John Kramer
He had chosen to sleep at his workshop after Jill was fully recovered. She would call, every morning and night, leaving voicemails for him. "Please, I need you, John. Come home."
But he couldn't bear to pretend life was the same.
The funeral had left him drained and numb. Watching such a tiny coffin lower into the dirt destroyed all shred of hope he had in this world.
All that was left were his body and his cursed mind that reminded him of his failings.
He could not protect his wife and child.
"John?" When he heard her voice he froze in his chair. He was too tired to stand. Too weary to move. If they found him, so be it.
There were two pairs of footsteps echoing off the concrete.
"What's all this?" Art Blanck's voice resonated. They were likely going through his latest drawings. Fine. Let them snoop. What difference did it make? There was nothing to hide. Nothing to protect.
He only wished they would stop making such damn noise. His headaches were perpetual these days, loud noises exacerbating the agony.
"Don't be mad." Jill sounded afraid.
"What?" The clatter of wood on concrete. "Hey, John, you alright?" Art Blanck's voice, slick and smooth. He squinted up at the lawyer. Blanck's expensive cologne made him want to gag. "You're not, uh, returning any of my calls, buddy." John could barely look up at him. "I'm sorry, I understand uh, what happened was a tragedy. But I gotta tell ya," Art shot a look to Jill, who had wandered off, and if John had been just a little bit more himself, he would have gotten to his feet and told them both to leave.
But he was so tired. He wasn't sure if this fatigue was due to his lack of sleep or if he was perhaps coming down with something. "Listen John, you know those buildings we're working on–,"
"Take them. Give my share to Jill." He wanted nothing to do with this conversation. Art and Jill were disturbing his peace. They were reminding him of so much hurt. Couldn't they understand that?
"That's not the way it works, John, you see we're partners. Your designs are what makes those buildings special. We have forty families ready to move in. You hear me? Forty. All low income families. You can't just walk away. You're their savior, John."
White hot anger rose up his throat and the bitter taste of bile hit his tongue. "Get the fuck out of here."
"What? Who you talking to? It's me, John." Art's voice was delicate. Pitying.
His vision blurred but the anger helped him focus and the pain helped keep the anger red hot. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Oh, I heard you, John," Art's face looked unmoved, almost challenging.
"Get the fuck…" his brain went black for a moment and he thought he was about to faint. "You heard me." His voice was croaked and he needed a glass of water. But more than that, he needed everyone to just leave him alone.
"Okay John," Art looked displeased but resigned. "Take care of yourself. Give me a call when you're feeling better." Art strode out and Jill followed, her eyes burning into him. The squeaking door slammed shut, finally freeing him of their scrutiny.
He needed to make an appointment with the doctor. He needed something for these damn headaches.
Mark Hoffman
"Will, stop!" He shouted, panting as she sprinted far ahead of him. Fuck. Sweat poured down his neck and back. Why did he skip all those days at the gym? Why the fuck did he let himself get to being so out of shape? And now, his partner was going ahead to catch the perp, leaping over the edge of rooftops as if she was an olympic hurdler.
He wasn't going to let her leave him behind. He pushed and gained on her, stepped on the raised level and jumped, not looking down and feeling his stomach dive down to his ass knowing they were at least fifteen stories up.
He felt his feet hit the angled slate and his trembling hands were supporting him as he caught his breath. This was more than dangerous. This was damned irresponsible. He was still just out of reach, his partner the next building over. "Will!" He shouted again, knowing it wouldn't stop her.
He would have just pulled his gun out and shot the fucker in the back like back in the day but not with her watching. Below, the sirens announced the cavalry's arrival. About damn time.
The man seemed stuck because he stopped running and turned. Will lurched forward to grapple him but he managed to dodge her. And then he kicked her in the stomach.
No! The force of the impact sent her flying back and she just barely avoided being tossed off the side.
That was the last straw. He took his gun out. "Freeze!" He knew he couldn't lunge his thick ass across on this one. It was too far. And though his aim was good, it was a windy day.
Thankfully, this perp wasn't an idiot. The guy turned to him and held his hands out.
"On your knees!" He shouted over the traffic, sirens, his pounding heart, and industrial cacophony below. "Now!"
Will had straightened and took her cuffs out, snapping them onto the bastard's wrists while chanting the Miranda rights.
