Carrot Cake #2, Caramel Crunch #15, Cinnamon Raisin #2

[winebabe]

Author: winebabe
Title: Tell Me the Way to Redemption's Door
Story: The Gemini Occurrence ( Kingdom of Second Chances #8--the final piece)
Rating: R (language, violence, depictions of death/blood/etc)
Flavor(s): Carrot Cake #2: breathe; Caramel Crunch #15: I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse; Cinnamon Raisin #2: empty vessels make the most noise
Topping(s): Caramel, Sprinkles.
Word Count: 3,980
Summary: November, Week 3, 2028. Mona leaves New York City, and the detectives, behind.
Notes: Mona Lively, Detective Katharine Chastain, Detective Noel Reyes, Detective Leah Grant, Detective Frankie Moeller, ADA Laurent Marion, Devyn Lively, Genevieve Kessler.

Leah's ears ring in the wake of the gunshots. It feels like time stands still, and despite all her training, she can't move a muscle. Police procedure would demand she go to Frankie, check his vitals, call in the shooting. Police procedure would demand she get Mona out of there. But they're surrounded by a group of criminals and Leah doesn't know where the second gunshot came from. Frankie didn't have a gun. She knew he didn't shoot Mario. If he could have, he would have revealed his weapon long before it came to this.

He was a good detective. He was an even better undercover officer. She's young, inexperienced, and briefly thinks it should have been her instead.

The sound of glass crunching to her left seems to break the spell, and the room comes back into focus as she turns in time to see Noel, glimmering with glass shards on his skin and in the folds of his leather jacket, hop down from the ledge outside the basement window and jog straight to Frankie. He has his gun drawn, and waves it at the crowd. "If any of you make a move, you're next," he says in a voice that carries, that fills up the basement like he's speaking through a megaphone. Leah's never heard him that way before.

He presses his fingertips into Frankie's neck and speaks into his radio, "Officer down, I need a bus immediately, 1800 North--"

There's a crunch, a crash, and the thudding of footsteps as the basement fills up with officers. A sudden pressure on her hand startles Leah, but it's just Mona, grabbing onto her. Too many people have flooded the room and Leah can't keep track of where Noel is, where Frankie is, and then suddenly Kat is crouching in front of them. She places a hand on each of their faces, gently directing their attention onto her, and asks, "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Leah, still in shock, is just lucid enough to murmur, "We're fine."

Meanwhile, Mona has started sobbing again, and whatever she's saying to Kat is completely unintelligible to Leah. Kat pulls Mona into a one-armed hug and pats Leah on the knee. "Come on, let's get you two out of here," she says, and then has to physically pull Leah to her feet.

The parking lot of a nearby abandoned gas station is filled with police cars--some unmarked, some SUVs--and other emergency vehicles. The stakeout van is nearby, rusted and packed full of junk--inconspicuous.

There are people moving around in the windows of nearby apartment buildings, and Noel knows they've been making a scene, but he doesn't care. Normally, he'd want to secure the area. Normally, he'd shoo away the bystanders, the teens with their cell phones out. He just doesn't care. He's still shaking the broken glass off of him, and he's pretty sure there's a piece embedded in his face somewhere, but the paramedics are busy and he's too high on adrenaline to even register the pain.

He can still smell the acrid gunpowder from discharging his weapon.

"Hey," Kat says and places a gentle hand on his upper arm. "We gotta clean you up." She raises her other hand, holding something white she must've snagged from the paramedics, and gently dabs at his face. "Did you go face-first through the window, Reyes?"

"Frankie went down, and I had to--"

"Shh, shh," Kat interrupts, shaking her head. "I was just teasing. You're all cut up, Noel."

"I thought I shot him," Noel mutters, and slowly lowers himself down to sit on a parking bumper. Kat crouches down with him, still dabbing the blood from his skin. "I shot one time, Kat. Once. But then there was another shot and Frankie went down and I--"

"It's okay," Kat tells him, using her other hand to cover his mouth. "It was a good shoot. That's not your fault."

