When Matthew arrives at ACI, it’s raining. It always seems to rain whenever he goes to Manhattan, and as he steps out of the sleek, expensive black car with its smartly-dressed chauffer, he sighs. The cobblestones are black with the rain, and his hair sticks to his temples.
‘Sir?’
He turns, to look at the driver as he leans through the passenger side window.
‘What is it?’
‘Want me to stay here, sir?’
‘No, no,’ he sighs, runs a hand through his sodden curls. ‘No, go find a café someplace, get a warm drink. I’ll be a while.’
The driver does not know why he is here, and that is what Matthew wants. His driver has no need to know why he’s here, after all. He’s just a driver.
He watches the car peel away before heading in to reception.
‘Matthew Williams,’ he says to the haggard-looking woman on the desk.
Her blouse fits too tight at the collar to be fashionable. She stares up at him, her concealer too light, making her dark circles ashen, rather than hidden.
‘I’m here to see Alfred Franklin Jones.’
Her eyes narrow.
‘He made it clear that you weren’t to be allowed in.’
‘Is that so?’
As he walks the halls, looking out for a sign of dark skin and pale hair, he listens to the rain pattering against the windows, the way the place seems so quiet. It’s hardly early enough that people are still asleep, and it isn’t as though Manhattan is under-populated with substance abusers, or anything of the sort. There should not be emptiness in an inpatient rehab centre, and yet there isn’t a sign of a living being for several rooms.
Alfred is sat in the day room, in silence, curled into a ball and picking at the nail of his big toe. There is no one else there, and as Matthew stands in the doorway watching him, he feels almost sorry for the boy.
‘Hello, Alfred.’
Alfred is nineteen, and on top of the world. Once, perhaps, but now he is shackled to a building smelling of disinfectant and the sweating night-terrors of withdrawal.
‘Thought I told ‘em not to let you in,’ Alfred grunts, and Matthew drags a chair over, sitting in it and ruffling his hair, sending rainwater flying in all directions.
‘You did,’ he says, ‘but that was never going to stop me, was it? What would they do to me, drag me out by the arms?’
Alfred doesn’t smile at the image of Matthew being dragged anywhere, which makes the older Jones son pause, and seriously consider his brother’s condition. He looks gaunt, and gone in a way he has never been gone before. He’s certainly underfed, with hollow cheeks and dark circles, everything about him limp and lifeless and lacking that veracity he had had when Matthew knew him as a child. It makes him sigh, seeing his brother like this.
‘Alfred,’ he starts, and for a few moments, the only sound is that of Alfred’s fingernails snapping against his toenail. It makes his teeth ache. ‘Why?’
‘I was bored,’ Alfred says, as though it should be obvious. ‘There isn’t anything out there in the real world any more, it’s all so boring and the same thing over and over and over again, the same boring shit all the fucking time.’
The fire in his eyes is a hungry one, longing for something he cannot have. Matthew’s stomach twist in a way it has not done for years.
‘At least when I’m high I don’t give a shit any more. At least then.’
‘That’s not true.’
Alfred glares at him. His blue eyes, once so bright and sky-clear, are now a muddied grey, blood-shot and yellowing. He’ll look better soon, when he’s finished his recovery.
‘Then what is true?’ he demands, ‘what is true? What’s true is that some fucking idiot gave me over to the police as though what I’m doing is illegal.’
‘Alfred, heroin is an illegal substance, don’t pretend like you’re above the law.’
‘You are the law, and last I saw, I was taller than you.’
‘We were twelve.’
‘Still taller than you.’
Matthew, perhaps making a wise decision, chooses not to get involved in that particular discussion, choosing instead to focus on a different line of enquiry.
‘I know you miss her,’ he says, ‘but she was never yours to lose.’
‘I don’t miss her, what are you talking about? She died on my watch, I feel guilt. I don’t miss her. For fuck sake.’
‘Please stop swearing,’ Matthew says, ‘it’s really unbecoming.’
