by Martin, Indi
The Chief looked disappointed in the lackluster response. “Well, it's for the best. She was never happy here anyway.”
Morgan blinked. “Gina? Sure, she was.”
Chief stared at him.
“I mean, I think she was happy,” stuttered Morgan, not liking the way the Chief was looking at him.
“There wasn't anything between you two...?” the Chief's voice reached a whole new level of gruffness.
Morgan shook his head, too quickly. “No.”
“Good.” Chief rustled some papers on his desk. “That's all.”
Morgan nodded curtly and exited the room.
⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼
It wasn't necessarily that Morgan disliked working with Lewis so much as he disliked Lewis himself. The days stretched into weeks, and every morning Morgan dreaded going into the office. Every call coming into his cell phone was dreaded, too; he would stare at it, recognizing the office, and willing himself not to answer it. Of course, he always answered.
The hours were marked by an astonishingly non-stop chatter by his new partner, telling him how to do his job, talking about the 'good ol' days' on Vice, sharing from his endless mental database of racy jokes. The Vice stories were the worst; almost every story featured details that should have ended with Lewis losing his badge. Morgan began leaving work daily as early as he dared.
In spite of this, the actual work progressed at an acceptable pace. Lewis did, in fact, know his stuff (and never failed to let Morgan know it). Behind the bravado and the bluster, though, and even though the man was considerably older than him, he let Morgan take the lead on most cases without comment. In his own words, he preferred to be “the man behind the curtain pulling the strings.” Morgan had thought Harwood's cliches couldn't get any worse, until he encountered Lewis' mixed metaphors.
Still, Morgan worked quickly and efficiently. Homicide, like any other department, was an unending pile of to-dos. Even the most cut-and-dry manslaughter case required sheafs of paperwork.
What Morgan rarely admitted to himself was the real reason he disliked being around Lewis as often as he did. True, the man was a piece of work – and perhaps more than a little corrupt in the past – but the cynicism of the man was the hardest for Morgan to handle. Having lost three wives to three nasty divorces, and no longer in touch with either of his two children, Lewis was a bitter and unsympathetic conversation partner. He approved of Morgan's relationship-less lifestyle.
Then, one fateful Tuesday morning, he uttered the final straw.
Lewis had just finished offering to set Morgan up with an ex-prostitute (“She's clean,” he assured) for a night or two, when he leaned back in the squeaky office chair and sighed. “You know, you ain't bad, Moe. Yer quiet, but you remind me of me at yer age.”
Horrified, Morgan swiveled his chair around to face his partner. “What?” he croaked.
Lewis nodded and grinned, that ubiquitous and leery grin of his. “Yep. I was just like you, too. Thought the world owed me somethin'. It don't. All I got from it was three ex-wives who hate me, and the constant search for the next ex-wife who'll hate me too. Take it from me. It don't owe ya nothin', Moe.”
Grabbing his coat and keys, Morgan fled the room, sputtering a weak “Sorry, I gotta go,” on his way out the door. He thought he heard Lewis laughing behind the door, but he didn't stop to listen.
Morgan drove home in a daze, and ran up the three floors to his apartment, appreciating the distraction of the exertion-burn in his lungs. He slammed the apartment door behind him and stood in front of it, breathing hard, his eyes flitting around the apartment for something to do, something to see. He walked over and inspected his DVDs, but there was nothing there that interested him. He picked up a book, but threw it on the sofa. It bounced and landed on the carpet; Morgan let it stay where it fell. He considered turning on the television, but he didn't want the noise. Instead, he stared at the blank screen, waiting.
“I'm nothing like him,” he asserted aloud to the empty walls of his apartment.
The echoing silence was somehow accusatory.