Noel nods and slowly pulls her hand down from his mouth. She wraps her arms around his neck and lets him rest his forehead against her shoulder.

The parking lot is chaotic when Laurent pulls in, shaking in his seat and verging on hysteria. He almost hit three cars in his rush to get to the scene, almost got hit head-on once himself, but managed to get there in once piece only fifteen minutes after receiving the call from Leah.

She was crying, whispering into the phone, "Please come. Please come, he needs you," and Laurent thought Frankie was dying. He still thinks that as he parks his car on the outer edge of the parking lot, away from all the emergency vehicles, cognizant of the fact that he has to give them room. The first person he spots in the sea of people is Leah, her red hair sticking out amongst the blue of uniforms, and Laurent runs through the parking lot to reach her.

"Where is he?" he asks, before he's even made it to her side, and Leah jumps.

She's standing with another police officer--young, blond, tired-looking--and she apologizes to him before she turns back to Laurent. "Ambulance," she says, pointing to her right. The front end of the vehicle is facing them, so he can't tell what's going on inside; it looks too calm, though, and Laurent fears Frankie is dead.

It makes sense, of course. The medical examiner is already there. Mario is dead, Leah already told him, but if they haven't rushed Frankie to the hospital, the only logical conclusion is that he's dead, too.

Laurent takes a few steps in the direction of the ambulance, and then hesitates.

On the drive there, he rehearsed the speech he'd give him. They have so much to talk about, so much they already should have talked about, and Laurent had been blowing him off since the week before his transfer--over a year ago. And then Frankie left, and Laurent couldn't find the courage to say anything, even with the distance between them serving as a buffer.

And then Frankie came back, and he tried to talk to him, and even then, Laurent still couldn't talk to him. He tricked himself into believing it didn't matter, that nothing either of them could say would change anything. Frankie would leave and go back to LA no matter what Laurent told him. It wasn't worth the effort, and it wasn't worth the pain.

But Laurent never thought he'd be running to a shooting to see him. He didn't think their last meeting would happen anything like this.

"ADA Marion!" Someone calls out, and Laurent turns just in time to see another young officer, someone he remembers in context but not by name, running over to him. "What are you doing here?"

"One of ours was--" His throat closes up, and to mask the overt display of emotion, he feigns a sudden coughing fit.

"Detective Moeller," the officer supplies for him. "It was a freak accident, really. Do you want to see him?"

Laurent blinks at him, stunned by the young man's calm tone. He's almost angered by it, wondering how someone could be so callous, until the thought materializes that maybe, just maybe, Frankie isn't dead. "Is he..."

The officer doesn't speak for a moment, squinting at Laurent as though he doesn't understand what the man is asking. "Oh! No, sir, he's okay. He's--"

"Thank you," Laurent says and pushes past him, making an immediate beeline towards the back of the ambulance. His heart is pounding against his rib cage and he feels faint as he finally makes his way around the side, to where Frankie is sitting up, legs danging off the floor of the ambulance, while a paramedic wraps a bandage around his head. "Frankie," he breathes, reaching out to steady himself against the ambulance door.

"Laurent!" Frankie looks even more surprised than Laurent feels, brown eyes wide and glossy, slightly unfocused--Laurent figures he's been given some kind of pain medication. "What are you doing here?"

He looks so fragile with the white gauze wrapped around his head, blood spatter on his face and clothing, and Laurent doesn't know what to do. "I thought you were dead. Leah called me, crying, and she said I had to come down here, and you were--"

"Relax," Frankie says, drawing the word out a little too long. "I'm clearly not dead." He sucks in a sharp breath as the paramedic finishes wrapping the gauze; it's a relief once he leaves, and it's just Frankie and Laurent behind the ambulance.

"You could have been, though," Laurent replies, very quiet. Nervous, almost, as he tries to form the right words. "I was worried. I was--I was scared, Frankie."

Frankie sits, very still, in the back of the ambulance, his hands folded on his lap. "Yeah," he says and shrugs. "Well."

