Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: Jailbird
Story Title: Jailbird
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 3: Wrongful Arrest
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,619
Summary: Robbie learns the hard way that the untimely death of Director Mace means the warrant out for his arrest was never cleared.
Things are going well, for the first time in he can’t even remember how long, which means they’re bound to go to shit soon.
And they do.
If he weren’t riding high from cheap, greasy diner food eaten in good company, maybe he’d have noticed being tailed, but he was, in fact, riding high. To see Daisy after over a decade of bloodshed - only a few years here, though, which he still can’t wrap his head around - to see her smile at him had felt like things were finally being set to rights. He’d dreamed of her, but that didn’t measure up to the real thing, not by a long shot.
The Rider had been angrily whispering at him for several minutes, in retrospect. Robbie’d just tuned him out. After so much time together, he’d learned to do that effectively. Usually he didn’t bother, because the Rider inevitably got his way in the end. At the diner, however, he really hadn’t wanted to have his mood dampened by being reminded that it wasn’t just him and Daisy sitting there, there was another. There is always another.
Even when the first of what became four cop cars pulled up on him as he stopped to get gas afterwards, it hadn’t triggered his radar. Unable to keep the grin off his face, he’d greeted, “How can I help you, officer?”
The response had been to take advantage of Robbie’s surprise to wrench him around, slam his head against the cruiser, slap too-tight handcuffs around his wrists, and shove him into the backseat. Not a word about why he was being detained, just trussing him up like a pig for slaughter.
Which has summarily landed him in an interrogation room at the station downtown. His wrists remain cuffed, but at least now it’s to a table where he has enough room to get the circulation going. The clock on the wall tells him he’s been in here for three hours, and not a soul has come to visit. For a good half-hour he’d tried to get some acknowledgement, to at least be told why he was being held, but all he was met with was a silent, opaque two-way mirror. He’s positive there’s someone behind it, probably multiple someones, which makes the whole thing all the more unnerving.
We can snap these cuffs easily, the Rider reminds him unnecessarily.
And be tased for doing it? No, thanks.
Most of the time, he prefers to actually talk aloud to the Rider, which makes it feel more like an actual conversation. But the last thing he needs right now is for people to think he’s mentally unstable.
These officers are nothing, they’re useless.
I agree. Shut up.
The Rider’s indignation at that is palpable. Nevertheless, he for once takes a backseat. That’s been a benefit, too, to the arrangement they’d come to long ago: Robbie gets a modicum of lenience. The Rider trusts him enough, at least, for this. For now, anyway.
After all, it’s not the first time Robbie’s been in an interrogation room.
He stares at himself in the mirror. He’s older now, much older. The last time he’d been in here, he was fresh-faced with a mop of curls falling into his eyes and dreams of doing something productive with his life. He’d refused to let the street-racing charges derail that. He’d succeeded, at the time; the judge had given him only a few days in juvie and a bunch of community service.
He can barely remember that kid anymore. It feels like a whole other life.
In fairness, it was a whole other life. That kid had been killed.
Robbie digs the heel of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots. A few hours ago, he’d thought he’d be home having dinner and a movie with Gabe, whom he’s talked to only briefly on the phone since he returned. Gabe had laughed at him in the way only a little brother could and told him to go attempt to be charming then share all the details later.
Which - shit. Unless the officers had decided to be courteous - unlikely - Gabe has no idea where he is. Robbie’s probably got a dozen missed calls and texts by now. Does Gabe think the Rider had yanked him away again without a chance to say goodbye? Or that Robbie had gone after someone rather than go home?
“Did anyone call my brother?” Robbie asks the mirror. “He’s got to be worried. Detain me, whatever, just let him know. Please.”
He gets no response. Robbie bangs his hands against the table in frustration. He earns himself nothing but an echoing clang and shot of pain for his efforts. Small tendrils of smoke begin to hiss from beneath the unforgiving metal.
Stop it, Robbie warns. I told you I would handle this.
Only trying to help.
Well, don’t.
The smoke dissipates. Robbie’s edge doesn’t. Usually he has more control over his powers, whether the Rider’s choosing to be a dick or not. Having them be used without his consent is unpleasant. If he doesn’t even have reasonable control after all this time, then …
Stop whining, boy, scoffs the Rider. Your melodrama got old fourteen years ago. All high and mighty, like you and I aren’t the same.
I don’t need you.
