#Points of Contact | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 years ago

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Points of Contact

Pairing: Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x Reader Rating: M

Warnings: Slow burn, allies to friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, canon-typical sexism, alcohol, brief description of a car accident, me pretending to know anything about the law or criminal procedure beyond what I've read

Notes: ...I spent way too much time on this. Not beta-read. Edited it three times, but will likely find 102 typos as soon as I hit post.

Length: 11.4K

Summary: You reach out to Detective Magalon again and again. It goes on for a week before you’re forced to take matters into your own hands.

But you don’t go to their office, oh no.

You turn up at a crime scene.

“It’s a doozy.”

That’s what your new boss tells you. There’s an insidious little grimace on her lips as she says it. You want to tell her that whatever it is, you don’t want it; that you’re already spread too thin a month into this job. Instead, you take the file with a smile, a word of thanks, and flip it open. That smile stays frozen in place as you skim the details—the victim, the crime, the reasons for retrial, the rap sheet, and the department that handled the case.

You’ve been warned about Nick O’Brien’s team.

They’ve become known for effective, highly unconventional (and sometimes incredibly questionable) methods. This case is no different. You push a soft breath out between your lips as you scan the document for the lead and point of contact for the case—

Det. Benjamin C. Magalon

You send emails. You call and leave messages. You tell him over and over in different forms of communication that this is an urgent matter, but nothing seems to hammer the point home or garner a reply. In that time, you work other cases, and go over the facts on this one—the victim’s statements, the confession, the court documents. It makes your head spin.

You reach out to Detective Magalon again and again. It goes on for a week before you’re forced to take matters into your own hands.

But you don’t go to their office, oh no.

You turn up at a crime scene.

It’s bleak. It’s nothing that you haven’t seen before, but that doesn’t make it any less harsh. You eye the small cones marking out evidence in the dingy strip mall parking lot—shell casings, two darkening pools of blood, one car with a dented hood and a caved-in windshield. From the looks of it, someone either fell onto it, or was thrown onto it. You glance up at the height of the roof of the mall, the distance between it and where the car is parked at a crooked angle. If you had to guess, the person was thrown.

You approach the crime scene tape, flashing your credentials to a nearby officer and thanking them as they lift the tape for you to cross under it. Your eyes scan the officers and detectives on the scene, catching on a couple of familiar faces before you spot your point of contact. He’s talking with someone—a vic, or a witness, maybe?—so you hang back, watching closely. On second inspection, you’re not entirely sure he is talking to someone connected with the case.

They’re both smoking; Detective Magalon seems to only refer to the small notepad in his hand once in a few minutes before he’s patting the man’s arm and turning, flicking his cigarette away. Before you can step up and introduce yourself, he's intercepted by someone else—a tall attractive man that you recognize from another file that crossed your desk. You puff your cheeks out in irritation before you steel your resolve, striding over to them and speaking up:

“Detective Magalon.”

The two men stop and turn to look at you, brows raising a lowering as you grow closer.

“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to step back behind the tape,” Magalon gestures behind you. “Press isn’t allowed here.”

“I’m not press.” You draw your credentials out again, showing it to the two and introducing yourself. Recognition flashes across both their faces.

“Ah, shit, you’re the chick that’s been blowing up his voicemail,” The other man laughs. Your brows raise.

“Yes, Detective Henderson, I am the assistant district attorney that has been trying to get in contact about an upcoming retrial.”

“Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” Magalon shifts from foot to foot. “We’ve been a little busy.”

“Right, because I’ve just been twiddling my thumbs and sitting on my ass.”

Magalon’s brows creep even higher up his forehead as Henderson scoffs a laugh and mumbles an excuse before he walks away from the two of you.

“We need to go over your testimony,” You press on.

“Right now?”

“...Not right now,” You speak slowly, forcing yourself to keep your tone level and steady, “But soon. The retrial is in a month—”

“So we’ve got time—”

“But this isn't the only case I’m trying, and I’m sure you also have your hands full,” You gesture toward a puddle of blood. “We need to get a time on the books that works for both of us.”

“Could’a done that over email.”

“And you know what, I would’ve, if you had answered any of them.”

Magalon’s lips twitch with a small, amused smile. His gaze flits over your shoulder, his hand raising to signal to someone that he needs a moment before he returns his focus to you.

“Look, I’ve gotta get back to the office, get a BOLO out on a stolen truck, and file this report. Soon as I’m done there, I’ll answer one of your emails, counselor.”

You just manage not snap at him as he brushes around you. Instead you draw in a deep breath and turn, calling out,

“You better—if you don’t want me cropping up at any more of your crime scenes, detective.”

He just raises a hand, giving you a dismissive wave.

You wish your boss had been wrong—but this is really is gonna be a fucking doozy.

You don’t expect a call. Hell, you start planning to commandeer a police scanner. And then your cellphone rings at nearly 11:30 that night. You don’t look at the contact name; you don’t check to make sure it’s not a spam call (answering the phone with your name and title usually gets scammers to hang up pretty quickly). You just answer as you typically do. You’re met with silence for a half-beat, and you’re about to draw the phone back from your ear to check that the person is still on the other side before the voice crackles over the line—“I figured I’d get your voicemail.”

Your brows raise at the sound of his voice.

“You said you were going to send me an email,” You counter.

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Want me to hang up, hop on my computer?”

You have to bite back a smile as you shake your head. “Thanks for the offer, but I think this’ll do.”

“Have it your way. Are you available, ah…” Magalon trails off. You can hear papers shuffling on the other side. “...Tomorrow?”

“Not really. I have a meeting at nine, and a deposition at eleven, another meeting after that. I’m honestly not sure how long that’s gonna go. Might be finished up around four.”

“Four’s not gonna work for me.”

“Alright, then after four.”

“I can’t tomorrow night.”

“Do you have an alternative?”

“...You busy now?”

“No, detective, I’m still in the office for fun,” You bat back dryly.

“So am I,” He chuckles. “We goin’ to yours or mine?”

The innuendo is unmistakable. It’s everything that your boss warned you to expect from O’Brien’s outfit—throw-away comments that can be excused as makin’ nice for the sake of interoffice cooperation; leering looks, whether you’re in a skirt, a suit, a dress; pointed smiles and niceties chased by grumbles of know-it-all-bitch behind your back. You need to get out ahead of this.

“Mine.”

You know that you’re not shielding how unimpressed you look, but you can’t help it—the little penned drawing in the old flip notebook is laughable. Your gaze darts between Magalon and the notepad before you turn it over in your hands. There’s a rough (incredibly rough) sketch of the room, with a little stick figure on the floor. There’s a crude doodle that mocks and mimics the pool of blood around the body that you'd seen in the crime scene photos, and two small x’s mark out the eyes of the stick figure’s head. You turn the notebook around, brow furrowing at the doodled bloody footprints, and a half-moon shape beside a ‘couch’ labeled rectangle.

“...Is that supposed to be the gun?” You ask, raising the book and pointing to the shape with the tip of your pen.

“Yeah. You couldn’t tell?”

