Chapter Twelve: Too Sweet
Author's Note: I like to think during the vet scene Matt is just banging his head on a wall somewhere. No shade, I lwk teared up writing this.
SONG: the chorus of Reflections by the Neighborhood at the cityscape part.
(Also abt time a Hozier song makes the title.)
The masked man hasn't called in three days.
Considering the progress made after the trial you thought you two would be chasing these leads while they were hot, that he felt the momentum you did.
And you at least expected to make some headway on Elena’s case or with Ben Urich. Both were brick walls.
Elena’s landlord had completely stonewalled you from setting up a meeting. Your first roadblock, so you took it well. If Mr. Tully was fighting you this hard then you must be on the right track.
Ben was worse, no reactions to build off of. He scribbled a lot, didn't look up. Karen had done most of the talking. You added pieces here and there, but the badge on your chest might as well have been a muzzle—you could feel his apprehension the second you walked in. Maybe he didn't trust cops, most journalists don't. Or maybe he was smart not to.
“Don’t stress over it,” Karen had told you afterward. “He’ll contact us when he’s made his decision.”
All true, for the most part. It doesn’t change how your hands grip Ben’s Union Allied newspaper. You have to be close to something, anything. What are you missing?
Tossing the newspaper, it lands on the countertop next to Jessie’s files, the impact knocks them over, earning a groan. As you recollect them, different taxis are illuminated by the outside light coming in from your window.
To get your mind working, you lean on the counter flipping through each photo. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Black Cadillac. Your heartbeat slams that photo onto the granite. Broad daylight, mall robbery, a taxi and Cadillac parked together at its front doors.
After turning on the kitchen lights you read the last three numbers of the Cadillac’s plate. 449.
Up till tonight, you were only focused on the taxis, never even considering the various cars in these pictures. Now, you’re kicking yourself for thinking any other way.
Checked back into the station you picked a police car to attend your night ‘shift.’ Not 403, even though you wanted to use it, the masked man was right, too risky. 523. An older model. It smells like petrol, loose threads in the seats, and the MDT system ran slow. Still, it’ll get the job done.
Once James Wesley’s records show up on the screen you plug in his address and start driving. His car by those taxis is an easy coincidence, however, you've learned there are none when the Russians are involved. Your foot is heavier on the pedal than it usually is, but you couldn’t stop. Not when this could be the final piece.
A flash of orange against the darkness, small, unmoving. As the car’s headlights got closer it reveals what that flash truly is, a cat. Your shoulders sink.
This isn’t the time. There’s leads. A timeline. But you couldn’t leave. Not when an animal is lying on the side of the road, hurt at the very least—dead at the very, very worst.
God, what if the cat is dead? You’d be thinking about it for days, sleepless nights if you go.
Pulling over, you jog down the sidewalk to the cat. “Hey, little guy, please tell me you’re alive.” At his side, the orange cat didn’t react to your plea, nor once you prod at his paw. “Hey,” You repeat, shakier this time. “C’mon, don’t be dead.”
“No, no, no.” Your hands tremble, hovering over the animal in a disarray you didn’t think you’d have in this situation. Heartbeat, is there a heartbeat?
Hand lifting the cat’s hind leg, turns out he’s a girl, you press two fingers on the inside of her thigh. The femoral artery. “Give me a pulse, please.” Nothing. Though it’s hard to hear anything over the banging of your own pulse. “Shit,” That hand flies to your face, covering your mouth.
Already, tears obscure your vision, clouding the cat to a fuzzy orange splotch. Come on, do something. Stop crying. Pick her up—
Glass bottles from the alley. You lurch over the cat’s body to somehow protect it. “Who’s there!?” Shouting, but your voice is hoarse, congested, obvious that you’ve been crying.
“It’s me.” The alley speaks. From its shadows, the masked man materializes into view. Clad in black. He takes three cautious steps forward. “What’s wrong?”
Your body both tenses and eases its stance, no longer bent over the cat. “Uhm,” a sniffle you didn’t want to let out escapes. “The cat, I-I think she’s dead, I don’t know. I found her here, she’s not moving, and I can’t feel a pulse in her…” You trail off when the man kneels in front of you.
