What a Feeling (Benny "Borracho" Magalon x f!reader) - Part 1
Part 2
Summary: It was a feeling that had been bubbling up inside you silently and without hostility, with manifestations disguised as politeness and respect. On the one hand, you maintained your composure, while he used the limits of distance to poke you, like someone using a stick on a frog, hoping it would leap out.
You needed more reasons to hold back. He needed one less to keep pretending.
A kidnapping and a business card change everything.
Word count: 8.775
Warnings: Bad language, me not knowing shit about academic environment, then me not knowing shit about mechanical engineering. Bad words. Alcohol consumption. Police work. Brief mention of a crime. Everyone here is kinda of a bitch.
+18 work.
Author’s Note: Damn, I got, like, one idea, and then I decided to make it everyone's problem. Of course there will be a part 2, who do you think I am? Am I repeating the trope of nerd x the not-nerd guy? Yep. Sorry.
Also posted on AO3.
Part 1 of 2.
****
Joe stole from you.
In an abstract sense, Joe stole your time and energy, like any kind of idiotic relationship that lasts too long for too little reason. In a realistic sense, he stole money from you, from your home electricity bills, to the point of pathetic desperation of stealing your work. He was a failure, so you took comfort in that. A failure, minimally intelligent, and completely trapped in a pitiful sense of self-importance. People might not know this, or might not care, and Desireé could convince you to expose him on the university bulletin board, but you were too good, too superior, and you would win the right way.
That, of course, was your stance on good days.
In your contribution to Dr. Carlson's work, you say that thermodynamics applied to low-complexity resources is a little explored scenario. Wouldn't that be moving away from the technical aspect and entering the purely social sphere?
The question seemed to still echo in the air with how silent the room was — and then you wanted to expose him, to mock the use of ‘contribution’, to point out that, guess what, it was him who contributed, and it was you making it work with sweat and blood. It was the first day of classes of the semester, the first time you'd seen that handful of new faces, and you knew that for most of them, mentioning Joe didn't carry much weight. You weren’t even the most prestigious professor in a hall of government advisors or, hell, engineers with handshakes with presidents.
You noticed, in your delay in responding, the blink of your eyes and the thin line of your lips pressed together, that a few people were whispering among themselves, perhaps studying your reaction or waiting for something to happen. You knew your expression changed; that you went from receptive to closed off in seconds.
You stared back at the boy who asked the question: Gabriel Smith, 19 years old.
So you smiled after some consideration, lowered your eyes to your desk and came up with something much more peaceful than what was going through your head. You raised your head back to him with a sigh.
Joe stole from you. That’s what you wanted (or should) say.
“You're right, Mr. Smith: I may have sounded contradictory in saying that we need to be practical in terms of theory. Still, science, whatever it is, has a fundamental role in contributing and improving people's lives. In this work, my thermodynamics thesis created a product that enhances the cooling of airplane turbines, but that doesn't stop us from thinking about systems that serve combustion engines like tractors or small planes for rural producers in Illinois or Montana.”
Mr. Smith followed along obnoxiously – you were pretty sure where that reaction came from, and that certainly was a clear example of cause and effect. That made a bitter taste wash over your mouth as if your bile went straight to your throat.
“... You all may have ambitions like NASA or private foundations. All contributions are valid. What will really matter is who they are made for and why they are created,” And before you could think better about it. “Despite Dr. Carlson's work, I recommend that you look for Dr. Elijah Burke's thesis on thermodynamics applied to water cisterns in Cameroon, Africa. It's the type of example of work that I would recommend that you follow during our classes.”
They hurried to scribble or type the suggestion, their heads suddenly ducking so they wouldn't miss it. You allowed yourself a small moment of tiredness: another heavy sigh, a hand going discreetly to the back of your neck to massage it.
Wouldn't that be moving away from the technical aspect and entering the purely social sphere?
Huh. That was the kind of thing that a guy like Joe would fucking ask. Bitch.
****
“That's why I'm totally against first impressions,” She said, almost throwing a small package of pecan nuts in the shopping cart that she was pulling, Oscar was in your arms, using his chubby, drool-covered little fingers to poke at the collar of your overcoat. “That idiot was faster, and now it's a penance to undo the lie.”
“I wish I could be a little less nice, but given my bad luck, it's quite possible that if I made up a lie about him, I'd be sued for defamation. And he would win.”
“He's a man. Even if you weren't prosecuted for saying, I don't know, that he gave you gonorrhea or some shit, you'd still be the person remembered for having gonorrhea.”
“Mm.”
You walked around the corridors a little further. As you approached busier areas, she softened her language and tone, and you distracted yourself by giving Oscar something else from the stroller to stop him from getting you wet with baby drool.
Des stepped away for a moment to grab something you'd only heard halfway through while entertaining the boy with a small bag of colorful gummy candies. You didn't even realize how long she'd taken; then, you didn't even notice the little girl coming towards you and tugging at the hem of your overcoat. Aware of your desperation at knowing how many children might be scattered throughout that supermarket looking for your coat to mess with, you recognized her, and your next instantaneous reaction was to look around until—
Huh.