Slumping further into the sofa, Morgan was surprised to see fast food wrappers piled up on the glass coffee table. He didn't remember putting them there, but there were days worth of wrappers in the pile, and falling off of the pile. Annoyed with himself, he pushed off the sofa and stomped into the kitchen to get a trash bag. The kitchen was a disaster. He stared at it with wide eyes, noticing a line of ants making their way from the crack in the corner of the room to the sink, with several counter-stops along the way. Morgan had always kept an immaculately clean household, even if it was a shitty little apartment. He didn't remember it ever being this bad.
Blinking, he walked stiltedly into the bathroom, which was equally dirty. He stared at his reflection in the mirror; he had grown an unattractive-looking muzzle of bristly hair. Furrowing his brow, he tried to remember how long it had been since he'd shaved.
Morgan couldn't remember. He wasn't sure he'd picked the razor up at all since the elevator had deposited him back home.
Dazed, he picked up the can of shaving cream and went about making himself look a little more like himself.
After attending to his shave, then spending a few hours cleaning his entire apartment, rewarding himself with a steaming hot shower, he collapsed back on the sofa. It was only now five o'clock. He should have just been leaving work.
Although feeling cleaner, and more human now that his apartment was no longer a sty, Morgan felt his eyes sting. 'What's wrong with me?' he asked himself, then for good measure, asked the apartment aloud. It had been over two weeks since he'd seen Harwood, but he missed having her as a partner. He nodded. Lewis just didn't add up to her. She was a far better detective.
A small part of his mind insisted that he be honest with himself. He played dumb. She was a wonderful detective, and if she really was a... his mind shuddered over the word 'telepath,' but he continued... then that explains how she always knew whether a suspect was lying. Always knew. He smiled.
That voice in his head was growing louder, and his smile faltered. Okay, he admitted. He missed having her around. It was fun to press her buttons. Even now, he found himself biting back the things he would have said if she'd been around; he knew Lewis would probably appreciate his humor ('since we're so much alike,' he thought, with a shiver), but he didn't feel like sharing those moments. Instead, he always pictured her responses, or her getting upset, or her genuinely laughing – this was rare, as it had to be really good, or really unexpected, for her not to be able to suppress her laugh. Then he would smile, too.
The voice seemed to give up, but Morgan was miserable. He knew. He didn't want this anymore. It didn't mean anything. For all Hanagawa's fine words about how important the work was – and objectively it was, he knew that – it wasn't what he wanted any longer. His whole life had been laser-pointed at achieving prominence in his chosen profession, but now – well, he was lucky he hadn't been fired already, with the shortened work hours and the generally discontent work ethic he'd developed in such a short period of time. He'd seen the worried glances Chief Ellison had thrown his way.
The tears pricking at his eyes threatened to spill, and he blinked them back. He knew with certainty. Morgan didn't want it anymore, and what's more, he had no new goals to fill that void. He felt like a white canvas, with only drab gray paints to choose from.
Morgan could see himself looking up in twenty years, a brief and passing moment of reflection, and realizing he'd become John Lewis.
He looked down, and noticed with surprise that he was cradling his cell phone.
Dialing the number without thinking about it, and wondering again why he never programmed it in, Morgan pressed the call button and held the phone up to his ear.
22
Gina stared at the tiny cell phone window display, surprised. She'd had to fish her old cell phone out of her purse when it started ringing, with a sigh – half-expecting to see her Mom's number with bad ne
ws. Instead...
It would stop ringing any moment now. She could call back, she figured, but then...
Well, she liked not being the one to call. She flipped it open before it could be delivered to voicemail.
“Hello?” she said, as detached and official as she could manage.
There was silence on the line for a moment, and she drew the phone away to make sure the call had connected. It had, the small numbers were counting up to mark the call time. Confused, she held it back up to her ear.
“Harwood?” asked a voice she recognized at once, and she was taken off-guard by the sound, realizing that even though she'd recognized the number, she hadn't really expected it to be him. The voice was small, unsure.
“Detective Snyder. A pleasure to hear from you,” she said, in slightly softer, but still clipped, tones. Gina shook her head, irritated with herself. She was genuinely pleased to hear from him, she wanted to say, and wanted to sound like she meant it. “How are things?” she added, lamely, smacking herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand.
