Chapter Text
Rain. It’s raining. The biting, stinging cold is something he’s used to.
But the rain is nice. It covers his tracks, makes this little hobby just that bit easier. Not many people would call this a hobby, but that’s what it was.
It wasn’t for money, or fame, nor attention. It was for fun.
Which, according to the police department, was what made him dangerous. But, he had shrugged that off. He was only dangerous to the people who deserved it. Crooked cops, drug lords, other murderers, and on tonight's platter:
A molester.
If he wasn’t going to get rid of the filth, no one else would. The police certainly wouldn’t, not at the rate they were running the investigation. That was always frustrating. He always gave law enforcement a chance, always waited to see if they would make an arrest, if they would do anything to help the situation.
No. Never. Never in time, and never in a way that mattered or actually helped at all.
So, it was another case of him taking it into his own hands. He was stalking him. His target.
…It. He was stalking it.
He waited, and watched. Stalking people was easy, especially when they weren’t paying attention, too busy staring at their phone or completely sense blind because of the rain.
Bless the rain. It was a big reason he loved Manchester, at least during November.
His target took a left turn, down an alley. So did he.
“W-Why are you following me?” It spun around, it’s voice shaky, phone still out and on.
Silence. Did it really deserve an answer? It knows what it did. Knows that it was unacceptable, that it was a lethal offense.
“Who are you?!” It demanded, phone raised, as if threatening to call the police.
It didn’t matter who he was, and it had to know it would be stupid to call the police. He stalked forward, the target beginning to bargain.
“I-I’ll give you anything! You can have my wallet, my phone, whatever you want!” None of that mattered. He wanted it dead. He lunged, the syringe hitting its neck. He slammed the plunger.
A gurgle of complaint later, the sedative kicked in, and he was free to drag it back to his fun room. And, after a healthy night of fun, he could plant the body, and leave a lovely message to the police department.
It seems that after however long it had been, he was back to his old hobbies.
❥❥❥
“Riley, my office!” Price barked, and Simon slumped in his shitty office chair, sighing and setting down his mug. He waited a minute, knowing the Captain could and would wait the minute it took for him to get to his office.
He finally stood, downing the rest of his tea, tainted with bourbon. Simon was still in his black top coat, a navy blue scarf tossed around the back of his neck. His black loafers clicked against the linoleum floor, and paired with his black slacks, his 6’4” stature looked even taller, and his gray turtleneck just made his brooding nature even more imposing.
Despite his dirty blonde hair and near blindingly pale skin, he was a point of darkness in the bullpen. He sighed, his shoulders slumping more as he exited the floor, heading to Price’s office.
Simon just lost his partner, is still feeling the gaping hole that Gary “Roach” Sanderson had left after getting killed while under his normally watchful eyes.
So, it was no news to Riley that Price was going to fill that spot, especially with the amount of new cases that were coming in. The detective all but waltzed to the door, the bourbon having hit him earlier that morning.
What was it his father used to say? Day drinking starts the night before, or something similar.
Whatever, he was making his way to Price’s office and he knew it was to replace Sanderson. Simon doubted anyone could ever come close, but it was Price’s job to try. He didn’t hate him for it, but the bastard was starting to cut it close.
Riley stood in the door, and waited for Price to notice him. The office was small. The back wall had several small windows, the same as the front. Both sets of windows were covered in shutter blinds.
The office itself was chock full of memorabilia. From photos in his desk to shelves covered in items to framed papers, almost every inch of the Captain’s office was covered in his own story. The man was an open book anyway, but the sight of his office made it so no one even had to ask.
The desk was the only organized looking thing in the room, and even then it was covered in piles of paper and manilla folders, a haphazardly placed cup of pens somewhere near an edge of the desk.
Price finally waved him in, and it was only then that Simon realized there was another person in the office already. All he could see from his place at the foot of the desk, standing just behind the second chair, was a… mohawk? The man’s shoulders were covered in a red scarf, brown leather jacket resting just under it. There was a simple cane resting on the other side of his chair, and when the man turned to look back at him, he wasn’t ready to be met with such steely gray eyes.
“Detective Riley, this is John MacTavish. He’s been assigned to be your new partner,” Price pushed himself out of his chair, and motioned to MacTavish, who was pushing himself up as well, his blue jeans scuffed on the knees and his brown boots creaking with the effort. He grabbed his cane, leaning on it as he leaned over.