“She’s not dead,” He murmurs. Head tilted. “I hear a heartbeat. Faint. But she’s alive.”
Momentarily stunned, you swallow down the dryness in your throat. “I’m not sure,” Never have you wanted to know Hell’s Kitchen like the back of your hand till now. “I can check in the car.”
The man nods, then scoops up the cat. One hand at her head, the other on her hip. “Her ribs are broken.” He explains, “A car must’ve hit her. Recently.”
Again, you want to ask how he knew that but the word ‘recently’ flares your insides. Recently means you had limited time. That can work. “Okay, let’s go.” Wiping a stray tear, the two of you head to your car, you open the door for the man before getting in.
Walker Veterinary Hospital, closest one nearby. “Godamnit, it’s twenty-three minutes away.”
“It’s okay, just start driving.” The man says, his tone gentle. It both disorients you then brings you back together.
“Right.” Deep breath. The gear stick is pulled to drive, not any later you turn the police lights on.
Haphazardly parked along the street, the man places the cat in your arms. “I’ll come back.” You exhale, “Let you know what happens.” He doesn't respond and you're too occupied with the cat to see if he nodded.
Time waning down, you book it to the vet as fast you could without jostling the cat. Inside, the bright lights ache your eyelids after being in the dark for so long. “Excuse me, ma’am.” At the front desk, an old woman’s eyebrows perk up. Samantha, her tag read. “I found her on the side of the road earlier, I think her ribs are broken.”
Samantha stands to examine the cat. “Dear,” she mumbles, turning to call for a team of veterinary nurses who provide a stretcher for you to put her on. Under the lights, you finally notice the green collar around her neck, made of glossy leather.
“Thank you, Officer. We’ll take care of her the best we can.” Samantha nods, hands clasped over her chest.
Sounds like she thought you’re leaving. The expectation makes you realize how invested you are. Awkwardly, your hands slide behind your back. “Would it be okay if I stayed? I just want to know she’ll be alright”
“Oh,” The woman’s hands unclasp. “Of course. Feel free to have a seat, dear.”
On a chair by the door, you wait for your nerves to settle before calling to the man. He picks up at the second ring. “She just went in right now, I’m, uh, waiting inside.” Your leg begins bouncing. “Are you at the car?”
“I’m… around.” He answers, “Call me when you get out.”
The man promptly hangs up. Providing you no alternative to sitting with your thoughts while you wait.
Fifteen minutes later a family, father and daughter, burst into the vet. It almost jolts you out of your seat. The young girl runs up to the counter, sniffling, on her tiptoes to peer over it. Her father steadies his hand on her head. “Sorry, we were called about our cat Gigi?”
“Ah. Yes, Gigi was brought in by an officer a few minutes ago.” Samatha glances at you and your leg stops bouncing. “She’s actually right behind you all.”
Out of the two, the girl is the first to turn to you. Her face is puffy red. It twists your heart. “Hi.” You give a quick wave.
“Officer!” The father’s hands go to smooth his tussled brown hair. “Wow–” He clears his throat. “Thank you so much for bringing her in.”
A nurse comes through the door, he steps away when the family swiftly faces him. “You’re Gigi’s family?” They nod. Already you assume the worst, hoping for the best. “I have good news.” The nurse steps forward, a small one. “She’s still weak, but she should recover.”
“Oh thank god.” The father digs his knuckles into his forehead, but his daughter keeps looking at you, new tears falling down her eyes to her wobbling chin. You stand, an action that’s much easier now. “Again, thank you, Officer.” The father continues, “You don’t know how much this means to us.”
“It’s nothing, sir.” Smiling, you shake his hand, grip firm compared to his shakes. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”
Below, his daughter hiccups her cries.“Hey,” you kneel to her level. “It’s okay now, yeah? The hard part’s over. Just gotta stay brave a little longer.”
Although you offer your hand, the girl hugs you with a force surprising for her small size. She mumbles thank-yous into your shoulder, her tears soaking your uniform. You don’t leave the vet until she pulls away first. Not just because she needed it, but because this felt like the first clear-cut win you’ve had.
