fic: one equal temper of heroic hearts (Law & Order: UK, Matt)
Summary: Matt Devlin on the periphery. Ensemble. A side of Matt/Alesha.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~6,600
Spoilers: Spoilers for Anonymous, with passing references to Confession.
Note: I needed something to resolve Anonymous. Like, desperately.
*
The girl's body is half-buried in black and gray pebbles.
Rain doesn't let up, and Matt tightens the collar of his coat against the chill.
Ronnie is at his elbow, looking a little jaundiced. Matt has learned, by rote, every expression that might pass through his partner's face on any given day, and he can easily read the one that settles over Ronnie's features while studying the girl's small hand stretched out from her grave.
"She fought," says Ronnie, eyes on the blood beneath her fingernails.
Her red jumper is splattered with mud and the telltale dark brown stains, and Matt runs a hand down his face. "Didn't make any difference," he says, and the words no longer contain the measure of bitterness they should. "Never does."
Ronnie looks up at him briefly before straightening up, one hand braced on his knee. "And I thought I was the cynic around here, mate."
Which, of course, is true. Between the two of them, Ron usually plays the role of a continually-disappointed eternal optimist and Matt--Matt lives in the present and for the future, and he has little use for the past and even less for past disappointments. So there's no need to be pulled into the memory of another crime scene and another body and another victim whose fight for her life made no difference at all.
And there's certainly no need to remember the two hands, pale and trembling in front of him.
"I'm dead unless you help me, and you don't even believe I need help."
"Matty?" Ronnie prompts, in that unobtrusive, gentle way he has, when Matt misses a beat of the pleasant, practiced rhythm in their banter.
"Yeah, well," Matt covers the pause with a slight smile that feels tight around the edges, "you know how you rub off on people. Should really do something about that, Ronnie."
It's a decent recovery, but not quite good enough. Silence and pauses are slowly becoming measuring sticks for how things stand between them, because standard quips don't quite roll off Matt's tongue any more. Words always seem to linger a few steps behind, as if his head and heart have both just learned that words fail more often than not.
And Ronnie, being Ronnie, has seen him through, and Matt feels it in his calm gaze leveled at him.
Still, Ronnie places a reassuring hand on Matt's shoulder. "I haven't given up my seat as the resident jaded cynic just yet, son," he says, mildly jovial. "Don't you think it's your turn yet."
Ronnie is still Ronnie, and that fact alone should have easily worked as a temporary antidote against unwanted memories--the memories of those pale, trembling hands.
Should have.
"He's going to kill me," she said, her hands wound tight, so tight with fear.
On his periphery, the mound of pebbles over the body is still gleaming in sickly gray, and Matt holds out his hand and feels the droplets of rain on his palm.
*
"The victim's name is Katie Sexton," Matt reads from his tiny notebook, though Natalie suspects by now he knows all the facts of the case by heart. "Died from strangulation, no signs of sexual assaults. Fourteen, lived with her mum and stepfather, attended St. Anthony's--"
Fourteen. Her thoughts trip over the number like one would over some carelessly strewn laundry. Fourteen. Still a child. Just a child. To ask why, the why of all this, would be futile.
Ronnie, who's attacking a sausage roll with vigor, pauses long enough to notice her reverie. "Guv?"
Natalie doesn't quite smile at him, but then again she's fooling no one. "Giving up on that new diet already, Ronnie?"
"Lasted three whole days, I did," says Ron, chomping on the last bit of the roll.
Next to him, Matt snorts. "A day and a half, at most."
Ronnie isn't to be discouraged. "That's still a day more than you said I would, isn't it."
"And you said you'd last a week."
"So what if I'm an eternal optimist?"
"Says the self-proclaimed jaded cynic."
"And who says I can't be both?"
This is their first case since Ronnie's been back from the gardening duty, but their comfortable camaraderie seems to have returned, as easy as breathing and without any visible strain. Not that, of course, it's ever easy to tell with these two. "The parents?" she asks, gently bringing them back to the case at hand. "Accounted for on the night in question?"
