Broken... broken pieces taking shape
You could... you could have been my great escape
Tragic, never-ending, but I can't stop pretending
That I'll put it back together on my own
On my own, that's right; you shouldn't even have to ask
Not my heart, not my soul
Oh baby, just this shattered mask
Ach! Klavier starts to crumple the napkin in his grip, then thinks better of it and flattens it back out, scans it over again.
It's nothing but an unoriginal, steaming pile of garbage. Second-rate poetry that, sure, might earn him hits on websites like Upstream or VideOwn, but for its intended purpose, to examine what is the inspiration behind the words—it is an exercise in futility.
Although, it's something that, at one time, he really could have worked with. Back when he'd had a partner to bounce ideas off of. To dedicate the songs to, even. A muse, if he were being technical, or if he were looking to annoy that muse, who'd sneered that those "faggy lyrics the teenyboppers eat up" couldn't possibly be about him.
(For as much as Daryan protested that they weren't, the way he'd pin Klavier back against the wall and nearly tear his pants clear off... he knew they were.)
But what he'd managed to put down—is it about Daryan, still? It could be about Ema, too. He was thinking about both of them, if only because thinking about himself, writing solely about himself, it's...
So pointless. He is so pointless. Why does he try? Not just tonight, but at all. While he doesn't feel worse, he doesn't feel better either. The only thing he does feel is slightly buzzed, having finished off his second Long Island, and full, from a crab cake and swordfish that he's sure were delicious but could hardly taste for how much bitterness still clung to his mouth following his conversation with Ema.
"In the mood for dessert?" The waitress approaches him, and Klavier drags the napkin off the table with his palm, presses it to his leg to hide it. No one can see it, no one should see it.
"Any specials?"
"Oh, yes. Tonight's we have a blackberry cheesecake. And there's an optional adult version that comes topped with a blackberry cordial drizzle. It's a German brand, called..." She plucks the little laminated Specials menu from its metal holder in the center of the table. Klavier could have bothered to read it himself, but, this is her job, ja? "Eck-tee Krow-atz... Krohz...?"
Klavier takes the menu from her, reading it with the proper emphases before setting it back on the table. "Echte Kroatzebeere?"
"Yes!"
Haha, she is adorable, obviously recognizing him and trying to play up to it. He orders a slice (with the cordial topping), just for the sake of her effort, and before he can stop himself, he asks, "Fräulein Brombeere, what time do you finish your shift?"
"You're my last table tonight." She tucks one of her braids behind her ear, a beaming smile rounding her cheeks. "Then I'm going to the airport. My fiancé is returning from duty overseas."
"I see. A reunion." A smile appears, the same hollow one he'd formed for Ema, that proves, ja, he is happy for her. He is as good and caring as any of the interviews he's done make him out to be. "Congratulations."
"Thanks! Anything else to drink?" She nods towards his glass, which is almost depleted of its contents.
She wasn't flirting with him. She knows who he is, but so what? Doesn't everybody? She was only being kind to him. Friendly, like any good waitress should be, and pitying him, like every human being who's followed the news in the last year has. She didn't really want anything to do with him, and ah, truth be told, he didn't want anything to do with her wanting anything to do with him.
Once more, he is repulsed with himself, so even though he shouldn't, even though drinking for the purpose of loosening up so he can attempt to write is acceptable but this is pushing it, this is risky, what might even fall under the category of self-destructive...
He does.
Because making rational, healthy life choices tonight hasn't gotten him very far, so let's try this instead.
"Another Long Island, danke. And the check." He winks at her.
That is what Klavier Gavin does, winks at all the fräuleins, even if they've just told him they are betrothed to another.
He has an image, has a reputation.
He is a star, and stars must shine.
Tonight he's getting close to burning the brightest he ever has.
So bright, that he's dangerously close to combusting, and he can't say no one notices. He's aware, he notices.
But he can say that no one cares.
It is not even a full minute after he orders dessert that his phone rings again.
For the briefest second, he thinks it's Ema, calling him back, but he sees the number is unknown, or would be if a good two-thirds of Klavier's most recent calls both sent and received weren't from numbers with the same area code and prefix.