Back in the cold night air, the masked man isn’t at your car or shrouded in the adjacent alleys. ‘Around,’ he said.
Funnily enough, it took one glance upward to spot him on the edge of the building in front of you. One tall shadow beside the crescent moon above.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Pocketing your phone, you cross the street to the fire escape on the building, the steps to the top are only made bearable due to the glowing sparks in your chest. “Ah geez, I’m really glad you waited.” You suck in a long breath to bolster over the roof’s border. “That—would be a waste of energy.”
The man doesn’t turn around. “I still could.”
Two of your boots thud on the floor. “True, but that would be ungentlemanly of you.”
This time, his head moves in that same tilt you’re beginning to watch more closely. “You’re in a good mood.” He notes, “Guess everything went well.”
“Went great, actually.” Beside the masked man, your elbow brushes his, once, then he steps away. “Her name’s Gigi, and she’s expected to recover.”
He hums. “Good work today.”
A little light flutters in your chest like wings. “It was an A-minus.” You shrug. “I lost my composure for a second.”
For a few seconds. However the masked man doesn’t mention that. Gradually, the silence grates on your nerves. Fingers tap on your thigh, teeth scrape your lip.
The man sighs, it’s full of relentless weight. “Is there something you wanna say?”
So much. There’s so much you wanted to say.
“Yeah, uh… where have you been?” He doesn’t answer right away. Your tapping gets worse. “I mean, I know we’re not actual partners and stuff but, I just thought we’d be working together more after what we found out.”
All those words might’ve dug you in a deeper hole but it’s impossible to take back. The man unfolds his arms. “I haven't made any progress since that day.”
Your head turns to him. “Oh.” The faint glow from the orange streetlights showcases his frown. “I haven't made much progress either, to be honest.”
“Really?” His tone matched yours, surprised, and a bit relieved. If you weren’t projecting that is.
“Yeah, nothing has really worked out. That's why I was driving out here. I needed to do something to help all this.” Vaguely, your hand gestures around the city. It falls back to your side with a soft thump. “I guess things haven't changed.”
The man goes quiet again, he speaks up sooner but the stillness never leaves. Not fully. “You helped that family.”
“How do you do that?” The question comes out quick, in case you're cut off like the other five times this happened. “The broken ribs, heartbeat, that GPS. How do you hear that?”
No way, you’re not going to let him dodge this. Your whole body turns. “Hey, you said you’d answer my questions the ‘next time’ we were together.” Arms folded, you force a cop-like sternness. “This counts as ‘next time.’”
Didn't work. A huff blows out his mouth, the frown on it twitches up. “You also said I was lying.”
For a second your tongue tries saying a name, his name. One you didn't have. The masked man notices your little stammer, facing you.
Though silent, the sight of his smirk garners a scoff. “Are you really going to make me beg?”
He flashes that cheshire cat smile, a brief flicker of white in the night. “No, I’ll let you have this one.” The man pauses. Debating the best way to answer, ideally. “I can… It was an accident, when I was a kid.” His lips purse. “I got the ability to see by hearing things, or smelling them.”
Accident. The image of what kind fills your head. Lab accident? Chemical accident? Of course, you doubted you'd get more than that.
“Wow. So, you really are a superhero.” You settle for instead, expecting him to deny it. He does. Now it's your turn to get quiet.
Back toward the street, your hands hide from the chill inside your pockets. The cityline this high up is simple. No grandstanding Empire State Building, or a view your mother spends an exorbitant amount to see. All those sparkly buildings were behind you somewhere.
Nothing stops you from spinning around and trying to find them, but you were content with this. Each building is a couple hundred feet, though their height is the last thing on your mind. It’s the windows, tiny golden or white squares. That's what you love about New York City.
“Can I ask a question now?” The man mumbles.
“What are you thinking about?”
You blink out the trance. “I—” Exhaling, vapor from your breath clouds into the air. “Just looking at the city. It’s really pretty.”
The chugs of a metro train blare in the distance, the man seemingly waits for it to pass before talking. “What’s it look like?” When you glance at him, he gestures to the black cowl over his eyes moments later, wordless, and with the barest traces of humor.
