|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 12, 2012 15:25:36 GMT -5
It was raining. He supposed that fit.
All the rain ever managed to do was make his shoulder ache. That was alright – he could deal with physical pain. It was a good distraction to everything else on his mind. Not that much was sticking on his mind. It was like a sieve. He couldn’t focus on any one thing without his mind wandering back to the night before, even though it was the last thing he wanted to think about.
It had been late when he came home to hear his neighbors downstairs shouting at each other. He was used to it, so was everyone else in the building. Barely half an hour later, there were gunshots and the yelling stopped. By the time he’d made it downstairs, service weapon drawn, whoever had done the shooting was gone, but there were three bodies and one little boy still clinging to life.
Peter glanced down at his hands. After doing everything his emergency rescue training had taught him, calling the right people, and spending the night sitting around wearing clothes covered in that little boy’s blood, he’d been sent home to sleep. He wished it were that easy. Even with his clothing in an evidence bag, he still felt like he was soaked in blood, too antsy to rest. No one survived the incident, and all he’d managed to do was torture himself with the thought that he was helping, that he could save him.
He’d lost one of his kids last night...
Standing up, Peter glanced around the file room he’d been subjugated to because he wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t stay at home where he was told to be. He’d given his statement, then he was told to go home and come in tomorrow. Not that it made much difference – everyone would still be downstairs dealing with the scene. He could hear them, even though the apartment was quiet, so he’d opted to go into work. Cold cases were better than nothing.
Baze whined, clearly not happy with the way his master was acting. He knew something was wrong, because Peter never brought him to work. Since everyone was treating him with kid gloves already, having a dog in the station was overlooked, which was all the better for Peter’s equilibrium. If he thought it would have helped, he would have told the dog Conroy was dead. Dogs don’t understand, though. Why should they? And then he’d have to say it out loud. Saying it out loud would make it real.
He slumped back down into his chair, throwing open another file he wasn’t really reading. It just gave him something to do. Baze shifted so his head was resting on Peter’s bare right foot. He soaked up the warmth, scanning over the file again. Sixteen year old girl found under a park bench, stab wound to the kidney. Cause of death – exsanguination... Sixteen years old – another wasted life.
Peter heard the door open, but he didn’t bother looking up. Baze had growled at everyone who opened that door, chasing off anyone who had come down to check up on him. Well, Gerry had gotten under his radar, but that was because he was bearing a whole travel pot of coffee. Baze wasn’t growling this time, though, which probably meant more coffee. Good, he was out.
“Just leave it on the desk. I’ll get it later,” he called, jotting down something on the notepad he had going. At least he could look busy.
|
|
|
|
Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 12, 2012 16:05:27 GMT -5
Lestrade had officially decided that moving on was for losers, because people who moved on just made the same mistakes again, as he'd already experienced countless times. And yet, he still kept going back to the hope that it was a fluke, that he was wrong, and history didn't really repeat itself. Except it did. Which was why when he learned from the general buzz of the office that some young street kid named Conroy had been shot, Lestrade had to excuse himself to be sick. He, like most normal people, far from reveled in the idea of dead children, but this was a kid whom Lestrade had met, not just randomly, but played basketball with, three times. And-
-Fucking Christ, were the hell was Peter? He'd watched the kid climb up on Peter's back like Peter was his father - Peter was probably closer to him than his actual father was, Lestrade'd bet - and Peter smile and pick him up like Conroy actually was his kid. He'd warned Peter that this would happen, he had, but Peter's optimistic obliviousness had been so cheering that Lestrade... had forgotten. He'd let himself think that there was no way that this would happen.
But of course, it did.
He thought about McCourt. It was McCourt's job, it still wasn't allowed to die but part of his ob description was risking his life for the good of people. This was a kid. If - and Lestrade was pretty sure - Peter and Conroy had anywhere near the relationship he'd had with McCourt, then... God, this was a kid. The phrase wouldn't stop hitting his mind, over and over. He wanted it to stop, and then he didn't, because if it didn't get firmly into his head this time, he would forget it again. Like he had this time, and like he knew he probably would again.
Peter didn't deserve this. Nobody deserved it. Lestrade wanted to kill whoever shot Conroy. Circles of hate were dangerous - revenge was a double edged sword - but he couldn't help it. He'd killed the man who shot McCourt. He wanted to kill the man who shot Conroy.