Matt checks his notes again. "They are, though the timeline's a bit fuzzy. Her mum says she got home from work about midnight, though her shift should've ended around ten. Still waiting for the confirmation from her boss at the restaurant. The stepfather's some kind of footballer for a local team, and he was with his mates all night, until about four in the morning."
And it would be even more futile to bristle at the apparent fact that a fourteen-year-old girl would've been left alone until midnight. Natalie asks instead, "What about the girl's father?"
Ronnie leans forward. "Still haven't got a hold of him. Her mum hasn't seen him for months, swears up and down they've got no contact with him whatsoever. Apparently he likes his drink a little too much." At her raised eyebrow, Ronnie nods. "No, doesn't look good, does it. We're trying to find him now, guv."
"And we're talking to the girl's teachers and mates this afternoon," adds Matt.
"Well, then." Natalie leans back in her chair. "Looks like you've got them all covered."
"Don't we always?" Matt asks, a half of his boyish shit-eating grin sliding into place.
"Confident, are we?" Watching Ronnie and Matt meet each other's eyes and shrug in unison, Natalie doesn't fight the grin spreading across her face, not this time. "Well, go on, then. Get to work."
They give her quick, amused nods before leaving her office, and just as always she finds it difficult to suppress the swell of terrible fondness for them. They're grown men, but they're still her boys, and Matt--Matt's still so young. Ronnie, bless him, can guard himself like the best of them, but Matt at times still lets it slip that he's fractured in unseen places and has yet quite been mended.
She cannot be the one picking at scabs and fumbling around to find the cure for this kind of ailment, however, so she can only do what she's allowed to do.
She watches after them, as always, while they go off to another battle.
*
"Of course," says DI Chandler, smooth as cream, "we're all grateful for the outcome of the trial."
The thorny subject is carefully broached by George just as they're gathered to discuss an upcoming trial, and James watches, duly impressed, as DI Chandler brushes off the entire incident casually and yet with calculated precision. But James Steel is nothing if not a master at reading between lines, and he knows she would have turned into a mama bear protecting her cubs in less than a second's notice if one of her boys had been more than just a little grazed from this trial.
"On the whole, I would agree," says George, perfectly diplomatic. "But we do regret any unwarranted implications that the Blake case may have brought up."
"The right man is behind the bar," Chandler says assuredly. "That's something we can all appreciate. Now, as to who you would like to testify on the Randolph trial--"
Just like that, they move on to the business at hand. It's almost as if James has not successfully accused one of hers to be a bad copper in a rather public setting. George, who has eyes and ears in all kinds of places, dropped enough hints for James to piece together how DS Devlin came to be decimated on the witness stand by James. Ron didn't want his young partner to risk his career, so he risked his to re-investigate the case without authorization and knowledge of others, but in the end his partner ended up on the stand anyway.
All in all, this has been fickle, which, James has to admit, happens more often than he'd like.
And it's an extension of the same when Ron arrives at the CPS armed with loads of paperwork and ready to prep as a prosecution witness for the Randolph case.
"Good to see you back, Ronnie," James greets him and they head over to the conference room together. "Finally back from the sabbatical?"
"Ah yes, it's all been sorted out, you see," says Ron, his soft self-deprecating smile firmly in place. "Oh, and congratulations on the Blake win, James."
This isn't necessarily parroting DI Chandler, but it's at least in the same spirit, and James has to respect that unity in discipline. "Thank you," he offers cautiously. "I hope there are no hard feelings where Matt's concerned."
Ron pauses slightly before placing the paper piles on the desk. "James, you were doing your job--and brilliantly, if I may say so--just as was Matty. There are no hard feelings."
The message is clear and only gently cutting. "Of course," agrees James, as neutral as possible, and seconds later, they've already moved on to the topic of the upcoming trial.
Ron visibly softens at the mention of his partner, which is something James should have expected. He's known Ron for years, years before the up-and-coming Devlin became his partner, but years of acquaintance pale in comparison when it comes to coppers--coppers stick together, and partners even more so, and Ron and Matt, even in their apparent differences, are partners.