You purse your lips before you turn the drawing back toward yourself, muttering, “It looks like a croissant.”

“Is my drawing really what you need to be scrutinizing right now?”

“The way you drew it looks pretty disrespectful to the deceased.”

“I think that’s a matter of opinion.”

It probably is, but holy shit, the guy can’t draw. Neither can you, but your doodles of a crime scene may not be material to a case. His, on the other hand? Well, you know for sure that the counsel for the accused has seen this doodle, as well as Magalon’s other notes.

“Are the rest of your notes in here?” You ask.

“Yeah.” Magalon shifts in his seat on the other side of your desk as you flip to the next page. You can see him looking around in your periphery. You don’t know what he’s looking at—especially considering that there isn’t really much to see. You have several shelves with 2-3 items on each of them. They're mostly notebooks, law tomes—the things that you absolutely needed from the box of shit that you’d shlepped into your office three weeks ago and ditched on the floor in the corner of the room. You hear the creak of the chair, glance up to find him twisting all the way around, eyeing said discarded box. You give him one curious sweep while he’s distracted, from his profile, his well-groomed head and facial hair, to the plaid shirt that sits atop his white t-shirt. You look back down at the notepad as he twists back, your eyes scanning the shockingly neat, loopy script.

“Okay,” You set the pad down. You don’t hand it back to him; you just keep your eyes on it, and your own notes. “Take me through it.”

Magalon eyes you with bored impatience from the other side of the desk.

“We can’t just go over the basics?”

“Look, detective,” You sigh heavily. “I know it’s late, and I’m sure you’ve had a long day, but I’ve got a meeting with Webster’s defense in the morning to talk about a plea deal,” Magalon’s expression shifts from disinterest to shocked anger at the revelation, but you push on: “And if they don’t take it, I need to know what I’m getting into with you on the stand.”

“A plea deal?” It comes from him low, and pissed off. The sound makes your stomach churn. Still, you force your face into a calm mask and give a shrug.

“Orders from the top,” You excuse. “There are other cases, new, untried cases that we could be putting the state’s resources to.”

“What are the terms?”

“Alford, second degree. Thirty.”

“He’d be out in ten.”

“And if we try this again and it doesn’t clear a jury, he’ll be out in a couple of months,” You point out.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t it clear this time?”

“Different jury, different sentencing standards, new evidence allowance, and he's got new counsel. Could be a whole new ballgame.”

You don’t scold him about his tone, or the cursing. You don’t even flinch when he pushes his chair back and begins to pace. You just watch, and consider him. You know that if it comes to it, it’s better that his frustrations are letting out now. You raise your brows as he stops, his hands flexing on his hips, squeezing and loosening, like he’s trying to pull himself back down from whatever conclusions his mind is jumping to.

“I need to know what I’m getting into with you on the stand,” You repeat patiently. “Take me through it.”

Magalon is quiet for another moment, seeming to gather himself. He stares at the desk hard, eyes lingering on his notes intently.

“...You want the pad?” You ask.

“No.”

The reply is surly and flat, like a moody teen. You give him another moment, and when he doesn’t start, you push, “Fine. If you’re not gonna tell me, let’s game it out.” You lean forward, folding your arms on your desk and beginning to rattle through the questions you'd ask him in court:

“Are these your notes?”

“Yes.”

“Are they in your handwriting?”

“They are.”

“And they were written at the time of the event?”

“Yes.”

“Are they in pen or pencil?”

“You can see them, you tell me.”

Your neatly manicured nails press into the palms of your hands.

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be needed for the record,” Is your careful reminder. “Are they in pen or pencil.”

“Pen.”

“Have they been altered, added to, or corrected?”

“No.”

“Can you recall the events in question?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Do you need the drawing of the croissant gun to refresh your memory?”

It cracks his tension, a little. His hands loosen a touch around his hips; his lips twitch with a smile that disappears as quickly as it appears.

“I do.”

You take the pad up, holding it out. Magalon takes the three steps forward needed to reach it, and you. He takes the pad from you, but he doesn’t look at it. He just absently taps it against his hand and turns, pacing again.

“You know you’ll be stationary for this, right?” You ask.

“We don’t need to game it out. I can just tell you.”

“You sure about that?”

Magalon turns and drops like a stone into the seat, scrubbing his palm over his eyes. You think you’re going to have to press him again, but—

“I got the call at 12:32 in the morning.”

“Were you already on shift, or did you get called in?”

“I was on shift. It was a slow night. It came in as a tip on a man named Jesse Briggs.”

“Who is Jesse Briggs?”

“He was a drug dealer, pretty high on our most-wanted list. He had an outstanding warrant for ditching parole. He’d been ducking us for two, three months, which was understandable, it was his third strike.”

“What was the tip?”

“A sighting, and an address. We’d had a couple tips similar to it in the previous weeks, but none that had pinned him so accurately. They’d mostly been area sightings.”

“What was the address?”

“Mill and Industrial Street. Skid Row.”

“I think we ought to frame it as the Wholesale District for the sake of testimony.”

Magalon gives a small nod, mutters, “Understood.”

“Go on.”

“There were already cops on the scene when I arrived. They’d been on patrol when they’d gotten a call about a disturbance in the same apartment building. They had already gotten into the apartment, found Briggs’ body and cordoned the area off.”

“And what state was Mr. Briggs found in?”

“Incredibly deceased.”

You have to fight back an inappropriate smile as you try again:

“And what state was Mr. Briggs found in?”

“California.”

“Detective.”

“He’d been dead for a little over a week.”

“How could you tell?”

“The state of the body’s decomposition was advanced. It had been there for ten days at the height of summer. No air conditioning, no open windows.”

“We can skip what that does to a body for now,” You wave him on as you look down at your notes. “How would you describe the scene?”

“Briggs was laying on his back, surrounded by dried blood. There were multiple visible gunshot wounds—one in his head, three in his torso. There was a discarded gun by the couch, 22 caliber.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, there were dried, bloody footsteps leading from the body to the door.”

“Were there any in the hall?”

“No.”

“And did it seem that someone had gone out of their way to clean up in the hall?”

“Objection. Leading the witness.”

You bite back a smile as a teasing one blooms on Magalon’s face. He shifts in his seat, averting his gaze as he adds, “We checked—luminol on the tiles from the door to the elevator. Checked the walls and backstairs for splatters, nothing popped. Webster took his shoes off before he left the apartment.”

“Allegedly.”

“It’s not alleged,” Magalon argues. “It’s in his confession.”

“His confession which has been thrown out because your department went through four hours of questioning before you Mirandized him, despite considering him a suspect from the moment you arrested him.”

The atmosphere that seemed so light a moment ago is sinking again, holding the same charged indignation that Magalon directed at you when you told him about the plea deal. You’re quiet for a moment before you draw in a deep breath, eyeing the time.

“Maybe we oughta call it for the night,” You finally say, “Regroup after I discuss the plea with Webster’s team. But this was good, this was a good start.” You’re not entirely sure you believe it, even as you say it yourself. You don’t think Magalon does, either. He’s staring you down like he’s ready to go to court now, like he can talk you, the judge, the defense attorney, the jury—anyone he needs to convince out of giving Webster a plea of Alford, second degree murder, and thirty years.