“Nice to meet you, sir. I know MacTavish is a mouthful, most people just call me Soap,” He held his hand out, his back twisted a little uncomfortably. A Scot? Really? And what kind of name is Soap? Simon made no move to shake his hand, instead glaring as if it had offended him. Price sighed, sitting down again.
“Don’t mind him, MacTavish, he’s always been a bit prickly. He’ll take a bit to warm up to you, but he’s more than competent.” Price sighed, glaring at Simon. A warning to play nice. “With just how swamped we’ve been, I have you two out on a case already,” Price continued, handing a manilla folder to Simon, the tall Brit thumbing through it easily, “Laswell decided to give you this one, so don’t give me any shit for it.” Price finished, waving the two out of the office.
Simon started to walk out, head still buried in the folder, going over the witness statement and looking over the photos. He stopped a few steps out, and he turned back, eyes wide and anger clear in his brow.
“You said Laswell was responsible for handing me this case?” His voice boomed in the bullpen, accent and fury thick. The regular hustle and bustle of the floor stopped for a moment. Price sighed in his office.
“That’s what I said. She said you might want to finish it.” That was all he got before Price shut the door. Simon’s lips pulled into a scowl, and MacTavish, who was now standing next to him and staring, looked… lost. No fear at all. Simon’s face faltered.
“What’s got you peeved, LT?” Soap asked, a goofy smile on his face. Simon already kind of hated him.
“I’m just a detective, MacTavish, save that for a real lieutenant.” He slurred, and MacTavish, not Soap, looked worried. Worried. Putting a firmness in his voice, he stepped aside, conscious of MacTavish’s cane, and motioned for the man to walk ahead of him, “Don’t look at me like that. Let’s go.”
“A real gentlemen,” He joked, his footsteps clicking in threes instead of twos with the cane, and the pair began the short walk to the cars in the front. “I’m driving, aye sir?” MacTavish asked, mostly out of courtesy. He had given the man one appraising look and knew he was in no state to drive.
“You’re not driving. We’re taking my car.” He countered, and John stuck his cane out a bit, just enough to try and trip him. Simon stopped a step before he would’ve tripped. “I am driving.” He growled, and his lips pulled up back into that snarl as he shoved the front door open.
“You’re in no state—” MacTavish tried to counter, but Riley was faster.
“And what would you know about what state I’m in, MacTavish?” He hissed, but John didn’t flinch. He didn’t falter, just let Simon interrupt before continuing his sentence.
“You’re in no state to drive, sir. It may be invisible to everyone else, but I can tell.” He pointed, taking an old man’s stature as he leant over, supported by his cane. Despite the obvious scowl on Simon’s face, MacTavish stepped forward through the door. “Now, are you going to hand me the keys, or are you going to be a stubborn arse and wait till you crash the fockin’ thing?” He turned, hand extended, waiting for Simon to make his choice.
He followed the shorter outside, shoulders already slumped, but now his neck was lowered too. Simon grumbled, but he, albeit aggressively, fished the keys out of his pocket, slapping them into the Scot’s hand.
“There’s a lad, c’mon then,” The obnoxious little man spun the keys by their ring on his pointer finger, turning away from Simon and clicking the fob to unlock the car, waiting to see which vehicle would flash its tail lights.
“This way, MacTavish.” Simon grumbled, giving John a small bump on his way past, too deep into his annoyance to feel bad about it anymore. John didn’t so much as budge, and Simon turned slightly, the man’s resistance to his shove only increasing his annoyance.
Simon pushed it down. What was a little more in the bottle? They kept walking to his car, a black 1964 Chevrolet Impala.
“Steamin’ Jesus, she’s a beast,” Soap grinned, watching Simon stand by the passenger side, still sulking.
“You can rave about the car all you want once we’re on our way. You know where we’re going?” Simon asked, both testing his new ‘partner’ and trying to find a way back into the driver’s seat.
