Haven AU: Vistors, pt 2

[amichan]

My finger tips and feet are tingling and I'm floating, the powder puff patterns of the clouds and the wind swirling I can see it's trails, all around into the trees, gathering leaves and making birds glitter as they sing. Then something cuts through, jarring red lines through.

“Crocker!” Wurnos.

I turn to where the voice is coming from. It rumbles from a blue shiny box, then there is creaking and slamming and slamming, rattling my ears and eyes and he walks towards me from round the nose of his box—his truck takes shape as I blink and all of his tall brown haired-ness coming closer with angry purpose.

“What's going on?” he demands.

“I'm going back to my boat?”

“You don't need to be out here right now.”

“What? You're...pulling me over for...walking?”

“It's called 'public intoxication',” he folds his arms.

“Seriously?” I fold my arms back at him, and just...what? “I'm just--” I point down the street, turning my head in that direction, granted that does make me a little dizzy but..., “the hell?”

“If you seriously try to tell me you're 'just tired' or something I'm gonna be really tempted to hit you,” he says, “because that didn't fly back in '96--”

“Oh, so you're going to take me hostage again?”

“That wasn't--” he sighs.

“Just leave me alone,” I walk away from him. He's...things...just no.

“Stop moving, Crocker, I order you.”

Order me, right.

“I suggest you listen to, Wuornos.”

Where the hell did that cop come from? Does make me stop for a moment. There's another one in front of me, blue uniform, some sort of something pointed at me. I could probably take him. Probably. Wuornos behind now though. Grabbing hold.

“Don't do something stupid like resist,” Wuornos says, “Stan just got a new tazer and he really wants to try it out.” I feel more than hear the click of the handcuffs as he goes through Miranda and pat down, disappointed that all I have on me is cigarettes I'm sure. Though the gun and knives are met with speculation.

“You know I have concealed carry,” I point out.

He grumbles something.

Fuck it. I let him push me towards the back of his truck and awkwardly stumble inside and lay down. Police Department's not far. Wuornos and 'Stan' get in the front.

“What have you taken today?” Wuornos asks.

I don't say anything; because oh, hey my high re-upped because I killed a chick and absorbed her blood and her Trouble is not the thing to say to two police officers. That makes me laugh. I can't help it.

“Is it still just the Big H with you or have you added anything else to the mix? No speedballs? Moon rock?”

“Don't try to act like you're know what you're talking about,” I tell him, “You just sound like an idiot,” it feels like the seat covers are melting in to me. That I'll be stuck in here when we get to the P.D and they won't be able to get me out of the truck. Some twisted tug of war but at least the handcuffs will have cut my hands off. Guard will probably stick blades in there and expect me to still do the Jobs anyway. The bouncing of the truck is lulling me back into the air, and I can feel the hands of Nicole grabbing onto me trying to stop herself from floating away too, and Ruben I had to drown off New Carlisle so that he wasn't randomly causing peoples' lungs to blacken and char, leaving a trail of destruction...walking lung cancer.

The truck stops and they drag me out I'm not stuck after all, but walking is...I can hear sounds with every step, echoing pew noises like shooting a gun in an arcade game and it's making my head heavy as I'm lead to booking. I just want to lay down but something's pulling on me.

“Stand up straight, Crocker,” the voice sounds like it's coming through a glass bubble.

“It's been a while,” another bubbly voice says.

“Well, he just got back in town today.”

“Short work then.”

“I said 'stand up, Crocker'!”

Something else grabs me from the other side and I feel like I'm going to fall instead being pulled every which way. There's scraping as my hands are uncuffed and I feel one being pressed into dampness and try to pull away in case it starts to melt. It's a pile of black ooze dripping everywhere.

“Put your hand on the paper. You know the drill.”

“Chief!” Wuornos sounds, nervous.

“What's going on?”

One side lets go of me and I can hear chittering and whittering, and there's something cool against my forehead. Something wraps me on the shoulder and I swing out against the attack and am caught by another hand and someone else.

“Just get him to holding and let him sleep it off,” a clear voice near my ear says and I feel bending and sliding and colors melting around me before there's another clanging red shattering door.

“No. Keep the jacket at the desk, I said. Who knows what he's got hidden in there. Need to finish searching it. Leave him on the floor so he doesn't fall off the damn bench. Last thing we need.”

That's fine. It's like a cool pool. Red clanging. I try to turn but everything is sludge; but why turn. There is icy cool around, soothing and I can see through the beige to the stars underneath.