But after a moment, he nods, and breaks eye contact, rising out of the chair.

“You need a ride home or have you got one?” He asks.

“Ah…Thanks, but I'll just take my car. I’ll be here a while.”

“I don’t mind droppin’ ya.”

You nod a little. “I appreciate that, detective, but I really do have things that I need to finish before heading home. I’ll let you know how the negotiations go tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thanks for coming in.”

“Sure.” Magalon pats the back of the chair he was sitting in before turning away. “Goodnight, counselor.”

“Night.”

You notice the car when you finally leave work two hours later. It’s hard not to—there are only three cars in the parking lot besides yours. You can see that someone’s in it, but you can’t see their face. You’re a block away from the courthouse when you see that same car behind yours. Your stomach twists with nerves, but you force yourself to remain calm. You have no real reason to worry, not until you have proof. You take a long winding way home and manage to lose track of whoever it is. When you reach your apartment’s parking complex, you make a hasty retreat from your car to the elevator.

You don’t dwell on it. It could be a coincidence—you weren’t the only person in the building. Maybe whoever it was takes a similar route home.

Whatever the reason, you’re sort of glad you didn’t take your typical route and find out.

“He take it?”

Magalon doesn’t bother with a hi or a hello. You don’t gripe. You kept the guy out pretty late last night.

“Nope,” You tuck your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you set your bag down beside your desk. “Deal’s gonna stay on the table, but I don’t think they’re gonna go for it.”

“They really think they’re gonna get him off?”

“Considering the fact that his confession was thrown out and there’s a video of Webster on the other side of town at the time of the murder, yeah. They’re feeling pretty fucking confident.” And you don’t blame them. Magalon sighs heavily.

“Maybe we got the time of death wrong,” He offers. “The Medical Examiner wasn’t completely solid on his estimate, the body’s decomposition was so advanced—”

“Right—”

“I mean when they turned it, it popped—”

“Okay, I could really do without that detail,” You shudder, shaking your head.

“You squeamish, counselor?”

“No, but I’m starting to rethink the spring roll I got with my lunch.”

Magalon chuckles softly on the other side of the phone. It’s a sweet sound, one that sends wholly inappropriate butterflies fluttering in your chest. You raise your hand to steady the phone, setting your free hand on your hip.

“I’ll take another look at the ME’s report,” You offer. “Maybe there’s something in there that we seize on.”

“Alright. You callin’ him?”

“I might have to. Could help us out. If we can reframe the time of death, the video’s gonna validity can be called into question.”

“Don’t forget the shoes,” He adds. “We found a pair that matched the footprints on Brigg’s body and floor to a pair from Webster’s dumpster, two nicks in the sole in the exact same spot as the prints.”

You nod. “Right. DNA match on the shoes?”

Magalon’s lengthy pause tells you everything you need to know, and you mutter, “Right,” Again.

“It’s his MO. He dropped the gun, picked up the casings, took his shoes off to avoid leaving prints,” Magalon argues. “I can point you to four other cases that he was convinced in where he did the exact same.”

“Good, I’ll need you to point to them for the jury.”

“Just tell me when, counselor.”

You settle down in your chair behind your desk.

“Alright. I’ll track down the shoes, see if there are any additional tests we can run. Was there a pop on the luminol?”

“And a swab. Confirmed for bleach.”

“Damn.”

“I know. He’s not stupid.”

“Bummer, huh?”

“My job’s so much easier when they’re stupid.”

You laugh, nodding. “That makes two of us. Alright, I’ve got a call in half an hour that I need to prep for, so I’m gonna let you go. As soon as I have more on Webster, I’ll let you know.”

“Alright. Keep me close on the ME?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, detective.” You hang up, dropping your phone on your desk. You reach out for the bag with your egg roll, then go still, frowning. You look up, spotting one of the paralegals passing your open office door.

“Hey Ang!” You call out. “You want a spring roll?”

“Uh-oh.”

It’s muttered behind you. You don’t mind it at first—but it’s chased by, “Ay, Borracho! Your attorney is here!”

You frown, turning and finding a ginger-headed man behind you. He turns to face you, giving your body an open sweep before smiling tightly. “He’ll be right over,” He adds.

“No, that’s—” You start, frowning. It doesn’t matter—he’s already walking away. You puff softly, looking around the hall and shifting from foot to foot. Magalon pokes his head out of a door down the hall before he steps out.

“Did I miss an email?” He asks.

“No,” You chuckle. “But I’m starting to get the feeling I have a reputation with you guys.”

“You sent me thirteen emails and left six voicemails. Think they’re just jealous that we have such a committed relationship.”

“Ha-ha,” You drawl sarcastically, folding your arms across your chest.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had a meeting.”

“With someone other than me? You’re breaking my heart, counselor.”

“Something tells me you’ll recover.”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks for the notes from the ME.”

“Sure,” You nod. “I think we’ve got enough to work with from the tongue, I’m trying to get them to retest the soles for Brigg’s DNA.”

“The tongue?”

“...Of the shoe.”

“Right.”

“We’re pretty far down on the pecking order, though. Results might take a while.”

“You done with your other meeting?” He asks, nodding over your shoulder.

“Yep.”

Magalon nods, considering. “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Hitting up the vending machine for some doritos and a cliff bar.”

“No more spring rolls?”

“I have sworn them off.” You smile, stepping around him. “Have a good day, detective.”

“Thanks…Hey.”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning to face him.

“You heard anything from Webster’s team on the deal?”

“Not a thing.”

Magalon nods, eyes lowering to the floor. You sweep your eyes over his face, the knit of his brow.

“I’ll let you know if I do,” You offer.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” You give him one more look and a half-hearted thumbs-up before turning away again.

The next month and a half are a blur of depositions, discovery, voir dire, pleas, trials. Now and again, on late nights, you note a car following you out of the parking lot at odd hours, but you’re able to convince yourself that it’s a coincidence every time. Your work on the Webster case is slowgoing. You don’t remind them of the plea on the table. You don't have to. Your conversations with Magalon are sparse and perfunctory—hi, anything new, no, bye. It’s enough, more than enough, until you get a call from him on a Thursday evening.

“What’s up?”

“...Where are you?” Magalon asks. You go still, frowning, adjusting your phone between your ear and shoulder.

“Uhhhhhhh,” You glance around. “My apartment. Why?”

“Your voice sounds strange.”

“Acoustics weren’t the number one thing on my li—” You wince as the dishwasher rack falls to the floor. “...List. What’s going on?” You add.

“I got new notes from the ME.”

“Oh, great! Can you drop them off?”

“Your office?”

“I’m actually out for the next couple of days. Could I ask you to run it by my place?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll send you the address.”

“No need, I’ll pull it from our file.”

You blink dumbly for a moment. “You have a file on me?”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Please answer my question.”

“One hour, counselor.”