He lowered his gun, finally, a moment to catch his breath.
"Meet you down," Will called out, steering their arrestee towards the nearest doors to bring him down to the ground level.
"No, wait for backup."
The guy had been a handful and was stronger than her. She needed him there.
But he couldn't jump the distance between their buildings. He took his cell out, pressing the speed dial button to the call center. "We've got the suspect up on the roof at the building on third and Madison. The blue one."
"Uh, copy. Got a building number?"
"No, we're on the goddamn roof," he snapped, hanging up and resuming his heavy breathing.
Will looked exasperated. He hated that.
"We're just going to sit tight?" The annoyance in her voice made him angry. Everything she had done today had been reckless and unnecessary.
When back up finally arrived, officers in uniform took the suspect away and Will waved at him as she turned to follow. She smiled, looking pleased with herself. He turned, realizing the only way down for him was the fire escape.
After the long and grueling descent, he found her waiting for him, arms crossed, grinning. He kept his words to himself the rest of the day. They submitted their reports and went to his apartment.
It wasn't until he closed the door that he turned to her.
"What the hell was that today?"
"What do you mean?" She turned to him, looking pleased and wild, her hair a mess. "That was such a rush!"
This added fuel to his fire. He put a hand on her arm and squeezed it. "You put yourself in danger for no good reason."
She pulled, resisting. "Mark! Let go! You're hurting me!" She looked at his fingers digging into her skin and looked back at him, doe-eyed and pleading. "Please."
He loosened his grip but didn't release her. "What did I say back there?"
She avoided his eyes. "The guy was going to get away."
He leaned into her, his nose grazing her temple, teeth clenched, and repeated with a hiss, "What did I say?"
She looked up at him, pupils dilating, breathing hitched. "You told me to stop."
"And why didn't you?" He watched her, studying her face, daring her to challenge him.
Her chin tilted up and she, indeed, dared to challenge. "Because I'm doing my job." She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and stabbed a finger against his sternum. "Don't forget that I'm a cop first. Your girlfriend, second, when we're on the clock."
He didn't like that. He narrowed his eyes. "Our relationship is second to you?"
"When we're at work, yes. That's when we're partners, Mark. You should be thanking me for nabbing this guy. Not lecturing me on listening to you as if I'm some rookie. I've been a cop for as long as you have." Her voice held the accusation that he knew all too well. "Stop treating me like I can't function without you."
"You can't just go chasing suspects across buildings like you're fucking catwoman, Will," he backpedaled, going a more gentler approach. "It's dangerous."
"Yeah, comes with the territory."
He clenched his jaw. She just didn't get it. She wouldn't listen. She never did. And today, he was done being patient with her. He grabbed each shoulder, wanting to shake her but resisting the urge. "Next time," he whispered, "you wait. Understand?" He held no option in his voice and hoped she got the warning. "I can't bear the thought of losing you, too." He allowed this brief vulnerability to surface, swallowing.
She was looking at him now, wary. "Not your call, Mark. Not for this." She looked conflicted, pain on her face. "I know you're worried. But I won't die on you. Okay?" She took his cheeks in her hands, rubbing her thumb from his chin to his lips. "I'm alive."
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, sighing at the feeling of her soft skin brushing against his face. He leaned into her, smelling the fruity shampoo in her hair and pressed his mouth into the crook of her neck. "I know. Thank God." He kissed her, tasting salt and sinking his teeth gently into her soft flesh.
She giggled, leaning into him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her hands running down his shoulders and chest and down to his belt. He felt her gently squeeze his balls in her hand and he let out a grunt of heated desire.
Lust hit his lower stomach and he went to unbutton her blouse. "You know how hot you looked, sprinting after him?"
"Hmm, tell me," she, too, had proceeded to help undress him, starting with his belt and then his pants.
"Your hips swing back and forth, it's fucking art." Wanting to restore his wounded ego, he swiftly bent over to grip her ass and picked her up, swinging her and pressing her against the end table and the wall, knocking over mail and the ceramic bowl that held his keys. He heard the shatter but didn't mind, the clamber only adding an urgency as he pressed his lips into hers, slipping his tongue to play.
She moaned and shrugged out of her shirt and he, no longer a patient man, tore down her bra so her breasts would pop out for him to grab and squeeze. They were soft, familiar, and his to feel and fondle whenever he wanted.