After straightening himself out a bit - he wasn't even that close to Conroy, not nearly as much as Aramis, and he already a bit of a mess; he couldn't imagine how badly off Peter must be - he walked out of the bathroom with the same air of forced calm he'd walked in with. He offhandedly told Martin that he needed to deal with something, before entering the small kitchen that was on the floor and pouring two cups of hot coffee. One for him. One for Peter. He knew Peter would be at work because he was Peter; he wouldn't be sitting home grieving. He realized with a start that the only reason he actually called Aramis Peter now was because of those kids. Because Peter had taken a chance, and Lestrade had let himself follow, and they both lost. Karma was as dead as god, apparently.
Walking down to Peter's floor, he asked the guy at the desk next to him - he recognized him vaguely as one of Peter's good friends - and where Aramis was.
"Cold cases," the guy said. Then, after a second's hesitation, "But you shouldn't bother him, he's.... you know."
"I now," Lestrade said coolly, "Thank you." He then left, going exactly where the guy had told him not to. He wasn't going to bother Peter. He wasn't going to scold him either, even though he'd alluded to this the first day they'd met. No, he was just going to be... there. He'd be a friend. He'd not been a friend in a long time; he hoped he wasn't out of practice.
Carefully opening the door without spilling the two cups, Lestrade saw Peter hunched over his desk with... Baze? That was odd. And... bad. Because breaking habits was bad.
"Just leave it on the desk. I'll get it later," Peter said, his voice sounding normal, but Lestrade - anyone would - knew better. It was strong only in description. There was no heart.
"Sure you will," Lestrade said briskly, setting the cups on the corner of the desk. If he was going to be a friend, he'd do it right; his emotions were far less important in this equation than Peter's were. Sidestepping Baze, who was surprisingly not-barking at him (perhaps he was finally used to Lestrade) he picked up a small pile of papers off a chair in the corner of the small room, plopped the papers on top of whatever Peter was clearly not-reading (what he'd just hastily written done was effectively "cow horse barn"), and pulled the chair next to Peters. Lestrade said down, looking cross.
Staring at Peter - who was probably quite surprised, as he knew Lestrade to be much less pushy than this - he saw what he needed and expected to see: nothing. And everybody knows that nothing is one step away from and just as painful as everything. And of course, he also saw that Peter had clearly not slept.
"On second though," Lestrade said, scooting the chair a little closer to the edge of the desk and noting the already empty coffee pot, "You probably shouldn't drink that if you haven't eaten. Now," he looked seriously at Peter, "Are you going to talk or am I going have to pry? I think we both know which one is quicker."
|
|
|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 13, 2012 0:51:17 GMT -5
“Sure you will.”
Peter felt like cursing. Out of all the people who could have come down to visit, Peter was sure only Irene could have been worse at this point. Well, Irene could have been better – at least she would get his mind off things. Peter didn’t bother looking up, knowing Greg was cross. Why not? It wasn’t like his day was going to end any better than it had been going. Even the Lieutenant had been down to gently chew him out for wanting to be here – wanting to be useful. Of course, when you have nearly two hundred pounds of dog growling at you, you usually tend to agree with the lunatic who owned him. So Peter had gotten his way, but what had he won? The file room everyone just came barging into so they could get a good look at the idiot cop who was covered in blood when they arrived at the scene in the early hours of the morning...
He watched out of the corner of his eye as Lestrade sat a cup of coffee on the desk, then plopped all the files he had just sorted through right on top of his note paper. Well, at least Lestrade would have missed his odd association game. He'd been listing things from his childhood: mom, dad, house, cow, horse, barn...Dumb things to pass the time. Hopefully Greg would get the hint he was busy and leave.
But then he sat down, which meant he’d want to talk. Christ, did he have to put a sign on the door: 'DO NOT ENTER. WILD ANIMAL AND DOG AT WORK'? Honestly...
“On second thought, you probably shouldn’t drink that if you haven’t eaten. Now, are you going to talk or am I going to have to pry? I think we both know which one is quicker.”
“Hello, Lestrade. Nice to see you, too,” Peter quipped, reaching for one of the coffee mugs.
Greg was probably right. He hadn’t eaten since his shift was over yesterday, but considering he had been eating when he heard the shots, he wasn’t too interested in stuffing anything in his mouth. Just more coffee. Coffee would keep him awake, keep his brain working.
