give me hope in the darkness

@fidelixadmortem-blog

Logan Hendricks | Detective | NYPD If you're not in trouble, you're not doing your job. {2x2 roleplay account}

364 posts

{Moodboard} Logan Hendricks + Peter Thompson

The pop of the gun going off is deafening and Peter lets out a choked sob, his eyes squeezed shut. Rather than an instant death by head shot, he feels his face and front get splattered with warm liquid. Everything seems to move in slow motion, Peter opening his eyes, lashes sticking together until he can blink himself into full consciousness. He watches the body fall, revealing the figure behind the man. A face comes into focus and Peter’s shaking too hard to say anything Logan’s moving towards him, crouching over him, saying something. Peter watches his lips move but his ears are still ringing from both the gunshot and the blood pumping heavily through his veins.

Over the past few days, Peter had only allowed himself to cry twice. Once, he was unable to hold back tears from the immense pain he was in from the beatings, and the other time was just from complete despair. Peter meets Logan’s eyes, arms shaking as he tries to push himself back onto his feet. The detective kneels over him and as soon as he wraps his arms around Peter, the younger man starts sobbing uncontrollably. Blood and gunpowder fill his nostrils and he can taste copper his lips. Peter can’t even properly hold onto Logan, his fingers curled helplessly against his chest as he cries. It hurts, his chest heaving, ribs aching, so he does his best to curl himself against Logan, trying to muffle his cries against the man’s shoulder. Logan is still talking but Peter can’t make out the words, too traumatized.

He isn’t sure when he stops. He just remembers all the energy finally leaving him, face going blank as he slumps against Logan’s chest. His limp body, at least ten pounds lighter than he was a few days previous, is easy for Logan to carry bridal style, his legs swaying with every step. He’s still conscious, but exhausted and expended. He blearily looks up at Logan’s face, unable to make out his expression. The detective looks about as defeated and pained as Peter feels. “Put me down,” he murmurs softly, a simple request that Logan doesn’t seem willing to do. He can already hear the police sirens and ambulances waiting for them outside, but Peter can’t deal with all that just yet. “Jus’ for a minute… Please,” he whispers hoarsely.

Peter leans back against a wall, keeping his arms around Logan’s neck. He feels Logan’s sleeve gently rub and dab at some of the blood droplets across his face with a gentle touch Peter didn’t know the man was capable of. Not completely sure what causes him to act, Peter meets Logan’s green eyes and leans in before firmly pressing their lips together.

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He’s able to compartmentalize the shock that courses through him when he sees the body crumple to the ground in a spay of red mist. Killing someone is never easy, not even when they pose a threat to someone so important to you, but the detective can dwell on that later. For now, any squeamish feelings of unease in his gut are quelled by the irrefutable proof that Peter is alive. Logan’s heart soars and drops all at once. The younger man is alive, but he looks absolutely terrible. He wonders if these people have even really been feeding him, given how pronounced the sharp angles of the reporter’s face have become. His face is bruised, he’s wheezing like it hurts to draw even the most labored of breaths, and his shirt is covered in grime, sweat, and blood both fresh and dried.

Logan has to remind himself where he is, and easily pushes the past week’s emotional tool aside as he holsters his pistol. He steps over the fresh corpse, his movements slow and deliberate in front of the obviously traumatized young man. “Alright kid,” he murmurs softly, moving to gather the reporter in his arms, “time to get you home.” He isn’t surprised by the way Peter breaks down -- what surprises him is that he doesn’t join, the ache of emptiness in his chest blossoming anew when he realizes again that the reporter could have very easily been killed -- very nearly was killed -- and it would have been all his fault. Logan quietly radios in that the target has been located alive, and that he’ll be down with the young man shortly.

It isn’t until one last sob is wrung from Peter’s wracked body when the detective pics him up, easily hoisting the reporter up and carrying him back down the stairs. In the darkness of the stairwell, Logan can’t help but to feel fatigued by the knowledge that he could have easily prevented this. He could have called to apologize sooner. He could have kept an eye on him. He could have placed him and Bafina under surveillance, or hell, he could have locked Peter up for interfering with an investigation. But he hadn’t, and the younger man had nearly--

“Hm?” He gazes down uneasily at the reporter, having not realized how lost in his own thoughts he had gotten. Only when the gentle pleas continue does Logan set him down, helping to keep him steady as he seek support against the wall behind him. The detective unrolls the cuff of his sleeve, pulling it down to tenderly wipe at the blood and viscera splattered across Peter’s face. He’s about to insist that they go outside and get the younger man loaded into an ambulance that he desperately needs Peter’s lips are on him and his heart catches in his throat. For one mercifully blissful moment, all he can focus on is the contact that he hadn’t -- or maybe he had -- realized he’d been craving, and he’s filled with an elated joy at the simple fact that Peter is alive.

