that enfolded her as she stood there. It looked for a moment as if her entire life's sorrows pooled together in her eyes and created, rather then bitterness and despair a hard brand of wisdom and clouded her mind and sapped her soul.
Her skin crawled when she felt Calm's hands touch her shoulder. "Mother, are you hurt?"
"Is this what you wanted?"
His voice was low, a prefect facsimile of concern. "You knew it would come to this."
"I just need more time."
"You've run out of time."
Olivia turned and met his eyes. "Colm…" She whispered. "What have you done."
"The others were getting impatient mother." He interjected sharply as he crossed to the car, motioning to her to follow. "We've…I've worked too hard to be compromised now. Do not forget what you wanted for us…Philip and I. Do not forget what you promised?"
"I haven't."
"How can you be sure?"
"Don't talk to me like a child. I know the words…"
"It's about time you start believing in them." He returned. "Or at the very least…pretend." Never flinching from her gaze, Colm leaned over and opened the door of the car. "And now mother…are you in or out?"
Olivia held her place for a moment before wordlessly taking her place in the car. She felt cold.