Don’t need me? Look at you. Pathetic. This is why it’s better when I’m in charge. I’d have us out of here in no time. Take half of this police scum with us. Earth makes you weak -
Robbie drops his head against the table with a thud.
Five hours, forty-two minutes.
Robbie counts every second.
Well, he tries to. He has to start over a few times thanks to the Rider purposefully getting him off track with his constant goading. Robbie’s patience is razor-thin, both with the Rider and L.A.’s finest. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants Gabe to know what’s going on, Robbie himself wants to know what’s going on. The metal he’s attached to has grown slightly malleable beneath the unnatural heat of his hands, and this time he can’t even blame the Rider for it.
He’s taken to staring at his thumbs. He’s broken more than his fair share of bones, has dislocated joints, been shot, stabbed, run over, hit … but he’s never intentionally injured himself. Maybe now would be the time. If he can pop one digit out of place, he’d be a step towards getting out of here without having to actually set anyone on fire. It’s stupid that he’s squeamish about it at all, after all the shit he’s done.
He grimaces anyway. With his luck, the Rider would call him an idiot and refuse to heal him, making him do it the old-fashioned way with ice and aspirin. He wishes he had a paperclip or safety pin on him to jimmy the cuffs, but he’s got nothing. The cops’ frisking had taken everything but the clothes off his back.
Right as Robbie braces himself and starts to push down on his joint, the interrogation room door swings open. He doesn’t recognize the man that walks in, but judging by the suit and haircut, he outranks the beat cops. His hands clutch a thick manila folder.
Robbie eyes him warily. “So, you gonna tell me why I’m here?”
The man laughs a hollow laugh. “I’ve sat across from a lot of criminals, Mr. Reyes. Robbers, drunk drivers, murderers, you name it. You? You’re a real piece of work. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised it’s taken so long to pin you down. Handsome, unassuming, gainfully employed. Yep, you’re the type that gets away with things.”
Get away with things? Robbie thinks. I fucking wish.
Robbie doesn’t let his astoundment show. “You didn’t answer my question. Detective …?”
“Dumas. You’ve got some balls on you, I’ll give you that. Pretending like you don’t know why you’re here. All right, I’ll play your game. How about we start with cold-blooded murder? Fifty-three counts - that we know about. Never mind remorseless, you’re proud of them, have ’em spray-painted on a First Street wall for everyone to see. Then, of course, there are the poor bastards who were tortured before they were murdered. Property damage, we’ll throw that in, too. I’ll admit, I was stumped when you fell off the grid, but I see you’re back.”
“Sorry, who exactly do you think I am?”
The detective makes exaggerated air quotes as he replies, “ ‘Ghost Rider,’ according to the folks we spoke to on the street. Too sensational for my taste.”
“Sounds like a lot of hearsay to me. What evidence do you have?”
“You want evidence? Sure, I’ve got plenty.”
Dumas places a tablet in front of him and presses Play on some security camera footage.
Some familiar footage.
Robbie watches himself stride down the middle of a prison block, terrified prisoners scuttling back into their cells, one of which spews black smoke and hungry flames.
It would be a bald-faced lie to say he’s forgotten about that. He recalls perfectly well the fear on Niguero’s face as he revealed his other half, the feeling of Niguero’s skin bubbling off his bones and hot air boiling his lungs until his body gave out. Robbie doesn’t regret the act itself, really. Locked up at the time or not, Niguero had still been the leader of the gangbangers who put Gabe in the chair and saddled Robbie with the Rider. Guilty by association.
No reason to confess to all of that, though. “You’re tripping.”
Incredulous, Dumas gestures to Robbie’s person. “You’re wearing the exact same outfit as we speak. Jacket, jeans, Vans, driving gloves. Are you claiming that’s a coincidence?”
Confidence is key, offers the Rider.
Yeah, no shit.
“I am.”
“Fine,” says Dumas, and swipes right on the tablet. It’s not the Rider who’s in frame this time. It’s Robbie in his human form, arriving then departing from the prison with the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. “Wanna explain that?”
“I was freelancing with S.H.I.E.L.D.”
“Freelancing? That’s what you’re going with?”
It isn’t that Robbie’d thought this was all a joke, exactly. Though none of what Dumas has said is incorrect - minus some pertinent information about why he was at the prison in the first place - it’s hard for him to believe that after all this time they’re seriously trying to prosecute him. Not least of which because in exchange for helping S.H.I.E.L.D., Director Mace had sworn he’d clear all this up. Bury it.
This, he thinks as he studies a disdainful Dumas, is not burying.