Then the crushing weight settles on his chest yet again as reality sinks back in. On his watch, Peter has been scarred both physically and mentally, damaged in ways that make his blood boil just thinking about it. It will take months for him to recover, and the emotional trauma of the past week may never truly be eradicated. All because of some stupid fighting argument.

He only realizes that there are tears in his eyes when the kiss breaks, and he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath that does little to calm him, his forehead resting against the reporter’s. This one quiet moment has been the only thing even remotely close to peace that he has had since the start of the case, and while he’s loathe to let it go, Logan knows that there are more pressing matters to attend to. He helps Peter the rest of the way, out into the cool evening air that has become illuminated by the lights of multiple squad cars and ambulances. The detective brings him to the back of an ambulance well away from the flurry of activity in front of the warehouse, staying with Peter as a blanket is thrown around his shoulders and some of his injuries are treated.

“I promised your ma I’d call as soon as I found you,” he says quietly as he ends the call on his phone and tucks the mobile into his pocket, sitting down next to the younger man. “She’s going to meet us at the hospital.”

It’s been a couple days. Peter isn’t sure exactly how long. It was hard to tell time when he was getting knocked out cold every once in a while and hardly fed. His kidnappers never untied him, just knocked him to the ground and placed a weak excuse for a meal on a plate in front of him. Peter also didn’t have a clue how many different men were here torturing him, when there was never more than one or two at a time alone in the room with him. They always wore masks, and even if Peter wanted to he couldn’t discern much of their appearance with his vision constantly blurry and one eye swollen shut from a beating or two.

As much as he’d tried and his instinct attempted, the reporter wasn’t able to figure out a single damn thing. Every time they took the gag out of his mouth was so he could eat or drink, and if he dared ask questions he’d earn a strike to his face with the butt of a pistol. “This is ridiculous!” He screamed, spitting out blood onto the floor. “You guys are the worst kidnappers ever! Why am I even here? You haven’t questioned me, none of you have gone on some long villain tangent, I’m not even worth being up for ransom! So please, enlighten me as to why you’re all the worst lot of thugs I’ve ever–!”

Crack. And he’s down for the count again. Peter’s going to be lucky to get away with no brain damage after all this is said and done.

On the third– fourth? fifth?– day, Peter finally wakes up alone. He’s so tired and weak and hungry but he has to do something. They’ve never left him alone like this. His captors never bothered to change his duct tape bound ankles and wrists, so days of sweat, blood, and tears, have started to wear away at the reliability of the material. His wrists are on fire as he continues to pull at them, the skin raw and irritated until he finally manages to slip a hand free. He laughs in relief, looking at it before he pulls the other one out as well, shaking hands immediately ripping the duct tape off his ankles too. He goes to work on the knots when he hears a loud bang, his head snapping up in alertness. He’s not sure how big the facility he’s in is, but has a vague idea when hearing the distant shouting. He’s not sure what’s going on, but he doubts it’s a rescue.

Even past the dizziness of hunger and exhaustion, Peter gets himself free. The door opens and he and one of the masked men have a staring contest for a good three seconds before everything’s in motion. Peter whips around, grabbing the chair he was in and raising it up with every last ounce of strength he has. It breaks satisfyingly over the man’s head, sending him staggering to the ground. Peter limps out the door so frantically he feels a wound on his back reopen, fresh blood staining his days-old shirt. He’s in a warehouse of some kind, but needs to find an escape. He hears people below so only has one option, up onto the catwalk. Peter hobbles up the stairs and looks for an open window he can get out of when he runs head first into a not-masked man, knocking him to the ground. When Peter looks up, he’s totally shocked. He knows that face. “Lucas?”

His frail body unable to take much more, Peter’s no match when Lucas grabs him by the throat and pins him down onto the catwalk, his head hanging over the edge, stories up. His vision’s already going black again as he gasps desperately for air, trying to fight the man off. Gunshots ring out and Peter supposes this is just taking too long for Lucas’ liking, so the man hauls him up and starts dragging him off. The police are here. Lucas is corrupt. Peter’s about to face inevitable death.

