Cause and Effect

by Brooke Edwards

  “There’s some insight into the justice system if you wanted it.” Derek leans toward Peter. “The real power belongs to the crime scene techs. Or Kay, if you ask her.”

  “I was going to ask if that was normal,” Peter says as Daniel drops his arm, his fingers skimming against Peter’s side for a second before Derek steps away and Peter’s arm falls too.

  “Oh, she’s practically on her best behavior today,” Daniel says, eyes flitting between Peter and Derek at the coffee machine. Peter perches on a stool near the wall, glad that the spot lets him observe most of the room without twisting around. “Crises generally bring the best out in her.”

  “Useful skill.” Peter watches as Daniel prowls up and down the length of the kitchen, nervous energy practically crackling off his skin. “Is this normal?”

  “It’s not abnormal. How do you take your coffee?” Derek’s voice has levelled out, even if his shoulders are still on the rigid side. “Danny likes it black and scorching, just like his soul.”

  “Enough cream and sugar that it’s not even coffee anymore for me, please.” Peter glances sideways at where Daniel has come to a stop a stool away from him. “I drink tea, usually.”

  “Heathen,” Daniel says. His eyes are wide and startled, the word obviously unintended.

  Peter laughs at the expression on his face, and the sheer judgement in the arch of Derek’s eyebrow when he shoves a steaming mug of black coffee at Daniel and then turns to Peter. “No kettle here, is microwaved water okay?”

  “More than,” Peter says, eyes drifting back to Daniel. Daniel’s eyes are still locked on him, and he can’t bring himself to break the eye contact to look back at Derek. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually used a kettle. My gran had a teapot that she used to heat up on the stovetop when I was a kid, but I haven’t had anything but a microwave since.”

  “My gran would have disowned me if she ever heard me tell someone I had to make their tea in the microwave.” Derek’s voice is a little wistful, and Peter still can’t look away from Daniel. He isn’t sure he wants to either, too caught up in the heat and concern shining out of the other man’s eyes.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks the silence a few seconds later. James is hanging in the doorway when all three heads snap to focus on him. He raises an eyebrow. “Well, that was all sorts of creepy. We’re probably going to order something to eat soon, does anyone have any preferences?”

  The microwave beeps loudly. “Not Indian,” Derek says, opening the door with a creak. “If I have to sleep anywhere near you tonight, please not Indian.”

  Daniel laughs, and Peter’s cheeks heat in sympathy as James scowls. “I don’t do Indian well either!” he blurts out.

  The mug that Derek shoves into his hands is warm, edging toward hot and lighting up the nerves in his palms. The teabag string is draped over the side, tickling the inside of his wrist, and the smell of the slowly steeping tea wafts up until he doesn’t even need to inhale for it to linger in his nose. A hand on his forearm startles him, almost upsetting the steaming mug but just managing to avert disaster by pressing down. A large hand comes up and holds his hands and the mug steady all the same. “You’re not vegetarian or something, are you?” Daniel’s eyes are narrowed, and Peter is pretty sure it’s not the first time he’s asked the question.

  He shakes his head. “No, not vegetarian. I love meat.” Daniel’s hand is still cupped around Peter’s and the mug, holding it steady. Between the heat from the mug and the skin contact, spontaneous combustion seems likely. “Pizza?” he says, too loudly. “Pepperoni is always a winner.”

  “Meat for all it is,” James says with a wicked grin. “C’mon, Derek, let’s go order.” Derek follows James out of the kitchen, snickering into his coffee. Peter’s face burns, and Daniel laughs again, smaller and vaguely apologetic. He hasn’t let go of Peter’s hand and the mug yet either. Even as Peter thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t, because the spell breaks and Daniel’s hand drops away.

  “You’ll need to hang around for a few hours at least,” Daniel says after another long, loaded moment. “Hope this didn’t ruin your Saturday night.”

  “Nope!” Peter’s mouth has a mind all of its own, obviously. “No plans here.”

  Daniel’s eyes crinkle in the corners. “Glad to hear. We’ll get that pizza sorted. Yell if you need anything, all right?”

