Under A Rest Pt. 06

In the end, none of it mattered. The mountain's boulder came crashing down on him either way. She'd undermined his every move, deflected with ease, each accusation blithely, stupidly maneuvered with what seemed to be almost no effort on her part. And there she stood, victorious against all odds, walking out of court a free woman as the detective could do naught but nurse his wounds in solitude.

She turned her head behind her shoulder and looked directly at him. For a moment, the jubilance faded from her face. He looked away.

***

3:42 AM

Detective Berman pivoted from side to side in his office chair, glasses on his desk, hands resting in his lap, eyes puffy from fatigue and the few private, frustrated, heartbroken tears he'd allowed himself earlier. He'd shut all the lights, the room's sole illumination coming from the orange glow of the streetlamp below, spilling into his office between the slats of the blinds.

He knew he ought to go home. He knew, too, that going home meant surrendering, acknowledging that the day was done. Nothing awaited him there but the finality of failure.

The man was more than tired, more than miserable, more than despondent. He was wholly at a loss. In the past couple of months, his energy had gone mostly into that case. Now that it was over, he felt exhausted. Rudderless.

It stung even more that, Marcus Chiang's smug, irritating attempts at reassurance notwithstanding, he'd been subject to the obligatory sympathy pats on the back and myriad consolations from his colleagues: that his objective ultimately laid in arrest, not conviction, that it was such a tricky case, such a tricky suspect, of course he couldn't win them all, the legal system failed sometimes, he'd done his best, and so on.

But had he? He'd even gotten himself that raise, but the victory felt empty; pyrrhic. This case would now forever remain one of the few blemishes on his otherwise sterling record. That tiny, wretched gremlin, with those caustic eyes and that acid-spitting voice, had bewitched him, mind, body, and soul. She had used him; humiliated him.

And now she was gone.

Detective Berman yawned and numbly began packing away the Walter books into the white cardboard box on his desk. The last of his energy had been sucked dry with the cry he had allowed himself earlier. The pity party had to end some time.

Suddenly, he heard a rapping at his office door. He tensed, sensing glints of green he'd seen before. Through the pane, red exit lights poured, casting the silhouette of a figure he prayed he'd have the strength to ignore.

Please, for the love of God. No more.

His innards twisted, anger and fear mounting against his steeled instincts. He took a deep breath and dragged himself to the door, opening it and staring down at the figure in that black, oversized fur coat, sunglasses sitting pretty atop her head.

"Hello, Pet," she said through a smile. He did not return it, his face remaining fixed in a tired, underbit grimace. Her smile fell.

Despite continued attempts to deprogram himself in the past few months, despite continued attempts to remain hurt and angry, everything came rushing back at the sound of her words. Rushes of calm and, to his shame, relief ran through him in tandem with anxious aggression, urges to throw her out intertwining with urges to dive straight into her arms, further muddying the waters of his mind.

"How did you get in here?" he grumbled roughly, voice impersonal and irritated, as though he were speaking to an errant janitor found upside-down in the trash can rather than cleaning. Doctor Angelos recoiled slightly, never having heard him address her in such a way before. It was upsetting. It was disturbing. It was rather arousing.

"I have my ways."

"I'm sure."

"May I come in?"

He towered over her, arms crossed and face grim, looming ominously. She could not squeeze through. It did not appear as though he was going to let her. The only time she'd felt truly intimidated by this man was when they first met, when he began dropping hints of his suspicions.

To her surprise, the second time was now.

"You shouldn't be here," he muttered. Again, she was slightly taken aback. And further aroused.

"Relax," she cooed. "You were just doing your job. I'm not here to hurt you."

"Tell it to the judge," he said coldly, eyes cast to the side.

She frowned. "I am sorry, Michael," she said softly. Her voice, before its usual flavor of dancing and insincere, now rung true. A long, uncomfortable silence hung between them.

"I am sure you are."

"You know I had my reasons."

"I'd say, 'yeah, sure, like that'll hold up in court', but it quite literally just did. So who knows anymore."

Another long silence. Part of her resented the remark, though she knew such resentment was unfounded.

"I don't blame you for being angry."

"I bet."

"You look so tired."

He glared at her.

"Yeah. Of you," he grunted. She winced, taking her lumps in stride.