"You're such a poet," she worded in between kisses. He smirked and pulled down her elastic waistband, feeling the G-string strap on her hip bone. He pulled back.
"You're wearing this to work?" His breathless voice was incredulous, the heat dampening, his mind reeling.
"What?" She sounded confused, her eyes half-lidded and her lips swollen and pink. "So?"
He narrowed his eyes. "What for?"
"No reason. Feels sexy?" She cocked her head to the side. "What's gotten into you, lately? Doesn't the idea of me wearing naughty underwear at work not turn you on?" She dragged her fingers up and down his chest, returning to his cock to squeeze and caress. She bit her lip, unconcerned. "Mark, what's wrong?"
"Don't want guys at work checking out your ass. I don't want to think that they can tell you're wearing a thong." He swallowed, knowing he sounded insane. But that was how he felt.
"No one notices. I'm not taking my clothes off at work."
That's not the problem. They just have to look and see no seams on your ass to know. He wanted to argue but her fingers deftly pressing and rubbing, and then her spitting into her hand and returning to rub him faster, now slick and lubricated, made him shut his eyes as he was powerless to the overwhelming sensation of her touching him.
"Maybe I'm hoping one day you'll want to fuck me on your desk at work," she softly teased, her voice sending shocks of lightning up his spine. "And I wear my best panties hoping that day is today. I was so disappointed when we got that call. It ruined my plans."
He swallowed, opening his eyes to see Will in her sultry glory, looking down at freckled breasts and thick lashes, and the idea of bending her over his office desk and fucking her raw and hard made him growl in need.
He wanted to fuck her like that then and there but the narrow end table was not convenient. He pulled her up, feeling her wrap her legs around him and carried her into the bedroom, dropping her on the bed, pulling her ankles roughly towards him. He knelt down to lick her stomach, dragging his tongue down to the curve where her leg and hip met, taking the thin string of her underwear in his teeth and pulling hard at it. He felt it snap and she let out a gasp of protest but he ignored it, pulling her thighs to position her opening over his dick, enjoying how wet and slippery it felt, and the way her lips squeezed and resisted as he pushed himself inside of her.
He pushed until he was completely inside, their hips kissing, and her legs spread wide apart as he savored the feeling of her squeezing and pulsing around him. She gasped again, her fingernails digging into his backside. This was heaven. This was all his. He pulled out slowly before pushing into her again, deep and hard, wanting her to feel every inch of him as he did her.
"Mark," she gasped, eyes shut tight, face contorted as if in pain.
He was upon her, pressing into her, pulling and pushing, the feeling half pleasured and almost painful but she moaned and cooed and confirmed that she enjoyed it, too.
They knew each other's bodies so well, after being together for so long. He knew how easy her knees could be pushed to touch her ears when he wanted to bend her and fuck her in just the right angle that left her in tears of ecstasy. He knew how she sometimes whined but never denied him when he would push a thumb in between her round cheeks, biting her nipples to the point he feared he would draw blood.
Lately, he had been rougher with her, but she never complained, nor showed any sign that she disliked what he did. After fast paced thrusts he found himself winded again, being reminded of their earlier physical activity of sprinting and leaping to help excuse his fatigue.
She took the opportunity to sit up and push him to get on his back, getting down off the bed to grip his manhood and take his length in her mouth, sucking him with slick tongue and warm lips. He groaned, her mouth heaven. She could suck cock like a professional and she almost had him coming before he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back.
She could give him a look that was so dirty and depraved, he felt both giddy and terrified. "You like that, sucking my cock?"
"Mm-hm," she huskily and eagerly tried to take his member back in her mouth but he wouldn't let her. No. He wanted her to flounder first, to remember who was the one who had the strength.
"Tell me how much you want my cock?"
"I want it so bad, Mark, it hurts. I love tasting your meat."
He let out a noise, pleased by her compliance. "That's too bad. Get back on the bed. On all fours. I want to fuck your pussy."
She obeyed him and he admired the glossy sheen of her lips and how his cock looked pressed in between them. He took her hips and pulled her onto him, sighing at her grinding her ass against him. He resumed thrusting into her, so hot and tight, and he knew he wouldn't last long at this rate.
"Mark, choke me," she gasped in the middle of his thrusts, and he hesitated, pausing his rhythm.
