#fandom often exposes him as stupid and short-sighted when this is far from the case

[bietrofastimoff23]

«i know what you're doing to my mother behind closed doors. just dare to harm her [in my absence], and then the head that my mace will smash will be yours» energy.

[katehuntington]

How You & I Will Be - part two

Fandom: Supernatural Timeframe: mid-season 2 Main characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer (mentioned), Ellen & Jo Harvelle (mentioned), Ash (mentioned), Mary Winchester (mentioned), Reader’s mom (mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually) Series summary: When a hellhound case in the mountains goes sideways, Dean and Y/N find themselves trapped in a small cabin, miles from civilization. A serious injury forces the two hunters to come to terms with their true feelings for each other. Rescue is on its way, but will it be in time? Warnings part two: minor angst, some fluff, pining, swearing, description of blood and injury, bittersweet memories, Dean’s bad singing voice. Music: ‘Hellhound On My Trail’ by Robert Johnson, ‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel Word Count: 2341 words Author’s note: Part two of a five part mini-series. This part might feel like short pause from all the drama, but I promise you it’s only the silence before the storm. @idreamofhazel and @littlegreenplasticsoldier, thank you so much for being awesome betas!  

Find the ‘How You & I Will Be’ masterlist here!

     “You know what I want?”      Y/N pulls up one knee to her chest and fold her arms around it, trying not to move the injured leg as she does so. It took a little while, but the abandoned cabin is finally starting to warm up now that a fire is growing under the chimney. Thankfully, Dean found some wood in the backroom, although they will run out soon enough. Flames flicker playfully and every now and then the wood cracks, lighting ambers up into the air.      ���Please share,” he replies before he rests his head against the wooden wall and closes his eyes for a moment.      “A beer.”

     He chuckles and gazes at her, a sense of pride and amusement on his handsome face. He straightens himself, his shoulder rubbing against hers, and smiles. Man, is she one cool chick or what?      “Right there with ya. I’d kill for a Budweiser,” he agrees.      “Or a good glass of whiskey,” she imagines, closing her eyes imagining the drink.      “Jack Daniels.”      “Johnny Walker.”      They both sigh at the same time as a silence follows, and for a while they dwell in their thoughts. Chances are, though, that neither of them is ever going to have that drink. Surely, Sam is a smart guy and a fantastic hunter, but he can’t work miracles. The youngest Winchester is right; for as far as they know, there is nothing that can kill a hellhound.

     Tired out, Y/N stares at the fire, the same fire she saw when she looked that monster in the eye as it sneaked closer, growling, blood dripping from its mouth. Apprehensively, she swallows; this is going to result in some nightmares, of that she’s sure. Looking for a little affection, she leans in towards Dean and rests her head on his shoulder while her gaze slides down to her leg. Her friend bandaged it to keep it clean, but she can feel it throbbing. She lost a fair amount of blood, enough to feel sleepy and light headed. It’s clear as day that she needs to get to a hospital, and that says something coming from her. Yet they are stuck on a mountain slope, miles away from civilization, miles away from help. Y/N wants to keep her hopes up, she does, but even an optimist would have to admit that it's looking pretty grim.

     "What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" Dean asks softly, laying his cheek against her hair.      A small smile forms, the corner of her mouth curls up a little. She has known the Winchesters for quite some time now. They are like her brothers; she would die for them and they would do the same for her. Both boys have the ability to see behind the mask she claims to wear so well. It’s not often that Dean is this affectionate, though. Him almost losing his friend probably has something to do with it.      "We're in deep shit, Dean," she acknowledges.      "Can't deny that," he admits. "But we'll get out of this mess. Sam is working his mojo down the mountain and we will figure out a way to kill those chihuahuas, okay?"      Y/N looks up at him, into his emerald green eyes. He seems so calm, so confident. It eases her a little, and so she lets the air escape from her lips as he slips his arm around her and lets her lean in against him. Her eyes fall shut; it's starting to dawn on her just how tired she is. A mixture of fear, lack of sleep and blood loss, she assumes. But laying here, so close to Dean, it makes her feel all kinds of other things too.

