Hades
Hades (your character is visited by my character’s ghost) (Film Noir AU can’t stop won’t stop)
After the fire, they couldn’t find enough of Kitiara to fill an envelope, and Coffee didn’t hear about it for weeks. The crime lady club owner assumed that Kitiara was sulking after their latest fight, and that eventually they’d be back on speaking terms. And for a week, that was fine. After two weeks, Coffee was starting to worry. She ordered her goons to drive by Kiti’s house, but none of them saw anything unusual. It was only after two and a half dreadful, worried weeks that one of Kitiara’s men (the white-haired one who’d always been close enough to know or suspect their relationship) informed Coffee of Officer Laverne’s tragic demise.
In the first second, it was as though she hadn’t heard him. Instead, she was furious that he had the gall to approach her, a privilege only allowed to one Policewoman. But the news hit her in the core, the way a sledgehammer hits an apple. Her face barely seemed to change, and she was almost tranquil as she responded, “Who did this? Who should I enact my revenge on?”
The Officer— Eli, perhaps?— glanced down at her white knuckles bulging out of delicate, clenched, trembling fists, and then back to her face. It was a trait he shared with Kitiara; not many other policemen were willing to look Cocoa in the eye. “It was a fire. An accidental fire, in an apartment block. She was going in further and further— higher and higher, pulling people out. They think she was on the top floor when the whole core of the building collapsed,” He sighed, weary from his own grief, and wary of Coffee’s, “It was nobody’s fault. She saved 40 people. Nobody is to blame.”
Coffee looked away, trying to understand the bigger shape of it, how she could take action, how she could eviscerate an accidental apartment fire. Cold rage was crystallizing in her sadness, “Why wasn’t I told about this? Why doesn’t the public know? How did I not hear about this earlier?” She was spitting now, standing, emotions bubbling up out of her.
The policeman stood his ground, despite the terrifying image of Coffee’s rage, and the violent movements of her henchpeople, “We were told not to,” he said, quietly.
"What?" Coffee hissed.
"They’ve quieted down the whole incident, pulled strings in the press, everything. We’ve been told not to tell anyone what happened."
"Why?"
Eli took a long breath, shoulders tightening slightly; “We were told not to tell anyone because Kit— Officer Laverne’s death could cause unpredictable responses in the criminal underground.” He stared at her impassively, and she could tell that she was the reason nobody had heard about Kitiara dying.
"Thank you," Coffee said, through gritted teeth, "For telling me."
He nodded, and left. Coffee waited a few moments, staring at the walls of her office. She stood suddenly, gathering up her cloak, purse, and scarf. “Stay here,” she said to her henchmen, “I’ll be at the dive.”
There are rules of drinking and owning a drinking establishment. The first is obvious; don’t get drunk at your own watering hole. Not if you want the continued respect of your workers. It can be fun to get drunk at a rival’s, as long as you can still maintain a modicum of control. However, the type of drinking that Coffee was hoping for would most likely leave her vulnerable to Empri or the Bartender. So she chose option 3; the dive bar.
It was a terrible place that stank of tobacco. There were antlers on the walls and every surface was covered in a centimeter of grime. A one-eyed bartender stood behind the bar, rubbing a glass with a dishcloth that was probably transferring more dirt to the glass than cleaning it. But the liquor was strong enough to kill any bacteria you might have in your system, and anything else it touched besides. Coffee strode to the bar, ordered one of everything, and promptly got to work.
The clock was striking 2am, and the bar was empty. Even the bartender had disappeared somewhere. Coffee stared at the green bottle in her hands and wondered when she had finished it. She closed her eyes, wearily, listening to the distant cars, and smelled the sea—
Coffee jolted up, and the bottle smashed against the floor, shattering into a thousand tiny stars. That smell, like salt and cold air and fog and waves, so desperately familiar, but completely impossible. She tried to steady her breathing, but part of her wanted to fill her lungs with that scent, to fill herself to the brim with the impossible presence of Kitiara again. A prickling on her neck brought her to realize that someone was sitting right behind her. She stood up straight, spine cold, staring straight ahead, not daring to hope—
"Hello, sweetheart."
"You’re dead. I know you’re dead. They buried you."
"What, you thought I’d leave without saying goodbye?" Her laugh— her laugh— filled up the empty bar, “How well do you know me?”
"This isn’t real. I’ve had too much to drink."
"It’s as real as you want it to be, darling," her voice said, “I just had to say it— one last time—”
"You’re so— don’t you dare!”
"Coffee, I love you…"
"Don’t tell me, show me! If you loved me, then why did you play hero in a burning building! Why did you get yourself killed? Why did you leave me all alone?" Coffee felt her eyes drifting back, but she didn’t want to look. She had the awful impression that if she saw Kitiara, she’d never hear from here again, "You’re a cop, damnit! You’re supposed to know that material evidence trumps a witness every time!"
Kitiara said nothing, and Coffee felt an awful hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she’d felt after that argument and Kitiara had stormed out of her office, like she’d wasted her last few minutes with someone being angry and bitter and of course she was alone. Unwelcome tears crept up her throat, and she forced them down out of habit, even though nobody would see them. She felt warm air and movement behind her, and turned.
Her lips tasted like sea salt.