A/N: As with 'Born,' I apologize for the job-induced delay. More on the way, I promise! Take care.
The blinds on the inside of her office door tinkled and shook as Emily firmly pushed it closed behind her, blocking out the buzz of noise from the squad bay outside. She placed her bag on the glass-topped table just to her right and tugged off the black gloves she no longer needed inside the station, occasionally nipping with her teeth before wiggling her fingers out of them and pushing the gloves into her bag. Next, she undid the large, round buttons on her dark grey pea coat before hanging it on a hook mid-way up the wall just to her left, behind the door. Emily sighed, picking up her bag once more and heading to her desk. As she deposited her bag against the back wall, wheeled the small, indescribably comfortable black office chair, and collapsed into said chair, Emily silently gave thanks for being back in her office and not the broom cupboard she'd been forced into during the SSI investigation the previous spring.
She wriggled in the seat to get better situated and tapped the power button on her computer monitor, reading the massive blotter on the desk and chewing on her lip in thought while the screen warmed up. The morning looked relatively tame: the only note jotted in the top half of Monday's square was a reminder to finish editing an evaluation of one of the probationary detectives that joined the force over the summer. The afternoon had 'Fill-in Division Head Meeting' written diagonally across its thin black lines—just the mere thought of having to spend the afternoon in the conference room with the Chief and six other Division Heads made Emily feel like gagging. She shouldn't even have to endure the three hours of painful monotony in the first place; the force reorganized her Division after the events surrounding Strategic Security Initiatives and the (according to the police internal review report) "serious misallocations of resources, both material and personnel, and major revelations of police corruption and lack of institutional controls," which led to the creation of a Major Crimes Investigation Division and corresponding Division Head. The Chief interviewed Emily as a matter of course, but she knew that after her disregard for authority and (to again quote the report) "cavalier attitude shown towards accepted norms of the profession," the likelihood of being promoted as the youngest Division Head on the force was nil. As if to rub in his preference for anyone other than her for the position, the Chief had the gall to move her to the new Division anyway. Of course, when the Chief finally hired the new Division Head, he happened to always schedule his personal medical, dental, ophthalmologic, and barber appointments for the days when the Chief wanted to have Division Head meetings.
"Division Head by proxy," muttered Emily to herself, swivelling to enter her password. The phrase had been Naomi's originally, teasingly bestowed upon Emily after she returned home complaining about her new boss's antics for the third time in early September. Her fingers flashed over the keyboard, dutifully inputting her obnoxiously complex series of letters, numbers, and pointless symbols. At least the pay was slightly better than before. A soft beep indicated that the computer had processed all the requisite information and Emily brought up her email, scanning for anything that popped up over the weekend. Very little caught her eye and she sighed. Just another day in paradise.
Midway through the morning, on her way back from preparing a cup of marginal coffee in the break area down the hall, Emily was surprised to see a hulking shadow sitting in one of the chairs in her office. Peeking across the rim of her mug as it was still softly pressed to her lips, she slowed and narrowed her eyes. The outline didn't look nearly rotund enough to be the Chief, nor was it slight enough to be the other detective assigned to Major Crimes. Emily lowered the mug and walked cautiously to her office doorway.
"Good morning, may I help you?"
"Detective! I beg your pardon." The figure craned his neck while remaining seated and Emily realized her visitor was in no way affiliated with the Bristol police.
"Harlan, to what do I owe the pleasure?" She stepped inside the office and extended a hand as her visitor pushed himself up and moved around the chair to properly greet her. He clasped her hand tightly, left hand holding her elbow as he squeezed and his lips rose from their perpetual frown into a straight line, a look Emily surmised he saved only for old friends. For her part, Emily was not quite ready to jump to that conclusion. She and Harlan had worked closely through the SSI crisis earlier that year; when she had been ordered off the case by her boss, Harlan encompassed her under his authority to investigate for the Office of Security and Counter-Terrorism. Subsequently, Emily and Naomi discovered evidence and information pointing to involvement by Tony Stonem in the planning of the attack on her twin's former place of work as well as the cooperation of several members of the Bristol police. With Harlan's help, Emily procured the warrants needed to search Stonem's residence, a massive manor north of London, and detain both Stonem and James Cook. Thus, Emily was entirely open to describing Harlan as a trusted colleague, an ally if she needed one in an investigation, but he was best left as a professional acquaintance for now. Besides, he had stolen her office from her when OSCT got involved with SSI, and that would never sit well with the younger Fitch twin. He released her arm and slid back into the chair as she mirrored his movements and fell back into her personal office chair. She placed the coffee mug on a coaster just in front of the computer monitor.
"What, can someone not drop by and see an old friend?"
We're not friends, Harlan. Instead of verbalizing her thoughts on their relationship, Emily flashed a faked smile, one she and Naomi spent hours working on for the latter's public appearances and that Emily chose to adopt when it suited her. "Of course you can, but since we've barely spoken since the spring, I'm going out on a limb that this isn't entirely a social call."
"And you'd be right," admitted Harlan. He bounced one hand on the arm rest. "So I hear you have a new job."