“Well, considering you didn’t hand me the file, and you’re still carrying it with a death grip, and you have yet to tell me anything at all, I’d say I’m quite clueless as to where we’re supposed to be going,” John tried to joke, but Simon just huffed in annoyance, unimpressed. “But, if I had to guess, I’d guess the shoddy apartment building that’s surrounded with police tape. It’s the only obvious crime scene in the immediate area, and I overheard a few of the officer’s talking about one Detective Simon Riley showing up to wreak havoc,” He finished, and he was too busy starting the car and putting it in reverse to see Simon’s somewhat shocked expression.
“Well, get us there then,” Riley quickly recovered, not going to let some punk impress me with his deduction skills.
“So I was right then, sir?” He asked, a smirk obvious in both his voice and on his face, and Simon had never wanted to punch someone more than right now. Though, punching his personal chauffeur was a bad idea.
“Just drive.” Simon grumbled, leaning away from the driver’s side seat, staring out the window at the gloomy sky. No rain yet, but he was sure it would start pouring before noon.
The car ride was only a few minutes, and the entirety of it was filled with a deafening silence. Simon exuded open annoyance, but John seemed to be impervious to it, despite the Mancusian’s best effort.
❥❥❥
Simon led the way into the building, flashing his badge.
“Short one’s with me,” He mumbled, and John made a noise of offense before following him in, surprisingly quick despite his stature and his cane.
“I’m not short, I’ll have you know—” He started, giving Simon a light tap to the side of his calf with his cane, the taller huffing in amusement. “Did I just get a laugh out of you?” John seemed impressed with himself, but also seemed happy to see something other than annoyance on Simon’s sharp features.
“Not a laugh, MacTavish. C’mon, we’ve got work to do.” Riley straightened his features, lifting the tape for John to duck under.
“Always a gentleman, I see,” He huffed, Simon ducking under right after him, bumping into John as he stood stock still, taking in the scene in front of him.
The pair had entered through the building’s main entrance and made it all the way down the carpeted hall before any blood was seen at all. However, as soon as they crossed the threshold of the flat’s door, the smell hit Johnny like a punch to the nose, and he felt himself still in hopes that he would be given time to recover.
Instead of a moment of gentle recovery, there was suddenly a warm wall standing directly behind him, and he looked up in surprise.
“If you’re done standing around, I’d like to get to the actual crime scene sometime today, MacTavish.” And that was all it took to get John moving again, face flushed in embarrassment as he huffed and stepped forward. After standing that close, maybe he was short.
Simon walked ahead to the first responders, who simply pointed him in the direction of the body. As he walked by, John could see just how pale the two officers had been, and now he was starting to get a little worried about the state of the room.
“Hm.” Was Simon’s reaction to the scene before him, and John couldn’t disagree more.
The wall above the bed was supposed to be beige. Instead, it was crimson, and the color seeped onto the other walls and onto the sheets of the bed, where the body lay, limp and lifeless. Hand prints and trails were left in the mess on the wall, a slugs trail of blood leading to the bed.
“Sweet Mother Mary,” John cursed, the smell of the blood may have punched him before, but it was entangled in his senses now, nauseatingly strong. The smell of the freshly rotting corpse wasn’t helpful either, but the stinging in his eyes was new.
“Keep it together, MacTavish. You act like you’ve never seen a dead body before.” Simon had amusement in his voice. Amusement. John knew it was mostly to cope, but it was still unnerving hearing that tone in the scene he was in.
“I’ve seen dead bodies before, Riley, just never… like this.” John motioned to the man on the bed, who was positioned unnaturally, covered in blood, and cut open.
“Well, if we’re working this case together, I ask you get used to it. Last time this cunt was around, he left a trail of bodies. We’ll be seeing more than just this poor sod.” Simon finished, intently studying the body all the while. As soon as he was satisfied, he made a hand motion, and the first responders ushered in the forensics team. “Where’s the Austrian?” He asked, directed at one of the few people who had just rushed in, gloves on and already taking samples of the blood and gore, a few taking photos.
“Arthur took the day off, I’m in charge for the day.” One of the men called, and Simon raised an eyebrow, a small half-smile appearing on his face. If John had to guess, the two were close, at least at work.
“He take the day off to go n' hang out at that bar?” Riley had given the other a real smile now, and the shorter man returned the expression in kind, adjusting his work-issued baseball cap.
“I assume so, you know how he gets about his bartender,” The man shrugged and Simon nodded along, turning back to the body, face dropping again at the horror around him. The man in front of him was vivisected, the ‘Y’ shape carved into the entirety of his abdomen a taunt.