You would also run to the next person if you were stuck in that situation.
Benny had a black eye. It wasn't as bad as it might sound from afar, but judging by the expression on his face and Des's mannerisms, it wasn't the kind of thing that happened that often, despite… well. Everything. He had a small bag of tomatoes in his hand, and barely reacted while his sister spoke, gesturing with her hands, when she wasn't holding his face to assess the injury.
You unconsciously placed your hand on top of Celeste's head, and she carefully snuggled a little closer to your leg. She was very shy, but intelligent: she knew the safety nets between adults, she recognized faces, so she was there not because she unconditionally liked you, but because she trusted a figure who was around. And because you gave her tickets for Moana's performance in the city on one of her birthdays.
Certainly not because you had any familiarity with her father, that's for sure.
They chatted a little longer, amicably. Benny realized in the next instant that Celeste wasn't around, and he craned his neck looking for the girl until he found you standing there like a fool, holding a baby in your arms that wasn't even yours and almost hugging a child that also wasn't yours either. You could feel that stupid joke about you having a talent to babysit bubbling inside his head – that almost made you want to tell him to fuck off unconsciously.
They came towards you a little later, and you knew you would be spared the details of what they had briefly discussed. Celeste slipped away from you and returned to her father.
“Do you still make her carry your chubby son around?”
Of course he would start like that.
You resisted the urge to bite back, just as you had been doing for a long time. And he was an expert in clocking that, always keeping his eyes watching your movements after a quip – your shoulders rolling, your eyes snapping to any other direction but him. You knew that if you kept staring at those occasions, you would only make a fool of yourself.
“Cut the crap, idiot,” Des hissed back before snatching (as calmly as she could) Oscar out of your arms. “I need some rest too.”
“And I don't mind doing it. I like Oscar,” You offered with a small smile, to which he just raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Anyway, I think it's best if I go. I still have some paperwork and other work things to do, so… Shall we talk later?”
Des knew, even if not explicitly stated, that you didn't particularly enjoy interacting with Benny. It wasn't out of malice; you simply didn't like interacting much with her siblings in general. They were older, stiff, masculinized, and… men. They weren't very tactful about certain things. Des was the youngest of the four children in that Magalon family, and they were all already adults or teenagers when she was born. Benny was relatively the closest, the youngest before her, and they seemed to have some kind of stronger connection than Des would have with the others, which didn't lessen your feeling of unease. Despite their closeness, and despite him usually being the one around, Benny was an extremely reserved and distrustful man (which was very characteristic of who he was and what he did), and he was rarely so openly solar with his own family, so you couldn't expect it to be any different with you.
So you understood, but you still avoided opportunities to be met with that coldness whenever you could.
Des let you go with a hug and a wet wipe so you could clean the drool off the side of your neck. You waved to Benny and Celeste, blew Oscar a kiss, and walked down the hallway toward the exit with carefully quick steps.
You wouldn't take notes on anything from the brief interaction with the man, you'd go home and it would be just another day like any other.
Then you reached your car and heard someone calling you. It was so strange, you know, hearing him call your name without that almost mocking and disinterested monotone, that you almost thought your hair was on fire or had you committed some kind of infraction? Did he still have the authority to issue fines? You knew you had a headlight on your car that needed repair, but it wasn't that serious.
He crossed the parking lot with a short run from the exit to where you were. When he stopped in front of you, he was slightly out of breath, and you watched him approach with a frown, almost expecting the parking ticket if it weren't such an absurd thought. The wet wipe was still stuck against your skin.
“You're a mechanical engineer, aren't you?”
“... Yes…?”
“What are your qualifications?”
You flinched at that. “Excuse me?”
“I tried to find your Lattes curriculum but I wasn't sure what your last name was. And I wasn't going to ask Des either, she'd make a huge fuss about it and–” He noticed your lack of reaction, alongside your frown turning even more deep. Benny stopped himself before recalculating his words. “I'm working on a case and I need professional assistance. You know, investigative help. The prosecution has some names, but I need someone else.”
This made you hesitate even more, so you became defensive. You pulled the wet wipe away from your neck and shoved it into your coat pocket, looking at him with some sternness.
“Does LASD not have a team for forensic work?”
“No. Well, yes, but it's unofficial. A second opinion, if you prefer.”
A second opinion could mean you risked harming yourself if you weren't careful. The university department was quite strict about this type of collaborative work; you'd have to be at least protected from any negative repercussions. God knew you'd been on edge about this ever since the whole situation with Joe.
So you considered it calmly. With a decision, you ruffled through your bag and pulled out a business card that you handed to him.
“... Speak to the office of the university's Engineering Department to schedule a meeting with me. And with my boss.”
“I thought you would do it for the sake of friendship,” He was teasing, but you couldn’t exactly point out for sure that he wasn’t also really believing you would just do it as a favor.
“We’re not friends.”