He brought the cup up to his lips, thinking – not for the first time – that break room coffee was swill. Still, it was hot and it hit the spot in his stomach that was uncomfortably empty, but not hungry for anything. The throb behind his temples quieted, too, which meant he had gone far too long without coffee. He was going to have to bribe one of the rookies to refill the pot for him once Greg left. Then when the station got quiet, he could venture up and get his own without everyone looking at him like he was some kind of leper, like he was something to be pitied.
“Alright, let’s talk then,” Peter agreed, tugging the file back out from under Greg’s mess. “Sixteen year old girl, stabbed, no one ever charged. Says here she was one of yours.”
Peter flicked it towards the other man, wiggling his toes under Baze’s head. He was starting to lose feeling, but a sleepy foot wasn’t as bad as other things. His whole body could be as numb as his foot, after all. Instead, he seemed to be in tune with every hair on his body. It was driving him nuts.
“Now she’s a cold case and her folks are still waiting to have someone charged, but it’s pretty clear that I’m the only person in the whole building who ever spends time in here, so good luck to them there. Let’s talk about that.”
It was sad but true. Once cold cases hit the file room, it was unlikely they would ever be solved, unless DNA or one of the finger printing systems hit a match on one of the computers up in the evidence lab...or someone like him needed something to do. Until then, she was here...not even remembered by the people who put her there. If he ever found Conroy’s file down here, someone would be shot. He’d never had to fire his gun outside the target range, but there was a first time for everything.
Baze huffed, picking up on Peter’s rising displeasure. He should have just growled at Greg when he came through the door. It would have saved him some touble.
|
|
|
|
Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 13, 2012 13:02:15 GMT -5
“Hello, Lestrade. Nice to see you, too,” Peter said shortly, his tone relatively normal, but obviously annoyed. Lestrade briefly wondered how many other people had been in and out to see Peter today already. Still, he drank the coffee anyway, despite Lestrade's recommendation that he shouldn't, and Lestrade could see his pale blue eyes, haunted looking and ghastly, framed with worry and just too much of... everything.
“Alright, let’s talk then. Sixteen year old girl, stabbed, no one ever charged. Says here she was one of yours," Peter said, taking the file back under from the pile that was meant to keep Peter from doing just that, and sliding it towards Lestrade. “Now she’s a cold case and her folks are still waiting to have someone charged, but it’s pretty clear that I’m the only person in the whole building who ever spends time in here, so good luck to them there. Let’s talk about that.”
Peter seemed a little angry, not only at the whole situation, but at Lestrade now, which was... understandable. Still, Lestrade wasn't used to seeing this side of Peter, a harsher side. He was used to kind Peter, so amiable and agreeable, amusing, nice enough to hang out with kids... One of which was dead now. Lestrade heard Baze begin to growl slightly Peter's tension, and the last thing Lestrade wanted was to be kicked out by a dog. He was here to do something and he would do it, dammit!
"I know perfectly well what case that is," Lestrade said to Peter crossly, and with more force than necessary, and slapped the folder back on top of the pile. "Casey Griffiths, February 22nd, 2012." Lestrade didn't forget cases. He simply didn't. All he needed was the number and sometimes a name, and he could ramble off facts with barely any thought at all. And sometimes that was good, because reciting doesn't include thinking too much. Without actually having to reflect, he could talk endlessly about killings of children and not be affected. His semi-genius was a trait that he'd long resented, but in many ways, especially as he got older, it was much more helpful. In this case, for blocking things out.
"For your information, I'm saving it for Sherlock. You're not the only person who looks at cold cases, especially since I know perfectly well that you weren't actually looking just now." He was being harsh, but harsh was needed, sometimes. He couldn't do gentle today, he simply couldn't. Sugarcoating it wouldn't help, because Peter was a grown man and so was he, and neither of them appreciated evasiveness. They were rather prone to ignoring things that were too hard to talk about though; his daughter, Peter's shoulder, they'd never touched on those things, just lightly noted. It worked, for a time. Lestrade wondered if ignoring this was better too, but no, of course it wasn't. Because the things they usually ignored were the past and personal and after all, they were only casual friends. But this was a child's life, and Lestrade couldn't forget that.
And so talking and harshness is was.