To her surprise, he chuckled. “You never answer your phone,” he chided. “I figured I'd leave a voicemail.”
“Well, if you'd rather talk to a machine, I can hang up and you can certainly call back. I won't answer again,” she said, and clamped her hand over her mouth at the harshness in her own voice. “I mean... I'm sorry... we don't do this well, do we?”
Charlie drifted into view, raising an eyebrow questioningly. Gina fluttered a hand at her and walked quickly to the frosted doors. She slid one open and walked into the crisp air of the garden beyond it.
“It is so good to hear your voice,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over one another.
Gina stopped mid-step, a flush rising in her face. She cradled the cell phone with both hands, but could think of nothing to say in response.
The silence grew awkward.
“I...” he started, just as she started “You...”
They both laughed, relieved.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“No, you,” she said.
A pause. “I just meant... I have an awful partner now. Remember Lewis?”
She laughed. “John Lewis? Your partner is John Lewis!?” She booed. “What an awful man.”
“You're telling me,” he replied in a strangled sort of voice. “Awful,” he repeated.
Gina let the silence ferment.
“Hey, so...” he started, pausing a while before he continued. Gina caught herself looking at her watch and forced her arm down. “How'd all that work out anyway? How's Marcus doing?”
“I can't really talk about it,” she near-whispered, glancing furtively around. “But Marcus will pull through, and that means things are okay for now. It's complicated.”
“Ah,” he replied, sounding confused.
Gina chewed on her bottom lip. “Well, Snyder, I'm right in the middle of...”
“Do you think Hanagawa'd still let me come back? You know, for a job?”
Her heart leapt, her stomach dropped, and her mouth pulled down into a scowl. “You call me out of the blue to ask for a JOB?” she chided harshly, but her hand fluttered around her neck. “Seriously!”
“Well, no,” he sounded unsure. “I mean, yes. Yes, I called for a job. Your number's the only one I had.” She could hear that familiar sideways grin in his voice, the one that virtually always came at her expense, and all of her previous thoughts of how nice it would be to see him again disappeared.
“I'll see, but probably not,” she snapped. “Talk to you later, Snyder. Tell your old perv-y partner I said hello.”
“Gina, wait...” he started, but she'd already clapped the phone shut, breathing heavily.
She stared at the phone in her hand for a moment, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths to quiet the mad drumming of her heartbeat. Anger subsided and she smiled.
Gina turned on her heel to try to get Snyder a job.
⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼
Morgan stared at the phone.
“Well, huh,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. He considered calling right back, but decided against it. He was afraid he'd say something he'd end up regretting. And it was better, now, that he knew her old number still worked. He could call her up, potentially, any time he wanted. Not that he would, probably, he realized sadly. The potential was enough. The only reason he'd called in the first place was because he didn't really believe her phone would still be active. He figured the 'feds,' or whatever they were called, would have cut her off entirely from her old life. He folded his arms. He should have asked her what their organization was called. That might have been useful.
Morgan shrugged to himself and tossed the cell phone to the other side of the sofa, smiling. He clicked on the television, and curled up on the couch, watching nothing of particular interest. He just let the light and the noise fill up the empty space of the room until he fell asleep.
⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼
A loud rapping noise woke him with a start. Morgan shot up, momentarily disoriented by his placement on the sofa instead of in his bed, and the silent test pattern colors emanating from the screen in front of him. He looked around, confused, for the source of the noise, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
The knocking came again, and he realized that someone was at the door. He raised an eyebrow, hoping with all his might it wasn't one of Lewis' ex-prostitutes come to call. He wouldn't put it past his new partner to give out his home address to an 'old friend,' hoping it might 'cheer him up.' Glancing at the clock (it was just after midnight), he pushed himself off of the sofa and wrapped his robe tighter around himself, heading for the door. He found himself hoping that if it was, she would at least be pretty, but he scowled at the thought. 'I haven't sunk that far yet,' he reminded himself.