Simon’s own scars burned, but he pushed it down. He continued his examination, the same head scientist coming up next to him and pulling samples.
“Yikes. Think it’s the same guy?” He asked, and Simon tensed a little, glaring at the body as if the guy had cut himself open in spite of him. He didn’t answer, just sat and glared, at least until something like remorse crossed his features. Then he was back to stone cold.
“Oi, I need another sample swab!” One of the scientists called, and the lead stepped away, patting Simon on the shoulder as he went.
John had taken the time to look around, gathering some clues about who this guy was. There were pictures on the wall, a few of family, but most of a group of men, most likely good friends. There was a set of keys on the dresser next to the photos, and the life of the man was starting to come together.
A middle aged man, civilian, got close with a biker gang, frequented bars and car shows. Larger family, a younger sister and three older brothers. Sister had a daughter, and… John noticed a bloody hand print on a photograph, one of the victim and his niece. It curled around the edge, as if someone had been holding it up to show somebody in front of them.
He waved down one of the forensic team, grabbing a pair of gloves and slipping them on. He flipped over the photo frame, and taped to the back was a note.
“Riley!” He barked, and Simon was behind him in a second, as if the man took a single stride to appear. “Take a look at this,” John showed Simon the back of the frame, and he eyed it curiously. He pulled a steel pen out of his pocket and prodded at it before waving down the same lead from before.
“Garrick, get me an evidence bag.” He called, and Garrick did just that, pulling an evidence bag seemingly from thin air. He watched as Simon dropped the photo frame into the bag, letting the lead seal it off. “Make sure the blood on that matches the rest, and then get a look at that note.” The lead, Garrick, nodded, and signaled for the crew to wrap it up. Apparently they were already near done.
“Well, they sure do work quick, aye?” John noted, and Simon just grunted in response, turning back around to take in the rest of the room. John followed suit, spinning on his good leg and staring at the body on the bed.
It took John a moment, but he could tell that something was wrong— no, something was missing.
“Where’s his heart?” He asked, a morbid understanding shaking his voice, tightening his throat.
“Killer always takes something. Guess he wanted the bloke's heart.” Simon replied, now noticing that the lower half of the body was covered in a sheet. It’d been thrown as if it covered the whole body. “Oi, did someone move the sheet?!” Riley shouted, and looked to the doorway, seeing one of the first responders peek through the door.
“Yessir. The body was fully covered and we moved it to identify him.” The officer looks a little nervous, and John wasn’t sure what for.
“Anything else that got moved?” Simon asked, an anger lacing his words, and the officer shook his head. “Good.” Was all he replied with and turned back to the body.
“What do you mean the killer always takes something?” John’s voice was still wobbly, but he pushed through his discomfort.
“Killer always takes something. Previous victims had certain parts or pieces taken, usually symbolic of the crime they committed—”
“Hold on, ‘crime they committed’?”
“Don’t interrupt me.” Was Simon’s answer, and John let a clear annoyance take over his feature.
“Aye, sir, go ahead then.” He replied, leaning on his cane and waiting. Simon let a pause hang in the air before turning, waving for John to follow. “Always as soon as I get comfortable,” He mumbled, half-joking before following the Brit out the door. “Where we goin’ then?” He asked, Simon ever silent and just walking, leading John out to the car again.
“The file’s on the dashboard. Go over it, I’m taking a smoke.” His voice was flat and grumbly, and he had already started to take some steps backwards.
“Why don’t I join you then? You can smoke, I’ll go over it with you. Seems you have some extra details to fill me in on, anyway.” John reasoned, and Simon just sighed, turning to look down the street, contemplating.
“Fine, c’mon then.” Simon conceded, and John grinned, grabbing the file from the car and following his partner down an alley, watching as he deftly pulled a pack of cigarettes from his top coat, a zippo appearing from his front pocket.
John took a moment to watch Simon tap out a cigarette and light it, before finally tearing his eyes away and opening the file.
The victim was Richard Peterson. John was right, he was in a biker gang. The details on him were minimal, but underneath his top sheet were other victims.
Men and women, mostly middle aged, all of them allegedly committing some crime. Anything and everything, it seemed.
“Guess our guy doesn’t judge.” John mumbled, Simon’s eyes catching on the file before his head turned.