     Safe, no matter how many hellhounds are on their doorstep.      Warm, despite the freezing cold outside.      Loved, even though she knows Dean doesn't love her the way she loves him. 

    Y/N always had a soft spot for the oldest Winchester brother, but in their line of work it seemed stupid to get involved with the hunter. Of course she has wondered, asked herself ‘what if it works out’ and ‘what if this time it won’t hurt.’ But since everyone she cares for has either left or died, she reluctantly kept her distance. It’s what got her into this business in the first place. The losses she suffered left scars so deep, that she promised herself that she would never let anyone close again. And then Sam and Dean walked into the Roadhouse and bought her a drink.

     She chuckles. The Roadhouse, man, did they spend a lot of time there. She thinks about the bar for a moment. The worn leather stools, the pool table that Ash sleeps on when it’s not being used, the old jukebox that is full of R.E.O. and other mullet rock.      “I wish I brought my iPod,” Y/N comments.      The silence in the cabin is bothering her and a little music would have helped cast out the sound of the dogs rustling through the snow outside, barking every now and then.      "Yeah, I could dig some rock tunes right now,” Dean agrees.            Y/N watches how he picks up the backpack and digs up a snack. Her upper lip twitches at the sight of the protein bar; she finds them disgusting. Dean offers one and she refuses.      “C’mon, you have to eat something,” he pressures.      “I’m not hungry.”      Dean lifts his eyebrows and glares at her sideways, holding her gaze.      “That’s a new one,” he comments after which he takes a bite from his bar. “Have some Gatorade then.”      He hands Y/N the plastic bottle with the blue sports drink inside.      “Dean, stop nursing me!” she refuses chuckling.      “You need to keep up your strength,” he argues.      “For what?”      “For when Sam gets here. Who knows what stunts we might need to pull off when we get your fine little ass out of trouble,” he replies, after which he takes another bite from his bar and grins while chewing.

     Rolling her eyes and sighing reluctantly, Y/N takes the bottle and drinks. When she restores eye contact, she shoots him a ‘Satisfied?’ glare. Dean smirks, amused with her attitude, takes the bottle back and has a swig as well. Y/N can’t help but to steal a glance. My God, isn’t he gorgeous, she thinks to herself. Watching how he has his head tilted back, his strong jawline and rough stubble standing out, throat exposed, then licking his lips after he brings the bottle back down. It reminds her of the times she had a beer with him and his brother. The three of them rode out plenty of nights, to find a quiet spot where they sat on the hood of the Impala under a night full of stars. Dean kept the beers coming, she played some music, Sam made sure they got home okay. Y/N smiles at the memory and flips through to the next, not noticing how Dean is studying her.

     “What?” he wonders, looking at her intently.      “Remember how we basically fought for a month because I wanted to bring my guitar along on the road and you thought it was a waste of space?” she recalls.      Dean looks away as the smile on his lips grows wider.      “Yeah, I remember that. And I had a point too. Baby is not a tour bus.”      “It’s one guitar, Dean! You have an arsenal big enough for a small army in the trunk!”      “Exactly! No room for your musical instruments,” he exclaims, but smirking nonetheless.      Y/N lifts her head victoriously because they both know who won this battle.      “Where is my guitar now?”      Dean clears his throat. “In the car.”      Both have a laugh, the grim mood lifted for a moment.

     “You brought your harmonica?” he asks curious.      Y/N opens her jacket and takes the tiny object out of her inner pocket.      “Who needs an iPod then,” he responds, delighted. “Play something.”      Looking forward to her performance, he straightens his back and turns to face his partner. He always enjoys it when she plays or sings, somehow it always seems to calm him down. Dean watches as Y/N leans against the wall again, trying to think of a suitable song. Then she holds the harmonica in front of her mouth with one hand and partly covers the exhale holes as she lets the air flow through, creating that unique sound. Waiting for Dean to guess the song, she plays the tune. He’s a little slow on the uptake, but then she notices the expression of recognition on his face.      “Hellhound On My Trail? Seriously?” he comments.