"You want that?" he whispered, half excited at the prospect.
"Please."
She tossed her hair back, turning to him. He leaned over her back, wrapping his fingers around her neck and squeezed tightly, his cock twitching at the sensation of the lines of tendons on his fingertips. He returned to thrusting into her, his free hand cupping a breast and pulling at her nipple, and he threw his hips into each hump with all his strength.
Her pussy was compressing hard onto him and her gagging from his grip sent a fresh wave of power through him. He felt mighty euphoria course through him and he sank his teeth hard into her shoulder as he reminded her that he was there, and she was his.
"Mm!" She grunted, and when he pressed his mouth to her cheek he felt the warm wet salt of her tears. She reached back and dragged her fingernails across his balls and after a few more full bodied thrusts he couldn't go any further and he felt the explosion of the orgasm punch through him and spill into her.
The two of them collapsed onto the bed, panting and soaked, Will turning to bury her face into his chest and Mark, pulling her close to him, knowing he would never let her go.
John Kramer
He had only gone to his primary provider to address the headaches. It was supposed to be a standard procedure. But after some bloodwork results came back, he was referred to a Doctor Lawrence Gordon. Oncology.
He knew what that meant. But he remained calm when he met with the man.
Doctor Lawrence Gordon was a man with little empathy as he leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen around his fingers, staring at the window as though he was fantasizing about some fishing trip.
"Doctor," Kramer whispered, wanting some eye contact.
Gordon blinked and looked embarrassed. "Sorry about that," he whirled his chair and cleared his throat. He looked down at the file quickly. "John. Appreciate you coming down to see me. How are you feeling?" Though his words were of concern, his tone sounded bored.
This was not a doctor who cared for his patients. Or perhaps the news was so good that there was no need to soften any blows.
"Am I healthy, doctor?"
When Gordon pulled his lips back with a short grimace, Kramer's heart sank.
"John, the recent MRI shows a prefrontal lobe tumor. In addition, various tumors were found throughout your digestive tract, believed to have originated in the colon."
He waited, patiently, for the doctor to be finished.
"John, I'm sorry, but it's inoperable."
He said this so easily, as if telling a man he was doomed to die was as everyday as breathing.
Now this?
He tried to take in a deep breath to calm himself. It was as if he was trying to inhale sand.
"John, I'll refer you for hospice care. I recommend getting your affairs in order." Gordon checked his watch and jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, but I need to go." He went to the door, clutching the knob. "John?"
He turned, not sure if this was a dream. Surely, it was?
"John."
"I understand," he numbly answered, slowly getting to his feet. He suddenly could feel every joint bend and muscle move as he rose. His big toe cracked. His neck popped. The office of boring beige and blue seemed to burst forth with brilliant color. He could make out every texture. He smelled Gordon's expensive cologne and recognized that his mouth was dry.
He coughed, wanting more than anything a glass of water.
He left the office, wandered down the hall, stepped into the sunlight, and felt every drop of warmth on his skin.
These were his last days. And soon, all that would be left would be him writhing in agony.
He sat in his car, trying to collect his thoughts. Jill. She would be devastated. Everything he worked for his entire life, would have been for nothing.
First, Gideon. Now, this?
He didn't know how long he sat in his car, contemplating. But he knew it wouldn't be much longer. He started the car, resisted the habitual urge to put on his seat belt, and put the car in gear.
He drove.
He didn't know how long he drove. He didn't know exactly where.
But he was soon out of the city, far from the apathetic doctors, homicidal junkies, and he felt the wind in his hair. He smelled pine trees as the sun set.
All of a sudden, it was dark. He kept driving.
He drove until the gas tank reached empty. He drove uphill, for as long as he could, until a sign appeared.
DANGER! CLIFF!
He pressed his foot hard, narrowing his eyes, focusing on that sign. The air around him rushed. He was going fast. He drove right by the sign, the smooth roar of the engine suddenly jumbled by the clank of pebbles on hollow steel. His chair jumped as the suspension on gravel bounced him about.
And then it all gave way to the sensation of his stomach flying up to his throat.
He was in the air.
And then the car's nose sank to the ground.
Him, without his seatbelt, held his hands outward, as though on a rollercoaster.
He closed his eyes, to Jill. To Gideon. To the world. To his legacy.