Los Angeles City Prison.
Could it be about Kristoph? He swallows, suddenly feeling heady, in a fog, where he didn't before.
No... it's probably just about a case, like it is every time they call, and he fears the worst.
Except he's not on a case right now.
No, it is not always fucking about Kristoph! And to prove it, he answers on the third ring, calm, composed. Cool. "Hallo. Prosecutor Gavin."
"Gavin, hi. This is warden Haines, 'kay?" A pause, perhaps allowing Klavier a moment of recognition.
Haines. Klavier knows him; he's only a few years older than Klavier himself. He's a good guy; strange verbal tic, ja, but who is Klavier to judge? And he's usually in a good mood, more than Klavier can say for some of the other wardens. Always had a hello for Klavier back when he'd visit Daryan every week.
Daryan, oh Gott, what if it's not about Kristoph, what if...
"Ah, yes, warden. What can I do for you?" Asks a voice, a stable one that can't possibly be his own.
"There's... well, there's been an incident..."
Klavier rises out of his chair abruptly, creating a screech that draws looks from those seated around him. He ungainly swerves away to the same little alcove that he stood in while speaking to Ema.
"What sort of—"
"Prosecutor Blackquill... he needs to be, escorted off the premises, 'kay? And he's not fit to drive himself, so... this is the number he gave us. His emergency contact."
Herr Schwarz? What in the world could...? "I... I'm not sure I..." He still can't believe this is about Blackquill, or that Blackquill would offer Klavier up as his emergency contact. Finally, he states what was meant to be his first question. "What sort of incident?"
"We can tell you—or, he can, if he wants to—when you get here. Right now, it's most important he leave, 'kay?" Haines lowers his voice, and Klavier needs to cover his other ear to block out background noise. "With someone. He's not... it's not safe, for him to go on his own. And... Sir, between you and me, I don't think it's safe for anyone else if he stays here."
Countless scenarios start sloshing around with all the alcohol and the self-loathing, and Klavier would be here all night if he tried to sift them out and make any sense of them. Blackquill's well-being is important to him, and even if he doubts there's a damned thing he can really do, he may as well just show up. Put in an appearance, and go from there.
"Give me twenty minutes," Klavier says, already heading back to his seat, and hanging up before Haines can finish thanking him.
There is his cheesecake. And the bill, scrawled with a loopy Thanks! and the fräulein's name—Nina—complete with a smiley face beside it.
Klavier surveys the restaurant, hoping to flag her down, but she's nowhere in sight. So he drops three fifties on the table, and with the pen she lent him, scribbles a message on a remaining napkin.
Fräulein Brombeere,
An emergency has left me unable to thank you for your excellent service.
So enjoy the cheesecake, and even more so, your fiancé.
Until we meet again,
-Klavier Gavin
His name is written as an autograph, and he wedges the napkin under the cheesecake plate. Then, slipping into his jacket, Klavier hurries out of the restaurant as if a breeze whisked him through.
"You're free to go." Haines unlocks the barred door of the holding cell, a loud iron groan echoing as it slides open.
Blackquill rises from the cot, looking slightly disheveled but uninjured. He appears as he always does, stoic and unreadable, although his eyelids are half-mast. Tired, or maybe just disinterested, Klavier's not sure. Whichever it is, it's enough that he doesn't give any kind of sarcastic remark about being released from the holding cell, just a fleeting smirk Klavier might have imagined.
"You're alright taking him home?" The other warden, who introduced himself as Joel Bray, is even younger than Haines, with big ears and a bigger gap between his front teeth. He's invited himself into Klavier's personal bubble ever since Klavier arrived, and that includes moving so close to Klavier as Blackquill exits the cell that it backs them away, and gives Blackquill a wide berth.
Klavier's gaze follows Blackquill, but it's never returned as Blackquill is—Klavier hadn't noticed them at first, but he sees it now—uncuffed from a set of heavy shackles.
Blackquill's still staring unseeing straight ahead as he rubs at his wrists. When Klavier looks back at the wardens, they both seem truly afraid that Klavier will say, no, he's not alright taking Blackquill home.