  “I will yell,” Peter promises. He holds up the tea and smiles, almost convincing. “I’m good for now though.”

  “I’ll be out in the bullpen,” Daniel says, hesitating in the doorway. “Try James’s office at your own risk, though, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The sip of tea burns the back of his throat as he coughs in surprise, and Daniel’s laughter lingers behind him as he leaves.

  Daniel leaves Clint and Martine stationed on the same block as Peter’s apartment later that night. He isn’t sure whether his eyes are going to shrivel into dust or fall out of his head, but he knows that he can barely see ten yards in front of him and there’s no way he’s going to be keeping anyone safe. He trusts Clint, and Martine isn’t entirely useless. If it can’t be him, he’s grateful to have them watching over Peter. Part of him still isn’t sure that Derek and James can be trusted together, but he’s confident enough they won’t do anything stupid in the next eight hours at least. Cohen had escorted Kay home and Daniel doesn’t even feel bad about it. Kay and Morgan are basically an initiation rite all of their own for officers at the precinct, and Cohen’s skated through far too easily so far. He shakes his head and watches as Peter disappears through the building doors. The fact that no one around seems to bat an eye at a marked vehicle and uniformed officers staked out right on the side of the street makes him uneasy about the fact that this is where Peter lives, but there are bigger things to worry about. Daniel waits until he sees the woman he remembered picking Peter up from the hospital, and hovering during his statement, practically hanging out of the window to wave to him before he pulls out onto the street and heads back uptown with the steady flow of late-night traffic. Cabs rocket in and out of their lanes, just skirting the edge of legal most of the time, and Daniel blinks rapidly to try to moisten his overtired eyes. He doesn’t even have the energy to turn the sirens on and scare them a little, but the inside of his head is a tangle of panicked thoughts and racing plans that get abandoned before they’re even fully formed. Coy has fired the first shots, but Daniel will be damned if he lets it go unanswered.

  Peter wakes up on the sofa with a mouthful of Tia’s hair and a tightness in his shoulders. There are arms wrapped around him and an uncomfortable damp patch behind his ear. He groans, wriggling underneath the octopus occupying the body of his best friend, until she pushes him away with a grunt of her own. He slumps over the edge of the sofa, slithering to the ground. Peter’s breath comes out in a huff when he hits, the dull impact of his hip against the ground not really pain but not pleasant all the same. He grabs Tia’s sleeve and uses it to wipe behind his ear and the side of his face.

  “You’re disgusting,” he tells her. Her nose twitches in her sleep and she mashes her face deeper into the cushion. Some part of his body creaks alarmingly when he levers himself to his feet, and he stops, halfway up and stuck in a crouch. Nothing hurts enough to account for the ghastly sound, so he gingerly continues the rest of the way until he’s on his feet and can arch his back, stretching out with some less-alarming creaks. His vision slowly gets a little clearer each time he blinks, and he zeroes in on his cell, teetering on the edge of the coffee table. The notification light is blinking, alternating green and white, bright in the dim room and against the dark screen. When he unlocks it and pulls the notification screen down, there are three text messages. One is from Bossman, another from Douche-at-Law, and the third from just Daniel. “Well, I know who stole my phone to do that,” he says. It comes out as more of a croak than anything, but the grin stealing over his face and the warmth pooling in his chest distract him from the scr
atchy cotton-mouth. The message from Bossman is just a sunglasses-wearing emoji and a donut, the one from Douche-at-Law the Statue of Liberty and a frowning face, and the one from Daniel is the tiny police officer emoji and a magnifying glass. Peter snorts to himself on his way into the kitchen, filling one of the glasses on the sink with water and throwing it back as quickly as he can. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s begrudgingly impressed. He hadn’t even noticed his phone disappearing or reappearing. The water washes away the cotton-mouth and he takes the time to savor the second glass as he looks out of the kitchen window. The police cruiser isn’t in the spot it had been the night before, but Peter catches a glimpse of the white-and-blue a little further up the street. The brief thought of just how long the police will be there lingers, but he shakes it off. He’s sure they’ll stay as long as it takes. Daniel and James wouldn’t have bothered sending people if they were just going to disappear at the first sign of trouble, he tells himself. Peter doesn’t exactly know why they’d sent an escort home with him. It seemed pretty obvious that it wasn’t just him that Coy was targeting. The first sign of him had conveniently been when all four of them had been in the same place for the first time. The sensible part of Peter knows that it’s likely that Derek and James are the real targets, but also that he had painted a nice target on his own back by meddling the way he did. If there is a weak link, it’s Peter, but he’s okay with that, especially if it means more time spent with Daniel. He leans against the sink, still looking at the police car. People on the sidewalk are passing it by without so much as a sideways glance, and Peter rethinks the effectiveness of a police car in their neighborhood. It probably won’t be a deterrent for any of the usual crime, but hopefully it steers Coy away if he bothers to come looking this far out from the precinct or courthouse.

