Chapter Text
Blue and red lights streak across the dark, clouded sky—the yelp of a police siren cutting through the roaring of engines.
There isn't a cruiser to be seen. The lights leak from the windshields of unmarked cars that have been stationed up and down the street since people started gathering.
Tires scream somewhere ahead. Someone guns it hard enough to leave smoke hanging thick in the air before disappearing around the corner. Another car fishtails into a stop across both lanes.
Shouting. Doors slamming. The metallic rattle of chain-link fencing.
Daniel blinks hard against the haze in his head and finds himself handcuffed in the back of a cruiser, watching the chaos outside slowly collapse into control.
Among the crowd, one man stands out—immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, interacting with officers and criminals alike with the same calm professionalism.
Daniel's jaw tightens. He's been in the area a while, knows most of the regular faces. He's never seen this man before.
Daniel doesn't like him.
That doesn't stop him from watching as the man shakes an officer's hand. He leans into the open window of a cruiser, speaking to its arrested occupant briefly before moving on.
Daniel drags his tongue over the split in his lip, copper sharp in his mouth when he swallows. Everything feels dry—like cotton stuck against the roof of his mouth. Sweat drips down his brow.
The door opens beside him.
"Daniel Turner?"
"Why?"
"Crucis Veritas." He replies, not acknowledging the tone. "Defense Attorney."
Daniel can't help the pointed laugh that escapes him. "Ha! Yeah, no. I'm not hiring some rich asshole."
The man smiles. Daniel notes the contrast between its warmth and his sharp features.
"Who said anything about hiring?"
The attorney—Crucis—leans into the cruiser, bracing a hand on the doorframe to slide his business card into Daniel's jacket pocket.
Daniel stops breathing for a second and immediately resents himself for it.
"Just in case," Crucis says, faintly amused. He leaves Daniel no opportunity to reply before the door slams shut.
----
The drunk tank is familiar to Daniel—the smells of old sweat and disinfectant, the noise of other criminals riding out whatever mistakes they had made. This time, his cellmate's snoring cuts through the silence in uneven bursts, too loud to sleep through.
The only way he knows that time is passing is from the occasional garble of radio static.
He asks to make a call.
"This is fucking stupid," Daniel mutters. He pulls the business card from his pocket and punches the number into the payphone.
It rings once.
"Crucis." The voice answers—calm, like he was waiting for the phone to ring.
"Hey, sorry, I know it's late."
Silence.
"Which station are you at?"
"What? I didn't even—"
"Tell me where you're being held."
"…Long Beach."
"Give me 15 minutes."
The call ends as quickly as it started.
Daniel sighs, relief washing over him. He would be home soon. So why did he still have a lingering discomfort beneath his skin?
He hadn't even finished his sentence. Why did it feel like Crucis already knew the answers?
Daniel backs into the wall, sliding down to his ankles. He rubs his face with his hands, leaning into his knees with another rough exhale.
The handcuffs bite into his wrists as he shifts against the wall. The call replays in his head. Which station are you at? No who. No why.
The door rattles open loudly. Daniel looks up.
The hallway outside the cell is already taken by his arresting officer and Crucis—in an unwrinkled suit, as if it's not the middle of the night.
"Thanks again, Scott. I really appreciate it."
The officer is speaking, telling him to step out of the cell, but Daniel doesn't register it. His eyes are focused on Crucis.
Daniel squints. Crucis' eyes are almost gold, flecks of siler reflecting in the fluorescent light.
Crucis turns and walks down the hallway. Daniel falls in behind him without thinking.
He wants to say something, but a thought doesn't form.
Crucis stops shortly at the front desk. Daniel nearly bumps into him. If Crucis notices, he doesn't acknowledge it.
Daniel's mind is so hazy that he barely registers Crucis speaking to the officer and signing paperwork. His handcuffs are removed.
It's only once they're outside, brisk air hitting his face, that Daniel returns.
"Was your car there?" Crucis asks.
He doesn't stop walking. Their height difference makes Daniel work to keep pace.
"Where?"
"At the meet. Where you got arrested?"
"Oh—yeah."
Crucis doesn't reply. He changes direction without hesitation, guiding them to an enclosed parking lot behind the station.
An officer opens the gate without a word. Crucis lifts his hand in thanks.
Daniel turns to start walking the rows of cars, but Crucis doesn't follow him. Instead, he walks to the third row, barely looking, and goes straight to a car.
His 1990 Honda Civic.
Daniel stands there silently for a long moment, staring at Crucis as he fiddles with a set of keys.
He hadn't asked what Daniel drove. Or where it was.
When did he get the keys?
Daniel hesitates, then lowers himself into the passenger seat.
Crucis is already in the car, rolling the seat back to accommodate his height.
Daniel shifts in his seat, glancing out the window. He considers saying something, but Crucis isn't paying attention.
The car roars to life.
"Your place?" Crucis asks.
Daniel nods faintly.
Tires hiss against wet pavement as they pull out into the empty street. The sun would just be starting to breach the horizon if not for the heavy cloud cover. Rain blurs into ribbons across the windshield.
Crucis has already turned the windshield wipers on. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't need to think about where the switch is.
Daniel presses his forehead to the cold window and watches the rain smear into streaks, trying to ignore the motion of the car.
It feels weird to be in the passenger seat of his own car—like a kid being driven home.
He looks over at Crucis and immediately hates how comfortable he looks. He handles the car too naturally for someone who's never driven it. He slows and accelerates without jolting the car once, his hand resting confidently on the wheel.
Daniel shifts uncomfortably, stomach lurching as they come to another stop.
The silence between them feels intentional. Daniel tries to focus on the rain, but the silence is leaving him too much room to think.
Finally, he blurts, "I never asked for help."
"You still accepted it," Crucis casually points out, eyes not moving from the road.
The windshield wipers drag across the glass.
Daniel's jaw clenches. He swallows a wave of nausea.
He should be relieved to be going home instead of finishing the night in a drunk tank, but the way Crucis has stepped into his space and taken control makes his skin crawl.
The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, heat spreading across his shoulders and arms.
"I don't need help." Daniel replies.
"You're intoxicated, and you're high."
Crucis is right. The irritation doesn't fade.
"That doesn't mean you get to decide things for me."
"You weren't in a position to decide anything."
Daniel bites his cheek. He hates Crucis for being right. He hates himself for needing help at all.
"I would've figured it out."
"You called me."
"I didn't have a choice."
Daniel's bruised fingers tighten against his leg.
"You did. You made it."