"Now instead of beating around the bush," Lestrade said, taking a sip of his coffee - wow, that was borderline disgusting, he'd almost forgotten why he usually went out to buy better stuff - "Why don't we talk about Conroy." Yeah, perhaps a little too direct, saying the name without any hesitation. But he was never good at halves.
|
|
|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 14, 2012 4:24:02 GMT -5
"I know perfectly well what case that is. Casey Griffiths, February 22nd, 2012."
Ah, now he was getting the reaction he wanted. Greg sounded indignant, irritated Peter could have ever suggested such a thing. Well, good for him. And Peter had to admit that the man did remember her. That just meant he was a good Inspector. On a good day, he would have apologized, knowing full well he had crossed a line, but it wasn't a good day.
"For your information, I'm saving it for Sherlock. You're not the only person who looks at cold cases, especially since I know perfectly well that you weren't actually looking just now."
Sherlock. He'd heard about him. The guy who looked at the old cases, sometimes interfered with the new ones. Gerry just advised Peter to stay away from him and life would continue on just fine. He was sure it was sound advice.
It was the second part of that declaration that made the confrontational edge in him feel as growly as his dog currently was.
"Wow, great observation, Inspector," Peter said, closing the file. "I suppose next you're going to tell me something else completely obvious, like it's raining outside."
Even if he didn't have eyes, ears, or any of his other senses, he would have known from the dull throb building in his shoulder that it was pouring rain outside. There was no way he was letting Greg get an inch in the conversation, though. Barbs always seemed to work best with people.
"Now instead of beating around the bush, why don't we talk about Conroy."
The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Conroy. If it had been any of the other kids, he wouldn't have been so wrecked over it. The kid had been two years old when Peter moved into the neighborhood. Even before he moved out of Don's apartment and into his own, he had already gotten to know the kids, even babysitting the toddler from time to time when his father was off drinking somewhere and his mother had to go to work. He'd watched him grow up. Then he held him as he died. He hadn't been able to do a damn thing to help him. There was just too much blood...
And Greg expected him to even put that into words?
"What about him?" Peter asked dryly, reaching for the cup again. It was nearly empty. "You and I both know that talking about him won't change anything."
He took a short sip of coffee, setting it back down and shaking Baze off his foot so he could shift in the chair. The foam was old, and he'd flattened it out over the last few hours. It was digging into his bones, making him feel even less pleasant. He tucked his left foot up under him, right heel on the edge of the chair so he had a knee to wrap his arm around. It was a defensive pose, but if Greg was on the offensive, it was only fair.
Baze whined, moving so that he was nosing at Peter's elbow. He absently ruffled the dog's fur with his left hand, waiting for whatever Greg was going to throw at him next.
|
|
|
|
Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 14, 2012 12:54:12 GMT -5
"What about him? You and I both know that talking about him won't change anything," Peter said, his tone very much different now, clearly icy and ready to kick Lestrade out, literally. Lestrade watched with an analyzing eye as Peter moved into a childlike and defensive position, absently patting Baze's fur. The sight made Lestrade's heart strings quiver.
He hadn't wanted to do this, but in a way maybe he had for a very, very long time, and he just needed an excuse. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Peter, I'm about to tell you something that I've never told anyone else, and you had damn well better listen, alright?"
He paused, and he wanted to take back his words, and he knew he couldn't. Of course he couldn't. And now he had just knocked down a wall made of sand that he'd so long kept strong, and he'd done it on purpose, and he couldn't believe it. But there was no going back, and now he had to talk and god, that was frightening.
"I know for a fact that talking does help, because I've never talked and I'm screwed up as hell. Don't argue, you know it's true. I have a kid I can't take care of living half across the country and I drink and smoke like there's nothing to live for. I-" Oh Jesus pleased just say it please there's not point in stopping now, oh god, I could be arrested for this, and I'm the police man "-I killed a man. And not while I was working, I was eighteen and I was just a kid and I was a murderer. Because I had a person, like..." He waved his hand in the air slightly frantically, motioning towards Peter, "...I was a kid, and I had someone like you, and he died and I killed the man who killed him. And I should be in jail now but I never told anyone except God, which was completely useless because he died when humans were born, and-" he was babbling now, but he couldn't stop. Twenty-four years of keeping such a sinful secret were pouring out and now that they'd started, there was now way he could stop.