And there's also Matt himself. James has worked with dozens of police officers, and they all come with their own stories, most of them tragic in their own way. But they rarely become a subject of such public trials like Matt has been lately. The Nugent case alone has left an indelible mark--even in James, who's been privy to many atrocities committed by one human against another.
Collateral damage, James recalls his words to Alesha.
Still, this is Ron and Matt, few of the coppers that James would not hesitate to call his friends, and James proceeds to handle the Randolph case with the utmost care he can spare to imbue.
*
The folder lands on top of Ronnie's paperwork, threatening the balance of the organized chaos; Ronnie rescues it quickly before it could topple the entire pile.
"The DNA results on the Sexton case," says Matt, sinking onto his chair next to Ronnie's.
Ronnie adjusts his glasses before flipping through the file. It takes a few seconds for him to decipher the results, and when he does, he looks up and meets Matt's eyes. "Is this--?"
Matt nods and taps the folder with his pencil. "Keep going."
The conclusion doesn't necessarily startle him, but this is an unexpected lead that they haven't counted on. Ronnie leans far back in the chair and pushes up his glasses. "It's practically a match."
"Yep," says Matt, rather lightly, considering this may have solved the case for them.
Ignoring the complaints of his joints that seem to creak with every little movement, Ronnie leans on his elbows to examine the case file on his desk. Hours after hours of interviews and days of pursuing leads, but in the end it's the blood underneath her fingernails that cinches the case. "It does make a difference," Ronnie tells himself, almost unthinkingly, and Matt looks up.
"Katie Sexton," Ronnie explains, "fighting for her life. Made a difference."
Matt runs his hand through his hair, making it stick out every which way. "We haven't actually nailed him down yet, and we still have to find him first, so let's not jump to any conclusions, yeah?"
Matt doesn't exactly huff in frustration, but it comes rather close, and Ronnie studies the tired lines on his partner's face. It's too easy to see that the kind of buoyancy Matt has, one that always seemed to be bursting just underneath, has diminished almost entirely. It'd be hubris to think his fault alone has brought this change, but there's no denying he's been part of the reason.
And for the moment, it's difficult not to wonder whether Ronnie himself has been diminished in his partner's eye.
Matt doesn't meet his eyes, but a moment later, he takes out a chocolate croissant from a brown bag and pushes it toward Ronnie, a wordless semi-apology. Ronnie takes the croissant, breaks it in half, and returns the other half to his partner.
Ronnie sees Matt's shoulders relax a little, just as Matt swivels in his chair toward him. "So, we've got the DNA. What else do we need?"
Ronnie pulls out the interview notes and thumbs through them, considering each carefully. "The mum. She might know more that she isn't telling us."
Matt hesitates. "Maybe you should talk to her alone. She liked you better."
Which is true, strangely enough. Katie's mum took a shine on Ronnie instead of Matt and his usually failsafe bright-eyed and sympathetic young man routine, which, admittedly, felt stilted and uncomfortable this time. "I can do that," Ronnie agrees amiably, and doesn't miss the fleeting relief in his partner's eyes.
"We still haven't talked to his manager at the factory," Matt reminds them. "He hasn't been home, but he might still show up there, time to time."
"Right. And we'd need a warrant." It comes to Ronnie, just as the words leave his lips, that perhaps he should have volunteered to go to the CPS himself.
"I can talk to James and Alesha," Matt offers with a shrug. "You go talk to the mum."
There's no evidence of hesitation, not in his voice and not in his expression. The cut is still clear to those who want to look, but Matt hides it just like the rest of others and doesn't demand a bandage, as if he deems it too frivolous, too much of a luxury, to be demanded.
There's a sense of bright despair in this knowledge, Ronnie thinks, the kind that seeps into your heart slowly and invasively until you have to rethink your belief that your heart, after all these years, is finally resilient enough to weather everything that life might throw at you.
Somehow, Ronnie musters a small grin as he nods at Matt in agreement with the plan. "Meet you at the factory then, sunshine."