Benny grew serious. You weren't being very fair or flexible, but you had things at stake, and what had happened in the classroom that day hadn't left you in the best of moods. It was because of 'favors' like these that your consultancy had been turned into someone plagiarizing you, and if that someone was someone you had trusted with so much, imagine Benny, who only made you feel like the butt of jokes and discomfort.
He nodded along, cleared his throat and took hold of the card. There was your name, your business email and the phone from the reception desk.
“My name is there. In case you need to see my Lattes curriculum.”
Benny raised his eyes at you and measured your face for a moment, then conceded. He tucked the card inside his back pocket before doing another measure of you.
“We'll talk again, doctor. Thank you for now.”
“My pleasure.”
You must have seen him upset a few times, kind of sulky, quiet. But it was never directed at you, perhaps the only filter between treating you like one of his teenage nephews and an adult. He always looked people in the eye, and he didn't stop doing that with you, even if he wasn't actually upset, maybe just... frustrated. You couldn't help but notice the flex of his fingers, the slight marks on his knuckles, but before you could apologize for your behavior, assuming he might also be having a bad day, Benny was already turning his back and walking back down the parking lot.
He didn't see you playfully kicking the air, nor the muttered curse word escaping your lips before you got into your car.
But you saw him disappear into that damned Walmart, not even the physical signs of a struggle stopping him from looking like a winner.
For less than that, you were feeling like nothing but a pathetic loser.
****
You thought he would look for someone else. Well, it was natural that he would. Practically speaking, you had two and a half years of PhD, and whatever extraordinary qualifications preceded that achievement, they wouldn't impress a witness in court, much less a specialist in the field. Emotionally, if you could call it that, you hadn't been receptive to his initiative, and he must have understood that you didn't like him. Your fault. In either situation, he wouldn't have lost anything by not contacting you.
But then you looked at your schedule for the week and saw 'LASD', along with an hour-long meeting with you and your boss. On the Tuesday before the meeting, they asked you if you needed the meeting room, and you preferred the lab. It was a much more open space, and you felt safer near your… nerdy stuff.
Benny arrived accompanied by a tall, long-legged guy wearing a shirt with one button undone and a leather jacket. He stood out a bit, but not too much: they both clearly looked like cops, but Benny seemed more collected, perhaps because he knew you, or because he had some old-fashioned respect for the university environment. Your boss greeted them first and introduced herself, then they both shook hands politely. He seemed calmer than he had been that day in the parking lot, and his black eye was less swollen and more hidden.
Nick O’Brien, Dr. Elena Hunt.
“It’s mandatory for Dr. Hunt to be present, but she can also be very valuable in advisory work, depending on the subject matter,” You offered as you watched them both do a 360° of the lab.
“We haven't received any initial memo or report… I assume this was scheduled under secrecy?” Your boss asked.
“Preferably,” Benny said before handing you the file.
It would also be almost obvious to say that it was outdated to have access to documents of that type in printed form, but judging by the criteria or perhaps the resource, it would not be so prudent to have something computerized that would be nothing more than a 'second opinion'.
They were dealing with a kidnapping case, judging by the context. You'd seen on TV that the victim had been returned, placed tied up in a silver Accord in a fairly well-maintained state. You wouldn't go into the details of why they were showing you the forensic reports on the car, but it was obvious they were looking for a suspect. The car's registration documents stated, at one point, a 1.8-cylinder engine, which seemed to be the inconsistent sign of the whole thing, given the emphasis present in the paperwork.
“Was the car running when you recovered it?” You asked, eyes set on the files.
“No problem at all. We had to take it apart and put it back together to look for evidence, but there was nothing,” Nick said. “We need to understand if we're missing anything. The car is our only physical proof that can take us somewhere or to someone.”
“Did you take a good look at the engine?”
“What’s in it?” It was Benny asking, and as you raised your eyes to look at him, you could see a particular interest in what you pointed out.
“Well, this car model doesn't have a high-displacement engine. It has a regular aspirated engine, while an Accord has a downsizing engine, which works with 1.0, 1.2, and 1.3 liter turbocharged engines to deliver the power of a 2.0 liter engine. Replacing an engine like that is a very difficult task... I mean, the person certainly had to replace peripherals, the electronic injection system, and probably safety modules.”
“It's a job for a specialist,” Dr. Hunt muttered under her breath as you nodded along.
“The person would have to be very good at mechanics, but also at IT… This car is completely modified. I'm going to assume you don't even have proof of purchase and ownership, right?”
“Would it be easy to perform some kind of firewall scanning in this case?” Benny pressed.
“For tracking? I don't think so. It's not my area of expertise, but anyone who knows how to do this kind of work can bypass a bunch of things that are incredibly difficult to identify. Not to mention that the person may have done this to adapt to the engine change solely, so maybe it can’t be traceable.”
You two spent almost an hour debating the issue. Benny was certain of a few things, and the engine replacement seemed to be one of them, so what he was looking for was something specific to that issue. It was almost as if he knew the engine would be the answer, even though neither you nor Dr. Hunt knew what it was. You could sense him getting frustrated each time you all hit a wall; Nick seemed to be a step closer to rip those papers apart.