Emily rolled her eyes. "Not really, no. Just a different title—same problems and barriers." Her gaze fell to the blotter.
Harlan's lips quirked back into a frown and he stopped bouncing his hand for a moment. Looking up at her solemnly, he asked, "Would you like one?"
In an instant, Emily felt like she'd lost the conversation completely. They were talking in her office, yes, and she was in her rightful place behind her desk, but just as in the spring it seemed Harlan held the cards and she was in danger of falling completely out of her element. She looked up at Harlan and whispered, "Like one what?"
"A new job, Detective," he said simply.
Her breaths shallow, Emily looked back down at the blotter, up to the open email program on her desktop, back down to the pictures of her and Naomi situated next to a wire desk organizer; anywhere but at the face of her visitor. Fixating on the same photo she knew graced Naomi's desk in London—the two of them linked at the elbow, walking alone on a sun-drenched Indian beach with small white caps breaking around their ankles as Emily laughed, her face upturned towards the blonde—Emily tried to process the deceptively destructive words, 'new job.'
Finally, without looking at Harlan, Emily brought herself to ask, "Doing what, exactly?"
"Well, truth be told, things very similar to what you're doing here. I'm putting together a special task force at OSCT to investigate relationships between British individuals or businesses and foreign actors that could increase the potential for reciprocity or increased terror activity here at home. The Prime Minister was none too pleased with how easily Ocelot was conducted and hidden. While the SFO and your fiancée conduct their hearings, we've been directed to move forward with the enforcement and prevention of similar programs." Harlan paused and smiled, though Emily was not returning his gaze. "This is really all your fault, you know. You really started something."
Raising her gaze for the first time, Detective Fitch shook her head sadly. "It was not my intention to start anything. I just wanted to finish an investigation that hit far too close to home for my liking."
"That does not change the fact that some others in my organization think you're some sort of wunderkind that can unravel every conspiracy out there."
"Well I hope you insist otherwise. I'm nothing of the sort."
"Perhaps not. But you did show remarkable initiative and a willingness to bend rules if necessary to accomplish what you set out to do. You don't take no for an answer, and that's invaluable on the task force I'm putting together."
Harlan, you have no idea how true that is, thought Emily as her eyes flicked down to the picture of her and Naomi on the beach. "So what? You want a team of people that break the law to uphold it?"
"I want a team of people that care more about getting results than posturing and boasting about what they're going to do in the future to prevent things from going wrong. I'd rather have a team of bulldogs than one of press conference champions. The loudest one in the room is often the weakest one, in my opinion."
"Yeah. And this...task force?"
"Uh huh."
"Where would it be?"
"London, naturally. So many more resources to draw upon there than anywhere else. And there'd be travel involved, obviously, since the cases will be international."
London. That would certainly mean more time with Naomi, at least in theory. Nevertheless, if Harlan was serious about how much work they'd have in front of them, the prospect of not having to be split from her love would be marginalized, and travelling abroad would only magnify that. Besides, Naomi had to live in Bristol if she wanted to represent the city in which they grew up; moving permanently to London wasn't an option, officially. Of course, Naomi frequently griped that older members of Parliament would do just that and take holidays back to their districts, and somehow Emily didn't believe Naomi would rush to join their numbers, whether it be idealism or youthful enthusiasm to represent her people correctly.
Emily took a steadying breath and picked at the corner of the blotter. "And how soon would you like an answer?"
"Is a week too little time to realize you can make a greater difference with me than staying here?" challenged Harlan.
"You sound pretty sure of yourself. My mind isn't made up, not by a long shot. There's a lot tying me to Bristol and—"
"I said next Monday, didn't I?" interrupted Harlan. He stood, towering over Emily at her desk. "You'd make an incredible asset on the task force, Detective Fitch. I look forward to hearing from you."
Emily stood shakily and clasped his hand. She collapsed back into her chair before Harlan was through the door and turning right to head for the exit. Well that was unexpected. Without looking, she reached for her mobile where it sat plugged in and charging at the corner of the desk. She needed to talk to someone about this, someone who would be able to speak intelligently and dispassionately about it. Someone like—
"May I come in, Detective?"
Startled, Emily looked up to find the person whose number was currently highlighted in her contacts listing stood not three metres away. Officer Christopher Smith, short dishwater blonde hair faded in a military-style cut and jawline cleanly shaven giving him a youthful look that belied the experience Emily knew he possessed, had his left fist extended out to rap on the door and his right dangling at his side holding a partially eaten green apple. He was wearing a black windbreaker over a pair of khaki cargo pants and combat boots. Smiling warmly the head of Bristol's Special Response force took an uninvited step into the office.
"Yes! Jesus, this is so weird; I was just about to call you."
He pointed to the coffee mug partially eclipsed from view on her desk. "No problem walking down to the break room, but you have to call someone with an office half the distance? What's wrong?"
Emily bit her lip and hoisted the previously forgotten mug. She winced at the hot liquid, but the warmth in her hands was comforting enough. "Nothing's wrong, actually. I just wanted to get your opinion on something."