Peter screamed for help, voice hoarse but hoping it echoed around the large warehouse. Lucas smacked him in the head, swearing under his breath as he dragged him down into an empty hallway. “Stupid loud-mouthed brat!” Lucas hissed. “I knew we should’ve killed you the moment we found you and sent your body in tiny pieces to everyone you cared about!”

“Boss!” One of the men shouted, running around the corner. “We’ve got to get out of here–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucas snapped, pulling out his gun. “I’ve got an escape plan and you can join me as soon as you finish the job.” He pushed the gun into the man’s chest before running off. Peter braced himself against the wall as he struggled to stand, but the man kicked his chest and sent him rolling down the hallway. Peter attempted to crawl away, but the man towered over him, lowering the gun until it was pointed directly between his eyes.

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This building already feels different. One of the most striking features of the other abandoned warehouses was the cloud of dust that billowed up in the wake of the entrance being busted in by one of the officers. A similar spectacle is strangely absent from this place, indicating to Logan that, in spite of the lot’s status as having long been for sale, it is still in use. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the engulfing darkness of the place, the dwindling light of the day’s late hour doing little to help illuminate their path.

Appropriately, all officers are on their guard. Logan is more than aware that anything going on in an abandoned building is rarely good, so even if Peter is being held elsewhere, he doubts that whoever has been inhabiting this warehouse will be happy to see them. All the same, a small glimmer of hope returns -- years on the force may have worn away at the optimism he had exuded as a cadet, but the possibility that Peter is alive and inside this building keeps him focus and determined to press on.

The warehouse is otherwise unassuming. Graffiti litters the walls and random debris stands out against the concrete floor, crates and boxes rotting out from water that has dripped in through the cracks in he metal roof. The entire place is heavy with a thick, pungent smell of mold, mildew, and what he is almost certain is rat feces. The entire troop halts when voices, muffled and frantic, are heard from somewhere within the warehouse. Guns and flashlights are leveled at a corridor to their right and the officers again begin to proceed slowly. It isn’t until they’re halfway down he corridor when they see them; three brawny men that Logan is almost certain he has arrested before, and everyone in that tight space hands suspended in a moment of breathless uncertainty before the detective sees a flash of something in one of the man’s hands.

“Drop your weapon!” he barks, his voice echoing off the walls of the warehouse. He hopes that his warning is heeded, but when he sees the barrel of a pistol begin to rise, all hell breaks loose. He squeezes off a shot, the gun barely twitching in his trained hands, and he hears the hiss of a bullet go by his ear as one of the gunmen crumples to the floor. There’s nowhere for either party to hide, making the exchange of gunfire quick but brutal; the three men go down -- two dead, one wounded -- with two of Logan’s officers being radioed in as wounded in action.

The squad is attempting to regroup as an ambulance is called when he hears a desperate scream. His gaze snaps upwards. He knows that voice, and it sounds like it’s coming from somewhere above them. Like a man possessed Logan takes off, breaking completely with protocol as he charges alone into the darkness of the warehouse. He finds a spiral staircase, his boots pounding against the old metal stairs, and he makes it about halfway up before looking around to gain his bearings. “Peter?” He yells upwards, but the only reply he gets is the muffled sound of struggle. Shit. Shit shit shit.

When he reaches the top he’s on some sort of catwalk running across to the other end and down a narrow hallway. He nearly misses what he’s looking for -- in an even narrower offshoot is Peter looking famished and beaten even in the low lighting of the warehouse. Logan’s mind goes onto autopilot when he sees the gunman standing over the reporter. He’s never enjoyed using his gun -- most of the time he doesn’t even like it -- but he doesn’t hesitate for even a moment in leveling the pistol and shooting twice. In a spray of blood and brain matter the man goes down without word, leaving the detective and reporter staring at each other.

Adrienne smiles thinly at the man, noting how disheveled he looks. “Hello, Detective. I’m aware Hattie already called you but… Well, I was going to come in anyway. Last night Peter always comes over so we can have dinner together but he didn’t show up. He’s not a very forgetful person, and if he can’t ever make it to our dinners he always calls ahead with an explanation or an apology or something… I wasn’t sure if anything was really wrong until this morning.“ The woman was doing everything to keep herself together. "I knew you two were working together so I was hoping you’d know something…” She nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s not like him to just disappear for days at a time. I was wondering if you maybe had any kind of idea as to where he would’ve gone?”