But Alfred is done entertaining the idea of talking his brother, and turns back to his toenail-snapping until Matthew leaves him there in the rain-cool sunroom.
Arthur and Alfred had been late for the birth, of course. Marie almost rolled her eyes as they stumbled into the room, and in her heart she knew she couldn't expect anything less. They did look sorry, and it's obvious that they rushed, so she couldn't blame them any.
Still, Arthur looks a little bashful, standing in the doorway and looking at Marie as if he's seeing an angel. Because in her arms, there is a swaddled blue blanket, holding their son.
Their son.
Marie's lips curl up into a smile as she nods for him to come in, and Alfred follows shortly after -- collapsing in a nearby chair -- and Arthur comes closer, inches really, and kneels down next to the bed.
"He's...?"
"He's our son," Marie addressed him, and tired as she was she felt giddy. "He's our son, Arthur."
"Our boy..." Arthur murmered, before casting a sideway glance to Alfred, who was dozing in the chair as quietly as he could. His smile widened as he cupped Marie's cheek with one hand, gazing down at their son. "Our new boy. Peter."
And for this moment -- this one, small moment -- they were happy.
Hetamentary, where Arthur first returns from his disapperance and shows himself to his son first
Peter is almost twelve. It’s late July, and he’s out in the park with some friends having a kick-aroud when he gets the feeling that he’s being watched. He’s had the feeling before, when one of Matthew’s people is following him around, but now that the Pale Man is dead, there’s no one to take him away. His dad died to make sure that the Pale Man could never hurt him again, or so Mama says, and that’s – well it’s not okay, but Pete learns to deal with it, because it was a noble thing his dad did, and he’s proud of that, even if it hurts sometimes.
(When he can’t sleep, he goes downstairs to get a drink of cocoa and maybe watch a film, and he hears Mama and Alfred talking, and sometimes Mama is crying. He thinks that it must hurt her more than it hurts him, because they’d been together for so long now. Or had been. She says that she needs to move on, but Pete doesn’t want a new dad, and doesn’t say anything about it at all.)
The feeling persists throughout the day, and Pete finds himself watching every corner and tree and bench, trying to work out who it is that’s watching him, if there’s anyone at all. It’s different from when Matt’s goons are watching, and he wonders if some British people are watching. Maybe it’s someone like the Pale Man.
‘Pete?’
‘Yeah,’ he replies, and glances one last time at the tree he had been focused so intently on. ‘Yeah, I’m coming.’
The next day, he tells Alfred that he is going out with some friends; Mama is at one of her classes, and Dad is – well. Dad’s dead. So Alfred is the only person to tell, and Alfred is so buried in a case about some missing journalist or a jewel or a murder (honestly, Pete hadn’t been paying much attention) that he doesn’t really listen when Pete tells him that he’s going out.
But the truth is, Pete isn’t going out with friends. All of his friends are busy today, so he is going to the park alone. If Alfred taught him nothing else, it was to investigate, and that is what Pete is doing. There was someone watching him yesterday, and if it’s someone like the Pale Man, then that’s that.
If it’s not, who knows, maybe something good will happen. Probably not, though, he doesn’t have much luck when it comes to that kind of thing.
There is, of course, no one at the tree, but he does feel like he is being watched still, so he waits patiently for maybe something to happen. He doesn’t expect anything to happen, so he tries not to feel disappointed when nothing does.
This continues for weeks, with Pete trying to find this mystery watcher, and said watcher eluding him.
Then, one day, when he’s out on a case with Alfred, just information gathering, still the adorable baby no one can resist, especially now that he has a sob story about how his dad was murdered to make people willing to talk (though it is not really a sob story, as the tears that spring to his eyes and roll in fat, glistening tracks down his cheeks alongside splotchy red patches and snot, are not faked in any way), he feels it again.
