Fic: Stay (Part 2) (The Killing 2011)
Title: Stay (2)
Fandom: The Killing
Rating: Eh.
Pairing: Linden/Holder
Summary: A pocket universe that happens post-Reckoning.
Spoilers: Through 3x9. (I am not spoiled for the killer, I don’t think those spoilers exist.)
They won’t be able to get a warrant, not fast enough, not on a random hunch like this; and so, like so many other times, they operate off the grid. Linden drives. They both smoke. Off into the dank woods, ten, fifteen miles out of town.
Holder’s seen a lot of grim scenes. A lot of things he works hard not to assign real emotions to, just files them away as data, points of reference, tries not to internalize them as involving real human beings. But he can’t help but feel a weird disappointment as he sees the tidy little cabin, a grill outside, fishing gear on the porch next to a cooler. It doesn’t look like anything really bad could happen here.
“Car,” says Linden, extending her right index finger from the steering wheel to point around to the right side of the cabin.
“Becker,” nods Holder. He looks at Linden, whose face still shows the marks of Mills. “Maybe I’d better--”
She shuts that down with one look.
He doesn’t ask her if she’s armed. They both are. Always.
He recites mantras in his head, the ones he keeps for these times, the kicking-in-doors times, the takedowns, the times when adrenaline can be your friend or your worst enemy.
But this is probably going to be nothing. The guy’s a cop, or practically a cop. Po-lice. Cop with marriage troubles. Oldest story in the book.
“So we have a chat,” Holder says out loud, unnecessarily.
They get out of the car. Becker’s seen them coming, he’s coming down the dirt driveway as they walk up to the cabin. There’s no threat in his posture. Just concern.
They identify themselves, show their badges. Becker wants to know, is everything okay, has something else happened with his family?
Just checking on him, Holder assures him. Just want to ask a few questions. Off the record. Can we come in?
Holder and Linden wait, smooth expressions, languid posture. Just a courtesy drive-by. We’re just interested in what happened.
So can we come in?
Becker pauses just a second too long, nods assent. He turns to walk back to the cabin.
Behind Becker’s back, Linden shoots Holder a glance. All he can do is nod. Nod and touch his Glock in its holster, just being sure it’s there. It’s something you learn fast not to do, don’t give it away, don’t show fear, don’t develop the tic of making sure your piece is really there. But right now, with Linden’s face still swollen--or at least enough so that you can tell if you really look at her every day--and the adrenaline hitting him like crystal, he has to check.
The cabin is as neat inside as outside, like something out of a vacation brochure. Holder tries to take in as much detail as he can without being obvious, but there’s nothing there, nothing weird, nothing to grab onto.
“I just made coffee,” says Becker.
“Coffee would be good,” says Linden, smiling her great big ol’ fake smile. She sits at his little kitchen table, and Holder knows it’s a calculated move, a show of trust. Giving up a portion of her mobility, of reaction time, being aware that this man has only lasted in his career guarding convicted killers by reading body language very, very carefully.
Holder remains standing.
“You know,” says Becker, handing them each a cup, “I really can’t talk about the shooting.”
Holder nods, pretends Becker didn’t really mean it. “Is there anything you can tell us that would help your son? Maybe the vic was trying to hurt your wife?”
Becker’s face shows no reaction. “We’ve been over it all with the lawyers.”
“You and your wife doing okay, though? She know where you are?” Holder looks around the cabin pointedly. “Is this where you were the night of the shooting?”
Becker begins to show the first signs of anger in the set of his jaw and his shoulders. “Look, no offense, and I appreciate your concern,” he says dubiously. “But unless you two are with internal or you’re assigned to the case, which I already know you’re not, we’re done here.”
Linden takes over, shows one palm, a truce. “That’s fine. If I could use your bathroom first, we’ll leave. We didn’t mean to disturb you.”
It’s the oldest trick in the book, and Holder’s sure Becker is going to refuse, but he gestures down the hall. “First door on your right.”
“Thanks,” says Linden, again with the fake smile, and she moves down the hall.
“Women,” says Holder casually, “Ten miles on the road and it’s time for a pit stop.”
“Uh-huh,” says Becker, unmoved.
Holder walks to the back of the little dining nook, looks out a back window. The cabin sits in a clearing that extends back fifteen, maybe twenty yards, ends abruptly at the treeline of the woods. Holder sees a homemade wooden shed, maybe storage for a mower. Slatted wood door. Heavy padlock.
Holder’s aware of Becker behind him, aware he’s turned his back on him, but he’s trying to buy Linden time to look around in the back of the cabin.
“This is a real nice place,” Holder says. “Real peaceful.” He turns back to look at Becker, who is standing with his arms crossed, like he couldn’t be any more bored with their act. “There some place to fish around here? I saw the rods out front.”
Becker murmurs something, but a movement has caught the corner of Holder’s eye, something outside, back out the window. Movement at the shed door, the shiny, oversized padlock. He turns full on to look, frowning, thinking he’d imagined it.