When everything fell apart, Dr. Hunt offered for you to get a cup of coffee in her office, and you saw that Benny didn't want to get up. You suggested she go with Nick, which didn't seem like a bad idea until the two of you were alone in the lab. An awful silence hung in the air, saved only by the turn of papers.
“Do you have a theory?”
He raised his eyes at you, and probably calculated if it was a safe place for him to speak up.
“... It's that engine thing. The tires aren't worn and it looks like it just came out of the dealership. I know whoever did this planted that car there to throw people off, but there has to be something about it that gives it away.”
“Right… Well, I saw the TV and saw the kidnapped person. A regular at tennis clubs, daughter of a politician… She's a target for someone who’s, I don't know, a criminal. Maybe you need to do the reverse: start from the premise of the tampered engine and eliminate your options,” You crossed your arms over your chest. “A service like that is extremely expensive, as well as illegal. I can guarantee you that Honda's own dealerships wouldn't make a modification of that magnitude even if the original engine were in pieces. Car insurance also won't cover this type of service without an extremely thorough audit, and they'll usually resort to people who aren't going to commit to modifying automotive firewalls.”
“Not even for money? Like, a lot?”
“This might suggest that the person who did this has a lot of money. Or that the car was stolen from someone rich. But you would still know where it was stolen from.”
Benny stared at you for a long time, but not because you seemed to have said something wrong. He was thinking. Pondering. And you started to feel embarrassed each time his gaze lingered longer, so you would look away, sometimes down at your own lap, until he realized and asked for a pen to scribble something on the papers.
You watched him do so with interest… Huh. It was kind of cute that he had the same way of writing things as Des: messy handwriting, but done with care, a slightly furrowed brow, and pursed lips. You watched him write down three or four lines of ideas or something like that, the top of his head covered in dark hair that looked clearly dyed, the strands impeccably slicked back with gel. Very well done. You remembered Joe using gel on his hair once, and he never learned how to do it without leaving it all messy or with stray hairs on the sides—Benny seemed to have a certain mastery in that execution.
When you realized it, you were staring at him. And he noticed, but didn't back away, just gave you a little smile that made you come back to your senses and to what you were doing. You looked away and sat like a child being put in time out, your hands buried between your thighs as you rocked in your swivel chair. Your neck and cheeks burned for being caught; then the realization of what you just did kicked in and made it somewhat worse.
“I took a look at your resume. I mean, curriculum,” He commented, and as you snapped your head to him, Benny had that same small grin on his face. “I didn't see anything about investigative work, but you have a talent for it. Have you ever thought about working in the forensic field?”
“What, me? No. This definitely isn't my thing… I mean, I have nothing against it, I understand it's a way to help people. I'm just too cowardly for it, maybe. Not to mention that research work has much more… specific challenges. Which I can handle, at least.”
“Best case scenario, you’re a natural. You can always switch if you feel like it.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Mm,” He was turning back to his notes again when you, out of your best discernment, decided to keep talking.
“Listen, I–” Benny was turning his attention back to you as you said so. “That day in the parking lot, I realized I was a bit harsh with you. It had been a somewhat complicated day, but that's no excuse. I'm sorry.”
Benny spent a good deal of time, ample time, looking at you as if you were a stranger, someone he necessarily kept an arm's length away from. That's how he was. And you, resigned to it, never imagined being in his field of vision with a different, or at least more loving, perspective. You apologized out of habit, often for small things: bumping into someone at a family gathering, spilling a drink on someone's shoe, a 'sorry, did I arrive at a bad time?', and you'd offered him this on several occasions. He'd look at you for a while, then say it was fine and dismiss you as if nothing had happened. Certainly, you wouldn't expect him to look at you the way he looked at Celeste when she apologized for poking a classmate in the eye who was bothering her; he wouldn't be kindly stern, he wouldn't smile with a certain level of forgiveness ready to be given.
You expected that, at the very least, he would remember the awful atmosphere of that brief conversation and frown, as if he were remembering what you could be like.
But then he considered you as if he had time, sucked his teeth thoughtfully, and ended up shaking his head.
“I wouldn't expect a different reaction from you. To be pragmatic, we're really not friends,” He argued. “But I know you're a nice person. I also know that you got defensive because I'm not,” And before you could dismiss the statement, he added with a raised hand: “You don’t have to do that. I’m aware of my grumpiness.”
You slouched back in your seat, then shrugged. “Des was the same way with me when we met. I get it.”
“Yeah, but don't worry about it. Besides, you probably just helped us solve a case, so I think that absolves you of responsibility.”
It was indeed the first time you had smiled at something he said without it feeling forced. A genuine, open one, that touched the insides of your ego and your constant necessity of being recognized for being useful.
“I wish I could help more anyway. Domestic vehicles aren't exactly my area of expertise; everything I've told you is based on my understanding. I still think you need technical support from, you know, your team.”
He pursed his lips at that, then arched an eyebrow – then he was taking you back to that place where he seemed to be leveling you.