Matt reaches for his coat and returns a cheerful grin that's almost reflective of his nickname. Almost. "Will do."
After Matt leaves, Ronnie finds the half of the croissant still on Matt's desk, untouched.
Ronnie doesn't reach for it. He can't bring himself to.
*
Alesha is debating her chance of successfully making it to the end of the corridor while balancing three briefcases, a box full of folders and a cup of coffee when the half of the weight is suddenly lifted and Matt Devlin is standing in front of her.
"Heya, Alesha," he says, holding her box. "Looks like you could use a hand or two."
"Or four." She thanks him with a grateful smile. "And maybe an extra body or two to go with them."
Matt grabs another briefcase to pile on his load and they make it down to the hallway without spilling any of her coffee. "You and James got a minute? Need your help with something."
"Sorry, James is in a meeting with George right now. Can I help?"
They go into her office and he lays out his case with familiar eagerness. "You think we can build a case on this?" he asks, handing over the folder with the DNA evidence. "And request a warrant, and fast?"
She considers the facts of the case, which seems as straight as they come. "I don't see why not. Let me make a call and see if we can hurry it along."
"Brilliant." Matt is positively beaming. "Thanks, Alesha."
She has to catch herself for a moment, because his smile makes her mentally stumble. She's been up to her elbows with injunctions on an unrelated case, so she hasn't really had the chance to talk to him after the Blake trial, but Matt Devlin is still bestowing her with his usual, unblemished grin.
They all come with stories, James said once, and her experience has always supported that view, but Matt's always seemed obligingly eager and enthusiastic, like it was purely his sense of justice pulling him forward, not personal tragedies that seemed to propel so many.
Until, of course, his best friend killed himself, and then there was Father Nugent. And after that, Stephanie Blake. And now she wonders whether she should've recognized it sooner, whether she should've seen that he tries hard, maybe too hard, with his cheek and sometimes irreverence.
"Look, Matt," she calls out, just as he's about to step out of her office.
"Yeah?" Matt turns around, distractedly, and pauses at the look on her face.
She feels tentative and slow, her comfort and familiarity with him suddenly marred by uncharacteristic hesitance. "About what happened with the Blake case--"
Matt is already shaking his head. "Alesha, it's fine. There's nothing to talk about, really."
That is quite debatable, she thinks. "Matt, you were doing me a favour, and doing her a favour, by talking to the hospital, and that fact shouldn't have been used against you. And I really am sorry."
And she is. During the trial, she couldn't even bring herself to lift her head and meet his eyes, not once. It was already painful enough, watching him on the stand just as he seemed to realize that how hard he worked, and how much of his heart was broken over it, sometimes didn't matter quite as much as a few well-chosen words that could easily twist and bend and re-shape the facts to fit the preferred version of the speaker.
That is sometimes the crux of her profession, something that she thrives on at times, but she's never hated James and his ruthless competence quite as much as she did at that moment.
But Matt's perfectly cordial and not at all begrudging. "But it was a brilliant move--inspired, even," he says, flicking a glance at James in George's office across from hers. "You know, I knew he was good, but I didn't know exactly how good until that moment on the stand. I suppose that's why he's the best."
"Matt," she starts and stops, and words, which rarely fail her, seem to be stuck in her throat.
"Seriously, don't worry about it, Alesha. We lose too many anyway, but this one, at least, we can count as a win. And, hey, how about you get me that warrant and we call it even?"
There is no doubt he's genuine in his understanding, except such an easy dismissal seems so undeserved, and she's hesitant to accept it. Of course, before words decide to return to her so she can explain herself, her mobile buzzes at that precise moment.
"You should get that." Matt grins and gives her a quick nod. "See you around, yeah?"
There's another flash of that brilliant smile, and he's once again gone in hurried steps.
She doesn't call after him. She can't, not when she can't quite articulate what she's feeling even to herself.
But as her hand reaches for her mobile, her eyes still linger on the door, on the empty space that Matt left behind.
*
It's just a momentary distraction, a flash of refracted light over a shadow, a contour of something not quite right in his peripheral vision.