  “Are the cops hot enough for you to tell from up here?” Tia asks from the doorway.

  Peter almost drops the glass, fumbling it over the sink and water spilling over his hands. “I can’t even see them from here,” he says, scoffing. He puts the glass down carefully. “Do you have a bald spot? Half of your hair is probably still in my mouth.”

  “You say the sweetest gross things,” she coos, patting him on the ass as she hops up on the counter next to the sink and peers out into the street. “Is there anything exciting happening or are you just peeping?”

  “Peeping,” Peter answers, refilling the glass and offering it to her. “No one looks bothered that they’re out there.”

  “That’s because they live here, and also it’s a Sunday. Wouldn’t be a Sunday without New York City’s finest on our doorstep.” She downs half the glass in a loud gulp. “Maybe they busted up a party last night? I don’t remember being woken up by a speaker exploding from the bass or someone trying to break in to find a spare bed.”

  “How did you convince me to move here again?” Peter moves over as she leans in to refill the glass herself. “Because those were definitely not in the pitch.”

  “You didn’t need the pitch, you just let me boss you around.” She slides off the counter, taking the glass with her toward her room. “I’m going into work for a while. You doing anything today?”

  Peter follows her out of the kitchen. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to go anywhere,” he says. “I should probably call Daniel and see if there’s been any developments.”

  “He’s ‘Daniel’ now? What happened to Detective Callahan?” He doesn’t even have to see her face to be sure her eyebrows are doing something outrageous.

  “We almost got blown up together, through no fault of mine.” Peter flops back on the sofa. “I think it erased some of my terrible first impression? He didn’t yell at me at all.”

  “Part of me is sure I should be actively discouraging this, but most of me is rabidly shipping it, and I can’t do both at once.” Tia’s voice floats out of her bedroom doorway and into the living room. “So shipping it is. Is he out there in that car?”

  “No, he was beat last night.” Peter’s eyes track over the unidentifiable stains on the ceiling. “I don’t remember their names, but James picked them and Daniel didn’t argue, so I’m sure they’re good at their job.”

  “First-name basis with the boss too,” she singsongs. “Petey, if I’d known you were going to prove this useful for my uniform kink, I would have demanded you come live here years ago.”

  “You’re missing the fact that the only reason I even know any of them is because they thought I was leaving animal corpses around the city.” Peter sighs. “Do you think that’s going to keep coming back to haunt me?”

  “Probably.” Her voice is a little muffled. “I mean, the fact that it was a total psycho who they caught, even if he did escape, is going to work in your favor, but sometimes it really is hard to forget those first impressions.”

  Peter winces, curling around a throw pillow. “I’m cursed. Actually cursed. Not going anywhere today, I can’t risk it.” He can’t even be bothered to toss the pillow at the door when Tia starts laughing at him.

  James’s head jerks up when he hears raised voices in the bullpen. It’s only been a day, and he knows from experience that it will take a while longer than that for his senses to dial down from hypervigilance to something more appropriate for life in a police precinct. The blinds are mostly closed and his door is in the wrong place to see where the commotion is coming from, but he picks out Daniel’s voice almost instantly. It takes another few seconds to get around his desk and to the doorway, but by then he’s picked out Rhys and Cohen’s voices as well. There’s a cluster of uniforms halfway between Kay’s desk and his office, gathered around a struggling figure. Someone resisting arrest isn’t unusual, although the shouting seems louder than normal.

