“Hey,” says the answering machine in Fitz’s voice. “Tried to call you at the station, but… you got an assignment, huh.” There’s a pause, and Fitz tries hard to sound casual when he goes on. It probably works, for anyone who doesn’t know him as well as Rick does. “Fuck, I hope Cooper gets his head out of his ass soon. I really need to get back to work. I’m going crazy here.”
Rick checks the time — it’s way past midnight, too late to call Fitz back now. He’ll call him in the morning; he doesn’t have to get to the station before the debriefing at noon.
The debriefing. Damn. Rick really isn’t looking forward to that. Although, hell, Cooper ought to be happy with them… no reason for him not to be, is there? They did well. They established a solid, successful cover and ran into two known clan associates right off the bat. Yeah, they got off to a pretty damn effective start. If making out with a mob prince and leaving him panting for more doesn’t count as getting your foot in the door, then Rick doesn’t know what does.
He does kind of wonder how they’re going to phrase it all. But… Rick will just leave that to Jon. He’s better with words, and besides, he was the one cozying up to Tommasi.
As for the other cozying up that’s taken place… well. No real need to mention it, is there? Just part of the cover.
The machine clicks over to the next message as Rick wanders into the kitchen. He can hardly remember when he last ate anything that deserves the name of food; for the last couple of days he’s been running on fast food, instant ramen and coffee. But he still has some home-made veggie stew in the freezer that he can heat, and maybe —
“Richie.” Fitz again, but now his voice is slow, slurred and layered with anger. Rick’s stomach clenches, but he shuts down the thoughts that want to crowd in. Yeah, fuck it, so Fitz had a drink, so fucking what! “What the hell is this, huh. You got to work alone with no-one watching your back and I got to twiddle my thumbs for no fucking reason except fucking Cooper’s got some fucking bug up his ass. Never liked me. Looking for an excuse, fucking bastard. Kind of mistake anyone could make. Didn’t even shoot the guy anywhere important. Be just fine, the fucking whiner.”
Yeah, right.
But that’s disloyal — Rick has to think that from where Fitz had stood, the situation had looked different. It happens. Fitz was — is a good cop, is, will be again, and Rick derails that train of thought right there and then before it goes any further, just grabs the container of stew and slams the freezer shut.
Another beep from the answering machine, but the next message is nothing but silence, and some rustling and breathing. The next one, though… “Can’t, Rick, gotta work. What else is there, I —” And there’s more after that, a lot more, but Rick doesn’t understand a word of it. It’s too slurred and indistinct, the only clear thing the note of desperation, and what could conceivably be sobs.
The stew slips from Rick’s grip and thuds to the floor. He doesn’t think; he just calls Fitz. But Fitz doesn’t pick up the phone.
It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s late, and Fitz’s been drinking, and he’s probably just asleep and it doesn’t have to mean anything at all, but the thing is, if Fitz thinks he’ll never be unsuspended, if he’s desperate enough — Rick knows him, knows him too well, and —
Jon answers the phone right away. He hasn’t even arrived home yet, and he doesn’t complain and he doesn’t ask anything, just says he’ll turn the car around and be right there.
Rick has a car, too. But Rick’s too tired to drive, and he had a drink at the club, and yeah he could call a cab but that’d be expensive, and it’s faster to get to Fitz’s place by car, and —
And hell, Rick’s not going there alone, he isn’t, because he knows Fitz too well. Fitz’s — if Fitz — no, Rick can’t go alone, he can’t, he won’t. And he doesn’t have to.
Rick waits for Jon in front of the house; he doesn’t have to wait long. The ride to Fitz’s place doesn’t take long, either, even if it seems like a slow eternity. The streets in this part of town are all but empty at this hour of the morning, only a handful of delivery vans and taxis out and about, and Jon goes easily twice as fast as the speed limit.
The building’s security code hasn’t changed, which is good, because Fitz isn’t answering his door any more than he’s answering the phone. It doesn’t matter — Rick’s key still opens the apartment’s door.
A drift of jackets and plastic bags and who knows what else prevents the door from opening all the way. Fitz’s apartment is a sty, dirty clothes, moldy take-out cartons and half-drunk cups of coffee littering every available surface, including the floor. But that’s the way Fitz’s place has always looked; only the stench is new, hints of locker room drowned out by beer and whisky and sour vomit.
Rick curses as he wades through a drift of stinky laundry and empty cans and bottles and finally, finally catches sight of Fitz, crumpled in the far corner behind the bed.
“Fucking hell!”
Fitz is almost translucently pale and stinks of old sweat and alcohol. His skin is clammy and cold to the touch; his body flops loosely in Rick’s grasp when he hauls him up. But — oh thank you god — he has a pulse. Weak and fluttery, slow — god, way too slow, but it’s there, and that’s something, that’s more than Rick was —
Rick dumps the damn idiot on the bed and slaps him, hard. Nothing. “Fuck you, you asshole!” Another slap, and this time Fitz at least makes a sound, kind of a grunt.
“Rick,” Jon says quietly.
“Just — help me get him in the bathtub. Some cold water and he’ll be okay.”
But Jon’s just watching him, not moving. His phone is in his hand, already flipped open, and his gaze is very steady on Rick’s, and — hell.