"If you don't say anything, then you'll just end up like me, and revenge only feels good for a few seconds, believe me." He failed to mention that the few seconds of feeling good were the highest moments of his life, and he can understand why murderers feel the thrill in what they do. "So... just. You should talk," he finally said, almost sounding defeated. And it almost felt like a good sort of defeated. He was, at the second, living proof that talking helps. Even if that talking caused him to go to jail, at least he'd go an honest man. Funny, that - this was the first time he'd been an honest man in twenty-four years.
|
|
|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 14, 2012 15:38:42 GMT -5
Peter felt his figurative hackles rise when Lestrade told him to just shut up and listen to him. Who was Lestrade to come into his space, to push him, to make him talk? He narrowed his eyes, but kept quiet.
"I know for a fact that talking does help, because I've never talked and I'm screwed up as hell. Don't argue, you know it's true. I have a kid I can't take care of living half across the country and I drink and smoke like there's nothing to live for. I – I killed a man. And not while I was working, I was eighteen and I was just a kid and I was a murderer. Because I had a person, like... I was a kid, and I had someone like you, and he died and I killed the man who killed him.”
Peter blinked a bit in surprise. He knew there were things in Lestrade’s past that had pushed him to be the cop he was today, but he had never imagined it was murder. His head immediately started going through proper procedure for arresting the man and running the charges. But he shook the thought away. This was Lestrade. It wouldn’t do any good to have him thrown away for something that very well could have happened before Peter was born. He’d made up for it one hundred fold.
"If you don't say anything, then you'll just end up like me, and revenge only feels good for a few seconds, believe me."
“Lestrade...Greg,” Peter sighed. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”
If he died tomorrow, he couldn’t see any of his going out and shooting his killer, but who was he to know? Maybe in a couple more years it could have been a possibility, maybe if Conroy had the chance to grow up...
“I know your...me figure wouldn’t have wanted you to do it any more than he would want me to follow up on what you just said.” He hoped Greg understood that he wasn’t going to say anything. Fuck, where would he even start? Unsolved murders in Ireland weren’t exactly his jurisdiction. “But you have to find something to live for. He’d want you to do that. Why do you think I do the things I do? I’m twenty-four years old and I know I’d be drowning in this job if I didn’t try to...be the me that everyone sees.”
And look where that had got him. He was segregated to the records room because he was too mixed up to play nice with others today. And tomorrow, he’d have to put the smile back in place, be cheery and happy because that’s how he’d made people think of him. If they only knew...Even his own mother couldn't look at the real him.
“I don’t want revenge. I just want justice. I want to watch the SOB get sent to prison, and I’ll write him a letter every year on Con...on his birthday. Make sure he knows every year he took away from that kid.”
Graduation, marriage, kids, grandkids, dying as an old man...Peter took a deep breath. Even thinking about it was pushing him to the edge. It was a goddamned waste. He was going to make the torture as drawn out as possible for whoever did it. Killing him would be too quick.
"I don't feel any better for admitting that."
He rubbed at his bad shoulder, which only made the pain worse. It grounded him, though. Here and now was better than thinking of all those things he couldn’t bear to think of.
|
|
|
|
Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 14, 2012 20:15:03 GMT -5
“Lestrade...Greg,” Peter sighed. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”
"It was on my own account. Don't apologize," Lestrade said to him. And it was true. The past was the past, and if there was nothing to be done, there was nothing to be done. He was just relieved that Peter didn't look like he was going to arrest him.
“I know your...me figure wouldn’t have wanted you to do it any more than he would want me to follow up on what you just said. But you have to find something to live for. He’d want you to do that. Why do you think I do the things I do? I’m twenty-four years old and I know I’d be drowning in this job if I didn’t try to...be the me that everyone sees.”
Lestrade felt an immense flood of sadness go through him, because faking was the worse. It ruins a person. It sure as hell ruined him, because as soon as he stopped, he didn't do anything but lay in his room and... And anyway, the fact that Peter was trying to tell him to move on was downright amusing. Who moved on from murder? It just didn't happen. And besides, he already had his mid-life crisis. He did move on. It was Peter's turn to take his own advice now.
“I don’t want revenge. I just want justice. I want to watch the SOB get sent to prison, and I’ll write him a letter every year on Con...on his birthday. Make sure he knows every year he took away from that kid. I don't feel any better for admitting that." The words were the coldest things he'd ever heard Peter say. He didn't like seeing Peter say things like that. They were wrong in Peter's mouth, wrong in his ears. But at least it wasn't violent. Still, he felt bad now, because Peter didn't think it had helped, not one bit. And Peter's revenge was already… figured out. It was calm. It was harsh, but it wasn't violent. And Lestrade knew he should've met Peter two decades ago and then maybe things would have been a little different.