"Ja, it's no problem. None at all. I thought..." Klavier hesitates, checking Blackquill once more. He was informed that something happened, which to him implies an altercation between Blackquill and... well, the wing he's in is high-security, so not simply a defendant at this point. A convict. Blackquill is dressed casually, and it's evening, after-hours, so that solidifies that his presence can not be explained as part of a current case; this is a personal visit.
Could it have something to do with his sister?
"Yes, Prosecutor Gavin?... Oh, that's right! " Bray mercifully separates from Klavier, leads him to the Haines's desk—and much closer to Blackquill—where several forms are fanned out, no attempt at organization. Selecting the topmost one, Bray moves it to the edge of the desk, and hands Klavier a pen. "Sorry, this is my first time actually having to handle an... incident like this. But here, you know how this works, right? Just sign here... and here...to verify that you voluntarily picked up Blackquill."
Klavier knows this particular form; it's what's used down at the general population prison, when misdemeanor offenders are being held and their bail is posted. Assumably there is no form designed for this specific turn of events, with Blackquill here, so the wardens are simply making do.
"And... I know you know all this, but I'm required to tell you, that if you don't sign, or sign here." Bray points to a different line. "That's you giving consent that he's...well, that the prison decides where he goes. I mean, if you felt him too... unsafe to leave, and thought it'd be better if the prison keep him here longer... or... well, if..."
Haines steps in, lowers his voice, as if he does not want Blackquill to hear, but they are all too close together that it's a futile action. "Or that if he should be transported to a hospital to receive further... evaluation."
"An institution." Blackquill bluntly corrects, visibly startling the two wardens. His words drag as he continues, or maybe it's the alcohol in Klavier's own system slurring them. "Do you hear that, Gavin-dono? I've bats in my belfry, am a complete raving nutter. Can't you see it, before your very eyes? Go on, have me shipped away to the loony bin where I belong."
Klavier stares, knowing full well this has to be more about Blackquill treating the wardens that they are nothing more than playthings, here solely for cheap amusement. But he is too experienced, himself, in voicing such dark truths through jokes, teasing, if only to see the reactions from others.
Given how Blackquill refuses to filter his thoughts, Haines does the same. He makes no attempt to lower his voice, to sugarcoat an explanation.
"He's been like this all night, completely oppositional. We had to... to sedate him, 'kay? Managed to get him to take some painkillers for the scrapes, and that was a chore, in and of itself. But... I slipped in some of these muscle relaxers I've got prescribed, for my neck." Haines steps away from Blackquill to pop open the drawer at his desk, where a translucent amber pill bottle sits beside a phone charger and rolled-up bag of potato chips.
"You drugged a prosecutor?" Something wakes up inside of Klavier, something that penetrates the gray cloud of misery and booze he's been so snugly encased in. He's never had any issue with these wardens, with any of the wardens, but Blackquill... he is not the depraved criminal he spent so long playing the role of.
He is Klavier's friend, and confidante. Because very few others will be, but all the same...
It is the thread between them, this search for their real identities, and it unnerves Klavier how damned easy it is for everyone to view, and treat, both him and Blackquill as their old selves. As though that's their true selves, and they're fools for trying to make the world, and themselves, believe otherwise.
"Please Gavin, you understand, 'kay? He's been... erratic, we didn't have a choice. It... we didn't want to hurt him, but we didn't know how long it'd be 'til you got here, or if you would... it took ages for him to even give you as a contact. And if he had to stay here all night... this seemed like the most humane thing to do." Whether instinct or not, Haines's hand sets at his hip, where a billyclub is firmly secured at his belt. Klavier's never seen, or even heard of a warden using it on a prisoner, but a lot of things throughout his life have transpired without him being around to witness any of it. "He's still been mouthy, but he's too... loopy now to really act on any of it. We weren't thinking of it like he was a prosecutor at the time, not after... well, we still haven't told you what happened. See, Prosecutor Blackquill assaulted a—"
"I would rather—" Klavier sharply begins at the same time Blackquill states, "I will tell him."
They both stop abruptly, stare at each other for what can't be more than half a second. A half second far too loud and uncomfortable, for what Blackquill is able to tell him wordlessly through eyes that are as empty as the dead air between them.