Ironically, you’ve thought about that question many times during family trips to the city. Despite never being asked it. “I always thought it looked like stars, the buildings at least.” Your eyes squint to blur the lights. “Their windows are just tiny square lights all clustered together, very organized squares, kinda like dominoes, but stars sound better.”
“It does.” The man’s head lowers an inch. “Poetic.” His tease is so subtle you miss it, even said thank you, daring to feel proud of your metaphor until he chuckles to himself. Then you elbow his side, fighting laughter as well.
Things start looking up after that night, in the most cosmically karmic way. The next morning an email from Armand Tully sits in your inbox. Agreeing to meet but only in the presence of his lawyers. You accept these terms and he says you’re welcome to come by after work.
The rest of the day you’re near ecstatic, people notice, Mia definitely notices. It reminds you still need to get information out of the guy, plus him having his lawyers there is a good countermove.
Sunset begins. The afterglow of Tully’s e-mail is long gone, in its place a sobering wariness that’s cut through when Foggy calls you. “Hey! You wanna come by the office?” Foggy’s voice chirps from your phone just as you lean back in the driver’s seat. “We have quite literally nothing to do around here. I’m thinking we all get drinks, nothing crazy, since I know you got that whole buttoned-up cop thing to keep up.”
Gripping the keys in your palm, an impulse asks you to reschedule with Tully, it’s easily squashed but you don’t regret the idea. “I can’t, Foggy. I’m sorry.” To keep it light, and Foggy not sad, you add. “I’m actually cheating on you guys right now for work.”
“What?!” Foggy exclaims, perfectly outraged. “Who’s the lucky law firm?”
Both of you laugh. “Hm, not sure yet. I’m heading over to meet them.” You rev up the squad car. Another different one, number 417. Runs smoother than the last. “I’ll call you guys tomorrow.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll be counting on it, see you later.” Prepared to say bye, the gear is pulled to reverse— “And remember, I’m getting the four of us in a bar one day. I’ll drag you and Matt by the ear if I have to.”
Your eyebrow raises on the way out the parking lot. “Why me and Matt specifically?”
Side grumbling, likely toward Matt, Foggy groans by the time he answers you. “Because,” He drawls, “Me and Karen went drinking last week and we couldn’t find you guys anywhere. I swear, neither of you answer the phone.”
On the road, memories of that time pass by. It was Ethan’s rescue. Later that night, you scrolled through the multitude of missed calls from the two. If it wasn’t for their drunken texts asking where you were or blurry photos of a fish market, you would’ve been worried rather than falling asleep.
“Probably because you were calling at 2 a.m.”
“Fine, point taken. But still, remember. Drinks. Us. It’s happening.” Assuring him that you’ll all go out sometime, Foggy relents, hanging up the phone.
A couple minutes later you pull into an open spot at Elena’s building. Mr. Tully gave you his phone number in his last e-mail, telling you to message him when you’re outside. You text. Leaning against your car door while you wait for a response.
The bark of a dog, a big one considering the depth of the sound, cranes your neck backward. First, you see red, then who’s wearing it. “Aaron?” Both eyebrows furrow. You push yourself off the car to approach him.
He’s in the same red jacket he wore the last time you saw him, no Jordans, curls unkempt, and a German Shepherd leashed at his side. “What are you doing here? I thought you went back to Long Island?”
“Yeah,” he drags his free hand down his cheek. “I did.”
Aaron doesn’t elaborate, you wait for him to, but eventually elects to ask. “Then what are you in Hell’s Kitchen for?” Still no verbal answer, he just shakes his head, adjusting his handle on the neon green leash. “Aaron, what’s wrong?”
“I came here to warn you.”
“You gotta stop diggin’, (Y/n).” A needle presses into your spine, straightening your back. He’s pleading. “The Russians, they’re not playing around.” The German Shepherd whimpers, he pulls the leash like he is trying to get away. “Trust me.”
You’re too late to question what that meant. The blow came sideways, behind you, a thudding crack just behind your ear. Knees buckling as the world tilted. The last thing you see? Red. The last thing you feel? Aaron’s arms catch your fall into his shoulder.