"Oh?" Smith leaned against a filing cabinet and took a bite of his apple. "And would this have anything to do with Harlan? I passed him on my way in."
"Actually, yeah, it does. Did he mention anything to you?"
"About?" Another bite of apple. Emily noticed a playful spark light in Smith's eyes and she suddenly felt like he was cutting her out of some sort of inside joke.
"This task force he's setting up. You already know about it, don't you? You do!" Emily leaned forward and distractedly sat the mug down on the wooden surface of her desk. Smith was full-out grinning now and chewing vigorously on his apple. Emily's eyes widened. "You're on the task force, aren't you, Christopher?"
"That I am, Detective. That I am. Harlan talked to me last week on the phone and I accepted immediately."
"To do what exactly?"
"They're envisioning some sort of enforcement arm to arrest—sorry, neutralize, to use his verbage—people that investigators," Smith tipped the apple in Emily's direction before continuing, "tab as bad guys, whether it's here or abroad. I'm hoping less raids on office buildings rigged with explosives, more awkward intrusions into executives' manors early in the morning. Much less tedious and much more satisfying."
"And you'll be paid better, is that it?"
"It's the government, Emily. Money'll never be a motivator for me. But as a matter of fact, yes, if only a bit. I think that's your last concern as well, though."
"I haven't accepted anything yet," Emily said with a slice of her hand.
"I know," said Smith casually. "But you should."
Emily gaped at his back as he took one last bite of apple, hoisted it above his head in farewell, and turned to walk around the edge of the squad bay to his office.
Across town, Katie sat nervously on a minimalist chair, one leg crossed over the other as was proper in the skirt she was wearing, waiting for a job interview. It was arranged via a campaign donor two weeks prior, and while returning to work outside the realm of politics was her top priority, doing it in a field so similar to her work with Strategic Security Initiatives put her on edge. She told herself there wasn't anything inherently bad about IT firms or technology-centric businesses—or the people that worked at them—but those reassurances could not quell the butterflies or slow her racing heart. The building had even looked relatively similar with its low, several story profile and what seemed to be endless sheets of glass wrapped tightly around the metal framework. Neatly trimmed hedges framed the ground floor and several sturdy maples rose along the path outside. Inside, though, the similarities gave way to a frigid sense of modernism that enhanced Katie's unease. Everything seemed designed and engineered for maximum discomfort, including her current perch. The chair sloped back away from her; its form suggested one should lie back on it, but Katie struggled to imagine anyone reclining in the stark reception area. Large steel sculptures hung off the wall, twisted silver blades throwing off distorted reflections.
To her right, a receptionist sat behind a haze grey desk, wisps of her black hair visible over the counter's edge as her fingers clattered across a keyboard. The minutes wore on; Katie grew more and more impatient. Her appointment had been scheduled for eleven that morning and it was now pushing noon with no sign of her potential employer or any acknowledgement she was there. Granted, the receptionist took her name down upon arrival, but Katie hadn't seen her enter it into the computer or place any calls to notify her boss that a Ms. Fitch was here for her interview. Invisible speakers played music rich in synthesizers and intermittent drum beats, a soundtrack that sounded like the cast-offs from an electronica album that probably came out during her years at Uni.
During a lull in the music, one of the massive, treated-wood doors on the far side of the reception desk slammed open, startling Katie even as the receptionist continued typing away. In the open doorway stood a young man, two days' growth a shadow along his jaw, a mop of curly hair falling down into his eyes, and not-quite-conquered acne barely visible on his forehead.
"It's Katie, isn't it?" he called, choosing to appraise her from the safety of the office instead of approaching her in the waiting area. Jesus, how young is this guy?
She stood and mustered as much confidence as she was able, nervousness and uneasiness continuing to rise inside. Every step across the stone floor seemed to cover less and less distance and each footfall felt heavier and heavier. Katie steeled herself and redoubled her efforts to present poise and calm. Approaching her interviewer, her previous skepticism was validated: he couldn't have been older than twenty-two or twenty-three, and cynicism joined the nervousness in her stomach. Katie dry swallowed and began repeating over and over again that she deserved this; that she was overqualified; that what she had been through six months previous held no bearing or sway over this...kid's decision whether to hire her or no. As she got within handshaking distance, a growing piece of Katie's subconscious insisted otherwise, and in her mind that piece began to take the sound of a drill bit vibrating against a guitar string.
The doors closed behind them and the incessant sound of typing from the reception desk faded. To Katie Fitch, its absence was consumed by actual silence as her potential employer walked towards a sharply contoured set of chairs and adjoining sofa and the wailing chord of self-doubt in her mind. Sitting down, she tried to block out the nauseous tingling in her throat and chest and answer his questions, but the violent soundtrack she tried to talk over clouded her memory, betrayed her charm and quick wit. For Katie Fitch, the next distinct memory she described to her sister that evening while driving Emily to the train station was standing doubled over with one hand on the boot of the car, a puddle of brown-yellow liquid and grotesque chunks of dinner marring the clean pavement by the rear tire.