With as level a tone as he can muster, Robbie says, “I think I’d like my phone call now.”
“A phone call? That’s funny.”
“I know my rights. I’m entitled to a lawyer.”
Dumas glares at him, then gets to his feet with a screeching of his chair. Looking like he’d like nothing more than to break Robbie’s arm, he unlocks Robbie’s handcuffs from the table, drags him up, and pushes him forward. “Come with me.”
Robbie is escorted to another section of the precinct and monitored carefully by a set of burly guards as Dumas motions for him to make the call. Robbie dials the number that’s as ingrained in his brain as his own.
Four rings pass, making him fear she won’t pick up. She hadn’t mentioned going on any kind of imminent mission, but S.H.I.E.L.D. does love to classify things. The line clicks over in the middle of the fifth ring, and Daisy answers blearily, “Hello?”
“Hey, I need a favor.”
“Robbie?”
He winces at the rough sound of her voice, and glances up at the clock. 2:27 a.m. Apologetically, he explains, “Sorry to wake you, it’s just - I’m sort of in jail.”
“You’re where?”
“Jail.”
“Yeah, no, I heard you. I meant, why?”
“There’s been some kind of mixup. They’re charging me with murder. Murders, plural.”
“You did murder people.”
“Daisy, this isn’t a joke. They’ve got CCTV footage from the prison. I thought all that was supposed to go away?”
“They’ve -?” He can hear rustling on the other end that he guesses is Daisy getting out of bed, for when she speaks again, she sounds much more alert. “Maybe - Mace probably didn’t have it high up on his priorities list since you were sucked into hell. Then he was abducted into the Framework.”
“And killed,” Robbie finishes. “So, no one cleared me?”
“I had no idea. I … never thought about it. It’s been one thing after another and you’ve been gone. But nothing like this has come across my desk.”
“Mack, then?”
“No way. He’d have told me.”
“Great. Nothing better than go-getter cops chasing a cold case.”
“Okay, so, what is it exactly you want me to do here?”
“You’re number two at S.H.I.E.L.D. You can’t tell these guys to fuck off?”
“Pretty sure that’s called abuse of power.”
“You’re really gonna hang me out to dry?”
“Do the crime, do the time.”
“Daisy.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she replies irritably, “at a reasonable hour.”
“Wait, no, hang on -”
“Have fun.”
Click, dial tone.
Robbie pulls the receiver away from his ear and stares at it in incredulity. Did she just -?
You’d rather rot in here waiting for that girl to do something than get out? The door’s right there, kid. Two guards and a stiff are no contest.
I swear to god, one more word.
Robbie places the handset back on the hook and turns around to face an unimpressed Dumas. “My lawyer, she, um. She has to get a few things in order. Won’t be able to come by until morning.”
“Unlucky for you.”
“Nah, man, unlucky for you. Fifth Amendment’s still a thing, last I checked. You can’t force me to say anything.”
Pure contempt is the response Robbie receives.
“Holding cell,” Dumas snaps at the guards. To Robbie, he promises, “I’ll see you soon.”
“Can’t wait.”
Robbie squints in the bright daylight as he steps through the precinct doors and walks down the front steps. The lighting in his cell had been terrible. Dumas’s face, however, when Robbie collected his belongings and strode past him free as a bird had more than made up for it.
Daisy leans against the side of a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue SUV dressed in a sharply tailored suit and oversized sunglasses, her hair drawn up into a severe bun. It’s all showmanship, he knows that much, but he isn’t complaining. About the freedom or the outfit.
“Took you long enough,” Robbie complains. “Whatever the police budget is for, it sure ain’t the holding cells.”
“Sleep well?” she asks testily. “I didn’t. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it was to make this go away? Get in.”
Robbie slides into the passenger seat as commanded. “I’m sorry my wrongful arrest was inconvenient for you.”
“Wrongful? Those charges were legit.”
“Maybe technically -”
“No, literally, and Detective Dumas wasn’t easily swayed either. Mack had to get on a damn videoconference with him.”
“I’ll call to thank him.”
Daisy briefly takes her eyes off the road to scowl at him. At least, he assumes that’s what she’s doing. Her sunglasses reveal nothing. “Oh, Mack gets a thank-you? Are you trying to make me turn this car around?”
Robbie resists the smile that tugs at his lips. He doubts she’d appreciate it. “Yeah, Mack gets a call. You’ll get more than that.”
Daisy readjusts her grip on the wheel. He’s pretty sure she’s not scowling anymore.