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Her words only serve to confirm his fears. What little color is left in the man’s face drains, though Logan does his best to hide it as he busies himself with preparing for the search. In some fashion, he already has his own words planned -- this won’t be the first missing person’s case he’s assisted, but it’s the first one like this. He knows Peter. He knows this woman standing in front of him, doing her damnedest not to show how terribly worried the detective knows she is. Logan has already failed her once by letting something -- the possibilities are sickening, God -- happen to her son. He is not about to fail her again. If Peter is alive -- and he has to be, he needs to be -- the detective is going to find him.

“Mrs. Thompson,” he replies, the tone of authority returning to his voice as he composes himself, strapping a kevlar vest over his chest and holstering his sidearm, “I have a team being assembled right now to investigate his whereabouts. He has a smartphone, and they always have some way to be tracked, usually though a connected email or social media account. I’m sure wherever he is, he still has his phone on him. It will take a few hours to gain access to his accounts; I’ll spend the time at his apartment and his office at the Times and see if I can find anything there. I won’t be returning here until he’s found.”

He swallows thickly, braving a steady gaze at the woman who he has failed, and who is depending on him to bring her son home. “I will find Peter.”

--------

The reporter’s apartment yields nothing of any use to him, nor does anything at or around the desk at the Times office that Peter calls his own. He obviously wasn’t taken from either of those locations; frustrating the matter even more is the lack of any indication as to what his plans had been the night of his abduction. Knowing the younger man, he could have been anywhere in the damn city searching for clues. Logan tries to call Lucas more than once, knowing that he needs the assistance of a more seasoned investigator, but neither his cell nor office phone is answered.

He’s just finished getting the dirtiest glares from the men at one of Bafina’s usual hangouts, obviously not terribly fond of the way in which Logan is not so gently asking some rather incriminating questions when he gets a call. They’ve managed to tag the location of Peter’s phone. The detective’s heart leaps up into his chest, only to sink back down into the pit of his gut when he arrives and sees that he mobile had simply been cast aside into an alleyway. Logan orders his team to case the nearby buildings, working their way through a block of industrial warehouses in one of Brooklyn’s less reputable areas. They spend three hours at it, with the detective working tirelessly and with a manic determination that causes any and all suggestions to postpone the search to be abruptly shot down. “Go home if you want,” he snaps, shouldering his way past a young patrolman, “or stay here with the real cops.”

Gun drawn and breathing labored as his hopes fade with the dwindling sunlight, he slams his shoulder into an abandoned storage facility and breaks down the door.

Now that he’s no longer working with Logan, Peter is finally getting somewhere. He starts meeting up with Nico more and more, and is close to getting a confession. He can feel it.

Maybe Peter should be smarter about the whole situation. Logan was right when it came to being cautious about possible roadblocks, which is something that wasn’t high on Peter’s priority list. That’s probably why on his way home from Nico’s apartment, something heavy hits him over the head and everything goes black.

The next time Peter comes fully into consciousness, he’s in a dark room with a single lamp gently swinging overhead. There’s a draft in the building, though the room he’s in only has a single door. He feels groggy and tired, some dried blood along his hairline. Peter’s wrists and legs are bound to a chair, a gag tied tight between his teeth. There’s no way to tell what time it is or how long he’s been out. He struggles against the bindings for a moment before completely losing hope on escaping them. Muffled against the cloth in his mouth, Peter tries to scream for help. Not the best option either.

He’s not sure how many hours pass before the door opens. A man in a mask enters the room, a shiny pistol in his hand. Peter screams against the rag again, fighting to get out. He earns a swift kick to the gut, knocking him and the chair over. The reporter’s head connects roughly with the ground and he loses consciousness against his will once again.

—

It’s been five days since Peter’s shown up for work. Hattie’s called him a thousand times but the damn brat hasn’t answered any of her calls or texts. She stops by his apartment and lets herself inside with the spare key she has. Nothing seems to be changed, but his bed clearly hasn’t been slept in recently considering it’s made. She calls Logan’s office and it goes to voicemail. “Hendricks. It’s Hattie. Peter hasn’t been to work in a few days and I checked out his apartment but he doesn’t seem to be home. Just wondering if you know about some spontaneous vacation he decided on. Call me back.” The woman hangs up and locks it up behind her before heading out.