"Please," she said softly, gently reaching her hand and gripping his bicep.

"Don't touch me."

She didn't move. He felt an urge to shove her hand away. But for perhaps the same reason he sat back down into that chair in her office many moons ago, or ran his fingers along her silk negligee, or showed up on her porch all those nights, he didn't.

"I only want to talk."

He snorted.

"That's rich. I'm sure James believed that, too. At least carbon monoxide is painless."

"Stop it!" she snapped, glaring at him. "I hold myself fully accountable."

"Fully accountable? Tried for first-degree murder accountable? That's great, let me just call the p--oh wait, we already did that, didn't we?"

"For you," she hissed. "And for the others. I didn't like seeing two of my other patients get torn apart on the stand like that. And if you think for a second I wanted to go that route with James, you are sorely mistaken, because my hand was forced, it nee--"

"Needed to be done!" he finished, mocking her. Her face reflexively twisted into defensive defiance, though it melted as he spoke; she once again had no ammunition to the contrary. "Yeah, always, with you. Just what needs to be done for you. Doesn't matter if it's a coupon or another man's life, if it's in Maria's way, it's got to go!"

Doctor Angelos let out a small sigh, her lower lip beginning to tremble.

"Sorry. It's...it's hard for me," she said, voice uncharacteristically meek. He looked at her in disbelief--at how readily she admitted to it, at how utterly insane she was, and, in spite of it all, how oddly aware of it she seemed.

"You see, though, most people start learning how to rein that in at like, age seven."

"I know. I'm trying now. I just want to set the record straight, help undo at least some of the harm I've caused you. I know I've hurt you deeply."

"Yeah, well, I'm good," he said dryly.

"I just want to help you rest better."

Annoyed disappointment overtook him. Though his trigger's power had diminished, like earlier that day, he was rudely reminded of his lingering susceptibility, a small groan escaping his throat as he fought and lost against the loosening of his muscles. His posture yielded from an imposing, ramrod straight to relaxed and leaning against the doorframe. He loured at her, shaking his head slightly. Almost inaudibly, he whispered.

"Don't...do that."

"I'm sorry. Force of habit. Please, just let me explain," she insisted, her hand still on his arm. She gently pushed him forward. To both their surprise he stumbled backwards slightly, allowing her to enter.

"I asked you to lea--"

"Aren't you glad this is all over?" she interrupted.

"The hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know, I thought you'd be happier to put this behind us."

"Us?"

"Us," she repeated, making her way across the room and cheekily hoisting herself onto his desk. He scowled at her. He was supposed to be stopping her, throwing her out, but he merely wandered over to the window, hands balled into fists, gazing into the quiet, flickering streets below.

"You didn't tell them the whole story, Detective," Doctor Angelos said in mild sing-song. "You could've gotten me easily, you know."

"No, I couldn't have. That jury was all yours. Wrapped around your little finger."

A prideful smirk lit her face.

"They were, weren't they? Those delicious blank stares. I could eat them up."

He shot her a look. She cleared her throat.

"That aside, I--"

"I wasn't about to embarrass myself. Lead detective gets hypnotized into dropping a case and chasing its prime suspect like a lovesick puppy dog. That'll look good on my resumé."

"Not about to embarrass yourself? Fifteen years ago, a local rookie detective blew the cover on his captain covering up for a city councilman's embezzlement. Risked not only his job but a total blacklisting. Sound familiar?"

His eyes narrowed. That was the case that had both made and nearly destroyed him his first year on the job. He'd won mostly by sheer providence, having narrowly avoided dire consequences. Nobody mentioned it much these days; it was the stuff relegated to the occasional retelling to fresh blood on the force, and not much more.

"You went that far back, huh?"

"Are you surprised?" Doctor Angelos asked, idly picking at a hangnail on her freshly-manicured thumb. He shook his head. "Ugh. I've got to go back to my old girl, Eunice. This one doesn't know what she's doing."

"What?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing, just talking to myself. My point is, you didn't care about repercussions. You blew the whistle. You risked it all. Flouted every bookie in the city."

"I almost forgot people put money on me," he said, fighting a flood of amusement that threatened his stormy countenance.

"It paid off for them, big time. And for you. You're no stranger to risk when it comes to doing the right thing."

