(no subject)
Title: Origin of Heaven
Author: _wind_dream_
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Diego/Mia
Spoiler Warning(s): Case 3-1, Mild Case 3-4
Summary: Cup number one was already gone.... That had to be some sort of record. Or maybe the Jezebel across from him just fueled his caffeine addiction.
A/N: This is actually the full version of something I wrote a while back. Not... really sure why I cut it in the first place. It was early in the morning, I don't know leave me alone. D:
The red of her hair was even more striking up close. Full, dark, and either natural or a very good dye job. He could see why the Judge was literally falling over himself for this girl. Especially since she didn't seem to mind the idea of making out with men triple her age. Or probably other things, either.
It was a good thing he was more partial to brunettes.
“I'm sorry you had to come all the way out here, Mr. Attorney,” she said while she fiddled with her parasol, attempting to close it. “I'm not terribly certain I can answer all of your questions....”
“Don't worry your pretty little head, I'm sure you'll do just fine.” She paused to giggle and smile at him before returning to pathetically poking at her parasol. He decided to let her pretend to be cutely helpless for a few moments longer. He had to see where the line was drawn, after all.
“... Need some help with that?”
“That would be so very kind of you, Mr. Attorney. I'm afraid I never did get good at closing that.” She had a tinkling sort of giggle. Like tarnished silver bells. He took the lacy thing and closed it in one smooth movement.
“Oh, thank you very much! I'm not sure I ever would have been able to close it....”
Then she flipped her hair very daintily over her shoulder, leaned the now-closed parasol against her chair, and sat, tucking her dress very carefully under her so as not to wrinkle it. She folded her hands on the table and blinked up at him through long lashes, as if he'd never seen her before and had no idea what kind of power was in those little gloved hands.
He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his coffee, taking care to gulp it as loudly as possible and to focus as little attention on her as he possibly could. But all she did was sit and smile expectantly - she didn't even clear her throat once.
“Coffee's surprisingly good down here,” he commented, showing her the mug in his hand. “Guess it has to be good, considering it's such a staple for law people.”
“Oh, I'm sure,” she responded, very serious, “But I've never been able to handle coffee, I'm afraid. It's far too bitter for my delicate tastes....”
“Shame.”
She pouted very cutely. He considered her face, and toyed with applying the “Kitten” label to it. He was pleased to find that her image was replaced with another, much more desirable one. With brown hair, no less.
“It is, isn't it? But I've found that tea is very good as well.”
“It's all right.” He set the mug down on the table - if he wanted to really question this girl, he couldn't waste a single drop. “Especially for the more 'delicate' crowd, I guess.”
“Do you drink tea, too?”
“Nah.” He grinned at her, and drummed his fingers on the table absently. “I like my drinks hard and bitter.”
“Is that so? You must be a very strong man, Mr. Attorney.”
“My name is Armando.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry, Mr. Armando.” She smiled, and leaned her cheek on the heel of her left hand. “They begin with the same letter, so I was a little confused.”
“No harm done, little lady.” He'd meant to begin the interrogation then and there, but a swift tap on the shoulder interrupted his train of thought.
“Armando.” He tipped his head back in response, and peered at an inverted, somewhat-familiar face hovering behind him. He was some oldie who worked at the office - the one with the stringy hair and the saggy face. The one obsessed with his win record. Ham-something.
“Can I help you?”
Initially, Ham had looked slightly uncomfortable with himself, like somebody who'd lost a bet and was forced to shout something embarrassing. As soon as his gaze had shifted over to the Jezebel at the other end of the table, though, he began to look more and more interested. She smiled and waved politely at him.
Ham was a different breed of Ms. Hawthorne's admirers - the kind who couldn't bear to gaze upon her lovely visage for more than a moment. He stared hard at Armando, his brow drawn together in concentration. “Ms. Fey was looking for you earlier. She needed to show you something, she said.”