“You won't be testifying in court, you don't need to worry about it.”
You rushed to explain yourself: “... Oh… no, I didn’t mean that.”
“That's great, because I think having 'doctor' in front of your name would confirm that you're incredibly intelligent. Or at least that you can back up the things you say,” His tone wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t that soft either. He was defying you, pressing just like Des – trying to get a rise, as if you needed to prove yourself to them.
That was what you got from being polite or remorseful. And he noticed your discomfort with his words, with your body retrieving a little and your face falling back to what you used to splay out when you were near him. Benny took that in stride, but you couldn’t tell if it rubbed him the wrong way or not.
Saved by the bell, his partner and Dr. Hunt appeared at the door a little later, both with disposable coffee cups. There was a brief commotion about him and Nick having to go back to the precinct; Benny stood up, gathered everything, and hesitated a little before leaving. You two looked at each other for a moment, but nothing came out of his mouth. The next moment, he was already leaving the room and thanking you both for your time in rushed words.
It seemed like a code, the way Nick spoke to him. A code that only the two of them understood, and which seemed to be the only type of communication he knew how to use comfortably.
You and Dr. Hunt exchanged brief glances, then she left as well. You stood there, alone, staring at the table with a heavy sense of intimidation and exposure, blaming yourself for letting your guard down just because he was charming and cute and…
He left a business card behind. Over the name of a dentist and the address of a doctor's office, he had used a blue ballpoint pen to cross out the original information and handwrite his name, along with his phone number in tiny font. Was he making fun of you again?
Idiot. You knew where letting yourself find him interesting had led you before – there was no reason not to think it was anything other than teasing.
****
In your defense, you were just too depressed. Well, not depressed, but just... yeah, depressed. You and Joe had just broken up: you still liked him a lot, and you'd been led to believe he'd even propose. That day, you'd found out he would. He was a lazy ass motherfucker, but you thought you could change him… probably. You were still in the process of finishing your PhD thesis, on the verge of stress, and you had all the bureaucratic and legal stuff to sort out towards what he did. All of this made you feel like you'd just left a decades-long marriage; therefore, you were a wreck.
Des had invited you over for wine at her house: Robert had taken her oldest son, Romeo, to a school baseball game, and since Benny was there too, you could assume it would extend to dinner at the diner with the kids, so you accepted knowing you wouldn't be interrupted. You cried; you know, a lot. As proof of a lasting friendship, you practically stripped yourself bare for her and let out all your frustrations. Three glasses of wine followed. Your eyes were glossy and your mouth dry, in contrast to your wet face.
You'll never forget the feeling of shame you felt when they arrived at the house and found you in that state on her kitchen table. You'll never forget, in fact, the way Benny looked at you: almost with contempt, in a complete state of circumstantial pity, the kind you know the person feels as if it were something bad, almost beyond repair. Des pushed everyone aside so you could compose yourself alone. You went to the bathroom, washed your face, considered your catatonic state, and were about to open the door when you heard a voice in the hallway, not too close but at a good enough distance to be heard.
“... Ah, yes… I'll be a little late. Yeah, I took Celeste out with her cousin and the initial plan was for her to sleep over, but this weird friend of my sister's came over to get drunk and cry her heart out because she broke up with a guy… Yeah, I don't know if I want to leave her here in the middle of this mess.”
It was as if a hole had been opened right beneath you, consuming you with even more shame and embarrassment. You were gripping the doorknob with all your might, as if to rip it off, and were again holding back tears when you felt someone squeezing it from the other side. Then you realized the call had ended and he didn't know you were there. The deduction was quick, as quick as a detective could make, and with no way out, you yanked the door open.
He leaned forward with the strength of your arm and stopped, almost bumping his chest against yours. You had your eyes downcast, unable to look him in the face, which made the two of you remain in that awkward position without saying a word to each other. Benny was blocking your way — you couldn’t exactly just slide past him.
“... Get out of my way, please,” You muttered.
“I–”
“I'm not going to come near your daughter with my weirdness.”
You were depressed and you were drunk. That was the answer. You were depressed, drunk, and confused, with a mountain of chaotic feelings swirling around you, and this was the first time you'd stripped yourself of your composure to confront the way he always seemed to look down on you. And, curiously, because Benny was probably looking at you the same way until you stared back at him to make sure he'd get out of your way, until you both looked at each other and he was lowering his crest to look you in the same eye. He smelled of sweet popcorn and sweat. There was hot dog sauce on his shirt, and his face looked listless, even a little tired. But he was very handsome, as you had always noticed before and had always been intimidated by. He was handsome, with firm brown eyes and a masculine demeanor.
You didn't know how he was seeing you, and it certainly wasn't the best sight, but for a second you wanted to punch him while simultaneously wanting to kiss his ridiculously pink lips. You wanted to do something reckless, to tear yourself apart, to set the world on fire.
But it wouldn’t make you feel any better and, well, one of you was trying to be respectful.
“Could you excuse me? I want to go home,” You pressed, and that made him snap out of his stare and give you space to access the corridor.