Whilst Alfred collects the information, Pete wanders off. They’re in public, so no one will not notice if he gets kidnapped, and he feels safe enough with Alfred here that he can just wander down the path a bit.
‘Who are you?’ he demands to the empty space, because there is someone there, and he is tired of being deceived. Gets it off his dad, he does.
‘Pete,’ comes a voice, a voice he has not heard in two years, and had feared he had forgotten.
‘Dad?’
Dad appears from seeming nowhere, staying very carefully out of Alfred’s line of sight. Pete looks at him, at the way he babies his leg more than he had in the past, the way his clothes look more worn than they ever did when he was at home, the way he looks like he crawled out of his not-grave to be here in this single moment.
Pete stares at him, and Dad stares back, and then carefully gets down on his knees to hold his arms out. Without hesitating, Pete goes to him, because he knows, he feels it in his bones, and he knows, somehow, that everything is going to be okay now. His dad is here, and that is the thing he has wished for most.
Dad smells of earth and salt water and liquor, and not at all like tea or disinfectant the way he remembered, but he breathes it in anyway, because Dad is here, and he has his arms around him, holding him tight and there is nothing else Pete wants in this world.
‘I missed you,’ he sobs, and Dad pets his hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, kisses his head. ‘I wanted to come back sooner, but I couldn’t, it was so hard to get back sooner. I had so much I had to do before I could, but I’m here now, you’re still here. You’ve grown so much.’
Here, he pinches at Pete’s hips, teasing, and he laughs.
‘Mama cooks every night, and makes a dessert if we’re good.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Alfred.’
‘Ah. Pete, don’t tell Alfred you saw me. Not yet. I still have things I need to do before I can come home.’
Pete pulls back to frown up at him.
‘No,’ he says, ‘no, you need to come home now, we need you at home. Mama needs you. She cries, like, every night, because you aren’t there. She’ll be so happy, Dad, you can’t not come home.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dad repeats, shucks Pete’s chin and wipes some tears away with his thumb. ‘I want to come home, I do. I promise I will. But I can’t just yet. I need to clear up a few things first. But I’ll be home soon.’
‘Then why let me see you and not anyone else?’ he asks, and Dad winces.
‘I didn’t want you to know I was watching,’ he admits, sheepish. ‘But you knew I was there, so when you called me out, I couldn’t just – I missed you so much, and I – just don’t tell Alfred, or your mother.’
Pete just hugs his dad again, holds him close, and they stay like that until Alfred, who is now done with the interrogation, and can’t see his Godson anywhere, calls for him.
Dad holds a finger to his lips and lets his son go. Pete nods, and returns to Alfred’s line of sight, leaving his dad there in the park to do whatever it is he has to do before he can come home for good.
hetmentary; pete meets all sorts of interesting people asking his godfather for help
It's summer vacation when Mama and Dad leave for a little while. When Peter tears up -- because Mama and Dad almost never leave for trips like this -- Arthur leans down and pats his head, telling him that it'll be alright. They'll only be gone for a little over a week, and Alfred would be watching him the entire time.
(Arthur adds, when Alfred isn't listening, that Miss Elise will be checking up on them more as well, so they don't have fast-food for at least two meals a day for an entire week.)
Peter is already six years old, which is much to old for crying, in his opinion, so he sucks up his tears and nods his head, giving his dad and mama a good salute as they watch them disappear into the security gate at the airport. Alfred takes Peter's hand after watching the gate for a moment longer, squeezing it lightly as he smiles at the boy.
"Ready to be my assistant today, Pete?"
Peter likes Alfred's job. Arthur and Alfred have been detectives since before Peter was born, for years and years and years, and it was always funny to see them coming in at all hours of the night, and to see all the people that they were helping.
(Though it was not funny sometimes, like the time Peter was kidnapped by who his mama calls "the pale man", and Alfred and Dad had to come rescue him.)
But regardless, three days had passed. Peter had spent most of his time perched under Alfred's desk, listening to Alfred talk to clients and playing with his video games.