"I was just naïve, that's all. Going after those throats, I could've gotten iced, forget about losing my job. I was young, brash. Had less to lose then," he said, eyes glued to the window.

"Whatever you say. But your career is only what it is because you're the type of man that you are."

He said nothing. She pressed.

"What did you have to lose today, Michael, by telling the truth?"

"I have pride, you know. Family. Friends. Colleagues. Nobody would've believed me."

"I doubt it. You pulled needless punches."

The detective's brain was beginning to ache trying to comprehend what it was she was getting at. Nothing made sense with that woman. Frustrated, he made his way to her and dropped himself into his chair. Still perched atop his desk, she smoothly pivoted to face him.

"Why," he started, completely devoid of emotion, "can't you just go back to your...accursed little practice...and the rest of your toys...and leave me alone. You won. Just take it and go."

"My license is suspended until further review, you know," she responded bluntly. "And I was forced to resign from several board positions--"

"--positions you stole--" he said, talking over her.

"--and my reputation will need time to recover. Many of my clients have left. And if you found my other playthings bothersome, they're all gone, too."

"Good riddance. For their sakes."

"Do you think this has been easy for me?"

"It doesn't matter! Your plan worked," he snapped. His tone grew more passionate, blood rushing to his face. "You killed a man, you brainwashed the investigating detective--yours truly!--until exactly the point in time at which you no longer needed him, dropped him, and got away with it. I have to deal with it, and now that you're finally rid of me, you're here again for...what the hell is this, some sort of sick victory lap?"

"Don't say things out of anger," she said quietly.

"What I'm s--I am angry, but what I'm saying now is not out of anger, it's a genuine question--what the hell do you even want from me?"

Light eyes met dark. Her hand reached forward and lightly touched his stubbled face. His eyes darted towards it, but again he did not shy away.

"Really, for a detective, I thought you would've figured it out by now."

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

"Why are you..." he said in shock, frozen, trying to remain assertive. She met his eyes, her face only inches from his.

"I love you."

His expression of shock slowly morphed into tortured incredulousness. A dry, humorless laugh escaped his throat. He shook his head.

"I do," she repeated.

"No. Nuh-uh. Not that. Don't do that," he said.

"I would never say that if I didn't mean it."

His breath quickened.

"Don't do that!" he growled, eyes aflame, slamming his hand against his desk. She recoiled. His ears rung, blood pumping. To both their shock, Doctor Angelos' chin reflexively crinkled, her eyes blinking back tears. She very seldom cried, but he'd never yelled at her. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard him yell like that, period.

Part of him instantly regretted yelling--both from losing his head, and from having to see her reaction.

"Aww. Come on, that's low even for you. What, you're gonna cry now?"

"Stop."

"Where's the jury when you need 'em. Got a tissue, your honor?" Detective Berman rasped, features mocking hers.

Her eyes glistened with tears. Absorbing her genuinely wounded expression, his jeering subsided.

"I-I had to win, because--"

"Because you always have to win."

"Because I couldn't bear losing you," she said sharply, trying and failing to conceal a sniffle.

Throat dry, he swallowed, staring at her. The words rang in his head. She continued.

"You don't understand. It took so much constant, heavy conditioning to keep your mind away from the case. You were hot on my trail, and I never put that much work and care into anyone before, and I wasn't even sure it was going to work, and...I couldn't take the stress anymore, not even with the risk of being convicted, and why on Earth would I do such a thing if not because..."

She trailed off, helping herself to a tissue from the box on his desk and blowing her nose. Her voice had taken on that particularly dangerous, dulcet tone that had gotten the detective into so much trouble in the past year, but now in a flavor completely novel, newly raw and vulnerable and fragile. His body vibrated with arousal and anxiety, the temptation to throw his hands over his ears in self-defense mounting.

"Because I love you. And I think you love me, too. The way you respond to me even now, protected our relationship at the trial even though I know you wouldn't have otherwise, not if it meant winning that case. Look at me. I'm a loser, Michael. Pathetic. I have practically nobody. Few relatives, no partner, no children. I hardly have friends--tons of acquaintances, colleagues, sure--but so few friends. All I have is what I've built, myself alone. And for one man, one detestable creature, to try and take it all away from me in one fell swoop--"

"Sure. You don't owe anyone an explanation. You were just 'girlbossing'," he said airily, his fingers giving the latter term its appropriate air quotes.