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 3: Wrongful Arrest
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,619
Summary: Robbie learns the hard way that the untimely death of Director Mace means the warrant out for his arrest was never cleared.
Things are going well, for the first time in he can’t even remember how long, which means they’re bound to go to shit soon.
And they do.
If he weren’t riding high from cheap, greasy diner food eaten in good company, maybe he’d have noticed being tailed, but he was, in fact, riding high. To see Daisy after over a decade of bloodshed - only a few years here, though, which he still can’t wrap his head around - to see her smile at him had felt like things were finally being set to rights. He’d dreamed of her, but that didn’t measure up to the real thing, not by a long shot.
The Rider had been angrily whispering at him for several minutes, in retrospect. Robbie’d just tuned him out. After so much time together, he’d learned to do that effectively. Usually he didn’t bother, because the Rider inevitably got his way in the end. At the diner, however, he really hadn’t wanted to have his mood dampened by being reminded that it wasn’t just him and Daisy sitting there, there was another. There is always another.
Even when the first of what became four cop cars pulled up on him as he stopped to get gas afterwards, it hadn’t triggered his radar. Unable to keep the grin off his face, he’d greeted, “How can I help you, officer?”
The response had been to take advantage of Robbie’s surprise to wrench him around, slam his head against the cruiser, slap too-tight handcuffs around his wrists, and shove him into the backseat. Not a word about why he was being detained, just trussing him up like a pig for slaughter.
Which has summarily landed him in an interrogation room at the station downtown. His wrists remain cuffed, but at least now it’s to a table where he has enough room to get the circulation going. The clock on the wall tells him he’s been in here for three hours, and not a soul has come to visit. For a good half-hour he’d tried to get some acknowledgement, to at least be told why he was being held, but all he was met with was a silent, opaque two-way mirror. He’s positive there’s someone behind it, probably multiple someones, which makes the whole thing all the more unnerving.
We can snap these cuffs easily, the Rider reminds him unnecessarily.
And be tased for doing it? No, thanks.
Most of the time, he prefers to actually talk aloud to the Rider, which makes it feel more like an actual conversation. But the last thing he needs right now is for people to think he’s mentally unstable.
These officers are nothing, they’re useless.
I agree. Shut up.
The Rider’s indignation at that is palpable. Nevertheless, he for once takes a backseat. That’s been a benefit, too, to the arrangement they’d come to long ago: Robbie gets a modicum of lenience. The Rider trusts him enough, at least, for this. For now, anyway.
After all, it’s not the first time Robbie’s been in an interrogation room.
He stares at himself in the mirror. He’s older now, much older. The last time he’d been in here, he was fresh-faced with a mop of curls falling into his eyes and dreams of doing something productive with his life. He’d refused to let the street-racing charges derail that. He’d succeeded, at the time; the judge had given him only a few days in juvie and a bunch of community service.
He can barely remember that kid anymore. It feels like a whole other life.
In fairness, it was a whole other life. That kid had been killed.
Robbie digs the heel of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots. A few hours ago, he’d thought he’d be home having dinner and a movie with Gabe, whom he’s talked to only briefly on the phone since he returned. Gabe had laughed at him in the way only a little brother could and told him to go attempt to be charming then share all the details later.
Which - shit. Unless the officers had decided to be courteous - unlikely - Gabe has no idea where he is. Robbie’s probably got a dozen missed calls and texts by now. Does Gabe think the Rider had yanked him away again without a chance to say goodbye? Or that Robbie had gone after someone rather than go home?
“Did anyone call my brother?” Robbie asks the mirror. “He’s got to be worried. Detain me, whatever, just let him know. Please.”
He gets no response. Robbie bangs his hands against the table in frustration. He earns himself nothing but an echoing clang and shot of pain for his efforts. Small tendrils of smoke begin to hiss from beneath the unforgiving metal.
Stop it, Robbie warns. I told you I would handle this.
Only trying to help.
Well, don’t.
The smoke dissipates. Robbie’s edge doesn’t. Usually he has more control over his powers, whether the Rider’s choosing to be a dick or not. Having them be used without his consent is unpleasant. If he doesn’t even have reasonable control after all this time, then …
Stop whining, boy, scoffs the Rider. Your melodrama got old fourteen years ago. All high and mighty, like you and I aren’t the same.
I don’t need you.
Don’t need me? Look at you. Pathetic. This is why it’s better when I’m in charge. I’d have us out of here in no time. Take half of this police scum with us. Earth makes you weak -
Robbie drops his head against the table with a thud.