—

Adrienne Thompson finds herself at the police station later that day after she recieves a concerned call from Peter’s supervisor. “I’m here to see Detective Hendricks? It’s Mrs. Thompson, he’ll understand,” she tells the deskie, wringing her hands nervously before she’s allowed into the office.

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The minute Peter had walked out the door, he knew he had made a mistake.

Surprisingly, it had been one of their more mild arguments -- compared to some of the things they had said to each other in the past, especially when they first began working together, this was hardly new territory for them. But it felt different this time. Worse. The finality of it, most likely. A part of Logan had expected the reporter to come back after a few days. It wasn’t until Peter remained absent that he realized his expectation was just an arrogant cover for some foolish hope.

The fact is that he wanted Peter to come back. The solitude of his office felt wrong; a strange ache had grown in his chest, but he refuses to acknowledge what it is. He had no business feeling that way to begin with, and he isn’t about to admit to anything now. He’ll simply do what everyone in his line of work does, what he’s been trained to do -- compartmentalize it, store it away, and ignore its existence as best he can until the case is over.

Logan shows up to work on this day in a state of dishevelment, unshaven and exhausted with a sense of dread filling his gut. His attempt to tail Bafina the previous night had resulted in a rather disturbing realization.

Bafina was nowhere to be found.

It was that realization that finally made Logan choke down his pride and call Peter. It went straight to voicemail the frst time, and the second, and the third. The fourth attempt was met with the same result. Logan had left a voicemail -- an apology, followed by him asking -- damn near begging -- for the reporter to call him back and confirm that he was okay.

He doesn’t truly start to panic until he gets to his office and hears the voicemail left by Hattie. Peter hasn’t been to work in a few days. Bafina was mysteriously absent from all of his usual hangouts.

Logan has hardly a moment to process his own growing panic when the phone on his desk rings. It’s the desk sergeant, calling to inform him that a Mrs. Thompson is here to see him.

No. No, no, no.

He agrees to see her only after informing the sergeant that he’ll need to put a team together for a missing person’s case. The thought almost makes him ill.

“Mrs. Thompson,” the detective greets, swallowing down his apprehension as he stands to greet her.

He thinks he almost has Logan convinced, but then they’re right back to square one. “Then what do you suggest we do?! Of course I know it’s dangerous, he killed someone I considered family!” Peter runs his hands through his hair, frustrated beyond belief. “You might be used to sitting on your ass all day, chasing cold leads and pouring over paperwork, but I’m not. I thought this was going to work out– this partnership between you and I– but it’s clearly not.”

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Logan bristles at that. It isn’t the first time Peter has criticized his methods, or threatened to walk. He can usually weather it, taking it in stride as the venting of a frustrated kid, but this time he can’t convince himself to smooth it over. This time it’s different. Because he knows Peter is right, at least partially -- they have nothing to show for their efforts -- and he also knows that if the reporter does this on his own, he’ll wind up dead. “I’ve had just about enough of that,” the detective snaps. “You really think you’ve got this figured out? Every single lead you’ve gotten us was on accident. You didn’t mean to get caught tailing him and have him force cocaine on you, and you didn’t mean to find out that he was gay -- it all happened because you stumbled into it. You don’t actually have a clue what you’re doing, and one of these days your half-cocked plans and accidental discoveries are going to get you killed.”

The detective doesn’t remember when he stood up, but now he’s on his feet behind his desk, glowering at the younger man as all of their pent-up frustrations are laid out on the table. “From day one, you haven’t gotten it. You. Are not. A cop. You have no training whatsoever, no idea how to handle yourself in the field if things go to shit. You are a twenty-one year old reporter. That’s it. So what will and won’t work isn’t something you’re exactly qualified to weigh in on.”

“You have to let me get close to his comrades. Let me be alone with them. No more sitting outside his apartment in your car thinking you’re being all discreet. No more making me meet him in public places. I have to get further into their inner circle. All that ever happens is he gets a few gropes in because he’s this sexually depraved ball of angst! I have his trust, I just need a confession.” He leaned over Logan’s table. “Put a wire on me or something. Let me try and convince him we need to leave town for a bit or something, just us. Anything, Logan. Anything is better than what we have now, which is absolutely nothing!”