You huff softly, shaking your head and reaching up, taking the phone from beneath your ear and peering down at he’s hung up. You set it on the kitchen counter, turning and leaning in to look at your dishwasher. Why the hell isn’t it working?

You glance dejectedly at your sink full of dishes. Aw, hell.

You jump at the sound of three harsh knocks on the door. You scuttle away from your sink, grabbing the dishtowel and jogging over to the door. You peer through the peephole before opening the door.

“Hi,” You greet.

“Hey. Got the file for you.”

“Great.”

He peers over your shoulder, brow furrowing. “Did you leave your water running?”

You huff, embarrassed. “You used the cop knock, dude. I panicked,” You grumble, turning away from him and hurrying back to your sink, shutting it off. You set the dishtowel down and turn in time to see Magalon stepping inside and shutting the door behind himself, file in hand.

“Thanks for running it over,” You add, holding your hand out. “May I?”

“Sure,” He nods, holding it out. You lean back against the counter, taking the file from him and flipping it open.

“...Why aren’t you using the dishwasher?” Magalon asks.

“Hm?” You glance over to where he’s looking at the unit. “Oh, it’s broken.”

“What happened to it?”

“I don’t know. My thing is the law, not the plumbing.”

“Want me to take a look at it?”

It doesn’t land right away—you’re distracted. You manage a belated, “What?”, but it doesn’t matter. Magalon’s already kneeling down and prying the door open, looking inside as he draws his phone out to use the flashlight. You raise your brows, watching in open amusement.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“Saving you a $500 fine for wasting water.”

"Thought you'd be happy to add a ticket to your quota."

“You know that’s illegal in California?”

“I do know that. I’m just glad to hear that you do, too.”

"Keep it up, counselor."

You can’t help but smile, watching him. You raise your brows as he leans back, shrugging out of his short-sleeve unbuttoned button-down, tossing it and watching as it lands on the back of one of your chairs. Your gaze skims his biceps as he reaches in, fishing around. Your tongue absently sweeps your lips as you watch the play of his back muscles beneath his t-shirt. Oh…Boy. You puff your cheeks out before you turn away again, looking at the file.

Look, you’ve been busy. You’re still new to LA, you haven’t had a ton of time to make friends, or to date. And while your vibrators are good company, it’s not the same as being with someone. You miss the press of a body against yours, the tender worry of kisses, the sting of grasping hands and the blooming of marks the next day.

You’re horny, and the very attractive, moderately muscular detective that’s currently trying to fix your dishwasher isn’t helping a goddamn thing.

You draw in a deep breath, forcing yourself to refocus on the file. You make it through three lines before your eyes widen, and you straighten up.

“We got a match?”

“We got a match.” Borracho’s voice is muffled from where his head is still stuck into the dishwasher.

“We got a goddamn match for Brigg’s blood—”

“Dumbass must’ve used Clorox. They ran a leucomalachite, got the sample out of the two nicks.”

“Son of a bitch,” You chuckle. “Oh, he’s so fucked.”

“Yeah, he is.”

You jump at a clatter when something is slapped onto the counter. Your brows raise, and you turn to look at it.

“What’s, uh…What’s that?” You frown.

“Looks like a bread tie,” He groans, leaning back. “It was wrapped around the washer arm.”

You frown, watching as he stands, shoving the drawer of the dishwasher closed and pressing the button for the quick wash. It’s only a moment before you hear the hum of the machine, and the shushing of water. Magalon listens for a moment before turning the machine back off.

“...Damn,” You raise your brows, “Thank you.”

“No problem. So,” He nods toward the file. “Can you work with that?”

“Between this and the surveillance footage from the apartment's back door, I can do a lot.” You smile. “Thank you for running this over, and, uh…Thanks for fixing my dishwasher.”

“Sure.”

You could just send him off. You could just tell him that you’ve got a lot to do, thank him one more time, and shoo him out. It would be the easy route. But… “You want a beer?”

“You gonna eat that slice?”

“Nn-nn. Go nuts,” You insist, nudging the box toward him. There’s only one slice left—between the two of you, you’ve whittled down the pizza that you ordered fairly quickly. You lean back in your seat, sighing softly as you take a sip of your beer. You’re already regretting the inevitable bloat.

“...Can I ask you something?”

You arch a brow at the question, already bracing for some stupid put-on.

“Sure,” You nod.

“How long you been doing this?”

“Few years.”

“You like it?”

You purse your lips, considering. “At moments. Do you like being a detective?”

“Most of the time.”

“When don’t you?”

“When I’m completely KO’d and I get a call at three in the morning.”

“That’s the only time?”

Magalon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not gonna pretend it’s all sunshine and roses. You’ve seen what we deal with. I try not to think about it outside of work.”

“Yeah,” You nod. You reach for your beer, taking it up and sipping it. You can feel Magalon watching you closely still.

“...Why’d you ride me so hard when we met?” He asks. Your brows raise as you set your beer back down.

“Wasn’t aware that I did.”

“C’mon,” He rolls his eyes. “You turned up at a scene, you chased me down.”

“Because I had to. I wasn’t getting through to you.”

“You ever consider that I may’ve been busy?”

“You ever consider that you weren’t the only person that was?”

Magalon’s eyes narrow slightly, and you sigh through your nose.

“Look,” You manage as patiently as you can, “I picked up my entire life and moved here for this job. I have…No one here, and nothing to go back to there. I need this to work.”

It’s more honest than you’ve even been with yourself since you moved, and far more honest than you’ve been with anyone that’s asked. You’re not sure what prompted it—Magalon’s irritated indignation that you’d dogged him that first week, the lateness of the hour and how loose your tongue has become, or the beer. Whatever it is, it makes your stomach churn with fatigue and lonely defeat.

It’s a moment before Magalon nods, lowering his gaze to the table. You sigh again, sliding down in your seat a little.

“That was unnecessary,” You add.

“What was?”

“The look,” You raise a finger, waving in the direction of his eyes. “You know, the interrogation…Gaze.”

He chuckles. “You seen that a lot?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it plenty. I’ve worked with a lot of cops.”

“Surprised it still works on you.”

“What? It does not work on me,” You shake your head. Magalon’s brows tip up before he raises his hands in concession, muttering, “Alright.”

“It does not,” You insist.

“Whatever you say, counselor.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head.

“What the fuck makes you think it works on me?”

“Objection. Badgering.”

“Alright, get out,” You groan, standing and taking up the empty pizza box as Magalon laughs.

You’ve stopped noticing it so much. Sure, it still happens, but this is the worst it’s been yet. This puts a scare in you.

You tend to get into work early, and leave late. Now and again, a car follows you out. But when two cars follow—when one drives directly behind and the other directly beside until you manage to peel through an empty drive-thru and around a corner, you concede that something is very, very off.

You lean back in your seat with the car's lights off, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s a lump in your throat; your mouth is dry. You chew your tongue, trying to work up some saliva, to wet your lips and your throat as you wait and wait. You sit on an unfamiliar, dark street for an hour. There’s no sign of either car. Still, when you can bring yourself to move, you take a long, convoluted route home. When you arrive, you keep your hand on the little can from your purse, the keys in your hand as you run to the elevator from the parking lot.