Still, Matt turns, mostly pulled by instinct, and narrowly avoids a metal pipe that Daryl Sexton swings at his head.
Matt recovers his balance and lowers his body just before the larger man swings again, and uses that momentum to try to tackle Sexton. Sexton's hands reflexively come up to choke Matt, and then both of them are falling onto a pile of metal wreckage. There's one terrifying moment when Matt thinks he's landing at the wrong angle, that the impact would hit him headfirst.
When Matt comes to, there is a litany of curses at his ear, the heady smell of alcohol all around him and a heavy weight pressed against his side.
He throws off the weight, ignoring the painful pulls of his muscles, and eventually struggles to his feet. Absently wiping away the trail of blood trickling down his temple, Matt watches Sexton stumble on his feet and gag in his own vomit and blood. The man's grip on his faculties seems as slippery as his grip on his sanity, and Matt can see there are a few short gashes on his arm, not yet quite healed.
Matt can all too easily imagine a small hand desperately clawing at his bicep.
Matt is a grown man, and they're almost equal in size, but the moment when Sexton had his throat in his bare hands, he could feel death edging into his consciousness, his chest endlessly constricting and his heart screaming for more air.
Then, it's once again easy, too easy to imagine a voice: No, no, Pa, please, please don't--
Matt tries to push the voice away, biting it down along with his lips, but it's futile. So, when Sexton finally manages to stand on his wobbly legs and tries to land another punch, sluggish and drunken-slow, the voice is still burning bright in Matt's mind and he feels no hesitation letting his clenched fist move on its own volition. And there's certainly almost no thought involved in the action even when he feels the searing pain on his knuckles.
For that moment alone, his mind is blissfully silent, free of Katie Sexton's imagined voice begging for her life.
And then there's a hand on his arm restraining him, and in another second Ronnie's ashen face comes into view. Behind his partner, Matt can see a few of the uniforms hurriedly running up to join them, and the blue and white lights filling up the empty assembly line of the factory.
Ronnie's hand is still gripping Matt's arm, tight and secure. "C'mon, Matty," Ronnie says gently. "Come on, Matt, you've already got him. You've got him, so now you can let go."
Matt stares at his fist that's still grasping Sexton's shirt and, belated in his realization of his own actions, stumbles back. When his hand falls away, a couple of uniforms immediately move forward to drag Sexton onto his feet, until Matt is on the eye-level with him.
I can't do this, Matt thinks. I can't.
Except Ronnie is standing at his side, quietly waiting.
It costs him, but Matt breathes in and lets the familiar words guide themselves, "Daryl Sexton, we're arresting you for the murder of Katie Sexton. You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if, when questioned, you fail to mention--"
*
Matt's sitting quietly while the cut on his face is getting looked at. He looks small in the way he never is, and something clenches in Ronnie's chest.
"That was one hell of a left hook you packed there, son," he says, as lightly as he can manage, when the paramedic is done with Matt and leaves him sitting on the stretcher.
Matt shrugs and hides a wince that the move seems to cause him. "I never was a featherweight champion, but I do all right."
"'Suppose you just needed the right motivation, then, eh?"
"Or maybe just the right excuse."
This time it's Ronnie who swallows a wince. This isn't the conversation they should be having now. Matt's always been quick-tempered and prone to getting emotionally involved, but he's also had restraint, which he hasn't shown tonight. It's alarming and worrisome and they should be talking about it, but not tonight, not with tonight's events so freshly hurting in their minds.
Ronnie's searching for a conversation topic that would be better suited when Matt says abruptly, "You would still do the same." There's a sudden, slanted and half-formed grin on his face. "If you had to do it all over again, you'd still do the same, wouldn't you?"
Matt isn't really looking at him; he's staring at his hands as if there's an answer there between his scraped knuckles, and that's enough for Ronnie to realize what is really being asked, and what is being unsaid.
As far as a topic for conversations go, this is far from an improvement, but this has been long time coming, and Ronnie feels something akin to relief that Matt is finally saying the words he has buried in his chest, instead of letting them eat at him like he has.