"You were right, you know," Laurent says, pulling his coat around him as a sudden gust of cold air blasts them. "I owe you a lot. And I can start with some answers, if you want to talk."

He knows it's probably the wrong time; Frankie was just shot, and he still doesn't know serious it is, but there must be some truth to the fact that traumatic events break you open. He's never wanted to be honest with someone more than that moment, and if they weren't surrounded by half the police department, Laurent may have kissed him. He definitely would have done more than just awkwardly lean against the ambulance door.

Frankie reaches out to take Laurent's hand in his own. He's so cold, and Laurent takes a step closer to him, trying to shield him from the wind. "Can I stay with you? I don't want to go back to my hotel room, not tonight."

Laurent nods and gives Frankie's hand a squeeze. "Of course, yeah."

"You're not worried about what everyone else will think?" Frankie asks, and Laurent closes his eyes; he can't pretend that doesn't hurt. "Sorry, it's just--"

"I know," Laurent says, and even though he wants to retreat, he stays by Frankie's side, holding his hand. "I wasn't worried about what people would think," he insists. "I'm not--I'm not out, not to everyone, and that's a problem. And a detective in a relationship with their ADA? That's--that's an internal investigation waiting to happen."

"Don't be so dramatic," Frankie grumbles. "You're enough of a stubborn asshole that I think IAB would know I can't solicit favors from you. I think you were actually harder on me when we were together--or whatever you'd call it."

"Would you please--I've been really shitty, okay, I know. Do you want to punch me in the face? Would that make you feel better?"

Frankie rolls his eyes. "There you go, being overdramatic again. Do I want to punch you? Yes. Honestly, I did, on quite a few occasions. And maybe if I wasn't so blissed out on pain meds, I might take a swing at you."

"That's fair," Laurent mumbles.

"No, Laurent, it's not fair! You know what would be fair? Going back to your apartment and talking. And not only that, but actually listening to each other for once. I'm sorry, I didn't realize your sexuality was such a big issue. Really, I didn't, because you didn't tell me."

"It's...embarrassing!" he exclaims. "I wish I could care as little as you do, but I can't. I just can't."

"Laurent, it's who you are!"

Laurent sets his jaw and turns away from Frankie. There's a lot he wants to say, but none of it will do either of them good. Instead, he settles for stating some truths. "I'm not idealistic like you, Frankie. I care about my job, and I know that some things require sacrifices. I've never been able to 'have my cake and eat it too,' and being the department's ADA and your partner? It wouldn't work, Frankie."

"Says who?" Frankie gives him a look that makes Laurent wonder if his medication is wearing off already. "We've never tried. We spent a year fooling around, going on dates on the other damn side of the city to avoid running into people we knew, making out in your coat closet because you didn't want to be caught bringing me home with you."

Laurent feels like he's lost his balance for a moment; he never once imagined that Frankie had such a different view of their time together. He thought he was doing the both of them a favor, paying for getaways to luxurious hotels where they could fall asleep to the sound of the ocean lapping outside their balcony, driving out to classy brunch places in the countryside instead of greasy diners stuffed into crowded city blocks. He did agree that confining their intimacy to darkened closets lost its charm after the first couple of times, but they had to make sacrifices.

He thought it was okay, though. He had money, and he spent that money on extravagant dates for the two of them; Frankie had never once been on vacation, not as a child and not even as an adult, so Laurent thought he was doing something good for the both of them. He didn't think someone as young as Frankie would want boring stay-at-home dates.

"It's not like it didn't mean anything," Laurent replies quietly. "I was trying to make it exciting for you."

"Why, because you're not exciting enough on your own? Did you think I wanted to be with you because of what you could afford?"

"No!" Laurent has to take a deep breath before he continues; he's shaking again, from the cold November air and his frayed nerves. Frankie gently strokes his thumb back and forth across Laurent's hand, and he's stunned by the tenderness he's being shown. "I'm older," he mutters. "I'm--"

"Oh, Lord," Frankie cuts him off, "is this what you've been worried about?"