“No.” Was his only answer, but John could tell he was mellowing out. The tenseness surrounding him had drifted off with the smoke, and John doesn’t know when he decided to lean against the wall.
“So, he always takes something, huh? Autopsy has this guy’s kidneys missing,” John tilted the file so Simon could see, and he hummed, taking a pull of his cigarette. “Then the note at the bottom says that it was because he was suspected of organ trafficking. What kind of murderer goes after these guys?” Simon just gave another hum, and John watched as smoke billowed out of his nose, a breeze taking it down the alley.
“Guy’s something else,” Was Simon's only comment, taking one last drag before dropping the bud and crushing it under his heel, walking back to the car.
John watched him walk away, the heel of his right loafer covered in the ashes of several cigarettes. He let out a sigh, grabbing his cane from its place on the wall and flipping the file under his arm, and wondering just how many times his partner smokes in a day.
❥❥❥
A ding! from the door is what caught Hong-jin’s attention, staring directly at the entrance and spotting his favorite regular. How could he miss him?
“You’re here early, Arthur.” The Austrian stepped inside. Saying he ducked under the door would be an understatement, as the 6’10” man had to grab the top of the entry to make sure he didn’t hit his head. He gave Hong-jin a sheepish smile, and it was then that he noticed a small box tucked under the man’s arm.
“I thought I might stop by to drop this off. Maybe stay to keep you company for a while?” He knew it was posed as a question because Arthur always felt like he was overstaying his welcome, but he was glad for the company.
“Well, come in then, you giant.” He teased, getting a little rise out of Arthur as he stepped forward, huffing a bit as he placed the box down on the bar. He was in his typical gray hoodie, a rain proof coat over it due to the clouds brewing outside. His khaki cargo pants didn’t do the man justice, but they were probably the only pants that fit, so he let it go.
“Are you going to open it?” Arthur asked, nervous about his reaction. He couldn’t tell what the bartender’s expression was due to the mask that always covered the bottom half of his face. There was a burn scar that peeked out from the top, and Arthur wondered what the rest of it looked like. Not that it would change his opinion of the man in front of him.
“In a moment. Just taking you in. You’re a lot to look at, y’know.” Hong-jin had learned at this point that the easiest way to fluster the Austrian was to give him attention. That combined with obvious lingering stares always got the man to flush a wonderful pink. He thought the color brought out the blue of Arthur’s eyes and the slight reddish tint to his hair.
“I, uh, well, I am on the taller side.” Arthur stuttered, and the bartender watched the flush start to bloom, ruddying his cheeks and ears more than they already were.
“The taller side? You are the tall side, König.” He joked, and the Austrian just huffed again, blush deepening at the nickname.
“I regret telling you how to say that correctly, Horangi,” Arthur huffed, still not used to the attention despite Hong-jin always giving it to him.
“What, would you rather I butcher it? Or maybe I should just say it in English, let all of the other patrons know who my favorite is—” He teased, but when he looked back at Arthur, he was completely red, though his eyes communicated that he didn’t hate the idea.
“No, no. I think your other customers know I’m your favorite anyway.” He joked, chuckling a little. Horangi was happy to hear it.
“Well, since you’re here, would you like a drink?” He offered, and Arthur huffed, thinking for a moment.
“A shirley temple sounds nice, if you wouldn’t mind.” And it was Horangi’s turn to huff and laugh, turning to grab a glass before grabbing the soda nozzle, built into the bar.
“You have the taste of a child,” Horangi teased, and Arthur laughed with him, watching him pour the sweet grenadine over the top, the red sinking and tainting the rest of the glass.
“Well, maybe children have good taste in sodas.” Arthur took a sip, Horangi stealing a glance at him. “So, are you going to open it now? I am anxious to know what you think of it.” He shuffled on his barstool, spinning back and forth a little. Horangi couldn’t help but smile at the display, even if Arthur couldn’t see it.
“I can open it, if you are so eager to see my reaction.” He offered, hand lingering over the box, Arthur openly staring. He nodded his head, a silent way of telling Horangi to get on with it, and so he did.
He grabbed the little box, careful to be gentle in case it was delicate, though he had no idea what König could have gotten him. It was light, very light, and now Horangi was suspicious.