"Matt," says Ronnie, softly, "I didn't mean to throw you to the wolves."
"No," Matt agrees, "but you would have thrown your career away, and our partnership, like rubbish. All without a single backward glance."
The resignation Matt's voice is dull, not sharp, and it's more gut-twisting than anger or disappointment. "Look, Matt--"
"No," Matt says, that small self-deprecating smile shouldn't fit him so well still in place. "It didn't matter, because you would have anyway. And you would've had me live with your decision."
If a few right words could make this go away, Ronnie would've liked to be able to find them, but there is no magic phrase he can use here, no bandage he can offer. Ronnie can't deny, as much as he'd like to, that he'd make the same decision to re-open the investigation. Bringing justice to Stephanie Blake's murderer would have justified all the means, even if that meant the end of his career, even if he'd never wanted Matt in the crossfire.
"It did matter," Ronnie tells him, because that's all he can offer. It's so little, but it's the truth. "Matt, it did matter."
Matt doesn't meet his eyes, and Ronnie feels the weight of the silence until Natalie wades through the uniforms in brisk steps to reach them.
She looks at Matt, pauses, and then turns to Ronnie. "Ronnie," she says, a quiet question in her eyes.
"Guv," Ronnie nods at her. He doesn't need to explain, because she understands immediately.
Natalie is just a pale outline against the blue and white lights of the flashing ambulances. But she seems so solid and present as she walks up to Matt and places a hand on his cheek, just as she would with her boys, and takes a careful look at his face.
"Will you be all right, Matt?" she asks.
She doesn't ask what's happened or how it's happened, but there's the naked maternal concern that she doesn't even attempt to hide in her question, and Matt softens, almost as if against his will.
And when he looks up and meets Ronnie's eyes, Ronnie's heart breaks, just a little.
"I will be," Matt answers.
*
"It would have to be a manslaughter," concludes James.
Alesha hears the clear dissatisfaction in James' voice, but the facts of the case are rather disquietingly clear, and even James Steel cannot miraculously pull off a harsher sentence, deserved or not, when there isn't enough room for any other play.
"Is that really all we can do?" Ronnie's incredulity is obvious, but it's tempered by the mildness of his voice. "His daughter's gone to him so she could help him, and he killed her in a fit of alcohol-induced stupor. And then the man actually went to get himself another drink."
"Exactly," says James, in the tone that clearly suggests he doesn’t like this any more than Ronnie does. "You said it. Alcohol-induced stupor."
There really isn't much more there to argue. Ronnie slumps ever so slightly in the chair across from James'. Matt shifts at the window and looks away, and Alesha's eyes drift once again to the ugly bruise forming on the side of his face. Matt's been mostly quiet, letting his partner explain the case to James and Alesha.
"You all right, Matt?" Alesha ventures cautiously after Ronnie and James disappear into James' office to discuss the Randolph case.
When Matt turns to her, there's a little smile on his face. "I'm fine, Alesha."
He is, as always, polite and amiable, except everything about how he seems to be is giving her a pause. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, this," he gestures at the side of his face, almost cheerfully, "this's nothing. Looks worse than it is, really."
Cheerful, she thinks. Bright and polite and cheerful, and her concern for him slides off of him like there's a thin, hard veneer around him.
And then it finally clicks. It's like he's once again learned how much everything could hurt if you let it.
The realization alone makes her heart ache in the way it hasn't in a long time. She should've seen it sooner. Guarding yourself from the hurt that you know is coming is something she should know, and should know well. And--and since she does, she should respect the distance he clearly wants. She should. Except.
Except he's meeting her eyes while not really seeing her. And this is Matt, who's always been such a good friend to her, and suddenly she can't stand it any longer.
"Bugger this," she says, both in her head and out loud, and watches Matt blink in surprise.
Good, she thinks. Anything other than this impenetrable politeness is a step into the right direction.
"I feel like a tosser," she says, with feeling. "Really, Matt--"
"No," Matt shakes his head immediately, "no, Alesha, don't. You sent the right man to the prison, which was something that I couldn't," he stops, and looks up again. "It was the right thing to do. Like I said, there's really nothing to talk about."