It’s worse. It’s worse than it’s been since you arrived in LA—and the increasingly threatening emails that you’ve been receiving are doing nothing to calm your mind as you creep closer to Webster’s court date. You don’t sleep well. You push your panicked energy into your work, unsure of what else you can possibly do with it. If you do more than panic—if you dive into the potential truths and implications behind the threats, you’ll never sleep again.

You’re prepared to just eat it, to swallow it and let it go. But when Magalon storms into your office, a stormy look on his face and a handful of papers clutched in his first, you have a sneaking suspicion that this incident isn’t going to go quietly.

“What can I do for you, detective?” You ask placidly.

“You’ve been getting death threats from Webster?” He asks, slapping the copies of your emails onto your desk.

“They are not directly from him as far as we know, they are from his associates. Anything else?”

“His associates?” Magalon repeats, dumbfounded. “His gang.”

“Anything else?”

“This is serious.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you,” You lift your head to meet his eye, your expression stoney and set. “I thought these matters went to Homicide, not to the Sheriff’s department.”

“Considering how closely we’re working on this retrial, they passed it on to me.”

“How kind of them.”

“You should’ve been the one to tell me in the first place.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

Your insistence is met with silence, and a tightening of Magalon’s expression. It takes him a few moments before he presses out—

“I’ll be escorting you home in the evening from now on.”

“That’s totally unnecessary. I’ve been fine.”

“And the cars following you home, that’s fine?”

It’s your turn to go quiet, for your eyes to narrow slightly at his assertion.

“What have you got to protect yourself with, anyway?” He presses.

“If you must know, I have wasp spray.”

“...Wasp spray?” He repeats with unimpressed slowness.

“Yes,” You nod. “It reaches up to thirty feet away.”

“How effective is it against gunfire?”

“I’ll keep you updated.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Magalon takes a few steps back, his head shaking a touch. “You text me when you’re ready to go home.”

“Seriously, you don’t have to do that.”

“That wasn’t a request, counselor. It was an order.”

Your jaw drops in shock as Magalon turns away from you without waiting for a reply. He stalks out of your office, shoving the door shut behind himself. You manage to scoff out a stunned, embarrassed laugh to your office, leaning back in your seat as your face goes hot. Audacity must’ve been on sale, two for one—you have no clue where and why he’s gotten this damn attitude with you.

“Ready to go?”

You only just manage to stave off a flinch at the question. You haven’t contacted Magalon; you haven’t called, you haven’t emailed, you haven’t texted, nothing. You can’t imagine how long he’s been waiting for you, but it’s 2:17 in the morning and there he is.

“Yep,” You chirp shortly, striding past him. He falls in just a couple of steps behind you. He stands by your side as you wait for the elevator, as you get on the elevator. Before you can get off, he reaches out, stilling you and stepping out ahead of you. Your brows raise as his hand lowers to rest on his belt, steadying there authoritatively as he waves you out. You bite back a comment, walking at Magalon’s side and trying to ignore the way his head swivels around the mostly empty garage.

“You know which car is mine?” You tease.

“2015 Honda Civic, dyno blue pearl. Two dings on the bumper, one scratch on the right side.”

“Show off. You know the license plate, too?”

“You're kidding, right?"

You roll your eyes a little, drawing your keys out of your pocket and hitting the button to open the doors. You wait as Magalon peers into the backseat, a little surprised as he opens the door for you. You set your bag down in the passenger seat, going still when you see Magalon reach in and shove your bag into the backseat. You peer after it, frowning as he gets into the seat beside you.

“What, uh…” You shake your head. “What are you doing? I thought you were going to follow in your car.”

“My car is parked near your apartment.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Connors drove me over.”

You stick your key in the ignition, turning it and stilling as the car rumbles to life. Magalon frowns when you don’t move, and he waves forward.

“Go on,” He insists.

“Seatbelt.”

Magalon sighs heavily, leaning back in his seat and doing his seatbelt up. You nod to yourself, satisfied, and drove off. You absently check your rear and side mirrors for anyone following you, but there doesn’t seem anyone trailing you out of the garage. You absently check the mirrors again for the first few blocks.

“How long were you waiting?” You finally ask, glancing toward him.

“...A while.”

“How long’s a while?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You have other questions—how long has he been on shift, is he hungry, is he tired, does he want to crash at yours—but any goodwill bridges that you’ve built with Magalon were burnt with his demands and your attitude that afternoon. You’d felt a little regret once he’d left. He was only doing his damn job. But you didn’t want to make a big deal out of this. It was a hazard of the job, something that you had grudgingly reported because you’d known that if it had come up later, you would’ve caught hell for keeping your mouth shut.

“...Caught any cases lately?” You hedge. Magalon doesn’t answer for a moment, and you’re certain you’ll be riding home in silence. Maybe there’s something good on the radio—

“Shooting this morning.”

“MO?”

“Seemed related to a stolen goods rap.”

“Sounds like a dunker.”

You frown as you hear Borracho chuckle beside you, and you can see him shaking his head beside you.

“You spend too much time with cops,” He mutters.

“Occupational hazard.”

Magalon grunts.

“Should be a dunker,” He agrees. “Or would be, but we pulled a separate set of prints from the scene.”

“Someone else that lives there?”

“Someone that was reported missing and subsequently declared dead about three years ago.”

“Fresh?”

“Piping hot, straight outta the oven.”

“Yikes,” You mutter. You shift in your seat, gazing in the rear and side mirrors.

“...So how long are you gonna be riding back with me?” You ask. You expect him to say until the end of the trial, but—

“Long as I need to.”

“That’s gonna get pretty boring. There’s gotta be a better use of your time.”

“Not if we keep up these delightful little chats.”

You shoot Magalon a sidelong glance, eyes narrowing a touch. You return your gaze to the road as you reach out, flicking his shoulder petulantly.

“Ah ah ah,” Magalon warns, “I can cuff you for that.”

“Well that would just make my night.”

The comment is off-handed, and loosed without a thought, but you belatedly realize how it may’ve sounded. Your face goes hot. You don’t dare look at Magalon. The two of you are completely silent for a few moments.

“Maybe when I’m not on shift,” He finally says.

And it’s in the same vein as what he threw at you the first night he came to your office—that smiling question of your place or mine from the other end of the phone. But it doesn’t infuriate you the same way. It doesn’t make you want to scoff, or roll your eyes. It just excites the nest of butterflies in your belly, sending them swirling. You keep your eyes steadfastly on the road, biting back your next comment—

Will you still be on your shift when we get back to mine?

You chalk it up to your loneliness. You just need to get laid, that’s all. You’re not into Magalon. You’re not physically or romantically interested in a material witness. Nope. You’re not at all into the man that can clearly barely stand your general presence while having to ferry you home after work.

What he said, about him being off-shift? That was a reflex, the same shit he probably spits in the office with the guys, or to anyone he meets in a bar. It’s his schtick.

…His night schtick.

You could use his night sti—

Nope. No. Not going there.