“I promise it’s nothing malicious, if that is what you are worried about.” Arthur goaded, always knowing what Hong-jin was thinking. He sighed, pulling the plain brown paper away from the box. He lifted the lid, revealing tissue paper.
“This is a lot of wrapping, Arthur,” Horangi teased, placing the scraps on the bar in a heap. He lifted the paper and was met with… fabric? A very soft fabric. Silk, he realized, when he tilted it and it shined under even the dim bar lights. “A mask, Kö?” He asked, pulling the fabric up and out of the box, a bright orange tiger print meeting his eyes fully.
“I thought of you when I saw it,” Arthur started, already looking to the side out of nervous habit, a hand coming to nervously rub the back of his neck. “I cannot speak for the quality, but it looked comfortable—” He began to ramble, but stopped when a hand touched his, still sitting on the bar.
“I like it, Arthur. It’s very nice.” He admitted, and he turned around, mask in hand, to switch it out. He pulled the plain tan scarf over his head, shoving it into his pocket before delicately pulling the tiger print over his head, adjusting it. He finally turned around, revealing his new look. “What do you think?” He asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, and Arthur was stunned into silence.
He was already stunned when Horangi had just pulled off his mask, even if he was turned around and couldn’t see him. Arthur found himself staring at the bar anyway, not wanting to invade his privacy. But when he heard him ask him a question, he looked up, and he realized that the orange of the scarf really brought out the yellows and reds in Horangi’s brown eyes. He looked magnificent.
“You— you look good, i-it looks good on you,” Arthur stuttered, and Horangi chuckled, watching as he took a nervous sip of his Shirley temple to try and give himself a break between conversation. His flush rivaled that of his drink.
“I really appreciate it, Arthur. How about I treat you to coffee? As a thank you. No one is going to stop by until past 4 anyway, so we have plenty of time.” Horangi offered, leaning up against the bar, watching Arthur flush even more as he checked the clock on the wall: 12:45.
“That sounds wonderful, Hong-jin, if you— if you really wanted.” There was a softness in his voice that Horangi hadn’t heard before, and Arthur only ever used his given name when he was serious. He smiled under his new scarf, realizing that it smelled like chocolate and orange. He shook his head a little, clearing his senses.
“Let me close up shop then. I’ll be a few minutes in the back, but you can just wait here for me, yes?” He asked, and Arthur nodded, lifting his glass in a mini ‘cheers’ as Horangi turned to make sure everything was covered and put away until he got back.
Arthur was left to his own devices in the front, but mostly stared at the bar and swirled his glass. He did also throw away the packaging on the bar, sighing in relief at the fact that Horangi did like the gift.
And then he remembered that Horangi also invited him to get coffee, which… is he asking him out on a date? Arthur couldn’t believe it, so he shook the idea out of his head. They were just going to get coffee, nothing more, nothing less.
And, if he held a hope in his heart that he got the courage to make a move, or that Horangi tried to, then that was his business.
❥❥❥
There was a knock against the wall, and Price looked up from his desk, spotting Simon standing in the doorway.
“Come in, Riley. Close the door.” His tone was soft, but it was late, so Simon chalked it up to exhaustion.
“You asked for me.” He stated, leaving it in the air for Price to explain.
“I wanted to know how your first day was, with MacTavish.” Price answered, setting down the file he was going over and resting his chin on his hands, elbows resting on the desk. Simon glared, but walked forward anyway.
“He was fine. Annoying, loud, and obnoxious, but exceptional with his detective skills. His focus needs work.” Was Simon’s evaluation, and Price nodded.
“Well, it sounds like you two are getting along, then,” He gave Simon a smile, sitting back in his chair.
“‘Getting along’ is pushing it.” He countered, hoping Price understood what he was trying to say, as he always did.
“I know. He can’t replace Roach, and he isn’t trying to replace Roach. But, you still need a partner, and he happens to be it.” Price reasoned, and Simon was always weak to logic.
“You couldn’t have convinced Arthur to transfer? Garrick, even?” Simon sighed, a dejection in his voice that Price hadn’t heard in years. It left him with a similar Roach sized hole in his chest and a pang in his heart.
“Arthur works better in a lab, we both know that. And Garrick has no interest in getting back in on the action, he had his fill and he also wants to stick to the lab.” Price slapped Simon with reasoning again, and he let his head fall.