He didn't remember much else after that.
Until he woke up.
He awoke to the sharp paralyzing pain buried deep in his side, the taste of dirt and the hot wetness of blood on his hands and face, reminding him that it wouldn't be that easy.
He was alive.
How?
He crawled out of the wreckage, half-delirious from denial, not believing that he had actually survived the fall.
Cancer will be my end, yet a plummet off a cliff did nothing? He tried to crawl further but couldn't, realizing a metal beam was puncturing his side and the other end was caught on a bush. There was pain but something else. Something desperate. Instinctual. He grabbed it, adrenaline and the sudden clarity that he didn't want to stay here pounding in his head.
He didn't want to die.
No, he didn't want to die and he still had days to live. No, months to live. Maybe even years. He still had some time.
He gripped the beam and pulled with all his might, screaming at the top of his lungs into the night sky.
A distant howl of a coyote joined him.
He clasped the bleeding open wound to himself and forced himself up.
I'm alive.
This realization struck him as a sign. He was not done yet, with this life. There had to be a reason he survived such a deadly feat.
He needed to know what that was. He needed to know, before the cancer took him. He needed to understand how was it that a man could survive such terrible trauma. Again and again.
Legacy.
That word stuck to his brain like glue, and he remembered his last thoughts as he fell in that car. My Legacy.
John returned to his workshop, lightheaded from the blood loss but buzzing with purpose. Yes, his legacy. Everyone treated life as if it was a virtual reality. Himself, included. It wasn't until the cancer that he realized what he had been doing to himself. This disservice had made him waste his days. He had done so little.
He had taken it all for granted. And he did not want others to suffer as he did. He would not allow them to go about their lives, taking their health and families for granted.
He couldn't just go out with a white flag of surrender. No, he had to leave his mark. He had to make the world understand how precious a thing life was.
He went to the first aid kit on his workbench, digging for antiseptic, pouring it directly onto his stomach as he hissed at the pain. The adrenaline had worn off and now, a deeper ache almost as cruel as his headaches lacerated his side. He knew there would be more pain in the future. And more blood.
He wrapped the puncture hole with heavy bandages. He should go to the hospital. But first, he wanted to draw some plans. Prepare.
He had a new vision. It was the year of the pig. Gideon was gone. But not his memory.
And there was still the need for justice to be served. Cecil was still out there. John could share this newfound gift to Cecil. Cecil had certainly taken his life for granted.
Anger was there but John knew he had to separate from it. His current ideas were rudimentary. He thought of the pin cushion chair, the Inquisition, and ways to enact a just punishment for the death of his son.
He must walk on this earth with a face as hideous on the outside as his soul is on the inside.
John got to work.
Will Maddox
"So it's true?"
The judge and district attorney looked at her, incredulous. "You forged the toxicology report?"
Her eyes burned. Her heart sank. She looked up and swallowed. "Yes, your honor, it's true."
She could feel Grissom's disappointment behind her. She didn't need to turn to him to know.
But worse, she couldn't bear the thought of how Mark would take this when he heard.
"I know it's wrong, your honor, but please do not allow a murderer out of prison because of my fuck up."
"A technicality," Grissom added, his support unsurprising and Will was glad for it. "A simple misprint on the date."
"She sent his samples to the lab for unauthorized testing and stamped the wrong date with the intention of falsifying judge approval after the fact. Sloppy," Baxter's lawyer was smirking. "You were squeaky clean, Maddox, until this. Should have let the more experienced dirty cops handle this. Lucky me."
"I suggest you focus on your client," Grissom turned, face red, mustache bristled.
"Everyone, quiet." The judge rubbed her temples and looked at Will with a disappointing frown. "Detective, this is a serious offense."
"It is, your honor," Will nodded, knowing there was no coming back from this. She would likely lose her badge and gun after this. Even though Baxter was dead to rights, on paper this was essentially his way free. "I have no excuse. But please, remember all the other evidence pointed to him. And he confessed."
"Your honor, my client confessed under the evidence that was extracted illegally. He was pressured and unconstitutionally forced to confess. I am filing a motion to request all charges be dropped."
It had been her worst fear. She had no way to avoid it. No way to get around it. She had hoped it would have just not happened. That the lawyers wouldn't have caught on. She had been so naive. So dumb.