     Y/N pauses and laughs. She was wondering how long it would take for him to figure that one out. Content with herself she holds the harmonica in front of her, tracing the delicate initials in the silver with her fingertips. There's a story behind this instrument, the first she learned to play.      "It used to be my Mom's," Y/N shares, when she feels Dean's lingering stare. "She taught me to play it. Guitar, too."      The line on Dean's lips curve up, listening to her story.      "She was a great singer. I remember when I was really young, she would sing me lullabies, but not always usual ones."      Dean chuckles; that sounds familiar."My mom didn't appreciate the traditional lullabies either."      "Really? What would she sing to you?" she asks intrigued.      "Beatles songs, mostly. 'Hey Jude' was her favorite," Dean recalls.      His gaze drifts away as he takes a short trip down Memory Lane, trying to grasp what recollections he has of Mary. Afterall, he was only four years old when she died.

     "Mom was a big fan of Billy Joel," Y/N remembers. “She usually lulled me to sleep by singing ‘Vienna’ and ‘Lullabye’.”      “Why don’t you play one of his songs, then?” Dean offers.      “I thought that wasn’t your thing,” she assumes.      Dean shrugs. “Maybe not what I would normally listen to, but I sure can appreciate it. Play something you enjoy for once.”      He’s got a point, because Y/N usually plays what he likes. Truth be told, she would practice songs by his favorite bands for hours whenever they weren’t together, just to impress him. It worked too, she will never forget the sparkle in his eyes as he watched her absolutely nail the riff of ‘When The Levee Breaks’ by Led Zeppelin.

     Again Y/N takes a moment to find a song in her memory to play, then the ultimate Billy Joel track comes to mind.      “Okay, imagine…” she holds out her hand, painting a picture as she’s telling the story.  “Imagine the Roadhouse. Old worn furniture, hunting antiques and vintage beer signs on the wall. Pool table over there, a U-shaped counter on this side. It’s crowded, but not too crowded, y’know? Hunters are having a drink, laughing, writing in their journals, exchanging stories. Jo and Ellen are there, Bobby too, Ash is drinking his PBR. It feels…”      Dean watches her in awe. There’s something about her, that’s a given fact. But when she’s passionate and lets her imagination run free, he just can’t stop looking at her. She’s so vibrant, all big eyes and wide smile. Damn, she’s beautiful, he thinks to himself.

     She pauses, feeling Dean’s eyes on her and meeting his intrigued gaze, causing her to lose her breath for a second. Their eyes remain locked and she can feel him drinking her in. It’s a good thing that she knows he’s not in love, otherwise she might start to believe he is.      “It feels… cozy, and happy… and warm,” she continues.     Then Y/N breaks eye-contact and points at the other corner of the little cabin.     “Over there is a piano. A man walks over, sits down and starts to play.”     She brings the harmonica to her mouth and starts the music. Although Dean would probably consider this kind of music too soft, the joyful sound of his laughter mixes with the notes. Y/N breathes out relieved in the break; she hoped she would get to hear that sound again. The melody repeats with a playful variation and she closes her eyes in enjoyment.

     “You know the first verse?” she challenges.      “What? Me?” Dean glares at her, surprised.      “I’m not asking the dogs to howl along. Yeah, you!” she grins.      “Yeah, I know the song,” he sits up and prepares.      Y/N nods excited. “Alright, you do first verse, I’ll do the second.”      Again she hits the note and Dean comes in right on cue. His impression of Billy Joel is not entirely on key, but it’s amusing nonetheless.

     It's nine o'clock on a Saturday      The regular crowd shuffles in      There's an old man sitting next to me      Makin' love to his tonic and gin

     He says, "Son, can you play me a memory      I'm not really sure how it goes      But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete      When I wore a younger man's clothes.

     Y/N can’t help but to laugh, but keeps on playing and Dean keeps on singing. She takes over the lyrics of the second verse and they join together for the chorus.  

     Sing us a song, you're the piano man      Sing us a song tonight      Well, we're all in the mood for a melody      And you've got us feelin' alright

     It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday      And the manager gives me a smile      'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see      To forget about life for a while      And the piano, it sounds like a carnival      And the microphone smells like a beer      And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar      And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"

     Sing us a song you're the piano man      Sing us a song tonight      Well we're all in the mood for a melody      And you got us feeling alright

Read part three here

Thanks for reading the second part! Don’t hesitate to let me know what you think.