So far this afternoon, Peter had listened to, in no particular order: a woman whose husband had cheated on some test, a man who had lost his kittens and was very desperately worried about them, a girl whose father had gone missing, and a woman whose pocketwatch had been stolen. But other than that, it had been very quiet, and Peter was snoozing off with his Game Boy Advance clutched between his hands.
"Mind if I come in here with you, buddy?"
Peter's eyes fluttered open as he looked up at Alfred, who was kneeling with his forehead leaning against the top of his desk. Alfred grinned, not waiting for Pete's answer as he scooped the kid up and ducked under the desk, resting Pete in his lap as the boy woke up a little bit more.
Alfred hummed, and Peter rubbed his eyes, so it was a long moment before they spoke again -- but that was one of the better things about Alfred babysitting. They didn't need to speak.
Finally, after a long time, Alfred asked a simple question.
"Do you want to scare Elise when she comes in to clean?"
staaaace could you write some hetamentary about the aftermath of the reverse reichenbach when you have the time if you'd be so kind
when you have time, asked three months ago im so
When Alfred returns to the brownstone alone, Marie sends Peter to his room to play. She knows her son’s godfather too well by now to not know, and she shoves him into his armchair, checks his pulse.
‘Why?’ she demands.
And then, quieter, ‘where is he?’
‘Dead,’ Alfred replies. ‘I looked for his body, but I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t there. I’m sorry.’
Marie staggers back as though punched in the gut, and sits on the couch, a hand over her mouth.
‘I understand,’ she says after a minute’s silence.
‘He did what he had to do,’ she says, and stands, dusts off her dress. ‘He wouldn’t have done it if he had any other choice. We’ll give him a funeral, and we’ll put him to rest. Maybe they’ll find his body later, and we’ll get it back.’
‘How are you so calm?’ he asks her as she walks to the door.
‘I have a son,’ she says, ‘who is due to start school in September. I don’t have time to get worked up, to break down. I don’t have the time. I have to – I have to look after Pete. Arthur would want that. He’d want me to look after his boy. I have to tell him that his dad’s dead. I – Pete has to know and understand, and I’ll have to call the school, the school needs to be told.’
He listens to her, watches her mouth stumble over repeated words as though suddenly unsure of them being right, and he can almost hear her bones crumbling, her heart dust in her chest. Her face remains calm and soft, but there is a muscle by her mouth that is tight with the effort of keeping it so.
Later that night, after Pete has been put to bed, and Alfred is pulling down case notes, lingering over Arthur’s handwriting and all the theories he’d put forward, all the things that he has permeated and made his own, he hears her go outside. He does not follow, because he can hear the heaving breath, the sobbing, and he is not fit to comfort her. He never will be, not when his reaction on landing back in New York was to immediately seek out cocaine instead of going straight to her.
Fraliech hetamentary au where they go out for coffee after listening to Alfred and Arthur for two hours
Elise has since given up trying to get the housework done, because there is a blazing row going on upstairs, with lots of crashing and banging and yelling. Francis has come to cower downstairs, and Marie is, thankfully, elsewhere and no privy to it, because Elise knows her well enough to know that it would be a Bad Thing.
'What are they even arguing about?' they ask each other, but every time the argument dies down before flaring up again, they are no closer to understanding what started it.
They have enough of it after two hours, and decide to leave, because the row sounds dangerously close to coming downstairs, and Elise does not want to watch helplessly as they mess up her pristine cleaning job, thank you very much.
'They can clean their own messes up this time,' she tells Francis as they sit at an outside table of a cafe, opposite a park watching some toddlers playing with the family dogs. 'I'm not going near it.'
'I don't blame you,' he replies, sniffing. 'I suppose Alfred will call later, throwing all sorts of tantrums about Arthur's telling-off.'
'Ignore him,' she says, and then surprises herself by inviting him back to her place just to keep away from the brownstone a little longer.