The rides get better. Every night, you’re less and less on edge. You almost forget why he’s been assigned to you. Magalon seems to lighten, too. He’s a little more chatty, more engaging. He asks you how your work day has been, and when you tell him, he seems to actually care.

The case moves along, and as you get nearer and nearer to trial, you become more and more certain that Webster is really going to hold out for the process, rather than taking the deal. Still, you’ve gained more confidence in your defense. You’ve run through the evidence, the witnesses; your theory of the case is solid, you’ve crafted your opening statement, and drafted your closing statement.

You’re comfortable—until you’re not.

You don’t think to call him. It’s still practically broad daylight. You’re planning on heading home early, on getting some fricking rest before the trial the next day. You’d text Magalon when you got home. You’re certain that he was used to you leaving the office so late that there was no way he’d get to your office before you got home.

Everything seems normal as you leave the parking lot. One car trails you out, but it turns in the opposite direction. You feel yourself relaxing back in your seat, sighing softly. You glance back, watching another car merge into traffic behind you. You take a turn, eyes darting to the rear view as they follow. It’s not that strange. So someone had to take the same turn as you. So what? You’re just reading into things. You eye an upcoming turning lane and switch on your signal, sliding over to it. Your eye catches the car behind you doing the same. Your stomach twists with nerves, your fingers flexing nervously around the steering wheel as you hurriedly push your car through a yellow light. Your heart leaps into your throat as the bar behind speeds up, following you through.

You speed up a touch, rounding a corner without signaling. The car follows steadily. Okay, this is getting weird. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, eyeing your phone in the console holder.

“Call Detective Magalon,” You say hurriedly. The phone screen lights up, and the phone rings through the car speakers. You bounce warily in your seat.

“C’mon, c’mon,” You mumble, “Pick up.”

“You miss me already, counselor?"

You want to revel in how cute the greeting is, but your nerves supersede your excitement.

“Can you run a plate for me?” You ask, glancing in the rear view mirror.

“Sure. Gimme a second.”

You don’t have a second. You speed through another yellow, making a hasty right turn without signalling, mumbling a curse as they follow you.

“Okay,” Magalon tacks on, “Go ahead.”

You squint in the rearview, rattling the plate off. You can hear him typing on the other end.

“...You’re not gonna like this,” He warns.

“Why?”

“It’s registered to Webster’s number two.”

“Well, Magalon, you’re not gonna like this.”

“What?”

“It’s following me.”

“It’s what?”

You wince at his snap, and the scrape of his chair scraping across the floor.

“Where are you?” He presses.

“I was gonna get on the freeway, try to shake ‘em off.”

“Do not do that.”

“Why not?”

“What if you wind up in a gridlock? You can’t move, they get outta the car, and then what?”

You wince. He has a point.

"I still have my wasp spray?"

“Where are you?” He presses. You glance at the street sign as you pass it, hurriedly rattling off the cross streets.

“Stay on the phone with me,” He urges, “Which way are you headed?”

“Uhhh…” You reach out, glancing hurriedly between the road and your phone as you unlock it. You swipe to your map app, opening it and eyeing the compass rose. “East.”

“Stay on that avenue if you can. If you have to turn, let me know—if they speed up, if you see anything weird—”

“Weirder than being followed?” You snip, glancing back at the car. “I don’t like going straight. I feel like a sitting duck.”

“You start winding through streets, it’s gonna be harder for us to find you.”

“Us?” You push the car through a light flashing red, pushing it even harder when the other car is stopped short by traffic. “What’s the plan here, Magalon?”

“Just keep calm, we’re on our way.”

“That’s the plan?”

“That’s the only part that concerns you right now. Eyes on the road, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Stellar advice, detective.”

You’re met with stony silence from the other hand. You swallow thickly. You can hear the crackle of walkie-talkies on their end, the odd comment passed between Magalon and whoever else is in the car. You manage to bite back your plea for him to keep talking, to reassure you that everything’s going to be alright. You just look between the mirror and the road every few seconds, squirming as the vehicle gets closer.

Don’t do anything stupid, don’t do anything stupid—

“Shit, shit shit shit shit shit,” You hiss as they step on the gas, rear-ending you at a red light. You fight to keep the vehicle in control as you’re spun out into the intersection, cursing again as the car speeds into and side-swipes you, sending you spinning.

“What the fuck was that?” Magalon spits through the phone. You swallow thickly, trying to gather your bearings. Does anything hurt? Can you still move your arms, your fingers, your neck? Are there any other cars incoming? You draw in a deep breath and push it out shakily, carefully steering your car to the other side of the intersection and shutting it off.

“Are you still there?” Magalon tacks on, “We’re a block away.”

“They’re gone,” You answer quietly. “Still headed east. I’m at the corner.”

“Don’t move.”

You aren’t going to. You’d snipe back as much, but you can’t bring yourself to. You’re certain you’re going to be sick. You swallow thickly, shutting your eyes and tipping your aching head back against the rest. You can hear sirens creeping closer and closer until they’re practically blaring in your ears. You pick your head up, wincing at the flashing of red and blue lights. You reach down, undoing the seatbelt with shaking, sweating hands. You step out of the car as one pulls up just behind you, screeching to a halt. You lean back against the door, peering at the asphalt. You don’t want to look back at the broken pieces of tail and headlights laying in the intersection; you don’t dare look at the back or opposite side of your car.

“Damn,” You hear behind you. It’s Henderson’s voice. It’s chased by the thudding of sneakers rounding your car, and sneakers are in your view for just a moment before two warm hands land on your shoulders. It makes your tense body melt, your shoulders relaxing under the warm, steady touch.

“Are you alright? Hey,” Magalon hardly waits for your answer before he’s dipping his head into your field of vision. You tip your chin up, clenching your quivering jaw and giving him a short nod.

“‘M fine.”

It doesn’t sound very convincing, but the fact that you’re able to push the words out at all feels like a miracle.

“Does anything hurt?” He adds.

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your head does, but after everything that happened, you don’t so much as wanna flinch in front of the guy.

“I’m sure,” You reiterate. “Shouldn’t you be going after them?”

“Rest’a the team’s on it.” Magalon’s hands fall away from you. He walks around the car, taking in the damage done.

“What happened?” He asks, rounding to you again.

“I got caught at a red. They rear-ended me, then hit me again when they were leaving.”

Magalon pushes a sigh out of his nose, glancing between you and his teammate as he comes around your car.

“Tow truck’s on the way,” Henderson reports. “We need an ambulance?”

“No,” You shake your head.

“I think we should at least go to the hospital,” Magalon argues.

“I’m fine,” You insist stubbornly. “My neck feels fine, my back feels fine, I didn’t hit my head on anything.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t have a concussion. If you’ve got something and we don’t head it off at the pass now, it’ll be worse tomorrow.”

“I don’t have time for it to be worse tomorrow. We have court tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to get checked out now.”

You tip your head back, scrubbing your head over your face and squeezing your eyes shut, trying to push back frustrated tears.

“Fine.” You straighten up, turning to open your door.