This series is already finished, so I expect to update soon. Stay tuned for more!

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[hybridequalist]

Another Day on the Job

Fandom: Batman

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch, Edward Nigma 

Words: 3400

Notes: This is based on a buddy cop AU @askarkham​ came up with about a month ago. 

If you like what you read, let me know and feel free to reblog!

What was it about police stations and the sound of typing? The two were inseparable. On most mornings, Jonathan would have found it charming but after the late night he'd had, he was more inclined to find the constant sound infuriating.

Reaching his desk, the lanky brunette shrugged off his jacket and removed a few case files from his bag, stacking them next to his desktop computer. When he finished the short prep of his workspace, he turned around and--right on time--his partner walked up with a fresh mug of tea in his hand. 

"G'morin' Jon," Jervis greeted him, the weariness in his tone letting the taller man know he hadn't been the only one burning the midnight oil. "Brought you your usual."

Jonathan took the offered drink and sipped at it. The faintly bitter taste of dandelion root hit his tongue, softened by just a touch of honey, and he sighed in contentment. The short blonde truly had a gift for making herbal blends for any and every situation. When he'd first come on the force, many of the officers had been skeptical but after a few short months they were all singing his praises. It was common knowledge now that if Jervis came up to you with a mug of tea in his hands, it was in your best interest to drink it before questioning it.

"Do you know if forensics has come up with anything relevant regarding the crime scene?" Jonathan asked, taking his seat and booting up the computer.

"They hadn't when I arrived, but that was almost twenty minutes ago," Jervis shrugged. "They might have messaged since. Edward was also taunting me again earlier, claiming to have another 'hint' as he calls it."

"That freelancer knows exactly where he can put that attitude, lest I be forced to do it for him," Jonathan growled, taking another gulp of tea as he logged on and opened the department email. Scrolling through the messages left there overnight, his scowl deepened when he couldn't find what he was looking for.

"Doesn’t anyone do their jobs?!" he spat irritably. "The scene is over twenty-four hours old and still nothing out of forensics! What are they doing to make it take so long?!"

"You're ranting, Jonathan," Jervis sighed, catching sight of the nervous glances the other nearby officers and detectives were giving his partner. "Did you forget to eat breakfast again? You become a complete bandersnatch when you're hungry."

Seemingly from nowhere, the blonde produced a small tupperware containing a bagel sandwich and gave it to his tall counterpart, who took it and all but ripped it open as he began to compose a message to the forensics team.

This was not a typical morning in the Criminal Investigation Division--not anymore--but it was not uncommon either: before Tetch's assignment, the foul attitude from his partner had been a daily pattern that ended in a lot of people getting shouted at and tensions running high. Jonathan Crane had a brilliant mind and undoubtedly the best profiler and investigator in the CID, but he wasn't much of a team player. Combined with how often he lost himself in his work--frequently to the point of forgetting to take care of himself--his work life was mostly solitary and no one wanted to stay partners with him for long. Jervis Tetch had been heaven-sent in that regard: his much more optimistic attitude and surprising grit made him perfectly suited to endure Crane's cynicism and he was a genius in his own right--despite his odd quirks involving hats, the works of Lewis Carroll and his teas. He had first been something of a curiosity to Jonathan and had been tolerated merely to learn more. However, the lanky investigator soon found himself quite attached to the newcomer, a phenomenon he was still at a loss to explain. They also worked well together despite the occasional clash of opinions which was much better than trading partners every few weeks when a problem arose.

The rest of the morning passed largely without incident, forensics finally sending in their findings near 11. Jonathan and Jervis went over the paper together and, much to their frustration, were unable to determine much as there was little substance in the evidence to start with.

"This is absolutely ridiculous!" the taller of the pair grumbled, fingers drumming on the desk as he reread the details for the fifth time. "Fingerprints all over the scene but 'no indication of any patterns'? 'The unidentified hair sample disintegrated when exposed to testing fluid'? 'Blood sample matched nothing in Gotham's database'?! You'd think we were hunting a ghost instead of some joker dressing as a clown!"