“Gonna drive like that?”
“Mind your own damn business.”
You only said goodbye to Des that night, and you practically stumbled out the door to reach your car. For a moment you almost thought about finding a nearby place to stay: a small hotel, any kind. But you were a lone woman, drunk and disoriented, so at worst you drove three blocks before reaching an LAPD station, parking near the entrance and leaning back in the car to sleep.
That was rock bottom for you, waking up to a police officer knocking on your window and a message saying that Benny had asked them to go easy on you, that you were 'just having a rough day'. When Des recounted this to you, that he had seen your car parked there as he was leaving her house that night and that he had made that request to them, you realized that you had gone through very precarious stages of humiliation in his presence.
And that you would always be remembered for it.
****
You kept thinking about the case, and more specifically about the car – for two whole days. Dr. Hunt noticed this, then gave you a lecture explaining why she didn't like younger researchers getting involved in that sort of thing: it took the focus away and was a very decentralized practice. She had reservations, but you had doubts. And it had been a long time since you'd done anything simply because you enjoyed it.
He hadn't left any documents from that folder, but you went home for days pondering the car's structure, then the system details, and ended up sitting down with some toast and jam at your dining table while staring at the Honda owner's manual for that car model. It seemed like a simple answer, but you doubted that your alternatives had provided any technical insight into the matter. You offered a rather unfocused and amateurish opinion amidst a mountain of frustrating and repetitive technical information; it was clear they wouldn't look at that car beyond what they deemed solvable. If you added the aggravating factor of who the victim was, there would certainly be pressure to solve the case and–
Wait.
Why haven’t you thought about that before?
****
You didn't think much when you called, but you didn't have much time to because Benny answered on the first ring. It was late at night: past 11, and the tone of his voice made it clear that he was asleep. Not to mention it was an unknown number, so it could have been anything.
The fact that you kept that stupid card didn’t make it less of a situation you would regret. It didn’t justify your call, nor the time you did so.
You opened and closed your mouth, the laptop laying on your table as you paced around the kitchen.
“... Hi! Hi, erm… It’s me,” Gosh, he wouldn’t know it was you, you dumb–
“I know it's you. Did something happen?”
Oh.
Well.
“... More or less. I was doing research on the issue of car tracking, that thing we had talked about and that I said wasn't possible to do,” You said. “Did your team happen to manage to get a blockchain history of the car?”
“They said something about it, but it was useless information.”
“Okay. Is there any chance they checked for mileage fraud?”
“... No…?” You could hear him shuffle on the other side, then the small click of a door being opened and closed. “What are you thinking about?”
“Based on the history you've given me, this car has blockchain technology. I mean, all new models have it. If the engine was replaced, that's recorded in the system, as is any mileage fraud. If the vehicle was brand new but was used in the kidnapping, they most likely altered everything in the system and the blockchain could’ve detected it.”
“This would give us a coverage area.”
“Yes.”
“Okay…” He sighed, and for a moment it was all silent. “Where do you live?”
That wasn’t the answer you were expecting.
“... What?”
“Wherever you live, I'll come pick you up.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, you have a theory. I don't have anyone to check it for me,” He said as calmly as he could. “Is it okay if you come with me to the station?”
No.
“... I guess…?”
Benny noticed your hesitation, so he was soon sighing again.
“Don't worry, it'll be our secret. And if you're right, you'll be doing me an immeasurable favor… one that I'll owe you.”
Not that it was worth much. You could still get into trouble with Dr. Hunt for that little job outside the university premises, the very kind of thing she was discouraging in that conversation with you. You'd barely done it for a day, and there you were making a reckless decision.
You scratched your head and closed your eyes tightly as if that would shield you from the impact of your decision. With your confirmation, he asked for your address again and then said it would take him 20 minutes to get to your house. After he hung up, you used 5 of that time to freak out around your house, then put on more appropriate clothes and waited for him sitting on the edge of your living room sofa with your laptop stuffed in your bag.
It was cold. And it was raining too. You clung to a wool sweater, jeans, and boots because, for some reason, you thought going to a police station was like going to church, where you couldn't wear shorts or tank tops or… well, you know. You spent too much time thinking about it. It was quite a shock when you saw him in the car wearing a flannel shirt, his face still a little crumpled from sleep. You could swear he was wearing pants, but you wouldn't have found it strange if he were wearing shorts.
“We’re gonna meet Nick and another partner of mine, Tony,” He said as soon as you entered the car, leaving little room for you to say anything but ‘good evening’.
The seat was terribly cramped, like, way forward. Someone shorter had sat there, and your knees were practically touching the dashboard, but you didn't want to say anything.
“You good?” Benny pressed when you remained quiet.
“Mm-hm.”
“Have you given much thought to the car thing?”
You turned your eyes to him and found his face still, as if it felt like a genuine question. His profile was rigid, stone cold, but Benny probably considered that, given the circumstances, it wouldn’t be time and place to act as usual.