So desperate.
Mark will never forgive me.
"Now, my priority is just to get my client out of prison. I'll leave the reprimanding of your department to you. Good day." Baxter's lawyer sauntered out.
The DA sighed. "Figured we'd give you two the heads up, thanks for coming on such short notice. I know this involved the murder of a cop's sister. From where we're standing, the guy's going to walk tonight."
"That's unfortunate. Appreciate you bringing us down to tell us in person." Grissom put a hand on Will's shoulder. "Come, Maddox, let's get back to the station."
The drive back had been silent. Will stared ahead while Grissom drove. When they thought they were finally past this, Seth Baxter just wouldn't fucking disappear from their lives.
"Before you go high road and try to turn in your badge, let's get one thing straight," Grissom broke the silence first, pulling up to a red light. "No one will blame you for what you did."
This made her finally cry. She sniffed and turned her head so her boss wouldn't see her like this.
"That's all right, girl, you go on and cry. You held out long. Longer than any of us. Nobody's perfect. It's a hard lesson. But try not to be too hard on yourself. Everyone gets their hands dirty at some point. It's just the nature of the job. So don't beat yourself about it."
"I'm the reason Angelina's murderer is about to walk free. And you say don't beat myself up about it?"
"It'll do you no good. There will always be a technicality. If it wasn't the dates on the toxicology reports, it would have been your interrogation. Or the fact that it was fucking raining on a Sunday. Damn lawyers pull every loophole they can. That's why the laws' written so damn illegible. Because only lawyers can decipher them."
She didn't respond, not knowing what right she had in responding.
"Now, don't quit. At least give it a month to think about. I'm going to suspend you with pay for the next two weeks. Tell Hoffman. Work it out with him."
"He'll never forgive me," she whispered, knowing she sounded like a child.
"That may be. But you'll tell him. End of the day, it's just what you do. Who you are. You're still an honorable person, Maddox. And I know you're always going to try to do the honorable thing. I know you two care for each other. And if Hoffman would forgive anybody for this, it would be you. You two are close. Something like this, it's downright impossible to get past for many. I know you wanted Baxter behind bars. I know you probably thought it was the only way. Just remember that you did what you thought was right, in the end. Even if Hoffman doesn't see it now, I hope you at least forgive yourself. Maybe not today. Maybe not next year. But that's the person you got to get forgiveness from. And I know people like you, they'll let something like this eat them from the inside until there's nothing left. I don't want that happening to you."
He reminded her of Vernon Knox. His words were frank. Honest. It both stung and gave Will some comfort, knowing what she had in store for her.
For five years now, she had dreaded every day wondering if it would finally be the time her sin was revealed. Now that it was out, she felt surprisingly lighter. Tainted. Sadder. But no longer leaden with the weight of dread.
The last barrier of anxiety she had left was to tell Mark. She swallowed, steeling herself.
Mark Hoffman
"Mark," Will entered his office, closing the door behind her. She turned and shut the blinds, giving them privacy. For a fleeting moment, he had felt excited at the prospect that she was about to jump him. But the redness and swelling of her eyes turned his fun thoughts to worry.
"You okay?"
She shook her head, avoiding direct eye contact. "No. No. And I - I need to tell you something."
He leaned back in his chair, not liking how she was wringing her hands in front of her. She was shaking like a leaf. His stomach had turned to a shard of ice and suspected it was about Frank. "What is it?"
She sat down, submissive. "Seth Baxter will be released from prison by the end of the month on a technicality. And it's my fault."
The pen in his hand slipped through his fingers.
"What was the technicality?" He whispered, instantly on edge.
"His confession will be dismissed on the grounds that the toxicology reports were what pressured him to confess." She had her fingers to her forehead, ashamed. "I had him tested before the judge signed off on it."
"I find that hard to believe," he remained calm. "You always cross your T's. The lawyer's grasping at straws."
"The lawyer's right. I did forge the report." She chewed her lip, avoiding his stare. "I did it to speed things along."
"Will, you telling me you ignored protocol?" In the twenty years he had known her, Will had never so much as left five minutes earlier than her scheduled off time.
She nodded, swallowing.
All this time, she insisted she lived by the book. He remembered that day, when she had been assigned to Angie's case, and what he had made her promise. "Find him, Will. Arrest him."