"I resent that."

"Look, honey, lots of lonely, pitiable people roam this Earth without ending a man's life. Like me, for example," he said, his weary face wearing a weak, sardonic grin. With mounting exhaustion piling upon his shoulders, he allowed himself to lean back into his chair. He felt something brushing up against him. Was that her calf? He glanced down.

It was. Her legs were crossed coquettishly as she rubbed her bare calf against his exposed forearm, her pedicured feet clad in sensible black wedge sandals.

"I said not to touch me," he repeated, looking away as he moved his hands into a folded position atop his stomach.

"Sorry," she said, removing her leg. Her eyes scanned the landscape of his desk. "Where's that cube I got you?"

"I got rid of it," he said coolly.

"You got rid of it."

He nodded. They locked eyes. In the heat of her intense gaze, backlit by that orange streetlight, he recalled all too well its acute dangers. His breath quickened.

"I don't believe you," she said, voice deep.

"Why would I keep it?" he said, a hair too quickly.

Her eyes widened, searing gaze intensifying, burning him. In his peripheral vision, he spotted her hand roaming the facades of his desk drawers. She leaned down, eyes still fixed on his, hand brushing past the second drawer from the bottom when she spied the most minute twitch of his eye.

"Don't--"

With a smirk, she ripped it open and rifled through it, indeed finding a small, neglected black cube collecting dust inside. She leaned over, her slender, nimble fingers cradling it and placing it on the desk, the drawer deftly shut with a pop of her leg. He sighed. She placed the cube back on the desk and toyed with it, his eyes still fixed on hers.

She gave it a spin. Before he could even think of helping himself, his enervated gaze dragged towards it. His eyes, dry and bloodshot, reflected the whirling cube as he reflected, memories like strips of film whirred through his mind.

Some time passed before he spoke.

"You made my life hell."

"Only because I'd made it heaven."

"...Shut up," he grumbled, annoyed at his lack of rebuttal.

The two sat in tense silence.

"Do you remember when we were in that supermarket, you looked me in the eye and said I was good?" she asked. His forehead wrinkled in thought.

"Don't think so," he said truthfully. "I was who-knows-where that night. The moon. All I remember is you buying me crunchy peanut butter, making me take a sick day, jerking o--goddamn it."

"Forget about that. You pointed straight at my heart and said that you saw good in me, and, well, I don't know, something in me broke! I began to really care about you. I mean, if you're not going to do it, someone has to."

Doctor Angelos reached out and placed a tender hand on his shoulder. She began kneading, applying firm pressure, hand climbing to his neck and gently caressing his ear, then running her fingers through his hair. He exhaled, a swell of warmth coursing through him as he forced his eyes open.

Some self-defense covering his ears would've been. This creature could've seduced Hellen Keller.

"Look at you, killing yourself at this hour," she continued, voice lower. "Working yourself to the bone. Begging for a nice, long rest."

"I said not to...don't touch me..." he uttered quietly, that epithet worming its way into his brain once again as her hand continued its assault. He made no effort to remove it.

"I'm sorry. You're right. Force of habit," she said, withdrawing her witching hand. "But I meant what I said."

"...Just not sure it matters to me anymore," he mumbled after a moment, the edge in his voice finally crumbling away.

"Do you think I'm good, Michael?" she asked abruptly, spinning the cube again.

"You're really asking me this after your...murder trial?" he uttered in disbelief. Her green eyes stared at him, big and imploring, for a moment disarming him.

"I don't know," he continued softly, mostly to himself. "I don't know anything right now."

"You know you love me," she whispered, unable to keep herself from combing her hand through his tangled hair, her fingertips grazing his scalp as his skin broke out in goosebumps. "Don't you?"

"...Maybe I did, at some point. Now...is not the time to be asking me that."

"Clearly you care for me."

"I just can't think straight now. I think it'd be best if you left."

"I don't believe you do. I think you would've thrown me out by now otherwise."

"If you think I can't pick you up and haul you out that door--"

"Oh, I know you can. And honestly, that would be pretty sexy, don't you think? The old fashioned way, wrapping your big, manly arms around me, hoisting me over your shoulder and all. But you won't. You're allowing me here. Part of you knew all along."