No. There it is again. The shed door shudders, just a bit, making the padlock jump. Like someone’s hitting the door from inside the shed.
And before Holder can turn back around, make a joke, pretend he didn’t see it, it’s too late.
He feels the gun at his back.
“Turn the fuck around,” hisses Becker.
“Okay, okay,” says Holder as he turns slowly, hands up, calm as he can manage. “We’ll go, like we said. Let’s just calm this down, yo.”
When he turns, he sees that Becker’s dropped the act, Becker’s eyes are wide and crazed, and he’s holding a Walther semi-auto on him.
“Call your partner,” instructs Becker. And he thumbs back the hammer on the Walther.
Holder doesn’t want to, but she’s going to come out anyway. Better she hear his voice first. Then, a desperate idea:
“Yo, Sarah!”
A moment, then her voice answers in return, a little too brightly: “Be right there!”
But when she comes out, Holder sees it doesn’t really matter whether he cued her or not. She’s on guard but her hands are empty, and Becker still has the Walther trained on him.
Linden freezes.
“Your weapon, detective,” says Becker.
One palm upraised, Linden reaches for her holstered Glock with the other. Slowly, slowly. Holder tries to communicate to her with his eyes--run, dammit, run, while he’s got the gun on me--but she’s not looking at him, she’s looking at Becker. She takes the Glock out, holds it with the tips of her fingers like it’s a dead rat, begins speaking softly.
“You don’t have to do this, Becker,” she says. Just like she’s talking to Pastor Mike all over again. “We can help you and your son.”
“Shut up and put the fucking gun on the floor,” growls Becker.
But Becker’s trying to cover both of them with one gun, and as Linden is slowly crouching to lay the Glock down, one hand still raised, Becker gestures for Holder to move closer to Linden. “You,” he says to Linden, “Kick the gun over here.”
Linden does.
“Get over there!” Becker yells at Holder, who still hasn’t closed the space between himself and Linden.
But instead, Holder lunges for Becker’s gun; grabs Becker’s wrists, shoves upwards hard, tries to get a knee in.
A shot is fired. Becker has twisted away from him. Holder’s hands are empty. Becker still has the gun.
Two more shots; Holder makes a grab for his own Glock, expecting to feel a bullet hit him, not sure he isn’t hit already; but instead Becker is twisting away from him again, falling to the ground.
Becker’s the one who’s been hit.
Holder snaps his gaze in Linden’s direction; she’s still crouched down, but she’s got a tiny Ruger held tightly at arm’s length.
He stares at her, bewildered, breathing hard. “Where the hell you get that,” he exhales.
“Boot holster,” she says.
“Nice,” he says, still a little dazed, ears ringing.
“Holder,” she says without taking her eyes off Becker “Get his gun. Get mine. And call it in.”
He does all of those things.
Linden says, while Holder moves to her and Becker lies bleeding on the floor, “There are a lot of knives in the back bedroom. More knives than anyone needs for hunting. And someone’s been washing off blood in the bathtub, left a spot on the tile.”
Holder takes a deep breath, realizes he’s clammy with sweat.
He says, “Someone’s locked in the shed.”
***
They handcuff Becker, who is bleeding and groaning, there on the floor. They can’t wait for backup, for an ambulance, they have to get to the shed.
Linden stands a few paces back, Glock at the ready, while Holder approaches the shed. The shaking of the shed door has stopped for now. The keys to the padlock weren’t on Becker’s person.
“Who’s in there?” yells Holder. “Seattle PD, you’re safe.”
“Oh my God, please help me,” cries a faint, weak voice. “Please help me. Please let me out. Please don’t leave me here. Please!” A girl’s voice.
“We’re not leaving you here, sweetheart,” calls Holder. “I promise. What’s your name?”
“Kallie...”
Holder’s eyes meet Linden’s.
“Move away from the door, Kallie,” calls Linden.
And Holder kicks the shed’s door in.
***
It’s hours before they’re cleared to leave. Kallie, who was in wrist and ankle cuffs, and had been slamming her body against the shed door since she heard another vehicle come up the drive, is bundled away in an ambulance. Becker, too, unconscious but stable.
Leaning against the car, Linden says, “That was a good idea back there, by the way. ‘Sarah’.”
Holder smiles wanly. “I needed your attention.”
“It gave me time to take the safety off the Ruger.”
He starts to make a joke about the little gun. Where you get that little thing, Linden? That pea shooter regulation?” It was so small, like a toy in her hands, but if it weren’t for the little toy gun they might both be dead. If it wasn’t so small, it wouldn’t have been invisible under the cuff of her jeans. So he doesn’t make the joke.
Instead he says: “You think this’ll be enough to call the dogs off Seward? I mean, Linden, I gotta admit, I still don’t see how this fits. Big coincidence Seward ends up with his wife’s real killer for a prison guard?”
