Izzy:
6am:
She did not sleep in Room 8.
She did not sleep at all, but for 20 minutes with her head down on the desk, atop the paperwork she’d been shuffling. Her alarm goes off at 6am, and she collects her laptop, her work, and is in her car by 6:20. She is home by 6:20am.
7am:
Shower. Scrub the stink of that fucking place off her skin, out of her mind, if only for a few moments. She leans against the shower wall, her forearms pressed into the tile, the hot water running down her hair, her back, so hot it leaves a trail of bright red burning down her skin. She doesn’t notice. She doesn’t care.
I can hardly imagine…
His imagination is sorely limited.
8am:
She does not intend to move everything she would need int the brotherhood. In fact, the bag she packs now is suspiciously small. Most women take more on an overnight trip. She is not most woman.
She stops by the doorman’s desk, and hands him an envelope. She can she the questions in his eyes. She ignores them. “Rent for February. There will be people checking on my apartment, as well as myself. So much as one. thing. goes. missing. and I’ll take it from your hide. It’s paid for. It’s watched. I’ll be back sooner than you think.”
Sooner than he thinks.
There is a second bag at her feet. That one she throws into the trunk of her car.
9am:
At the station. Women’s locker room. The second bag is thrown into her locker for now. She sits on the bench, her arms resting on her thighs, her head hanging between them. Dolores asks questions. She gets silence at first. Then…
SLAM. Dolores finds herself slammed back into the lockers, the breath knocked from her lungs.
“If he’s hurting you, you need…”
“What. I. need. Is for you to mind your motherfuckin’ own business before I ensure you have none to fuckin’ mind. Got it?”
“Izzy…”
“Detective Montoya. And if you open your fuckin mouth to say anything but Yes fuckin’ ma’am, I’m gonna make sure you look a lot like me.”
There’s a long pause. Then. “Yes ma’am.”
Izzy drops her, and shoves the other cop toward the door. “Get out.”
Dolores looks hurt. Izzy doesn’t care.
10am:
“You hate working the desk…”
“Finn? Back the motherfuck off.”
“Izzy…”
“I’m fuckin’ serious. I am not in the mood to deal with any more bullshit.”
“Alright. You’ll…”
“Yeah, Finn.”
“ok.”
There are 15 pamphlets on her desk this morning, spouting phrases like ‘we can help’ ‘you don’t have to fear him’ ‘you don’t have to live this way’ ‘let us save your life.’ ‘If you are being hurt, Call the Shelter TODAY.’ She collects them all, shoves them into her briefcase.
11am:
There’s a couch in the break room. No one dares wake her.
2pm:
Body found in Bronzeville. Circumstances are strange. Odd even. Izzy is the first on the scene. She talks to the one who found the body, and she pulls on latex gloves and enters the scene. The Uniforms know she prefers to look around alone first. They hover by the door, but don’t interfere. Detective Montoya has a fearsome reputation – and walking around beat up like that? Well, they don’t wanna see the OTHER guy… and they don’t want to BE him either.
“Fuckin piece of motherfucking shit.” There’s a key piece of evidence that she pockets before anyone else arrives. There’s a deliberate scuff of footprints, and there’s a call to Dr. Imogen Slaughter. “Bag’n’tag comin through in approximately an hour. Needs your calm head.” Her team is climbing up the stairs – Izzy rips the crazy ass visible vine from the stomach cavity of the dead fomore, shoves it into an evidence bag, and shoves it into the inside pocket of her long coat, sewn in for just such a purpose. Her first pair of gloves follows into the pocket, and when the door opens, she’s got a fresh pair on, and seems to be just studying the body, like she’s known to do.
“Murder weapon is over there – looks like domestic violence gone bad. No sign of the wife.”
Oh. The. Irony.
4pm:
Back at the station, after a stop for lunch, and a quick disposal of the pilfered evidence. It was the “most direct way possible”. It’s her job. Now there’s reports to fudge. Finn keeps hovering. Izzy reaches up once to slide her hand into his and squeezes. It calms him down, and he goes back to work.
5pm:
“Go home, Izzy.”
“Soon, Sarge.”