"Maybe he fell into a vat of chemicals or something?" Jervis suggested with a shrug. "Had his fingerprints burned off and his hair damaged?"

"I wouldn't put that beyond the realm of possibility, especially in this city," Jonathan admitted. "Still, the odds of that being the case are slim at best. More likely he was wearing gloves and lost that hair in one of the explosions he set off to account for the fragility."

"Bother," the englishman sighed. "So I assume we're to go over the case reports from the scene again?"

"It's our only lead on his patterns as of now," the brunette replied shortly. "Unless he attacks again or one of his thugs can be identified--

It was at this moment that both investigators' phones went off, the ringing startling them into silence. After a moment, Jervis went to answer his device as Jonathan rolled his eyes. There was only one person who would go to such dramatic lengths to get their shared attention. Still, he pulled out his own and answered the call.

"Still having trouble, boys?" The voice from the phone was rich and teasing. "Looks like I'll be winning my bet with miss Kyle after all. She truly thought you two would have a better lead by now."

"If you're here to gloat, I will end this call and never respond to your messages again," Jonathan threatened with a growl. "Your only contact with us should be to pass along information."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end that made the brunette roll his eyes. Edward Nigma was one of the most infuriating people on the planet, but being an underworld informant was a hard career path in Gotham and he did an excellent job of it--things that meant he was likely to remain on Police payroll for as long as he remained uncompromised.

"Fine, fine. Take all the fun out of it why don't you?" the criminal grumbled. "I figured you two would be very interested to learn that one of the goons you've been trying to track down is currently relaxing in a club and bragging about his new job working for that clown. A fantastically easy catch after so much hard work. It's probably a setup...or maybe he really is that stupid. Hard to tell with Gotham's masses."

"Address and name," Jonathan ordered shortly.

"I'll get the radio," Jervis offered, darting off with surprising speed.

"Guy who you're looking for is Tommy Payaso. Used to be a nurse but quit for mysterious reasons," Edward was saying. "He's currently getting himself a drink at a club called the Luna. Nice place. Bit pricy considering their mediocre menu. I advise not charging in with guns blazing--he’s armed."

"If this is truly a lead, I will withdraw your arrest warrant," the slim investigator replied. "If not--"

"No need to sour the air with your threats, Jonny-boy," the freelancing informant drawled. "I know what you want to do with me already--it's the same thing every time. Change it up, why don't you?"

The call ended with a faint click and Jonathan bit back a violent curse. One of these days, Edward was going to push his luck a little too far and he would be more than happy to be the one delivering the consequences.

As it happened, Edward's tip had been a solid one--which had been good for everybody involved. The thug hadn't come in easy, but he was now securely cuffed in one of the interrogation rooms. Jonathan and Jervis both stood behind the one-way glass. The blonde was rifling through the man's file while his partner eyed the criminal appraisingly. "Matches Edward's description perfectly," Jervis commented. "Used to be a nurse before he suddenly resigned. No prior criminal record...but he has a history of mood swings and aggression in both the workplace and among his peers." "No doubt caused by family-related trauma," the taller man remarked. "Probably his father's doing; it often is." "So far, he's remained silent to all interrogation, but he hasn't asked for an attorney either. I doubt he'll open up to us unless we...push..." Jonathan glanced sideways at his partner. Jervis' brow was furrowed and he was staring off into space. He knew that look: the englishman was very expressive and this particular one was common when their work took an often necessary but unpleasant turn; he was trying to visualize some alternate way to go about the next phase of their investigation--one that might prevent anyone involved from suffering harm.

“See if he responds to you,” the brunette stated abruptly. “If the clown prepared him with misinformation in case of capture, I’d prefer to know sooner than later. As head investigator on this case, you’re a more valuable place to set up the red herring than the other officers.”

“But I’m still the junior partner,” Jervis protested. “I--”

“Mister Payaso doesn’t know that,” Jonathan interjected. “And as admirable as it is for you to try spare him a session with me, it is our only effective option left should he not give you anything at all.”

“There are other ways, Jonathan,” the shorter man mumbled. “You know that.”

“Better it remains on my conscience than weighing on yours,” the analyst replied, resting a hand on Jervis’ shoulder. “My mind is made up. If you finish early, I will be downstairs in the lab.”