Then again, this might not have all happened twenty years ago.
"Okay," he said dumbly, and took another sip of his coffee. He closed his eyes for a second, thought of McCourt, and opened and saw Peter, and that... was wrong. He was wrong. They were different. He wasn't like Corey had been. He was older, he'd been rebellious. Corey was just a little kid, and Peter loved him. They were almost literally father and son. And with McCourt, he'd been close, but not like that. God, he was always wrong, wasn't he? He forced himself not to think about himself, because this was about Peter and he was always so self-centered, it would do him good to think about someone else for a change. Somebody who needed to be looked at without a mask on, for a change.
He stared directly at Peter now, forcing a few second of eye contact, before he said, "Come with me. We're going somewhere. We're going out." He didn't know where, but he knew staying in this little room wasn't going to help. Not at all. it was just filling up and up and up with feeling and too many thoughts to be comfortable. They needed to leave.
|
|
|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 15, 2012 4:24:01 GMT -5
He supposed whatever he said had shocked Lestrade. All the man did was drink his coffee and offer a slight ‘okay’ when Peter had declared his intentions for whoever killed his kid. Now he was just staring at Peter. Finally, Peter gave in and looked the man in the eye.
"Come with me. We're going somewhere. We're going out."
“Greg,” Peter sighed, thinking this was a dumb idea, but he could feel his resolve faltering.
He didn’t even have shoes on. The boys in the lab had taken those as evidence, too. Covered in blood as they were. He hadn’t remembered to put on other ones when he was changing in his apartment, so he’d walked to work in bare feet, barely noticing. But that was alright. He’d gone to worse places without shoes on.
Unfortunately, after hours of being in a strange place, the word ‘out’ had Baze dancing and nudging at his arm urgently. Peter sighed, figuring he was beat. Wherever they were going, he was being ganged up on into going, too. But he wasn’t feeling cooperative enough to make it easy on the man. He knelt, feeling slightly light headed at the altitude change, and dug through the bag under the table. It only took a moment to find Baze’s leash. He quickly clipped it to his collar and held the lead out to Lestrade.
“Fine, we’ll go. But you get to take the dog out since you started this,” he gestured at where Baze was still dancing. “Do I need my coat?”
He’d dressed for work – button up shirt, rolled up at the elbows, and jeans that didn’t have holes in them. Going outside in just that would have him drenched in minutes, so it was a fair question.
|
|
|
|
Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 15, 2012 12:12:50 GMT -5
“Greg..." Peter sighed, obviously not exactly wanting to go out, but then Baze whined, obviously needing to go out. “Fine, we’ll go. But you get to take the dog out since you started this. “Do I need my coat?” "Considering it is raining outside, yes, you will," Lestrade said. Glancing sideways at Peter's jacket, Lestrade sighed as he leaned down to clip the leash that was hanging on Peter's chair to Baze's collar, who seemed a lot more excited to know that he was going out. Lestrade gave the dog a small smile and a little pat on the head before standing. "Though wearing a leather jacket's just gonna make you colder. Honestly, didn't it ever rain in Montana?" He shook his head and, offering his own coat that he'd been carrying around all day since he came in for lack of a better place to put it, said, "Here, mine. I'm not that much shorter than you. And don't argue, I'm not the one with the shoulder thing." It was true, leather did keep one warm for a time, but once it was wet, it didn't really get dry for a couple of decades, in his experience. Lestrade, still holding one end of Baze's leash, motioned for Peter to go out the door first. OOC: I honestly have no idea what I'm doing. Also, I'm assuming that the jacket Peter has in the one that's in his picture in his app, if that's alright with you. [/center][/b][/sub] |
|
|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 15, 2012 16:35:51 GMT -5
"Considering it is raining outside, yes, you will. Though wearing a leather jacket's just gonna make you colder. Honestly, didn't it ever rain in Montana?"
Peter studied Lestrade for a moment, wondering if he was trying to be funny. Of course it rained in Montana. It was often colder rain than New York. The thing was, when it rained, it was needed. Peter could always feel the difference.
“We threw on slickers,” Peter replied simply. “We were smart enough to know to get out of the rain when we could, though.”
He watched as Lestrade held out his owncoat. Peter only stared at it, wondering what the heck he wanted him to do with that.