"I'll make sure he's behind bars for the rest of his life. I promise."
"So he's getting off," he dumbly stated. Just like that.
"I'm sorry, Mark," tears brimmed her eyes, her mouth curled in remorse. "I wanted to get him. But I should have found another way."
Will, distraught, upset him. But overwhelming self pity kept him frozen in his chair, his mind flashing to Angie, dead in her bed, her throat slashed open. And Baxter, who should have been the one who died, was going to walk free.
He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. "Go."
"Mark?"
"Don't make me repeat myself. Get out of my sight." He couldn't look at her. He couldn't let her see him like this. He knew he would lose control of himself and hurt her. He wanted to break everything. He wanted to be alone, to think, to set things right. To cool down.
He heard the chair scrape the linoleum and her faint footsteps as she left. When the door clicked shut he looked up and let out a breath.
His eyes stung. His nose burned. Every inch of him felt as though he was on fire. He realized the sharp copper he tasted was his own blood.
Will Maddox
When she spotted Mark at his usual spot at the bar, she sighed in relief.
"Hey," she greeted delicately, "missed you today." They hadn't spoken during her entire suspension. Today had been her first day back, and he had been unfindable.
"Guess he's patrolling the streets," Rigg had told her when she asked him in the breakroom that morning.
"Probably at the gym," Matthews had suggested when she had stopped by his new 'office', a repurposed janitor's closet in the basement, during lunch.
She suspected they had given her inaccurate ideas - in their misguided intention to let Mark have his space.
After two weeks of leaving him be, Will felt it safe to push. If she didn't, she feared they would never recover.
She wanted to make things write, whether that be aiding him on whatever work there was he'd rather not do or go as far as turn in her badge and end her career then and there. She wouldn't know, though, until he spoke to her.
"Mark," she tried again to get his attention. He was transfixed on the TV above, the Jamesson handle already low.
"What?" He finally asked.
"Talk to me. Yell. Anything. Please."
Bloodshot blues flickered to her before retreating. "I don't have it in me right now."
She bit her lip. The walls were closing in. "I'll do anything to make this right. Just give me a chance. I know I'm asking for so much and I have no right to. But I don't want us to end like this."
She was losing him and wanted to resist. Maybe - just maybe - they could get past this.
They had survived so much, so far.
"You can't fix something that never worked to begin with."
His words punched her in the gut, knocking the air out of her lungs.
"How can you say that? We had so many good times."
"Yeah - not talking about that. I'm talking about the system. What we do. Upholding the law. Trying to make this fucking city better. It's impossible. The system never works. All it does it leave a trail of blood in its wake."
He was occasionally a philosophical drunk.
"Maybe it's time to call it a night."
"You're not listening, Will," He turned to face her, fully and furiously. "You were that system. And even you knew it wouldn't be enough to put Baxter away. That's why you did what you did."
Her cheeks tightened. "Mark, I shouldn't have done what I did. It was wrong."
"The fact that you - the one person incorruptible in this shitstorm couldn't stick through it - it's made me finally see. My eyes are open the fuck wide now." He tossed back another shot. "Justice. True justice, never existed with us. We're just dicking around like it's a play. I'm tired of playing."
"Mark," she touched his arm, trying to reach him. But he was so far away.
"Just stop." He took her hand and pushed it off. "Let's end this here and now."
Panic. Fear. Disbelief. "No," she whispered, holding back the tears because they were in a public bar, goddamn it!
"You're drunk," she stated, "you're not thinking straight."
"I am, for the first time in a long time, thinking straight. If I had just handled Baxter from the very beginning - but I didn't. For you." When he looked at her, she only saw hatred and anger. "I always stopped, thinking, 'what would Will think'?"
"Mark-,"
"I said we're done, Maddox. I want this over."
"Because of Baxter?"
His jaw twitched. "You're my choke collar. You keep me from going the distance."
"That's not a bad thing."
"Tell that to Angie." He governed his face, hands sliding down his cheeks. "Just get the fuck out."
When she didn't move, he slammed his shot glass down on the ground. "GET OUT!"
The room silenced.
All eyes were upon them.
Will felt shame burn her cheeks and heartbreak sting her chest.
"Fine," she softly spoke, no longer able to look him in the face. "That's it, then."
She left him alone at the bar.