Jonathan strode away, the door closing almost silently behind him. His partner sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair and then rubbing the back of his neck.

“Can’t you see it’s you I’m trying to spare from this?” he asked the empty room. “I can’t stand watching what that concoction does to you…”

Tommy Payaso had known he was going to be interrogated from the very beginning when the cops had gotten their meaty hands on him. While he had no idea who had tipped them off he was working with Gotham’s newest criminal mastermind, he had been successful in remaining silent and frustrating the police’s efforts. Their latest tactic to send in the investigator heading the case had also been useless--Tommy was a lot of things, but he was not a snitch.

“There are protections we can offer you, potentially reduced or nulled prison sentences as well,” the short blonde was saying to the henchman. “You’ve never been to prison before, Mr. Payaso; I can assure you that if you are incarcerated in Gotham, it will be a dangerous and potentially fatal venture.”

“Look, investigator tea and crumpets or whatever,” Tommy grumbled, leaning back in his chair and “I’m not saying anything, so how about you scurry back off to your office and let the officers process my paperwork and I’ll get out of your hair. You have no evidence to say I did anything and I have nothing to confess.”

The door suddenly swung open, making both men in the interrogation room jolt at the sound of it. The first thing Tommy registered about the man who entered was his intimidating height followed almost immediately at how distant and cold those hazel eyes were.

“We will see if you truly have nothing to confess, Mr. Payaso,” the newcomer said in an eerily calm voice.

“Jonathan, I’m still working here,” the english investigator said, rising (which did little to improve his height compared to the brunette beanpole)

“I have been observing your efforts and made the call that you were not making sufficient progress,” the other investigator replied firmly. “It is crucial we get something useful from the suspect and your methods are not going to get results in a timely manner.”

“I still don’t think this is necessary,” the blonde grumbled.

“While I value your opinion, Tetch, I already told you my mind was made up on this matter. Now, if you would excuse yourself, I need to be alone with Mr. Payaso.”

Mr. Tetch still seemed unhappy with the arrangement, but he nevertheless obeyed the politely implied command. He strode to the still-open door, paused on the threshold.

“‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son’,” he said in a low voice. “‘The jaws that bite, the claws that catch. Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch’.”

And then the door closed, leaving Tommy with the new interrogator.

As “Jonathan” took a seat, the henchman looked the lanky man over. He didn’t seem to be in very good fighting shape due to his slim frame--more of an intellectual than someone who was active in the field. However, there was a strong aura of intimidation that surrounded him, making even the small motions of moving his chair forward seem threatening.

Settle down, Tommy, he told himself. It’s just a good cop versus bad cop scenario. Besides, I could knock him over even with my hands in these cuffs no problem. This guy isn’t so bad.

“Do you believe in God, Mr. Payaso?”

The question was so abrupt that it caught Tommy off guard. “What?”

“Do you believe in a God?” the investigator repeated.

“What does it matter if I do?” the suspect spat back.

“Well,” Jonathan said slowly, a small smirk forming on his face, “I was going to give you the opportunity to pray before we get started here. Because you see, Mr. Payaso, once I begin my interrogation, only two things will stop your torment: your confession or divine intervention.”

The smirk was still slowly growing, edging on gleeful now. Tommy decided he didn’t like that smile--it made a chill run down his spine.

“But as you have not answered, I will assume you prefer not to call upon His help,” the brunette continued. “Now, you may have noticed that your chair has armrests with cuffs. I am going to remove your current pair and instead secure you to your seat so you don’t flail about too much.”

The investigator rose to his full height, setting a briefcase Tommy hadn’t noticed before on the table between them. He came around and began to undo the handcuffs and Tommy immediately tried to get out of his reach. But somehow the scrawny man managed to catch hold of him and pin his wrists to the table.

“Now now,” Jonathan chided, still looking far too happy. “You can struggle as much as you like once I have you restrained. But there is no escaping this, understand?”

Looking into those hazel eyes--strangely emotionless despite his expression--Tommy got the strong sense that if he tried something like that again, this still-unknown horrible thing that was about to happen to him would get infinitely worse. He hadn’t gotten a feeling like that since he’d met the Boss and that realization made a cold sweat start to gather on his brow.