"Here, mine. I'm not that much shorter than you. And don't argue, I'm not the one with the shoulder thing."
Shoulder thing? Well, that was one way to put it. Still, by this point it didn’t matter. The cold seeps in, and that was the end. He decided he wasn’t going to get into it with the man. So he took his jacket, slinging it on. It was shorter than his own jacket, but it would work. He held out his jacket to Lestrade, thinking it would be better than nothing. His leather jacket had been Don’s once upon a time. He’d given it to Peter when the boy was running around New York City in a green flak jacket that did nothing to keep him warm. The thick leather was warm, if nothing else.
Lestrade motioned for Peter to go out the door first, probably to make sure Peter didn’t lock the door behind him and hideaway for the rest of the day. Peter just walked towards the stairs, figuring if they were going out, he might as well head towards the exit.
OOC: No worries! That's pretty much the only jacket he owns, haha.
|
|
|
|
Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 15, 2012 17:46:14 GMT -5
Peter looked a little annoyed at him still, but just shrugged on Lestrade's more rain-resistant coat without much of a word, simply motioning towards his own for Lestrade. Lestrade put it on - only a little big, though he never did like the feel of leather - before Peter left through the door Lestrade held open for him. He rightly assumed to trudge down the stairs, and Lestrade copied his silence. They reached the exit of the building, and Lestrade said, "Wait a second."
Then he dashed outside in the rain to call a cab, leaving Peter where it was dry. No need for them both to get horribly wet just yet. He was rather skilled at calling cabs, if he might say so himself, because one came fairly quickly. "Hang on a mo?" Lestrade told him, and then ran back inside the building. He was already dripping uncomfortably; the downpour was heavy. "Come on then," he called to Peter over the rush of rain hitting sidewalk, and motioned for Peter to get in the cab.
Once inside, Lestrade and Peter together in the back, Lestrade kept quiet for about ten second before he spoke. "Three places," he told Peter, and held up his fore, middle and ring fingers to indicate. "Club, bar, or Empire building. Your choice."
Bar was drinking. Drinking was nice. Club was sex and drinking. Sex and drinking were nice. And the Empire State Building? Well, it wasn't so nice. But it was high, and it nearly touched heaven. And, well, as much as he forced himself not to believe in god and heaven anymore, it was hard not to when you needed to hope for something. When you knew that a kid had just died, and you wanted believe there was more in store for him besides eternal sleep in a box underneath the dirt for all of time. The Empire building was quiet, and tall. And while he wasn't a fan of heights, it was nice.
|
|
|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 19, 2012 5:21:04 GMT -5
Before he could walk out the door, Lestrade ordered him to wait, jogging outside to hail a cab. Peter glanced down at where Baze was huffing with irritation. He didn’t like being told to do things by the older man, either. At least Lestrade looked doused when he came back to fetch the younger man and his dog. It was raining buckets out. Peter wasn’t so sure he wanted to go out in all this, but when Lestrade waved him towards the waiting cab, well, what else was he supposed to do?
Peter was wet by the time he got in the cab, but not as wet as Lestrade. Baze grumbled, obediently laying on Peter’s feet. The dog would rather walk in any weather than ride in a cab. Lestrade kept quiet for about ten second before he spoke, holding up three fingers to count off of.
"Three places: Club, bar, or Empire building. Your choice."
Peter felt like glaring at Lestrade. Was he that dense? He couldn’t take the dog to any of those places, especially since he himself wasn’t even wearing shoes. Instead he sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. There was no use in getting mad at the man. If he got angry, he...well, he wasn’t sure what he would do. Right then, he really wanted to be somewhere familiar.
“O’Bannon’s in Brooklyn,” he told the driver.
“You got it,” the driver replied.
Peter leaned on his elbow, looking out the window, hoping Lestrade didn’t mind him stipulating the bar. Most people didn't think of going for a drink in the bars they worked in, but he wanted something familiar, and his boss wouldn't bat an eye if Baze was in the bar at this time of day, seeing as how he never opened until after five PM. The health inspector was another story, but Peter doubted there was a chance of him showing up today. Health Inspectors never showed up in bad weather. They were kinda like cockroaches in the park that way. He just hoped he'd remembered his keys...
"I hope you don't mind Irish bars," Peter said, catching himself a moment later when he remembered Lestrade was Irish. He sometimes forgot Lestrade wasn't American. "The owner seems to want to transplant the old country in there."