“We’re not taking that car—” Magalon starts to argue.

“I am getting my crap,” You pronounce primly, lowering yourself into the car. You pull your phone out of the holder before leaning over, taking your bag out of the passenger’s seat.

“I’ll wait here for the tow,” Henderson offers.

“C’mon. We’ll handle the report while we wait,” Magalon rests his hand between your shoulder blades, steering you to their car. You find yourself shivering at the thought of climbing up into the cab, but you do it regardless, leaning back and pulling your seatbelt across yourself. You slide down in the seat a little, pointedly ignoring the rubber-necking pedestrians and drivers. You keep your eyes set on the dashboard as Magalon gets into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and starting the car up.

“...You should’ve told me you were leaving.”

You’re surprised it’s taken him so long to say so. Magalon’s chastisement is spoken with quiet control. He’s sitting in a seat beside your exam table. Your head is throbbing more viciously now, and your body is beginning to ache. You’ve been at the emergency room for almost an hour, in an exam room for nearly twenty minutes, and you still haven’t seen a single medical professional.

You nod a little bit.

“Thought I’d leave early, give you the night off,” You admit.

“How’d that work out?”

You think he’s trying to tease you, but it hits right where it hurts. You turn your head from him, jaw quivering again as tired tears rush to your eyes. You raise your head, scrubbing over them again and sniffling softly as you fail to pull in a steadying breath. It’s a moment before you hear the slight scrape of the chair, the soft pad of his sneakers rounding the bed to stop beside you. His hand curls warmly around your wrist, giving it a gentle tug back from your face. You let him, raising your other hand to take its place.

“Look at me,” Magalon plies quietly. “You told me you were alright.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you’re fine, then you probably shouldn’t be here,” Someone chirps. You tip your head up as Magalon lets go of you. Your tear-flooded eyes swim and muddy whoever it is. You can just make out navy blue scrubs.

“I shouldn’t be,” You agree. “But he’s a worry-wart, so.”

“Really? How new for you, Ben.” The comment is too familiar a tease. You blink to clear your eyes, getting a better look at the woman. She’s a petite, slight woman, with bronze skin and fiery red hair. She has an almost smug smile affixed on her lips as she eyes the detective beside you. You look between her and Magalon, brows raising when you find his face a placid mask.

“Angelique,” He greets with a nod.

“So, what happened in here?” She plucks your chart up, scanning it.

“Hit and run,” He answers.

“She can tell me, she clearly didn’t lose the ability to speak in the accident.”

Oh—damn this is awkward. You shift uncomfortably on the bed, glancing over as Magalon shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Just what he said,” You agree, “I was rear-ended. And then, uh—Side-swiped.”

“Mm,” Angelique sets your chart back down, rounding to the opposite side of the bed. “Are you feeling any pain? Soreness in your back or neck?”

“I have a bit of a headache,” You admit. “But besides that, I’m okay.”

You can see Magalon shifting in your periphery. Angelique hums sympathetically. You answer each of the questions she rattles off, moving this way and that as she checks your heart rate, your blood pressure. You wince a touch when she shines a penlight in your eye. God, it's bright.

But it's also the least uncomfortable part of being in the room with the two of them.

“Alright,” Magalon shuts his car door, looking over at you. “Let’s get you home.”

It sounds warm and fuzzy, and oddly close as he says it. You just grunt, leaning back in your seat and letting your eyes close. The sun is beginning to dip, the sky darkening. So much for getting home early.

“...Are you hungry?” He plies.

“A little,” You admit. “But I just…Wanna be in my space right now.”

Your body relaxes a little when he turns the car on this time. You hesitate before you pick your head up a touch, glancing down at your phone and opening a food delivery app. Maybe you can be smooth about this. “What do you wanna eat?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been stuck with me all day. I may as well feed you.”

You can’t just ask him to stay. You already know that your empty, quiet apartment is going to make you twitchy and nervous. Magalon’s quiet for so long that you don’t think he’s going to answer. But—

“There any good chinese places near you?” He asks.

You almost sigh with relief. You just nod, typing it into the search box.

“Uh-huh. A couple.”

-- “So how long did the two of you date for?”

It's a hunch you've had for a couple of hours. You ask him while his mouth is full. He takes his damn time chewing, digging his fork into the container and stabbing at the remainder.

“...Couple months.” His muffled mumble of concession almost makes you laugh.

“Seemed like a pretty cool reception for a couple of months. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. We both have busy schedules. Just didn’t work out.”

“You ghost her?”

“...Yeah.”

“Got it,” You nod, taking up your beer.

“Put that all together pretty quickly, counselor.”

You smile for the first time in a few hours.

“It’s a tale as old as time, detective.”

You lean back in your seat, just managing to stave off a wince. Your body is beginning to ache a little, but it was as much as you’d been told to expect at the hospital.

“What about you, huh?” He asks in turn, setting his food down. You frown.

“What about me?”

“Seeing anyone?”

“No,” You scoff.

“Why not?”

“I don’t have time. In fact, your team is right. This,” You wave a finger between the two of you. “Is the most committed relationship I’ve had in a few years.”

Magalon’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling with something that you don’t recognize.

“You oughta get out there, you know,” He offers. “Might find someone else to drive you home.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re right, I should. Is Henderson single?”

“No. And you’re not his type.”

“Oh, well. Thanks for the warning.”

“...Is he your type?”

You consider for a moment before you shrug, shaking your head. “I guess not.”

“What is?”

It should be the perfect inane conversation—but with your current, nagging, budding crush on this man, it’s starting to feel a little stressful.

“I don’t know that I have one,” You pass off.

“Bullshit. Everyone has one.”

“Well, what’s yours?”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Maybe we should be.”

Your insistence spurs a shiteating grin from Magalon, as he leans back in his seat.

“Deflect, deflect, deflect,” He laughs. “That what makes you such a good lawyer?”

“It can help sometimes,” You concede. “But it’s not the bulk of what I do.”

He nods. “Well, that I believe.”

You smile, looking down at your table, hesitant. “Thank you,” You offer after a moment. “For…Hanging out. You didn’t have to.”

“I don’t mind. Figured you might wanna go over my testimony again, anyway.”

You shake your head. “No need. I trust you.” You meet his eyes as you insist. Something passes over Magalon’s face before he nods a little bit. You give a small smile before turning away again. You wave toward his beer, pushing yourself out of your seat.

“You want another one?”

“...Nah. I should get going.”

You try not to feel so put out about it, but it makes sense. He's already been there long enough. You nod a little bit, and take your time trailing toward the door. You rest your hand on the doorknob and glance back, finding Magalon shifting his jacket on his shoulders.

“You know,” You comment. “I think today’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone use your first name.”

“That so?” He asks, adjusting his collar as he walks toward you.

“Mhm. Think I’ve mostly heard ‘Magalon’. Or uh…What’d that guy call you at the office? ‘Borracho’?”

He smiles a little, nodding. “Sounds about right.” He stops in front of you. “Haven’t heard you use it either.”

You shrug a little. “Do you need me to?”