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For a moment, Logan actually considers it. Some statement of acquiescence is on the tip of his tongue, and that almost scares him more than the situation they now find themselves in. He trusts Peter -- he does, as much as he may have his reservations about some of the younger man’s plans, but this...this is too much. Too dangerous. “If he were someone else -- if you were someone else -- then I’d consider it. But Bafina is too dangerous. This whole plan is too dangerous. You’re no use to anyone if you’re dead, and if he finds out about this, getting killed is the least you’ll have to worry about.”

The case has come basically to a standstill and Peter is getting more and more agitated as each day passes. He can only do so much with Bafina when Logan continues denying his ideas at every turn. It’s either too risky, dangerous, stupid, or some combination of the three. Peter isn’t an idiot. Just because he isn’t a detective and doesn’t have as many years of experience as Logan does, doesn’t mean he isn’t capable. Once again, he finds himself sitting on his ass in Logan’s office, looking at different crimes recently commited by people associated with Bafina, even though Peter’s sure it’s not going to get them anywhere on the current case. “No!” He finally burst, tossing down another folder filled with useless information. “We can’t just keep circling around joints Bafina rolls in, keeping our distance. Why won’t you just let me try something my way? We haven’t gotten any closer in months, and I don’t know how much longer your boss and mine are going to let us keep chasing these cold leads!”

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The older man stiffens at the sudden outburst, expelling a deep breath through his nose when the folder slams onto the desk in front of him. Not surprisingly, it does little to calm him. Logan has heard plenty of suggestions on how to do things “his way,” most of which involve a very likely possibility of serious injury, or worse. Perhaps -- perhaps -- if Peter had been a cop, he would be more willing to listen. But the older man is not about to risk the life of a civilian, not under any circumstances. “And what great idea do you have for me today?”

It’s been nearly two months since Logan had -- very begrudgingly -- given the green light on Peter’s plan to try and get a confession from Bafina. Two months had brought nothing to the table, not a scrap of evidence that would be permissible even in a small claims court, and the tension that has resulted from the case grinding to a standstill is palpable. Logan has spent the most of the time holed up in his office pouring over every one of the sizable files that have accumulated since the start of the case; the days not spent at the station usually involve him chasing down dead-end leads and trying to pry open the tight lips of any of Bafina’s friends in hopes that he might get at least something for his troubles. Peter hasn’t been fairing any better -- the meetings with Bafina -- which the detective has become increasingly wary of -- have yet to yield anything of substance. “Could go back to that pub Hattie saw him in...” Logan is mostly talking to himself now, chewing on the end of a pen as he looks over the case file yet again.

Peter smiles at Logan’s determination and nods to himself before pushing him back to his feet. “Well I… We should probably get goin’, huh?” He rubbed the back of his head, looking out towards the city again.

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For a moment he watches as Peter stands and suddenly the detective is opening his mouth, as if he's about to say something. What he could really say, he doesn't quite know; drunkeness is nothing but false courage -- courage to do what? -- and all that comes out is, "Yeah...yeah, we should."

Peter looks up at Logan like he just offered him the moon and all the stars in the sky. His small smile widens into a grin as he tilts his head back, almost looking at Logan completely upside down. “Y’really mean that? ‘N I’m sure Hattie’s told ya, m’not very good at waitin’,” he chuckles, letting his arms go loose and lower himself onto his back. He stared up at the sky, too foggy to actually see anything twinkling way up there. That’s the only thing Peter didn’t like about the city. “I hope we do. Catch Bafina, I mean.”

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He's still not sure that he entirely believes his own words. The hopeful optimism that he had carried with him through the academy had slowly been chipped away over the last eight years by cold cases, municipal corruption, and overturned convictions. But seeing the younger man's face light up like that, for the first time since they had met, and knowing of the reporter's relentless determination...Logan actually does think they can solve this case. He truly does. "We will," he replies, newfound confidence bolstering his tone. "We'll catch every last one of 'em if I have my way. And I'm gonna have my way, come hell or high water."

Peter smirked. “Guess I am pretty fearless.” He sat down on one of the rocks, letting his legs swing back and forth as he looked over the city. He was quiet for a few moments, looking over at Logan. “D’you think we’re gonna be able to catch the guy who killed my friend?” he asked softly, doe eyes incredibly vulnerable in that moment.

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“Yeah, that’s a word for it.” The grin fades from Logan’s face, his expression becoming more pensive at the younger man’s earnest inquiry. He sighs, scuffing at the rock with the toe of his shoe. He had been trying to take down these crime families for years, ever since he had transferred over to the Organized Crime Control Bureau. The thought that after so long, this case might finally have a light at the end of the tunnel...he almost can’t believe it.