Five hours, forty-two minutes.
Robbie counts every second.
Well, he tries to. He has to start over a few times thanks to the Rider purposefully getting him off track with his constant goading. Robbie’s patience is razor-thin, both with the Rider and L.A.’s finest. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants Gabe to know what’s going on, Robbie himself wants to know what’s going on. The metal he’s attached to has grown slightly malleable beneath the unnatural heat of his hands, and this time he can’t even blame the Rider for it.
He’s taken to staring at his thumbs. He’s broken more than his fair share of bones, has dislocated joints, been shot, stabbed, run over, hit … but he’s never intentionally injured himself. Maybe now would be the time. If he can pop one digit out of place, he’d be a step towards getting out of here without having to actually set anyone on fire. It’s stupid that he’s squeamish about it at all, after all the shit he’s done.
He grimaces anyway. With his luck, the Rider would call him an idiot and refuse to heal him, making him do it the old-fashioned way with ice and aspirin. He wishes he had a paperclip or safety pin on him to jimmy the cuffs, but he’s got nothing. The cops’ frisking had taken everything but the clothes off his back.
Right as Robbie braces himself and starts to push down on his joint, the interrogation room door swings open. He doesn’t recognize the man that walks in, but judging by the suit and haircut, he outranks the beat cops. His hands clutch a thick manila folder.
Robbie eyes him warily. “So, you gonna tell me why I’m here?”
The man laughs a hollow laugh. “I’ve sat across from a lot of criminals, Mr. Reyes. Robbers, drunk drivers, murderers, you name it. You? You’re a real piece of work. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised it’s taken so long to pin you down. Handsome, unassuming, gainfully employed. Yep, you’re the type that gets away with things.”
Get away with things? Robbie thinks. I fucking wish.
Robbie doesn’t let his astoundment show. “You didn’t answer my question. Detective …?”
“Dumas. You’ve got some balls on you, I’ll give you that. Pretending like you don’t know why you’re here. All right, I’ll play your game. How about we start with cold-blooded murder? Fifty-three counts - that we know about. Never mind remorseless, you’re proud of them, have ’em spray-painted on a First Street wall for everyone to see. Then, of course, there are the poor bastards who were tortured before they were murdered. Property damage, we’ll throw that in, too. I’ll admit, I was stumped when you fell off the grid, but I see you’re back.”
“Sorry, who exactly do you think I am?”
The detective makes exaggerated air quotes as he replies, “ ‘Ghost Rider,’ according to the folks we spoke to on the street. Too sensational for my taste.”
“Sounds like a lot of hearsay to me. What evidence do you have?”
“You want evidence? Sure, I’ve got plenty.”
Dumas places a tablet in front of him and presses Play on some security camera footage.
Some familiar footage.
Robbie watches himself stride down the middle of a prison block, terrified prisoners scuttling back into their cells, one of which spews black smoke and hungry flames.
It would be a bald-faced lie to say he’s forgotten about that. He recalls perfectly well the fear on Niguero’s face as he revealed his other half, the feeling of Niguero’s skin bubbling off his bones and hot air boiling his lungs until his body gave out. Robbie doesn’t regret the act itself, really. Locked up at the time or not, Niguero had still been the leader of the gangbangers who put Gabe in the chair and saddled Robbie with the Rider. Guilty by association.
No reason to confess to all of that, though. “You’re tripping.”
Incredulous, Dumas gestures to Robbie’s person. “You’re wearing the exact same outfit as we speak. Jacket, jeans, Vans, driving gloves. Are you claiming that’s a coincidence?”
Confidence is key, offers the Rider.
Yeah, no shit.
“I am.”
“Fine,” says Dumas, and swipes right on the tablet. It’s not the Rider who’s in frame this time. It’s Robbie in his human form, arriving then departing from the prison with the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. “Wanna explain that?”
“I was freelancing with S.H.I.E.L.D.”
“Freelancing? That’s what you’re going with?”
It isn’t that Robbie’d thought this was all a joke, exactly. Though none of what Dumas has said is incorrect - minus some pertinent information about why he was at the prison in the first place - it’s hard for him to believe that after all this time they’re seriously trying to prosecute him. Not least of which because in exchange for helping S.H.I.E.L.D., Director Mace had sworn he’d clear all this up. Bury it.
This, he thinks as he studies a disdainful Dumas, is not burying.