Klavier needs to get Blackquill out of here. Now. He scribbles his signature onto the appropriate lines, and passes the pen back to Haines. "Nevermind what happened. We'll be on our way."
"In a moment, Gavin-dono." Blackquill then looks darkly between the two wardens—or, as much as he can with such weariness. "You've still my belongings."
Bray and Haines don't say anything, just exchange uneasy glances.
"The case files, " Blackquill all but spits at them. "I would like them returned."
Bray speaks first. "Well... Prosecutor Blackquill, considering the circumstances, I—"
"Considering the circumstances, you will return them to me now, if you value the use of all ten of your fingers."
Klavier finds himself beside Blackquill at a slight angle, that his shoulder is in front of Blackquill's body. It is hardly enough to prevent Blackquill from going after the wardens, but perhaps it could be, in this addled state he's in. "Gentlemen, let's make this as speedy and painless as possible, ja? Please, take Prosecutor Blackquill to gather his belongings."
Both of them give nods of assent, though barely, and Blackquill goes off with Bray again. Klavier notices the sort of slide to his step, as if one or both of his legs are pins-and-needles. Worried, he starts to follow, but Haines stops him, and leads him back to the desk.
"Gavin, hold up, 'kay? You don't have to go along; Joel can take care of himself."
"It's not..." Does he really think it's the warden Klavier is worried about? Blackquill is, though he'd argue otherwise, vulnerable. The image of what Blackquill must have gone though this evening, whether warranted or not, coalesces within Klavier's hazy mind, and he can no longer conceal his frustration. "Warden, I could have you—both of you—reported to internal affairs for this. If Blackquill were a prisoner, then I could maybe see what you've done as an extenuating circumstance but—"
"And I could have an officer tail you after you leave, 'kay? I don't think it'd be great publicity for you or the prosecutors' office if you were charged with a DUI."
Klavier swears under his breath—breath that must be strongly scented of multiple kinds of liquor, if he's being faced with a threat like this. He glares at Haines for a few long moments, then turns away, trying desperately to not hate him, not hate either of them because how can he fault them? Both for how they handled Blackquill and the blackmailing of keeping it hush-hush.
It's not entirely different from the vivid memory that surfaces.
Daryan, and Klavier hauling him out of an interrogation after he'd snapped, beat the living daylights out of an alleged (but he'd done it, was undeniably guilty) child molester and murderer. Oh, it was covered up, so neatly, so carefully. Not that an effort wouldn't have been made regardless, but much more urgency was placed on it than if the officer wasn't a famed guitarist with a multi-platinum rock band.
It was determined that the injuries suffered had been while the suspect was in holding, from other inmates who'd caught wind of what he was accused of. Before the interview, that's right, the defense was clearly mistaken, misremembering things. The suspect had spoken with Gavin and Crescend after his eye had been blackened, his nose smashed like he'd been in the midst of a wicked mosh pit.
Klavier had never thought his expertise with audio production would come in handy with manipulating the sound from the interview recording, to alter the voice enough to make it sound as though he were speaking with a swollen jaw and a few less teeth.
The things he'd done for Daryan, at the expense of his own well-being. And the things he'd done because evidence was everything in court.
"Prosecutor Gavin?" Haines is talking to him, is inching closer to him, is concerned.
Klavier rearranges what is surely an expression worth being concerned about into a smile, a glimmerous one he'd saved for Ema but won't get the chance to use. "Have you heard about Detective Skye and her sister?"
"What...?" Haines is confused for only a second, then gives in to the fact that Klavier Gavin wants to talk to him about something that goes beyond work. About a woman, even. "Oh...! Yeah, I did, actually. I was there, saw it, when Ms. Skye was released. It was a really touching, and... but... oh..."
"What, everything went smoothly, did it not?" Ema is the last person to keep harsh truths from him, but Haines's excitement fading so quickly... what else is he supposed to think?
"Well, no, I just... ah, you know, Prosecutor Gavin, I figured since you weren't there, that you wouldn't want to hear about it either. You would have been there. For Detective Skye, I mean. So ah..." Haines must assume Ema and him are an item; it wouldn't be the first time that mistake was made.