“... I often tell my students that not having an answer can only be considered a valid option after you've already tried everything,” You said. “More often than not, the math will just work its way for the right solution. I was sure there was more to it than that, and I just… thought. It was more simple than a mathematical situation, but human circumstances aren’t an exact science.”
He remained silent, and you thought you’d said the wrong thing. Or that you said too much. You always said too much.
“Seriously, are you sure you've never considered working in the forensic field?”
You two looked at each other for a moment, then you let out a shy little giggle. He reciprocated your gesture with more amusement.
“I decided to teach for a living. As I said, challenging enough.”
“Fair,” Benny shrugged, eyes back on the street. “But really, thank you for your help. I didn't imagine you'd want to know about this after my visit.”
You knew exactly what he was referring to, and it was even quite kind of him not to have noticed that as an obstacle to your collaboration. Because you genuinely considered not bringing up the subject again, not even getting close to any possibility. Furthermore, it was even somewhat irritating that he was fully aware of the kind of things he was saying or how he was behaving towards you.
“Why would you say that?” And you knew you were being kinda annoying, you know, poking despite the ‘between the lines’ tone, but you wanted to grasp his game.
Benny took that in stride; with a brow arched, he pursed his lips and didn’t dare to even glance in your direction. His lack of an answer gave you a sense of satisfaction, so you turned your face to the window to hide your small smile.
“Although Dr. Hunt's policies are almost always correct, I am an irredeemably stubborn person. That's how I got to where I am today.”
“Are you referring to your career or to being in my car right now?”
He was looking at you when you turned your face back to him at the pretentious question. Perhaps Benny understood that, behind the intimidation, you could level the playing field with him; that you were hiding behind some facade because he was, in fact, intimidating, and that you were annoyed by the way he dealt with you.
You held his stare for a long, stretched moment, then shrugged.
“Both.”
“So far it doesn't seem like a bad thing.”
“Yeah, well. That's another thing I teach my students,” You said. “Be the sole judge of what is good or bad for you.”
****
They all seemed quite relaxed, you know, despite the work they were doing. There weren't many questions about who you were or what you were doing there: Benny said you were someone who was helping, and that was enough. Tony, for his part, was paying close attention to your face while you explained, as if he needed to lip-read to retain the information, while Nick and Benny kept their eyes fixed on the small screen of the Accord's dashboard they had and that was handed to you.
They were even more suffocating than Benny alone, and you had to look beyond that to be more helpful.
“So we have a mileage of 500 kilometers?” Tony asked.
“Yes. And from what we understand here, the first modifications to the car were made 36 days after it was purchased. Most of the mileage was achieved after these adjustments. The curious thing is that a problem was detected in the engine and it doesn't seem to make sense with the very precise and careful adjustments that were made,” You pressed one or two buttons. “This indicates the constant use of unsuitable additives. Considering the previous mileage, the person responsible for the car probably did go quite far to make any kind of emergency repair. Maybe a roadside gas station or some garage without much expertise… But I doubt any mechanic would do something so bizarre out of lack of knowledge.”
“From what date was the mileage reset?” It was Benny coming up this time.
“In January, on the 6th. It was restarted and now totals 80 kilometers.”
The three of them exchanged glances, the meaning of which you had no idea, and that's when you realized you were beginning to enter territory you had no interest in entering.
“I know this isn't my business, but I'm a little surprised you didn't notice this sooner. I mean, your forensics team,” You offered. “I believe it would save a lot of time.”
“You're adorable,” Tony tsked, but you couldn’t quite catch if his sarcasm meant you were in the wrong or just naive.
“Cost cutting. We don’t have a forensics team anymore,” Nick explained. “All of that work is now outsourced and shared with LAPD.”
“... Ah.”
“It's going to be a real pain to get that jerk Rogers' signature…. He'll probably want to check all her work again.”
You could see Benny's shoulder muscles tensing at Tony's comment, while you sort of automatically arched your back in alert. He definitely skipped over some details; he certainly could have filled you in on the plan… about that. It was almost déjà vu, and this time you could see exactly how the whole thing was happening.
Your sudden silence was accompanied by a scolding from Nick, telling Tony to stop talking nonsense and anticipating problems. You cleared your throat, the shock having passed, and blinked a few times before finishing your explanations in the most pragmatic way possible.
That went on for another two hours. You unconsciously developed a short report to pass on to this Rogers guy, and with each passing moment you felt more uncomfortable being there. It was like reliving a feeling that wasn't good for you. And you could see Benny circling you, keeping a watchful eye on your mannerisms, from the way you rolled your neck to your pursed lips, and your personal mission was to ignore him. You should expect that but still – you would take a mental note to never do that again.
“You saved our ass here, girl. If you need anything, know that we owe you.”
Maybe Nick was being honest there, maybe he knew something about your background, but for all the reminders you had to put up on yourself about how Benny was Benny, you were leaning on the fact that he didn’t give enough fucks to mention that to his fellow detectives.
You grasped his hand on a firm handshake: “Can I consider one favor for each of you, or just yours?”
He laughed at that, which was your way to manage more of your discomfort. They chatted with you for another moment, then you excluded yourself from the room with talks about having an early day and that it was late.