"There is something to talk about," she says fiercely and presses on, ignoring the surprise on his face. "We got the result, yes, but it doesn't mean it was right. If I had to do it all over again--"
"--you'd still do the same." Matt's still gently understanding, but she can practically feel the veneer sliding into place again.
"I don't know," she admits. "But I honestly hope not."
She's been wondering whether she has in her to use someone's friendship against them so thoroughly in pursuit of justice. She has no single answer, nothing as comfortable or easy, but she dearly hopes that she will find another way, if it ever comes to that. A foolish hope, perhaps, but it's hers, and she will fight to keep it.
And this time, something changes in Matt's face, and he loosens, like he no longer has to hold his breath. "I," he says, and stops again. After a moment, he settles on, "Thanks, Alesha."
It's a genuine answer, she can tell, and in her relief, she feels the delicate balance between friendship and maybe something not quite like it tipping and wavering.
"Have a pint with me tonight," she says, in an impulse. Or maybe not an impulse, after all. She's not sure yet, but this is Matt, who's always been a good and loyal friend, and there isn't any reason not to be more than that, either.
Matt, stunned at first, gradually turns halting and tentative. "I probably shouldn't--"
His hesitation only emboldens her resolve that they both need this. More to the point, she wants to do this. "No, really, I think you should." Her hand reaches out and slides down until it catches his hand. "And keep a girl company. Can you think of anything more depressing than a girl drinking alone?"
Matt's nose crinkles and a small grin reaches his eyes, and Alesha lets go the breath she didn't realize she, too, has been holding. "That's a bit unfair," he protests. "How could I possibly refuse once you put it that way?"
"Well, you couldn't, obviously, which was basically the point." She smiles. "Pick me up at eight?"
"Eight it is, then."
It's feather-light this time, Matt's answering smile. She thinks about how delicate and how tangible--and so much real--it feels, and how she would like to see it again.
She thinks she'll get the chance, after all.
*
The Randolph case isn't as airtight as James wants it to be. He wants an affidavit from at least another witness to supplement what Ron has to say, and Ron, immediately intuitive in the way that can only be affirmed by years of experience, makes a couple of suggestions from the witness list.
Overall, though, there is little James should be concerned about. Ron always makes for a good witness, with his rumpled and kind look that any jury trusts implicitly--one advantage James always uses to its fullest--and Ron understands trial procedures better than most, so debriefing him is always an easy affair.
This time, however, Ronnie's attention seems to run astray, mostly to his partner who is hanging back outside and talking to Alesha.
"Will he be all right?" James inquires casually once they wrap up, careful not to overstep the boundary again.
There's a slight, telling pause, as Ron pushes himself up from the chair, but the answer comes with a small smile. "He will be."
It doesn't feel quite right, but--collateral damage, James reminds himself. Empathy is an essential, necessary part of this vocation. Too much of it, though, can be a hindrance, something he thinks that Alesha still needs to learn.
When James emerges from his office with Ron, Alesha comes up to James, quietly smiling. "All done?"
"Not quite yet. We need to go through the witness list again."
"Of course we do," she sighs, but it's more exasperated and fond than anything else.
On the other side of the office, Matt converges with Ron, and naturally their steps are already in sync. James doesn't miss the way Ron leans into Matt's presence, almost hovering.
Too much empathy can be a hindrance. And James hasn't become a crown prosecutor in order to cultivate friendship--in fact, he's taken a particular pain to nurture his reputation of avoiding making friends whenever humanly possible.
And yet.
"Matt?" James calls out. Matt turns to him, and James gestures with a tilt of his head. "If you got a moment?"
If Matt's surprised, he hardly shows it when he nods at Ron, who, with a nod of his own, saunters out of the office after waving goodbye at Alesha and James.
"That was some great work with the Sexton case," James starts, once Matt reaches his side. It's too conventional, maybe even weak, as an opener, but it is meant, and James hopes that it is taken that way.