Klavier corrects him as succinctly as he can. "Not necessarily, warden." He's not exactly up to having a lengthy discussion about the nature of his relationship with Ema.
"Oh. Okay, well... I just thought, because it's her older sister, you know, finally being released, and because your... he'll never." He's being so careful, that he doesn't need to be articulate for Klavier to know what—who—he's talking about. "I thought maybe you wouldn't... that it wouldn't be good. For you to be there."
Klavier wants to laugh. Just... laugh. He hadn't thought of that, no, but now he can't stop thinking about it, and he'd turn in his fucking badge right now if it meant Blackquill would return, save him from this debilitating icy flood rushing under his skin.
And no, that can't happen, not the way he hopes. Instead it's the call of "Hey! Chris!" that bounces down the hallway and causes both Haines and Klavier to turn in its direction. Time suspends, as Klavier has to piece together, no, it's only Warden Bray, returning with Blackquill, calling to Haines.
It's not... he wasn't...
Kristoph isn't here. Why would anyone call to him, most especially by the nickname only Daryan used to irritate him?
Because Kristoph is fucking everywhere that Klavier is, as just demonstrated in his conversation with Haines.
All feeling disappearing from his legs, Klavier sinks into the chair at Haines's desk. A sort of whine scrapes back and forth along his throat, won't come out for how tightly clamped his mouth is. He hopes his action of perusing the form he'd been given to sign, pretending he's reading the fine print, is enough to pass him off as not a complete fucking mess.
It must be. The wardens make chit-chat that Klavier can't bring himself to care about, but he does steal a glance towards Blackquill, to see how he's faring.
How Blackquill is faring is indeterminable, as he's staring unfocused, out into nowhere, leather folio held possessively to his chest. It's stuffed full, edges of documents poking out. Klavier knows Blackquill to be rather organized, so he guesses that the folio was knocked open, the documents spilled everywhere, and hastily returned.
He goes back to studying the forms, until Haines snaps his fingers in front of Klavier's face, between his gaze and the paperwork. "Hey, Prosecutor Gavin. Are you ready?"
Klavier blinks, looks up at Haines, then over at Bray and the still despondent Blackquill. Judging by the wardens' curious expressions, this must not be the first time Klavier was asked.
"Oh. Ja, good to go, warden." Klavier finds the willpower to stand, and a little bit more to force a fake smile.
"Great," Haines says, not masking his relief. "Oh, and... until this is all sorted out, Blackquill is banned from the prison, 'kay?"
Klavier nods, and somehow manages to bid both wardens a good night. Blackquill remains at his side until they've exited the prison proper, at which point he picks up pace, his longer stride carrying him ahead of Klavier as they cross the lot.
Even with the state he's in, Klavier notices how Blackquill's gait has changed, for how pronounced that change is. He's walking normally; confidently, even. Whatever effects the muscle relaxers had on him, they have either miraculously evaporated... or weren't there in the first place.
Blackquill stops right by the passenger side door, and Klavier learns that it's the latter.
Blackquill doesn't seem to care that Klavier's attention is entirely on him as he inhales deeply, noisily, and turns to spit far into the distance. Under the lamplights of the parking lot, Klavier barely makes out two tiny dots—tablets—as they arc through the air and disappear. Blackquill then climbs into Klavier's convertible, but not before offering Klavier a mischievous smirk—the Blackquill Klavier has grown to befriend in these past several months.
While Klavier's logic hasn't escaped him, even inebriated, he can't puzzle out why Blackquill would fake being under the effects of potent painkillers. He continues to mull this over as he enters the car, turns the ignition, and the confusion must be evident enough that Blackquill sees fit to explain.
Or, at least speak. It's hardly an explanation.
"Trust me, Gavin-dono; concealing pills under my tongue is hardly the most difficult thing I've had to hide."
Klavier acknowledges this with a nod, and swallows, steering to the one lane serving as both exit and entrance. He realizes that, honestly, he does not need an explanation, as nothing will prevent him from wholeheartedly believing that Blackquill can not, should not be left on his own tonight.
And oh, how they have so much in common.