“I think they’ll give me a few days,” she says. “Especially since Becker is in charge of Seward’s execution. And besides, we’ve seen weirder things.”
He knows what she’s thinking: Rosie Larsen.
“And maybe,” she says, “a few days will be enough.”
He’s doubtful. There are so many bodies, so many puzzle-pieces. He wants to believe it’s Mills who did the teen girls, but Seward’s wife has never really fit into it that neatly; except that Linden thinks Mills had her rings. But why’s Becker got a missing girl locked in a shed? Why the knives?
Why Bullet?
Holder remembers that she’s really gone, and realizes she’ll never know Kallie made it out alive. Realizes that Kallie’s still got the news of Bullet coming; she was already in shock and they didn’t want to tell her then
He tries to shake it all off, but it’s too much.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Maybe it’ll be enough.”
“Give me a ride home?” she asks.
***
“They’re going to move on Seward’s stay of execution,” Linden says, back at her place. “They’ve made the call.”
She moves to place the phone on the counter, but misses; it clatters on the floor.She looks down at it but doesn’t pick it up.
She reaches out towards the counter to steady herself, but misses again, and suddenly Holder sees that she’s about to fall.
As a rule, they don’t touch each other. Unless one of them is dying, or nearly so. They don’t talk about it, they just don’t do it. And they both know it’s because if they ever did touch, they might not be able to stop, and there’s no good ending to that story, or not one that either one of them can picture.
But now, as he watches her knees start to go out from under her, Holder is on his feet, catching her, an arm around her back, under her shoulders, a hand cupping her forearm. Halting her fall. “Whoa, whoa,” he says. "Easy. When’s the last time you ate something?”
Linden sags against him. She gives up all the weight of her body to his arms.
But she’s light, so light, under the deceptive bulk of her clothes, and he carries her back to the sofa, leans back with her, holding her in his arms like a child. She takes a gasping breath, and another, her fingers clinging to the front of his shirt, twisting it. And then she sobs.
She sobs quietly, but her whole body shakes with it. Her face is wet against his neck.
An arm behind her shoulders, another under her knees, he gathers her up tighter against him. She’s balled up in his lap, her own arms crossed in front of her chest, one of her fists clenched tightly, the fingers of her other hand still clutching at his shirt.
He says nothing. Doesn’t even murmur at her. Just breathes and holds her while she sobs. He doesn’t know all the reasons she’s crying. He doesn’t need to. But he knows some of them.
And now, for just a moment, she lets go of all of it. Lets herself fall.
Holder realizes he’s shaking, ever so slightly. It’s become too much, too powerful, all at once. This is the reason they’ve never crossed this line: it’s too much, just too much to handle, too much truth, too much rawness, too much exposure. Too real. It scares him, and his heart starts to hammer, his breath comes faster, all the while he’s trying to calm it back down, to just be there for her, a neutral, safe presence.
But he feels her tense up. She comes back to herself, slams her walls down. Just like that, she’s up and off him, off the couch, out of reach, across the room, and he’s holding empty air. Nothing left but a lingering warmth in his arms where she’d been a moment ago, and her tears cooling on his neck.
Her back to him, steadying herself against the hall doorframe, she wipes her face with a sweater sleeve, and she calls over her shoulder to him: “I need to take a shower.”
“You want me to leave?” Holder asks.
She pauses, still not looking. “Whatever you want,” she says. She starts to move down the hallway, away from him.
"Sarah," Holder says.
She stops, turns around to look at him.
"I'm not leaving," he says.
She smiles at him in a sad, Sarah Linden sort of way, and turns back to the hallway. In a moment, he hears the shower running.
She’s in there a long time. It gives him time to think of a lot of things to do, a lot of things to say. A lot of different ways to come at it, what’s between them, whether they should take it or leave it.
She finally comes out, tank and sweatpants, towelled-dry hair hanging loose. She sits next to him. Close but not touching.
So he nudges her knee with his.
She shakes her head slowly, not looking him.
“It’s a bad idea,” she says. “You know it is.”
He watches her silently, until she finally glances up and sidelong at him. Her face looks softer, some of its habitual tension gone, the line between her brows eased.
He doesn’t want to scare her, so he moves slowly, just a hand on her shoulder at first, sliding his palm down her back, pulling her over, testing for resistance.
She does resist, just for a second, then relaxes and allows herself to be pulled.
He leans over, touches his forehead to hers. “Bad idea? You sure?”
“Yes,” she says, but she doesn’t move away, and so he pulls her over the rest of the way, leans back against the sofa, holds her again, her head against his chest.
This time, she just relaxes against him.
This time, she stays.
It’s enough for now.
***
END
A/N: I don’t really think it was Becker. Okay, I have no idea who it is. Maybe it’s Becker. But I needed to jump off 3x9 and picked someone. I suspect the real answer will be too complicated for the scope of a one-shot fanfic. :)