  “Did you—shit—you’re already under arrest, why are you fighting this—Miranda him?” Daniel pants out as James gets closer. He’s trying to pin the cuffed man down but between the writhing and trying to avoid the bared teeth, it doesn’t appear to be going well.

  “Fuck Mirand—” the man spits out, and then Cohen takes an opening and twists at the link between the cuffs, pinning his wrists against the small of his back. Daniel lets go with a huff, falling back against a nearby desk for a second, and James watches as his face twists into something cold and forbidding right before he gets in the man’s face with a sneer.

  “Said it half a dozen times on the ride over here, and he’s been brought in enough that he knows it better than we do,” Rhys says, and Cohen jerks the hand pinning his wrists up when the man opens his mouth. The sound cuts out into a breathless whine as Daniel looms in his space.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” The words are cold and quiet, the absence of the man’s shouting the only reason James can hear them. “You have a right to an attorney, and if you can’t afford one, one will be appointed. We know you understand, so nod.”

  The man’s head dips, chin hitting his chest, and James’s hand comes to rest instinctively on his gun. He’s seen the backward-headbutt too many times to be fooled by that, and is pleased to see Cohen cock his head to the side, out of reach, without loosening his grip. It turns into a nod instead, and James takes closer note of the tattoos visible around the man’s neck. They’re a tangled blur of dark, faded ink against his skin.

  “Picked him up with some supplies for a nice-sized boom in his trunk,” Rhys says, sidling up to James. His eyes are narrowed but bright. “Seemed convenient.”

  James thinks about making a comment about Rhys’s unnatural attachment to his car and an extended mourning period but thinks better of it. He pats the younger officer on the shoulder instead. “Good work, help them get him into holding and we’ll take a run at him.”

  Something niggles at his insides, a flag he knows better than to ignore. A week ago, he would have bet his life on the fact that Coy Fairhall was a lone wolf. Now, he isn’t so sure. Everything about the situation is making James’s instincts s
cream that there are threats from more than one corner, and he’s been doing this too long to call it paranoia.

  Tia comes home early from work on Monday to walk Peter to work. The entire three-quarters of a block to work. “You’d walk me to work if some psycho was on the loose and I was on their shortlist,” she says from beside him, her arms swinging.

  Peter is positive he didn’t actually say anything out loud.

  “Stop monologuing in your head and entertain me,” she demands.

  “Are you making up for me not going to the center and seeing the kids today by acting like one?” As soon as the words leave his lips, he wishes he could take them back, shame curling hot in his stomach.

  “Yes, actually,” she says, and next thing Peter knows he’s stumbling into someone’s garbage can on the sidewalk. “Much like those children, I am a delight.”

  Something falls out of the overfull can, clanging on the sidewalk, and Peter stares at it, hunched over and rubbing at his hip. Tia starts giggling and rushes ahead a couple of yards. Peter looks between her and the garbage can before straightening up and launching himself after her. By the time they reach Marty’s, they haven’t really run far enough to be more than pink-cheeked, but the adrenaline has Peter feeling better than he has in a couple of days. Bette looks up from the counter and smiles at them. Tia elbows her way past Peter to get inside. “Marty!” she calls as she sails past the counter. “I got your dishwasher here safe and on time, where’s my slice?”

  “Oh, so that’s why I got the escort,” Peter says, wrestling his coat off. Bette takes it and tosses it with the others behind the counter. “I should have known.”

  “Don’t be salty, sugar,” Bette says with a grin. “We heard all about your eventful weekend. How’s Officer Tight Pants?”

  Peter scowls, but his rapidly pinking cheeks don’t help the intimidation factor. “His name is Detective Callahan,” he says after a few seconds, trying to gather what remains of his dignity. “And he’s very busy.”