“So I’m stuck with him, is what I’m hearing?” He concluded, and the Captain nodded, a single up and down. Simon let out another dejected sigh, hands at his sides moving to plunge into his pockets. “Fine, then. I’m going for a smoke and then taking off. You know where my inbox is.” He left it at that, and Price watched him leave.
Simon made it outside, leaning against the side wall of the station, taking his smoke break. He had a good five minutes to himself, before hearing footsteps— clicks of three. He sighed, turning to look out of the small alley and seeing the shadow of John MacTavish appear, followed by the man himself. He turned, facing Simon now, who was leaning against the wall, and smiled. Simon grimaced.
“Thought I’d find you out here. You seemed out of it on our drive back. Nicotine headaches?” John asked, and Simon could physically feel the man trying to worm his way into his stomach, despite him just standing there, waiting.
“Hm.” Was Simon’s only response, but John took it as an invitation and leaned himself against the wall as well.
“So was it nicotine headaches? Or was the hangover kicking in?” John pushed, and Simon scowled, tempted to put his cigarette out on the man's shoulder in retaliation, but took a deep breath instead.
“What’s it to you? Why do you care?” Simon deflected, and despite the growl in his voice, scowl on his face, and imposing figure, John didn’t falter. The man never faltered.
“We’re supposed to be working together. I don’t think you'd want a partner who was piss drunk all the time.” He pushed back. Simon felt a sick sense of satisfaction overcome him. He’d gotten under John's skin.
“I’m not ‘piss drunk’, Johnny,” He spat, fully turning to face John and poke a finger into his chest, the man thudding back against the wall, “And it’s none of your business either way. So do us both a favor, and fuck off.” He hissed, stomping his cigarette bud out with his heel, the burnt end sizzling on the damp ground. The rain had stopped a little bit ago, but it was bound to pick back up again.
Simon stormed off, getting in his car and driving off, leaving John behind in the alley. He sighed, hearing the rain start up again, a drizzle for now, but it would be pouring within the next few minutes.
John walked to his own car, a red J 10 Honcho, parked in the lot where it was supposed to be, instead of the street. He slid into the driver’s seat, slotting his cane in the crease of the bench. He sighed, just sitting for a moment.
What the fuck was Simon’s problem? He knows his last partner was killed, but it had to have been bad for him to pick up an attitude and a drinking habit. John knew this attempt was crass at best, but he really did just want to help.
A softer approach, next time.
If there was a next time.
❥❥❥
“Ah, there he is! Simon, over here!” Arthur waved, the hulking man impossible to miss without his shouting and waving, even in the busy atmosphere of the Tiger’s Eye.
“Relax, Arthur, I can see you,” He sighed, shaking his head fondly, sliding onto the barstool next to him.
“Your regular?” Horangi asked, and Simon shook his head.
“Just a coke, for tonight.” He requested, and Arthur and Horangi looked at him like he grew a second head. Horangi nodded dumbly, turning to grab a glass and the soda nozzle, Simon watching the glass nearly fizz over.
“What has you switching it up tonight, Freund?” Arthur asked, and Simon just took a sip of his drink, giving a mini ‘cheers’ to Horangi before he did.
“Just need something different.” He shrugged, and Arthur decided not to push it, seeing something foreign in his eyes.
“That can’t be the only reason,” Horangi started, Arthur giving him a wide eyed look, saying ‘Don’t! Don’t you dare!’
“Do I need to have a better reason?” Simon asked, a challenge in his voice. Arthur kept up the stare as a warning, but Horangi ignored it.
“No, but I can see that it isn’t the only reason.” He countered, leaning onto the bar. Simon scowled, but it was nothing new to Horangi, who had seen him make that face at almost everything. “C’mon, we’re not going to tell anyone else. Who do we even have to tell?” Horangi tried, and there was some truth to his words.
Really, Horangi only knew Arthur at his place of work, but Arthur, whether he meant to or not, might let it slip to Garrick, who’ll tell the whole office about it.
Simon didn’t feel like taking that chance.
“It’s personal. Stop asking.” He replied, a finality to his voice that would scare most people. Most.
“Was it someone at work? Someone you’re interested in, perhaps?” And now Arthur looked mortified, looking to Simon to see what he would do.