“I’m not paying you overtime.”
“I didn’t fuckin’ ask you too.”
He doesn’t know. He won’t know. When shift change comes, she sleeps on the couch in the break room. No one dares wake her.
8pm:
On call. Corner booth. Brotherhood. Same as last night, with a glass of whiskey in front of her, and frequent cigarette breaks. She works, steadily. She ignores everyone. She is silent but for her requests for refills.
10pm
She rests her head on her arms, and waits for the pain to subside after swallowing a handful of advil. She’s exhausted. She catnaps for 20 minutes. There’s a slam somewhere, and she flinches. Awake again.
1am:
Same as before, upstairs in the commons. Plenty of paperwork. Plenty of casefiles to go through. Plenty to keep her mind occupied. She ignores all who pass, says nothing to anyone. There is a bag on the top bunk. Her bag containing minimal items. The pamphlets – which number 22 by the time she left the station – and tossed on the bottom bunk. Her co-workers want him dead.
So does she.
4am:
She faces the room. She stares at the window. She doesn’t bother to change. She gets into the bunk.
She sleeps with her gun, under the pillow, her hand wrapped around the grip.
6am:
Her alarm goes off…
Eddie Vaako
“Pall Mall’s, right?”
The ring of a distant phone coincides with the soft clatter of a fresh pack across Izzy’s desk. The gaunt, vaguely hawkish detective standing near her desk sweeps his fingers back to the file folder he’s holding as soon as he flicks the smokes in her general direction.
A boot heel clicks as he takes a step closer, still distracted by the photos in the folder, pale green eyes continue their hungry motions as Det. Vaako’s rich voice boils across the linoleum toward Izzy.
“Constance. Guy’s wife’s name is Constance. Freaky bitch- used to run with the Angels outta- Holy Shit!”
In contrast to the sudden surprise that threaded through the rumbling voice, Emil’s face still seems almost deadpan, but for the stark black eyebrow raised over one half lidded eye.
“Shoulda told me to get some Tylenol 3’s too…” He holds the file folder out to the battered detective between two slim, talon like fingers…
…Then pulls up a desk chair and settles after a twist of his mouth.
Izzy:
Pall Mall’s, right?
She flicks a glance up, and then cut, swollen bruised lips twist into a bit of a smirk. “You, Vaako, are my new fuckin’ favorite.” Slender fingers wrap around the pack and start to open them, as Eddie goes back to the file. She knows they’re not supposed to smoke in here. She might wait to light up till stepping outside, or on the roof. Maybe.
She’s braced for it – but the ‘HOLYSHIT’ still causes her to flinch. It’s gonna be a long ass healing at this rate. He mentions Tylenol 3, and she reaches over and pick up the half-empty bottle of Advil. “Got it covered.”
She props an unlit cigarette between her lips, and reaches for the file, spreading it out on her desk and looking through the photos. She doesn’t say anything at first, feeling the silence thicken with that twist of his mouth as he pull up to join her at the desk. She looks over the pictures – real freaky chick, Constance. Ran with the Angels…
Finally, with the slightest of smirks as she glances up at him. “You’re gonna wanna talk bout this shit, aren’t ya.”
She doesn’t mean the wife.
Eddie:
Emil used to be a good looking guy. One can see the ghost of vanity in how he arranges himself in the desk chair. A flick of fingers against this pant leg. A swipe to arrange a lapel swiftly followed by smoothing the eyebrow on the opposite side. The hands are clever and powerful, soon enough done with the ritual of appearances, they come to rest folded over his stomach like hounds awaiting their next task.
The rangy cop stares openly at Izzy for a moment, letting the silence speak volumes. Then his eyes slip to half- lids and he responds, voice deadpan, though a flicker of concern passes behind a carefully held expression.
“Fuck that.” A sub- vocal murmur that boils through the air between them quietly. “Been talking about it plenty in there-” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the break room. “I keep doin that, and they’re gonna get tears on me. Nah. I wanna listen for a change.”