"Thanks, James," Matt says, mild in the way that leads James to think immediately of Ronnie, and once again he thinks, Partners. Matt shoves his hands into his coat pockets and watches James expectantly.
James has never been in the habit of mincing words, and he isn't about to start now. "For what it's worth, what I said at the last trial--they were not meant."
A rueful smile surfaces on Matt's face. "Yes, they were." Before James can argue otherwise, Matt continues, still very mild, "I'm no expert, but I would be honestly disappointed if such a display of conviction can be that easily feigned."
Matt Devlin is acute in the way that hasn't been expected, and James finds himself scrambling for the right words, a somewhat rare event for him and accordingly more difficult to manage. "It wasn't meant to be a judgment on you or your work, Matt. There's no doubt cast on your commitment or capability, and I hope you know that."
Matt looks away once before meeting his eyes again. "All due respect, James, but you couldn't have judged me any hasher on that stand than I have already judged myself."
For a moment, James is soundly defeated by the bare honesty in Matt's words. Failure gnaws even at the best of them, James knows, even when there isn't, shouldn't be, any fault to go around. And this is, perhaps, something he should have known. "Then I think we were both wrong," he says, after a pause.
This time, James goes for the untarnished, unembellished truth, because he's learned a long ago that sometimes it's the only thing with enough power to convince anyone.
Matt holds his gaze for a moment, with something like surprise and maybe even understanding. When James offers his hand, Matt accepts it with a firm nod.
Ron's waiting for Matt at the corridor outside the office, and James watches as they turn the corner and disappear together. When James turns back, Alesha is looking at him, curious but not intrusive. She has her notebook out and the folder with the witness list is already spread out on her desk.
"Where do we start?" she asks, her pen and highlighter ready in her hand.
There's a smile on his face that he can't quite hold off, so he gives up the struggle and lets it fully surface. "Let's start from from the beginning," says James.
*
They stand on the steps of the CPS building, watching buckets of rain pouring through a hole in the sky.
Ronnie peers into the rain with a slight frown. Matt isn't exactly looking forward to paddling in the water, either, so he hesitates to leave the lobby.
"Hold on," Ronnie says after a moment, making an executive decision. He disappears inside and, a few minutes later, shuffles back with two paper cups, one of which he hands over to Matt.
For a long moment, they watch the rain fall. It shows no sign of letting up.
The silence settles comfortably between them, and eventually the sugary tea from the CPS cafeteria warms them up. "There are many ways a drink can ruin a man," says Ronnie, eyes still on the watery streets. "For many years, I was no better."
Matt has to suppress a sudden flare of anger before he can ask, somewhat composedly, "Are you actually comparing yourself to a man like Daryl Sexton?"
"It's only a matter of degrees." Ronnie's voice is steady, undaunted. "Matty, I'm not infallible. Far from it, in fact."
And you know it, Ronnie seems to be telling him, but it goes without saying, because Ronnie's never hidden his failures from Matt, and he's never not meant his words. Matt tightens his grip around the paper cup in his hand, and the stinging pain on his knuckles reminds him of his own fallibility.
Matt loosens his grip and breathes in again. "The arrest could've gone better," he admits.
Ronnie shrugs lightly. "Or, it could've also gone much, much worse."
Matt almost smiles, then. "Oh, so now the cynic's back, is that it?"
Ronnie studies him over the brim of his glasses. His eyes are on the cut on Matt's face, and though the gaze is calm and unflinching, Matt wishes for some sort of plaster that could cover the bruise, not for his sake, but for his partner's. "This cynic is not going anywhere," says Ronnie, quiet and unhurried, "so you'd better get used to it, son."
Words still seem to linger a few steps behind, caught just somewhere below Matt's throat. But when his partner looks at him with a faint smile, there doesn't seem to be any need for them anymore.
There are things that are simpler than he needs to find words for.
"Come on, sunshine." A familiar hand lands on Matt's shoulder and squeezes gently. "Let's get you home."
With his friend's affection surrounding him like his own armour, Matt follows him out into the rain.
END