And it was sad that Sal was third generation New Yorker, thus he had no idea what the old country was supposed to look like outside of books. Maybe Lestrade would give him some pointers.
|
|
|
|
Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Apr 19, 2012 21:07:45 GMT -5
“O’Bannon’s in Brooklyn,” Peter said to the driver, sounding thoroughly annoyed with Lestrade's choices he had given Peter. Still, they were the first three places he could think of on the spot (what did that say about him?) where he knew you could pretend certain things down exist. Or, you could pour your heart out. They were both therapeutic, in double-edged ways.
Lestrade wasn't sure if O'Bannon's was a club or a bar, he supposed it could be both, but it sounded more like a bar. Oh goodie, his sceptical conscious supplied, but he ignored it. As long as he made sure he didn't drink, and Peter did. Or maybe he'd just have one. Yes, Peter already knew he dabbled in more than conventional amounts of liquor in the past, so if was probably… alright. It would have to be, he decided, because he suddenly craved the burn of alcohol down his throat.
"I hope you don't mind Irish bars," Peter confirmed Lestrade's suspicions.
Lestrade gave a short snort, "Practically grew up in one," he scoffed, looking at the raindrops racing each other down the window pane. It was screwing facts, slightly, because he'd not grown up in a bar, he'd grown up in an almost-slum, the dirty streets of Dublin. But everyone drank and smoke, so he supposed the analogy was close enough to the truth. They rode in quiet, the sound of rain against metal tap tap tapping and making a rhythm, the only noise they really heard, until the taxi stopped rather suddenly in front of a slightly run down but welcoming looking bar (though clearly closed). Lestrade paid the driver without a word before beckoning Peter to come out of the car with him.
"You work here, right? Do you have keys or something?" Lestrade blurted. Oops, he wasn't supposed to know that because Peter had never told him. He'd sort of just proved that he had done a little research, asked some questions; news got around. It wasn't so bad, he supposed, there were worse things he could reveal anyways.
|
|
|
|
Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on Apr 21, 2012 1:19:17 GMT -5
"Practically grew up in one."
Saying that was like saying Peter grew up in a honky-tonk – it was just an expression that was closer to the truth than it should have been. Clearly Lestrade didn’t mind. Peter just nodded, watching as the scenery passed by until the cab finally pulled up outside the bar. He wasn’t surprised the guy could find it easily – it wasn’t high end, so working joes came in all the time. Heck, the cabbie could have been a regular, or the main mode of transportation for the regulars.
He pushed open his door, stepping onto the sidewalk, Baze on his heels. Peter took a moment to look up at the sky, getting a face full of rainwater for his trouble.
"You work here, right? Do you have keys or something?"
Peter looked at Lestrade, wondering how Lestrade knew he had a second job, and that this is where he worked. He supposed the Inspector was more curious about him than he let on. That was alright. He doubted Lestrade knew about the background check he’d had preformed on the Irishman before he let him anywhere near the kids.
Right then, it didn’t matter. He nodded, following Lestrade to the door. Once they were under the overhang, he siddled up close to Lestrade, taking a moment to soak in the warmth coming from the other man, before he reached into the right pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a set of keys.
“Unlike shoes, I remember my keys,” Peter replied, reaching around the man to unlock the door. Once it was open, Baze barrelled past them, clearly knowing when to get out of the rain. Peter motioned Lestrade in, closing and locking the door again behind him. He found the security panel, quickly typing in the code in the dim light, and flipped on a few sets of lights.
The bar was warm. It wasn’t as bright as it normally would have been, but he preferred it with a few dim lights. The bar was bigger than it looked from the outside. Directly on the left when you walked in was the bar. It covered most of the length of the wall. Bottles lined the wall behind it. The rest of the room was wide and open with high ceilings. Tables lined the sides of what was a dance floor, and there was a stage area in the far corner for live bands to come in. And every surface was covered with something from Ireland. It had character, at least.
“Welcome to O’Bannon’s,” Peter offered, taking off Lestrade’s jacket and laying it across the back of a booth he’d always personally liked.
He rounded the bar, kicking on the moccasins he had stashed on one of the shelves. His feet were wet and cold by that point, and he was afraid if he broke a toe, he wouldn't even feel it. The moccasins weren’t much, but they felt good.
“Name your poison.”
|
|