They’re tough by nature… she’ll have gotten plenty of the well wishing and mewing sort of sounds from men who all wait with icy determination for any hint.. some sign.. knowledge of who beat her up. Until then what they can give feels inadequate, and looking at her becomes a test of patience and fortitude, and stress tests for coffee mugs squeezed in impotent hands.
This prick bastard looks cool as a cucumber though. The same look that sometimes means a suspect will look a little more dishevelled than they should. Come in with a bruise or two that didn’t need to be there. ‘Taking a bit of a nap’ when he comes out of an interrogation room.
Cruel fingers lace together as he purses his lips and waits. Izzy can practically see the man choosing tactics, settling on a line of approach, probing her defenses.
…Maybe searching for a way to help.
Izzy:
She drops her gaze. It’s something she rarely does, something so rare that the fact that she does, that she doesn’t quite look at him, is part of why they all watch her. Waiting. Just an inkling. That’s all they’d need.
She scrubs her face with her hand and instantly regrets it. It’s the automatic motions that hurt the most – when she forgets, when she does something without thinking that causes the agony to flare whitehot behind her eyes again. She hisses a quick intake of breath, and then…
“Not here. I need to smoke this before I go crazy. Come on.” She pushes from the desk, grabs the pack and shoves it in her pocket, before grabbing her lighter and jacket in the other hand. She turns to see if he’ll follow – then leads the way to the roof. She takes the stairs. She always takes the stairs – and that final stairwell that’s a little too narrow – she takes it first, 2 steps at a time, at near a run until that door can be slammed open, giving her access to open air before she has time to panic.
She stops a few feet from the door, and ducks her head to light her cigarette, and take a deep drag. She closes her eyes (though it’s hard to tell) as she exhales, and then simply breathes for a few moments.
Then she looks over at him, as she finds a spot of wall to lean against. “I can’t let them know what’s going on. You can probably guess why.”
Eddie:
Oh sure, he’s following- after a vaguely savage glare at that young guy- Fonzie, no- Finn- when his manner and the shift of his feet threatened to have him on the roof with them.
She even hears his feet on the stairs behind her. Then hears them a bit less. And less…
When she finally breaks out of the stairwell and hits brutally grey sky, lights her smoke and turns toward the lean detective who’d come with her-
She finds she has to look down. He’s doubled over, standing on the roof, tie dangling almost sadly between his knees as Eddie’s lungs heave. That’s a lot of stairs. A LOT of stairs.
“You….heave, heave,…bitch…. better be.. heave…good. Chrissake..” Finally he stands with a grimace. He’s oddly like an agitated raven in the way he smooths himself, arranges his clothing again. Glares while doing so.
Her words bring him up short, and the scowl fades on its own. Nothing but severe features left in its wake. He swings a foot out to kick the door shut behind him before crossing his arms.
“I could maybe. Better if you tell me though. Less misunderstandings thataway.”
Izzy:
She blinks, and then for the first time in days, Izzy finds herself chuckling. Then it degrades to actual laughter, even though it hurts like hell, and it splits her lip open again, and she folds over, until she can breathe again. She wipes her lip with the back of her hand, still chucking. “Oh holymarymotheroffuck – I needed that.”
He straightens himself out, glaring at her, while she gets herself back under control, lifting the cigarette to her lips to take a drag. Exhaling, she nods. She understands his reasoning.
“Was a Trueborn of my Tribe. Took umbrage with my attitude, and the fact that I wouldn’t stand still for my ‘punishment’.” she touches her seeping lip, absently, and then shakes her head. “Almost fuckin’ killed me. Drug me to the Jarl, an’ he decided fitting punishment would have this guy be in charge of me until I learned my fuckin’ place or some shit an’ he learns control. At this point I can’t even live at my place – gotta be stuck in the fuckin frat house. S’why I keep fallin asleep here. Can’t get no fuckin’ rest there.”
She looks at he stairwell, and then back to him. “All kinds of restrictions on me, for now. Can’t even fuck.” A smirk. “Did anyway, so now I ‘can’t’ go nowhere but work. S’why I’m fuckin here all the fuckin’ time.”
If there’s one thing Izzy’s always been good at – It’s honesty. Blunt and in your face.
[Unfinished]