Arthur knows both of these men well. He knows about Simon and his past, what happened to him and why he doesn’t ever talk about it. Hell, it took Arthur years to even get Simon to talk about his family. With Horangi, Arthur knows about his past as well. How he served in the military for ten years before the accident that led to him wearing the scarves everywhere, and he also knows that the two of them in a brawl would be an interesting fight for sure, but also a violent one.
“If I tell you, will you shut up about it?” Was Simon’s hissed reply, and Arthur could see Horangi’s triumphant smile, even under his new scarf.
“Yes, of course, now share.” He prompted, and Simon sighed, taking another gulp of his soda before mentally preparing himself. Arthur scooched a little closer, and So did Horangi, who had no other patrons at the bar to worry about.
“It’s a coworker. New partner,” Simon started, and Arthur gasped, patting Simon’s arm repeatedly at his realization.
“I forgot that was today! I wouldn’t have taken the day off if I had remembered, I’m so sorry, Bär,” Arthur slumped a little, and Simon shook his head.
“It’s fine, Arthur. He was— he is a bit of a mess.” Simon finished, and took another drink, Arthur and Hong-jin looking puzzled.
“A ‘mess’ how?” Horangi asked, and Arthur looked to Simon for an answer too.
“He’s… loud. Price didn’t give me any warning, just called me into his office this morning and introduced me to the one and only John MacTavish.” He grimaced at the memory of John going for a handshake. He felt a little bad about not returning it.
“Sounds like he’s just your type, Simon.” Horangi teased, and Simon scowled again.
“I don’t have a type, Hong-jin. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be whatever MacTavish has going on.” Simon pointed at Horangi, glass still halfway to his lips in his hand, and took another sip.
“We’ll see,” Was all Horangi replied with, Arthur stifling a laugh at Simon’s glare.
“Alright, alright, enough about your new partner,” Arthur started, nudging Simon in apology for letting the tangent go on, getting a grunt in response. “Did I miss anything important? Kyle called me about the new case earlier, said I was ‘in for a treat’ tomorrow.” Simon huffed, deflating a little at the mention of the case.
“You definitely have a lot to go over tomorrow. Remember the string of murder’s Roach and I were investigating? The cold cases?” Simon asked, and Arthur nodded. Simon looked to Horangi, and he mimed zipping his mouth closed over the scarf. “We— I think the same guy is back.” Simon finished, staring at the ripples in his soda.
“You think it’s actually him? Not a, gosh, what are they called? Nachahmer?” Arthur asked, and Simon shook his head.
“Not a copycat.” Simon replied, and Arthur cursed under his breath. ‘That was the word!’ “There were details about those cases never released to the public, and some of them were present in this murder.” He finished his drink, Arthur nodding but Horangi looking curious.
“Like what?” He asked, and Simon looked up at him, eyes flicking to Arthur. The Austrian nodded, and Simon sighed.
“The victim was vivisected, and his heart was removed.” Simon stated, and Horangi just nodded.
“Seems like something they wouldn’t want to tell the public.” He shrugged, and Simon wondered what Horangi had seen to be so nonchalant about things like that. Then again, Simon had omitted useless details, so it was a simple description. He supposes it wasn’t so difficult.
“Certainly.” Simon replied, tapping his glass on the counter and standing. He’d thought it would be a good idea to come here and drink his sorrow away, feeling like a giant shithead after shouting at Jo— MacTavish like that. Instead, he ordered a coke. “I’m heading out for the night.” Simon fixed his top coat, adjusted his scarf, and waved the two goodnight, walking back outside.
It was pouring rain, and Simon just wanted to go home.
He couldn’t believe himself. He was letting some obnoxious Scottish asshole get under his skin in the worst way possible. Somehow the bastard had wormed his way into stomach, and Simon knew it wouldn’t take long before the little shit made it to his heart.
He sighed, deciding to take his chances and have a smoke break, hoping the rain would slow a little.
He walked to the side of the building, slipping into the small alley, and resting under the little roofed area. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He smoked in peace, and the rain did let up a little when he was done. Simon climbed into his car, and he shook his head.
A small part of him was hoping that somehow, MacTavish’s stupid mug would show up and pester him. He felt his stomach squirm at the idea, and he…
He didn’t hate it.