"Yes," Laurent admits. He can't meet Frankie's eyes anymore, and instead chooses to focus on their hands, intertwined and resting on one of Frankie's legs. "I'm almost 40, I'm a workaholic, I'm--"

"And do you think I didn't know that when we started...whatever you'd call it? I knew you before this, Counselor. I've seen you get plastered at the bar after the end of an important case, I know you sometimes fall asleep at your desk because you work til, what, three in the morning? You're kind of a grouch, too, but that never stopped me." Frankie laughs and shakes his head, giving Laurent's hand another squeeze. "Laur, I almost got shot in the head today. You thought I was dead, and you rushed straight here. Do you really need any more convincing? Would you have done that for Reyes?"

"I would have been here, but--"

"Laurent," Frankie interrupts, smiling like a smug child. "Can you please just admit you like me?"

"Jesus Christ," Laurent sighs. "I thought we were beyond that. Of course I like you, you already know I--"

"I want to kiss you," Frankie interrupts, and Laurent shivers. "So, we should probably leave."

For maybe the first time that Frankie has seen, Laurent has completely lost his cocky persona. He looks dazed when he finally meets Frankie's eyes, and there are a few moments of silence before he nods and says, "I'll talk to the paramedics."

Frankie lets go of him and stuffs both his hands into the pockets of his jacket, pressing his lips together to stifle the smile threatening to overtake his features.

Mario is dead. Mario is dead, and the strange thing is, Mona actually cares.

She'd watched, helpless, as the bullet tore through his skull. Everything seemed to move in slow motion; she watched the blood spatter fly, watched as his gun went off, and saw the both of them--Mario and Frankie--collapse. At the time, she couldn't do anything but scream. It was horrifying, seeing the blood and the bullets and just knowing what had happened. Mario was dead, pooling blood on the dirty carpet. Frankie, too, was bleeding profusely, and Mona had watched it running down the side of his face like a river.

Leah told her later that Frankie was okay, that the bullet ripped up his skin pretty badly but hadn't actually pierced his skull. He'd need stitches, she said, but he would be okay. Head wounds bleed, the paramedic explained to Leah while Mona clung to her, throat raw from screaming. They bleed, but Frankie looked worse off than he really was. And Leah started crying, and Mona cried a little, too, but they were both relieved. It was God's one concession for them.

At some point, Leah leaves her to go speak to other officers, to give her account of what happened. Mona is interviewed, too, but she's not much help. She remembers Mario with the gun, and she remembers Frankie antagonizing him, and then she remembers the gunshots, the broken glass, all the blood. It's all she can give them, and soon she's back in the care of Kat, who takes her away from the scene and places her in the back of a car.

"Officer Lancaster is going to take you back to the precinct," Kat tells her. "We called your brother, and he's on his way up. Please go with him, Mona. He said he'd take you home."

Mona nods. She can't say no, after all, because she has nowhere else to go. The thought of seeing Devyn again, after so long, is terrifying, but she needs him. She doesn't have anyone else, and she's sick of being alone. "Thank you for everything," she whispers, and when Kat pulls her in for a tight hug, Mona starts crying.

"You're gonna be okay, sweetheart," Kat tells her. "You're young, okay? You still have time to figure things out. This life--it's not for you. You're too good for this."

Mona nods against Kat's shoulder. In that moment, she feels very strongly that Katharine Chastain has saved her life.

She didn't manage to accumulate much in her time traveling, so when Officer Lancaster--Vaughn, as he introduces himself--brings her to the apartment to gather her things, it doesn't take long at all. Vaughn lingers just inside the apartment, at her request, because Mona doesn't know if she can stand to be in there alone. Mario is dead; she has to keep reminding herself of that. He isn't going to bust through the door and kill her because she's packing up her things, but it helps to have the officer in there with her.

She gathers up her clothes, her trinkets, and anything else she can grab, and stuffs them into her backpack. Vaughn excuses himself to go to the bathroom and Mona takes the opportunity to go into Mario's secret cash stash--the one she supposedly never knew about--and takes a wad of cash, somewhere around a few thousand dollars. She buries it underneath her clothing and throws her backpack on before heading back out into the living room to wait.