“I'll take you,” Benny offered as soon as the words left your mouth.
“I wouldn't be naive enough to think you guys don't have work to do around here, Benny. Don't worry, I can get an Uber and–”
“That's out of the question. I brought you here, the least I can do is take you back.”
“But–”
“No room to argue. Let’s go.”
And you knew he was going to say something as soon as you got back in that car. Heavens, you really knew, and you really didn't want him to.
At least he waited for the car pace to settle, and for you to stay relaxed enough to think he wouldn’t bring anything up. It lasted about 5 minutes.
“I think I always mess things up with you.”
Which wasn’t at all how you expected him to approach the topic, but he seemed to be willing to be full of surprises.
“Des told me about that guy and what he did to you… I should’ve taken that into consideration.”
“Bullshit.”
It left your mouth before you could stop it, but since it was open in the air, you let it hang just as he did. Benny seemed calm, braced; you were almost sure he was expecting that tone and that choice of words.
So you kept it cool and elaborated.
“You just don't care about me at all. Your problem is that you pretended because you needed something from me,” But you weren’t hurt. At best, you were stating a fact. “Or maybe you cared when you thought I was going to, I don't know, kidnap your daughter.”
“You were drunk–”
“At your sister’s house–”
“Des isn’t the best at having her guard up with people sometimes,” He almost confessed, hands gripping the steering wheel. “I didn't know who you were and I still don't. Of course I'm gonna think you're harmful around my daughter.”
“Yeah, it seems clever to want to harm a cop's daughter.”
“I don't exactly have a track record of good decisions on your part.”
“Oh, right. Since we're talking about things we don't know shit about, I could’ve made the same assumption about you and your friends back there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you think I'm stupid enough not to realize that you're, at the very least, a bunch of middle-aged men emerging from failed careers, solving cases with favors and meager resources?” Your crisp voice and dark tone made him stop the car abruptly, pumping the breaks right there, in the middle of the street.
“You know what it's like to be a failure, don't you? You let some loser fuck with you and steal your job, then you fell asleep drunk in your own car because you can't even handle things like an adult. And you did this after going to cry your heart out to a woman with children to raise, with real problems.”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you!”
That conversation (or argument, to call a spade a spade) should have ended before it even began, but for some reason you two decided to stop hurling insults at each other at the downfall of a regular offense.
You were vivid, breathing deeply, while he just seemed irritated, stressed. That bothered you immensely too. How could that immoral, idiotic guy be so indifferent to everything, as if he were better than everyone else? Imbecile. Fool. Jerk. Moron. Asshole.
“... Are you done?” He asked, then, brows raised in that way you hated so much.
You gulped. “... Yes, I am.”
“Good,” He nodded, the car now speeding up again. “It was long past time for us to settle our differences.”
“I was perfectly fine with how things were.”
“You had a lot to say about me, and you said it. That's much better than having to deal with you sneaking around in corners and avoiding me,” Another offense. Jesus Christ. “Maybe now you're more, you know, you.”
“It's none of your business to worry about how I am or am not.”
“It looks like I can’t escape this reality, huh?” He muttered. “How about you accept that unfortunately there's nothing you or I can do about it?”
The escalation and fall of that issue was reason enough for you to get out of that car and walk away, if you had to. You knew you'd be proving his point again. And again. And again. Because, after all, he was right. Subconsciously, he'd be sticking his nose where it didn't belong, just as you would be, because you both moved in the same social sphere. The merits of it being a misfortune for him were only being considered because you were insulting each other.
“... If this Rogers guy changes anything in the report, he's going to be wrong,” You commented under your breath, arms now crossed over your chest.
He nodded at that. “I'll make sure he pays attention.”
“Because I know I did the right job, and I researched and studied a lot to know that.”
“I certainly cannot doubt that.”
“No, you can’t. Since we're being honest here, I'm damn good at everything I set my mind to. Even getting drunk to get over a breakup.”
“I thought we had already established that.”
“Good.”
Like good antagonists, the rest of the journey was made in absolute silence. You were still tapping your foot in persistent irritation, overcome by a nagging feeling that you should say something more, but you were firm enough to endure until you reached your house.
You left the car without a word, then leaned over the window as you closed the door.
“Just so you know, I don't like you. This better not stop me from gaining favor in return.”
“Now I'm curious to see what you're going to do. Are you gonna get drunk and throw up in my car or something?” He mocked your tone, his face dripping in provocation.
But before you could answer, he sped off down the street, leaving you there on the curb, your body seething with rage.
There you were again, kicking the air and cursing his entire lineage, until you realized you couldn't even do that, because you knew those people and they didn’t deserve it.
Hell.
That son of bitch was on your wish list. What you wanted? Him. Dead.
****
No pressure tags:
@cheesybadgers
@thoroughlymodernminutia
@seaweeden
@thesandbeneathmytoes
@eclecticfashionbookzipper
@servenas-inner-fangirl
@mysoulisasunflower
@dizzybee03