“...Not need, no.”

Before you can read into it, to ask the questions you have, Magalon adds: “I‘ve got one of the guys keeping an eye on the apartment. You don’t feel well, you feel weird, get a feeling that something’s up, you call me. Connor's'll get up here and I'll be by as soon as I can.”

You nod, fingers flexing around the doorknob.

“Okay.”

“I’ll come pick you up for court tomorrow.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.”

You begin to turn the doorknob, expecting that to be Magalon’s parting shot, but he rests his hands on your shoulders again. It steadies you, centering your mind the way it did at the scene of the accident. He crowds a little closer, gaze skimming your face.

“You gonna be okay tonight?” He asks softly. Your stomach flips at his voice, his closeness. You nod a little bit, swallowing thickly.

“I’ll be fine,” You insist, tipping your chin up defiantly. He smiles a little, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go of you. You open the door, stepping back to give him room to leave.

“Night, Ben.”

“...Goodnight, counselor.”

There’s an additional swell of nerves as you get ready for court the next morning. There’s usually a little bit of wariness on your part, but it’s bolstered by the previous day's events. Still, you’re resolved to put on a brave face, and not to let Webster or his crew see you flinch. If this gang of thugs is able to intimidate you, it could spell trouble for the remainder of your time at this job. You can’t just pack your life up again—you will not run from this.

You get a text from Borracho at 7:50 that he’s just parked, and to wait for him inside your apartment. You wait impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, and you're only a little startled when his cop-knock wraps against your door. You open the door, brows raising, chastisement ready on your lips. It goes quiet at the sight of him. You’re used to seeing him in casual button-downs, long- and short-sleeve shirts, sweaters. You know that he’s given testimony before, this is hardly his first rodeo—but you somehow didn’t expect him to look so damn good.

His button-down and suit pants are well-fitted. His neck tattoo winks at you, half-shrouded by his collar. You force an unaffected expression, stepping into the hall and shutting your door behind yourself.

“I can’t get from my apartment to the car alone now?” You ask.

“Do you need to relearn yesterday’s lesson?”

You purse your lips at his smiling tease, grumbling as he leads the way to the elevator.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright. A little sore,” You admit. “But nothing unmanageable.”

“Sore where?”

“My back.”

He hums sympathetically, nodding you into the elevator and jabbing the lobby button. You lean against the wall, eyeing the numbers as they tick down.

“...No jacket or tie?” You ask.

“They’re in the car.”

“Mm.”

“Good morning to you, too, by the way.”

You glance over at Borracho, smiling a little.

“Good morning, detective.”

“That’s better, counselor.”

The two of you step off of the elevator, and you try to ignore the butterflies that flutter in your belly as he rests his hand on your lower back, steering you through the front door.

Any port in a storm, right? That’s what this feeling is.

Borracho was there for you in a moment of crisis. He took care of you when you were hurt, stayed to make sure you were alright. He’s still ferrying you to and from court every day, even if that day has nothing to do with his testimony. The two of you talk in the car—really talk, like you're friends and not colleagues.

Sure, you like his smile. Sure, he’s unfairly attractive in a suit. Sure, his testimony was damn-near perfect, and you'd practically preened with pride as he held up under cross-examination.

Your last couple of months have been absolute chaos, and despite your initial rocky start, Ben has been a constant. That’s why you’re nagging crush has blossomed into full-blown infatuation. That’s why you invite him up for a beer every night.

Thing is, you don’t know why he always agrees. Is it out of politeness? His want to make nice for the case? Is it out of friendship?

You don’t think he’d insist on bringing over a six pack every now and again if it was just politeness.

You don’t think he’d make it a point to touch you on the arm or side or the thigh if he was just trying to make nice.

You don’t think that your long good nights would get even longer if he was just being friendly.

“They better nail his dick to the wall.”

You glance toward Ben as he grumbles, unable to help your smile. He’s staring moodily at the things on your shelves, eyeing the contents of the boxes that you’ve finally gotten around to unpacking.

“Visceral,” You comment. Your eyes shift to the time on your laptop. It’s been about forty minutes since the judge gave the jury their final instructions.

“Would you settle down?” You add. “All of your,” You wave toward him. “You’re making me antsy.”

“All of my what?”

“Just, the way you’re looking around. You’re all frowny. Your bad energy is gonna kill my snake plant.”

Borracho chuckles softly, rounding to sit opposite you at your desk. You’re a little surprised he’s hanging around—there must be other cases that he’s assigned to work, something that he could be following up on.

“How long do you think they’ll take?” He asks. Before you can answer—before you can tell him not to get his hopes up, that it’ll probably be at least a few days—you get a knock on your door. One of the paralegals pokes her head inside, looking harassed.

“They need you back in court. Jury has their verdict on the Webster case.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“Already?” You ask, raising your brows.

“Uh-huh.”

You hurriedly stand, shoving your laptop shut and beginning to get your things together.

“Is this good or bad?” Borracho asks.

“Fuck, I don’t know. It hasn't even been an hour. Half an hour of this would’ve been filling out the paperwork.”

The jury looks resigned as they file in. None of them meet Webster’s eyes. It’s a good sign, one that bolsters you as the judge addresses the jury.

It’s cut and dry: guilty of first degree murder. A bolt of vindication bursts through your body as you force a neutral expression. Guilty. Fucking guilty. Even without a confession—even with the odds stacked against you, even with months of intimidating you—guilty. You turn, eyes scanning the rows behind your table and landing on Borracho. He’s grinning, as if smiling extra-wide when you can’t. You give a small nod, your lips twitching with a smile regardless. You’re not sure if your glee is a result of the verdict, or the sight of him.

It feels frighteningly natural for Borracho to follow you off of the elevator and down the hall to your place. But—you’re celebrating, right? That’s why you feel so buoyant. That’s why you force your overthinking mind quiet as he crowds up against you, waiting for you to open your door.

That’s why you wind up in bed together.

…Right?

“Don’t move.”

You smile at the mumbled order, lifting your head a touch to get a better look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting comfortably on your bare belly. You reach down, gently combing your fingers through his sex-ruffled hair. He groans softly as you massage his scalp, his head rising and following with your gentle giggles. He tips his chin up, smiling as he catches your eye.

“What made you think I was gonna move?” You ask.

“Felt your legs tensing.”

You hum. “Put that together pretty fast.”

“That’s why they pay me.”

You watch as Borracho pushes himself up, bracing himself over you. You reach up, gently stroking his rough cheek, and steadying your hand there as he leans in for a kiss. You sigh, lips slipping against his. You smile, giggling again as he plants his knees against the mattress, lazily rolling his hips against yours. You’re still slick, still aching from him. You let your head tip back against the pillow again, blinking up at him and sliding the tip of your finger along his lower lip. Quick as a flash, his tongue pokes out, swiping against your skin.

You smile, leaning up and pecking his lips.

“Alright, get off of me,” You wave at his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I wanna get some water. Is that alright with you, detective?”

He grunts, rolling off of you and settling down on his back, yawning widely.

“I’ll allow it, counselor.”

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