Mona knows she shouldn't have taken the money, but she doesn't care. It's all drug money, stuff that would have gone to the police, anyway. She figures she needs it more than they do, and Mario owes her. He owes her, and the only thing he can give her back at this point is money. She'll take it.

Vaughn emerges from the bathroom a minute later, and Mona announces that she's ready to go. He escorts her back out to the cruiser, and she holds the backpack to her chest the entire ride back to the precinct.

At the precinct, Mona has to sit by herself on a bench in the lobby. It seems that her relationship with the detectives has only extended as far as Mario's death; she tries not to be bitter, knowing that they all have more important things to worry about than her, but she still feels abandoned. Vaughn gets her a cup of coffee after they arrive, but he leaves as well, wishing her good luck as he pushes open the glass doors.

It won't be luck, she thinks. Everything up to this point has been luck. Everything from this point forward will have to be effort.

Mona drinks her coffee and finds an officer to get her another one, scrolling through her phone while she waits so that she can delete all traces of Mario from her life. Maybe if she tries hard enough, she can pretend he never really existed. Maybe the past few years of her life can disappear into nothingness.

She has a half-empty phone and is debating seeking out a third cup of coffee when Devyn finally walks in. Mona recognizes him immediately--after all, he's her brother--but he looks different. His glasses are clean, for once not marred by fingerprint smudges and careless scratches across the lenses. He looks good, too. His hair is combed, his skin is clear, and he looks well-rested. In fact, he looks like someone just cloned her brother and replaced him with a much healthier version.

The sight of him breaks her heart a little. He looks like he's done so much better without her around.

Devyn gets closer, though, and that's when Mona sees how red and watery his eyes are. Before she can convince herself that it's his allergies and not an overt display of emotion, he actually sobs, and Mona starts crying, too. She lets him pull her to her feet and into a shaky, constricting hug, and she buries her face in his shirt, feeling her hair sticking against the wetness of her face.

"I thought you were dead," Devyn says between sobs. "Jesus Christ, Mona, I thought you got yourself killed."

He doesn't have to say anything more. Their bloodline isn't very forgiving; they've both been dodging death since they were born. Drugs, suicide, murder--nothing would surprise either of them, and every birthday they celebrate is truly a celebration of life. A life neither of them expected to be able to live, a life that seemed out of reach, inaccessible for people like them.

"No," she tells him, rubbing her face in his shirt, trying to get the tears off of her cheeks, "I was just being stupid."

"You were being a Lively?" he asks, and she laughs.

"Yeah. I was." They separate and that's when Mona sees Genevieve over his shoulder, a small, pale, worried-looking woman with her hands hidden inside the sleeves of a green jacket that must belong to her brother. When she meets Mona's eyes, though, she smiles. She radiates so much warmth that Mona finds herself walking over to her, trembling as she extends a hand to shake. "I'm Mona," she says, and Genevieve nods.

"I know, honey. I know." She, too, pulls Mona in for a hug, and Mona finds the courage to whisper in her ear.

"I'm sorry. I was scared you'd take him from me."

Genevieve laughs, a quiet and breathless sound, and strokes Mona's short hair. "No, no, I wouldn't dream of it. He's really missed you, you know."

Mona nods. Of course he did. Of course. Genevieve lets her go and they stand, toe to toe, looking at each other under the too-bright fluorescent lights of the police station. "Welcome to the family," Mona says, finally, and Genevieve's face breaks into a wide smile. She grabs onto Mona's hands and she laughs, eyes wide like a cartoon character, and she reminds Mona of her late mother. Mona laughs, too, nearly forgetting it wasn't supposed to be a joke.

Devyn joins them, an arm around Genevieve's waist and the other around Mona's shoulders, and Mona doesn't feel like a third wheel. Genevieve reaches out to rub Mona's shoulder and ask if she's eaten, if she wants to go get food somewhere, and the worry clenching her stomach fades away.

"Somewhere with grilled cheese," she says.