“’Course we are,” he replies, somehow sounding more confident than he feels. “Your dumb ass got us the best in we’ve had this whole damn case. We jus’ gotta be patient now, is all.”

Peter chuckles. “You as Indie? I can see it,” he allows with a bemused grin. It falls away at Logan’s laughter and he shoves the man’s shoulder, stepping away from him. “Don’t make fun’a me! I was all by m’self and a clown tried to help me find my ma and I got spooked, a’ight?” Peter turns his head away, scratching the back of his head.

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Logan can’t help it. He doesn’t mean to laugh -- really, he doesn’t, because he knows he’s not supposed to tease people about their phobias, but the thought of gangly little Peter Thompson, now a fearless muckraker, being scared shitless of some Ronald McDonald rip-off at a fair is just too much for the detective. “Shit, I was starting to wonder if you were actually scared’a anything.”

Peter throws the man an amused look, tromping over to him. “You scared of heights or somethin’?” he asks. The reporter takes another step closer to the man, throwing his arms over his shoulders. “Jus’ don’ think ‘bout it. M’afraid of clowns. Got lost at the county fair when I was a kid.”

fidelixadmortem-blog

"'M not scared of heights," he replies in something of a grumble, a touch of petulant indignation touching his voice. "I jus' don't like 'em." The detective scuffs his shoe on the rock before his good-natured grin returns. "I was playin' one day when I was a kid an' broke my leg. Thought I was Indiana Jones, so I climbed a tree an' lost my footing near the top." He's a bit taken aback by their sudden close proximity, until Peter reveals his own phobia. "You...you're scared'a clowns?" Logan snorts. "That makes me feel better about the whole heights thing."

Peter stares for a moment before he bursts into laughter, remembering that. “Alright, so I’m not graceful all the time. That’s not my fault.” They continue walking along and Peter gasps when he sees the rocks in the distance. “There it is!” He gasps excitedly, taking off running and only stumbling once as he crosses into the grass. He climbs up the rocks and sways for a moment, staring out over Central Park. His mouth falls open and he closes his eyes for a moment, holding his arms out because it just feels right.

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Logan can’t help but laugh again when the younger man finally finds his place atop the rock, amused by his display. “Don’t fall an’ break your neck,” he warns with a chuckle, though he is a bit wary of Peter climbing around, given his poor track record with coordination. Looking to prevent another accident, he climbs onto the rock beside Peter, trying to keep steady footing. “Y’know I don’t like heights?”

Peter laughs and flounders a little, trying to get up. His cheeks are flushed as he’s yanked back to his feet, stumbling into Logan a little, his hands landing on the tops of Logan’s chest. His eyes flicker down for an instant before they meet Logan’s again, the brown of his eyes rich and deep under the soft glow of the streetlamps. Peter cleared his throat awkwardly and took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Bit of a klutz,” he commented awkardly, still blushing.

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The younger man is surprisingly easy to pick up, even in the detective’s inebriated state. 184 pounds, his ass. He is left a bit lightheaded from the exertion, however, and it takes him a moment to focus once the reporter is upright. When Peter does finally come into focus, all the older man can do is meet his stare, his teasing grin softening. It occurs to him through the haze of alcohol that this is the first time he’s actually looked at Peter, the first time he’s noticed the deep brown of his eyes and the slope of his nose and his cheekbones and okay, he had way, way too much to drink. They part with mutual coughs, both muttering gruffly as they look at anything but each other. “Kind of picked up on that when you almost broke your nose firing a pistol,” he offers with a weak chuckle.

Peter scoffs loudly. “I dunno, I got stuck with a pretty annoying hard ass on the first case, I might not wanna do this ever again,” he teases, walking backwards in front of Logan before he trips and goes sprawling onto the ground.

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The older man laughs, thinking about how Peter’s mother had admitted that her son open called him a “prick” whenever the subject of work came up in conversation. He supposes he is an annoying hard ass, if the past few weeks with the younger man were anything to go by. “Yeah, he sounds like a real ballbuster.” Logan nearly trips over the reporter when he falls down, stumbling a bit to try and regain his footing before erupting into a fit laughter, rich and deep as he leans down, hooking his hands under the pits of Peter’s arms and trying to lift him back up.

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