One Jonathan had finished cuffing the nervous suspect, he returned to the table and opened the briefcase.

“It doesn’t matter what your goal is or who you’re working for,” he mused, more to himself than to Tommy. “Sooner or later, someone always talks. And what convinces them to talk? Their fear. You assumed when I came in that this was going to be like one of those television dramas where I yell at you and throw things and make you afraid that I will beat the answers I’m seeking out of you. Quite frankly, that is truly a barbaric way to accomplish the goal of a confession. I won’t have to even touch you to get what I want from you; you’ll give it to me quite willingly.”

Tommy watched in silent apprehension as the lanky man withdrew what appeared to be a burlap sack from the case. Jonathan admired it for a moment and the handcuffed man realized it was a mask of some sort, roughly shaped like the head of a scarecrow.

“Do try to resist screaming,” he said, reaching into the case again and removing a cannister. “You can’t give me the information I want if you lose your voice, now can you?”

Jonathan did not see Jervis for the whole rest of the day. It had been several hours since Tommy Payaso had finally broken down and blubbered out everything he knew about his employer’s plans, allowing the brunette to come down from the rush he felt using the Toxin and learning his victim’s worst fears. When finally it was the end of his shift, Jonathan decided to see if he could catch his partner before he left for the night.

He managed to find him in the break room, sipping a cup of tea with a strong floral scent next to the window.

“Jervis,” he greeted him.

“Jonathan,” the blonde replied curtly.

A heavy silence fell between them, Jonathan awkwardly standing in the doorway with his briefcase and watching as Jervis drank his herbal blend and stare out into the night sky.

“You know I didn’t mean to undermine or offend you when I took over the interrogation,” the taller man eventually said.

“Just as you know that isn’t the reason why I’m cross with you,” Jervis shot back.

“Tetch, we’ve been over this; the Toxin is highly effective in interrogation scenarios for ensuring truthful confessions from the suspects.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s right, Jonathan!” the englishman burst, slamming down his cup and slopping hot liquid onto the table. “It’s cruel and it doesn’t just affect the victims either! Do you have any idea who you become when you use that gas of yours?!”

“I’m in control,” Jonathan insisted, tone sharp.

“Are you? Are you really? Because sometimes I start to wonder, Jon!”

The brunette waited until Jervis’ breathing had somewhat settled and he was no longer holding his teacup in a deathgrip before he crossed the room and sat opposite his partner. Still, he remained quiet to let the smaller man speak when he was ready.

“I don’t like how much you rely on it,” the blonde admitted. “It’s like...like it’s becoming your go-to method, no matter how certain we are on a suspect’s guilt.”

“I could always let you be the harsh one instead--the ‘bad cop’ as it were,” Jonathan suggested. “You can be incredibly fierce once you let all the propriety go.”

“And then perhaps everyone would stop saying I’m so ‘adorable’,” Jervis muttered, a faint grin crossing his face as the thought played out in his mind. He quickly hid the emotion with a gulp of his remaining tea before rising to grab some napkins and clean up his spill. Jonathan let a weary smile at that before his usual somber expression returned.

Both men knew this would not be the last time this topic would come up between them--it was nowhere near resolved--but now was not the time to discuss it: they were tired from their hard day’s work and their emotions were still too close to the surface to keep from fighting about it more. For tonight, they would put it aside.

“Would you like to walk out with me?” the taller man offered. “It’s about time to leave.”

“Wait a mo,” Jervis replied, taking his cup to the sink and rinsing it before he put it back into the cupboard. One it was safely in his place, he returned to his seat and picked up his bag. “There we are. After you.”

The walk was silent until they reached the front doors of the station. Standing at the bottom step, the two exchanged their goodbyes.

“Hopefully we’ll be able to move forward in our investigation tomorrow,” Jervis said.

“If the night shift doesn’t ruin everything,” Jonathan added. “Until then, Tetch.”

“Make sure you eat a proper meal when you get home; I don’t want there to be a bandersnatch at your desk in the morning.”

“Yes ‘mother’.”