“Who is it?” he called sleepily.
Another knock. “It's me,” returned the voice, and Morgan frowned in confusion. He yanked the door open.
Gaping in surprise, he saw Harwood and Parker standing on the other side of the door. Harwood looked annoyed. Parker was sizing him up bemusedly. “May we come in?” asked the latter sweetly.
“Sure,” he stammered, shocked. “Sorry for the wait, I uh... thought you might be a prostitute.” Inhaling sharply at their frozen expressions, he waved both hands 'no.' “That didn't come out right at all.”
Gina laughed grimly, and Parker's one raised eyebrow shot higher. Together, they bundled in to the small apartment, looking around for seats.
“Uh, sofa's there. I'll... let me go get some clothes on, okay?”
Realizing that this statement potentially made the previous misspeak sound even worse, Morgan closed his eyes and wished for the carpet to swallow him up as he jogged toward his bedroom. He heard crystalline voices laughing him out of the room.
Quickly, he shed his robe and threw on some dark jeans and a button-down shirt. Surveying himself in the mirror, he slicked his hair back down from it's sleep-tousle and congratulated himself on shaving and showering (not to mention cleaning) earlier that day. Feeling marginally better about the situation, he walked back out to greet his visitors.
One of them had turned the lights on and the television off. He blinked against the bright light, and stood still for a moment while his pupils dilated to handle it. “Do either of you want something to drink?” he asked, walking nervously over to the refrigerator. He wished Hanagawa had come; creepy zombie or not, his presence would have diluted the estrogen in the room a bit. “I have water, tea, and... well, I can put some coffee on.”
“Coffee would be great,” smiled Parker, and Morgan turned away from her, glad to have a task. She sounded like silk, instead of the ice queen he remembered.
“Okay, three coffees, coming up. Milk and sugar in yours, Harwood. How do you take it, Parker?” He jabbered inanely, caught off-guard.
“Black is fine,” she answered, sounding slightly more official. “So, Gina tells us you'd like a job. May I ask why you've changed your
mind?”
Morgan filled the coffeepot and poured the water into the machine, his mind racing. A job? What job? Slowly, the conversation earlier returned to him. Oh, that job. “Well, you know. It was a lot to take in that first day. I've had time to think about it.”
“Uh-huh,” she responded, urging him to continue.
“And I've decided I'd like the job. If there is a job,” he finished, turning to look her in the eye with more bravado than he felt. He glanced at Gina, who was studying him closely.
“You don't think you'll freak out again?” asked Parker with a small, sweet smile.
Morgan folded his arms and looked back at Gina. “No,” he said.
“Are you sure?” asked Gina, but her lips didn't move, and her voice echoed around in his head.
“Yes, I'm sure,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to keep from freaking out.
“His heart rate's up,” commented Parker.
Gina frowned slightly and looked worried. Their eyes were locked on to one another. Morgan concentrated as hard as he could. 'PLEASE,' he thought, wondering if she could hear as well as speak. 'PLEASE GIVE ME A CHANCE.'
Surprised, Gina jumped.
Parker put her hand on Gina's thigh, and Morgan fought off a growl. Gina's eyes widened and she smiled slyly at him. “Sorry, he just yelled at me in his head.”
“I did not,” he said.
“Did so,” she chided. “But he didn't mean to,” she informed Parker.
“What did he say?” she asked, removing her hand and looking at Morgan with renewed interest.
“He said...” Gina hesitated and winced, rubbing her temples a bit. “He said 'Please. Please give me a chance...'” She hesitated again. “'at the job. Please give me a chance at the job.' He didn't mean to yell,” she repeated. “He was curious if I could hear him or not.” She looked at Morgan and her eyes dared him to call her out on the addition.
He didn't. He merely nodded, and turned back around to prepare the sugar and milk.