Damn it, okay, yeah, Rick knows, alright, he knows — it’s just that —
Everybody gets drunk sometimes. Everybody does, and it’s okay, and everybody makes an ass of themselves when they’re drunk, and that’s okay too. But this… this is different, and not okay, and if someone finds out — if this goes on record —
“Yeah. Go ahead,” Rick says, roughly, and turns away from the unbearable compassion in Jon’s eyes.
Not like Fitz has left them a fuckload of choices.
He tries not to listen as Jon makes the call, tries not to hear the words ‘alcohol poisoning’. They could have been different words just as well, words like ‘attempted suicide’, because Fitz knows better, has to know better even when he’s been drinking way too much for far too long.
“Five minutes,” Jon says when he snaps his phone shut.
Five minutes — that’s fast, faster than Rick expected. Jon must have told them Fitz’s a cop.
Rick nods, sits down on the bed next to Fitz’s corpse-still form. He wonders, vaguely, if he should try to clear away some of the empty bottles and cans. Not that it matters… their content is circulating in Fitz’s blood, after all, and will show up loud and clear in the first test they do.
“Hey.” Jon’s voice is soft, gentle; for a moment, Rick thinks he’s talking to him. Then, Jon leans over the bed, pressing his hand to the side of Fitz’s neck — no Rick is not disappointed, why would he be — and Rick belatedly realizes Fitz’s eyes have slit open the tiniest bit. “It’s okay. Someone will be here soon.”
When Jon leans down his jacket falls open, and Rick can see that Jon’s still in the shirt he wore to the club, top buttons undone. The leather collar’s gone, of course, but Jon’s neck looks even longer without it. His hair falls softly around his face; his lips shimmer with a hint of remaining gloss and his eyes are still dark with make-up, just a little bit smudged.
“R’tch,” Fitz slurs.
Rick looks down to find Fitz watching him with a very familiar, mocking curl of the lip. His eyes are glazed and he looks more than half-dead, but that look… Rick’s caught that look more times than he can count.
For one moment, everything rights itself in Rick’s world and he can see the old Fitz in his head, smirking at him. You want to hit that pretty bad, huh? Yeah you do, don’t give me the innocent look, you little fruit. He even swing your way? Guess you’ll find out! Twenty bucks say you can’t keep it in your pants for longer than a week.
And then Fitz makes an odd choking sound, and Rick barely manages to turn him to his side before he starts throwing up. The paramedics arrive just when Rick’s really beginning to be scared because Fitz’s simply not stopping, and Jon pulls him away from the bed gently but firmly, and it’s only when they’re already out the door with Fitz strapped to a stretcher (on his side, still vomiting, one of the paramedics holding his head) that Rick realizes he’s shaking.
“Fucking hell,” he gets out. His voice wobbles, and his eyes are burning.
Jon pulls him into the bathroom and makes him strip off his jacket and his shirt and wash the vomit off his arms, and then finds him a clean sweatshirt from some forgotten corner of Fitz’s closet. Rick pulls it over his head on automatic when Jon thrusts it at him. He follows Jon out of the apartment and into the car and back into his own apartment the same way.
Just. Fucking hell.
~~~~~
“He shot a guy. He shot a man who had nothing to do with our case because he thought he was drawing a weapon.”
Rick’s never actually told this story — not this way. Always before it was sometimes you have to make split-second decisions, and no I didn’t see the suspect do anything suspicious but I was much farther away and his back was to me, and it was a high-risk situation and a legitimate choice to make.
Speaking these new words feels like a betrayal, even now… but they also feel like truth, the way those other words never did. Jon doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t push; just waits for Rick to find his way through the minefield of language.
Words spoken and unspoken, truths, half-truths.
Lies Rick’s been telling himself.
“I didn’t know he was drunk,” Rick finally gets out. “Not until they did the tests. He didn’t seem drunk — he — I have no idea when he started drinking so much. I mean, I knew he drank some, but everyone does, right? It’s a tough job. Sometimes you just have to unwind.”
Jon doesn’t say anything. When Rick looks up he’s watching him somberly, sitting bent forward, with his clasped hands loose between his knees.
Yeah. Rick doesn’t really believe that, either. Not anymore. And he still doesn’t want to think about this, but there’s no way to avoid it any longer.
He shakes his head and looks away. Beyond Jon, outside the window, the sky has started to lighten with the coming dawn. Rick doesn’t even know what hour of the morning it is anymore, but the pale, grey light makes the slice of cityscape beyond look bleak and hopeless, merciless. Cold.
Fitz isn’t going to be coming back to work… not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.
Rick thinks he may have known all along.
“You, uhm. Should probably go home and get some sleep or something.”
“I’m okay,” Jon says, and smiles with sudden, incongruous sweetness.
Rick has to look down again because his chest feels tight and his breathing’s unsteady. God, it’s been a long day. He’s tired; he should get some sleep.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, forcing the words out without looking at Jon. “You know. For helping with Fitz. And stuff.”
Jon just nods.
Sometime soon, Rick will ask about Jon’s partner, the one who was killed. But not today. Today, they watch the sun come up together in silence.