Ham was also a little bit slow on the uptake with certain things, he'd noticed that in the past few years. Kitten had actually found him yesterday afternoon and shown him the file in question, which was part of the reason he was even sitting here in the first place. “She told me.”
“Oh.” Ham looked nonplussed, as if he thought he'd been rather quick with this particular information. “Well. She asked me to tell you if I saw you, so.”
“Much obliged. It's the thought that counts and all that.”
Ham nodded in that terse sort of way that means you knew you were being stupid and were trying to get out of the conversation as quickly and painlessly as possible. But he lingered long enough trying to drink up Redhead's aura that she smelled a willing victim and leaned forward expectantly.
“And how is Madame Fey doing, if I may ask, sir?”
Again, a look of surprise. This time like he'd thought that she was just a statue or something - god forbid something that beautiful actually have a voice. “... Good,” he said gruffly. “Very good. Busy woman. A little....” He paused and glanced down like he'd forgotten something and just remembered it a second too late. “... interesting."
“Nice word choice. I like it,” Armando commented, reaching again for his coffee cup. He took one swift gulp, and waved his free hand at Ham. “Tell her I think she's 'interesting', won't you?”
Ham grunted in embarrassed affirmation, the way people did when they couldn't tell if someone was being serious or not. He hung around for a few extra seconds before slinking away with his tail between his legs. Probably off to gossip to the old man about the many beautiful young women that had suddenly been thrust upon Grossberg and Co.
“What a nice man.”
“Of course he is.” He put the mug to his lips and tipped it back... but no warm liquid came. Cup number one was already gone.... That had to be some sort of record. Or maybe the Jezebel across from him just fueled his caffeine addiction.
“... Want another go at that coffee thing, little lady?” he asked, grinning and waving the empty mug in her direction.
She was tucking something into her purse. She paused and frowned, evidently deep in thought. “Ah.... I'm sorry, I'm a little scared of it.” She sighed, pouting a little, “I don't think I can handle it, Mr. Armando. But I wouldn't mind a nice cup of mint tea....”
“Suit yourself.” He swung out of his chair, making sure to deposit the cup on the table before he walked away. Every sampling of coffee had to have its own cup, lest its uniqueness be tainted; that was one of his rules. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped out across the tile floor towards the cafeteria line.
Then there was pain.
Splitting pain exploded in his head - an aching, unbearable migraine. His cheek was suddenly cold, and the world was suddenly black. He could smell the dirt of the cafeteria tile and hear people screaming in the back of his mind.
Then it was all silent, as if the people had only been momentarily frightened. Maybe a stray roach had streaked toward them, or maybe one of those rickety old chairs had finally collapsed under one of the more weighty patrons.
Or maybe they had simply all come together to form a single voice. That voice. Her voice.
“Diego...!”
He tried to turn towards her, to lift his head so that he could see her face. But the muscles in his neck wouldn't respond.
“Diego!”
He tried to lift his arm to wave to her. But both his arms felt restricted, like someone had mistaken him for a dead Pharaoh and wrapped him in bandages.
“Diego!”
They'd been working the past six months for this moment, couldn't she wait until he'd finished with the Siren?
“Let me go! Sh-She... She had to have...!”
“Ms. Fey, control yourself!”
“Mia, there isn't anything you can do! Just let the men do their jobs, for God's sakes!”
Then there were no words. Only sounds; that voice - her voice. But she was sobbing, screaming, and suddenly her pain was so real to him that someone may as well have plunged a dagger into his stomach. His skin was on fire, his skull was about to crack from the pressure, and his throat burned from the stomach acid that must have settled there.
It was all her pain. Her pain was his pain.
He couldn't see her face. He wanted to reach for her, to touch her, to put a coffee mug into her hands the way he had the day Terry Fawles had died. He wanted to cup her cheek, to draw her close, to whisper in her ear about just how much he loved this woman called Mia Fey.
Where was her face?
Where was her voice?
The screams were gone. There was only silence.
Mia Fey was gone.