With as level a tone as he can muster, Robbie says, “I think I’d like my phone call now.”
“A phone call? That’s funny.”
“I know my rights. I’m entitled to a lawyer.”
Dumas glares at him, then gets to his feet with a screeching of his chair. Looking like he’d like nothing more than to break Robbie’s arm, he unlocks Robbie’s handcuffs from the table, drags him up, and pushes him forward. “Come with me.”
Robbie is escorted to another section of the precinct and monitored carefully by a set of burly guards as Dumas motions for him to make the call. Robbie dials the number that’s as ingrained in his brain as his own.
Four rings pass, making him fear she won’t pick up. She hadn’t mentioned going on any kind of imminent mission, but S.H.I.E.L.D. does love to classify things. The line clicks over in the middle of the fifth ring, and Daisy answers blearily, “Hello?”
“Hey, I need a favor.”
“Robbie?”
He winces at the rough sound of her voice, and glances up at the clock. 2:27 a.m. Apologetically, he explains, “Sorry to wake you, it’s just - I’m sort of in jail.”
“You’re where?”
“Jail.”
“Yeah, no, I heard you. I meant, why?”
“There’s been some kind of mixup. They’re charging me with murder. Murders, plural.”
“You did murder people.”
“Daisy, this isn’t a joke. They’ve got CCTV footage from the prison. I thought all that was supposed to go away?”
“They’ve -?” He can hear rustling on the other end that he guesses is Daisy getting out of bed, for when she speaks again, she sounds much more alert. “Maybe - Mace probably didn’t have it high up on his priorities list since you were sucked into hell. Then he was abducted into the Framework.”
“And killed,” Robbie finishes. “So, no one cleared me?”
“I had no idea. I … never thought about it. It’s been one thing after another and you’ve been gone. But nothing like this has come across my desk.”
“Mack, then?”
“No way. He’d have told me.”
“Great. Nothing better than go-getter cops chasing a cold case.”
“Okay, so, what is it exactly you want me to do here?”
“You’re number two at S.H.I.E.L.D. You can’t tell these guys to fuck off?”
“Pretty sure that’s called abuse of power.”
“You’re really gonna hang me out to dry?”
“Do the crime, do the time.”
“Daisy.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she replies irritably, “at a reasonable hour.”
“Wait, no, hang on -”
“Have fun.”
Click, dial tone.
Robbie pulls the receiver away from his ear and stares at it in incredulity. Did she just -?
You’d rather rot in here waiting for that girl to do something than get out? The door’s right there, kid. Two guards and a stiff are no contest.
I swear to god, one more word.
Robbie places the handset back on the hook and turns around to face an unimpressed Dumas. “My lawyer, she, um. She has to get a few things in order. Won’t be able to come by until morning.”
“Unlucky for you.”
“Nah, man, unlucky for you. Fifth Amendment’s still a thing, last I checked. You can’t force me to say anything.”
Pure contempt is the response Robbie receives.
“Holding cell,” Dumas snaps at the guards. To Robbie, he promises, “I’ll see you soon.”
“Can’t wait.”
Robbie squints in the bright daylight as he steps through the precinct doors and walks down the front steps. The lighting in his cell had been terrible. Dumas’s face, however, when Robbie collected his belongings and strode past him free as a bird had more than made up for it.
Daisy leans against the side of a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue SUV dressed in a sharply tailored suit and oversized sunglasses, her hair drawn up into a severe bun. It’s all showmanship, he knows that much, but he isn’t complaining. About the freedom or the outfit.
“Took you long enough,” Robbie complains. “Whatever the police budget is for, it sure ain’t the holding cells.”
“Sleep well?” she asks testily. “I didn’t. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it was to make this go away? Get in.”
Robbie slides into the passenger seat as commanded. “I’m sorry my wrongful arrest was inconvenient for you.”
“Wrongful? Those charges were legit.”
“Maybe technically -”
“No, literally, and Detective Dumas wasn’t easily swayed either. Mack had to get on a damn videoconference with him.”
“I’ll call to thank him.”
Daisy briefly takes her eyes off the road to scowl at him. At least, he assumes that’s what she’s doing. Her sunglasses reveal nothing. “Oh, Mack gets a thank-you? Are you trying to make me turn this car around?”
Robbie resists the smile that tugs at his lips. He doubts she’d appreciate it. “Yeah, Mack gets a call. You’ll get more than that.”
Daisy readjusts her grip on the wheel. He’s pretty sure she’s not scowling anymore.