%%%%

It's cold on the floor and I'm aching. My head feels like I ate ice cream full of glass too fast, the throbbing dullness but sharp pointy bits scraping inside my mouth. Everything outside myself is cloudy. I'm facing a ceiling and one hand has bashed itself against a bench that's attached to the wall on my left. I grip that to help pull up and push off the floor with the other hand. Then lean against the bench and scrub my eyes until things become a little more clear. It's a cell at Haven Police Department. That's what it is.

Wonderful.

How long have I been in here?

I won't have a phone on me. Things are still blurry every other time I blink so I can't see the clock that should be across on the other wall. I pull myself up again to half standing, leaning against the bench and sit down on it. A small group of timpani drums start up across my sinuses. I lean forward for the moment resting my head on my arms which I've folded across my knees. Deep breaths.

“Oh, Crocker, you're awake.”

“Don't sound so disappointed,” I mutter, slowly lifting my head. Stan, that's his name, he was with Wuornos earlier, appearing out of nowhere. Now he's unlocking the cell with a rattling that jars through my teeth all the way down through my ankles and gesturing me to get my ass out.

“Someone's here to get you out,” he says, “so you don't get to spend the night. Lucky you.”

“I was just starting to get comfortable,” I slide down the bench and pull myself up on the bars on the wall. I'm aware he's watching me closely, probably worried he's going to have to prop me up. The room rights itself though, “Who is the someone? Can you tell me that?” I can't really think of anyone.

“Vince Teagues.”

Well, that's given me enough fuel to walk with; but, of course, can't leave me in there. I might have to off someone else tomorrow. Shit...what time is it? I have a prospective client to meet. I follow Stan up the corridor back to the front desk, and there's Vince talking with Wuornos. All my favorite people. I should be nicer he is busting me out. Makes me feel sick. No, wait, that's just me...down the other side and the spinning head.

“Over there,” Stan waves with 'as if you didn't know' tones.

I go over to where Vince is standing.

“There you are,” he says, mildly.

“You need to sign here to get back your things,” Wuornos remarks, offering the pen over.

My signature is a mess. After it's done Wuornos reaches under the counter and pulls out a couple of sealed plastic bags with my phone and gun and the various other things that they took, and then the folded jacket. When I reach to pick it up my head, my stomach, both roll over.

“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?” I ask him.

“Yes,” Wuornos mutters, “You know where it is.”

I carefully head over there keeping my head straight, and head into the stall as quickly as I can because my stomach is trying to climb out of my body. I just have time to wrap my hair around my hand to keep it out of the toilet before the retching starts but there's nothing. It's just my stomach fighting to expel things that aren't there. My throat burning as bile comes part way and then back down when I cough and finally manage to get things a bit calmer.

“You okay?” someone asks from outside. It's a fairly deep voice. No one I know. I look around, black shoes, dark pants. Must be some new officer who hasn't been appraised of the evil Crocker.

“S'Fine,” I answer, “I'll be out in a moment if you need the stall.” I pull myself up and flush it.

“No. I just wanted to check...” feet moving away and the door closes.

I leave the stall and rinse out my mouth from the sink before following suit. Vince is impatiently waiting at the desk. That's a more familiar look. My head is thrumming now with the lights in the room. Lovely.

“There are some things to fill out,” Vince says.

“I know the routine.”

“I'm sure,” he says.

“We can't just photocopy an old one and white out the date?”

Wuornos rolls his eyes and taps the form with the pen and then holds the pen out to me, “Your part is mostly signing and initialing and writing out your name. Do you remember how to spell it?”

I glare at him.

“I have to check,” he says, “Earlier you didn't remember how to do fingerprinting and I would think that's like riding a bike.”

“I wouldn't know.” I point out, moving on to the second page, “Simon was more into boats than bikes.”

It seems to be forever before the pages are all signed, but at last they are, and I'm putting on my jacket, stowing the weapons, phone and all the rest of it back in it's various places and getting ready to leave.

“I don't want to see you again,” Wuornos points out.

“It's not on my to do list either,” I tell him.

“Good.”

I really want to flick him off, but it's probably not a wise course of action. Vince is glaring a hole through me anyway.

“Alright, alright,” I tell him, and follow him out of the door.

He turns towards the parking lot, “Come on.”

“What?” I ask him.

“I'll drive you back to your boat.”

“Seriously? I can walk.”

“Previous efforts suggest otherwise,” he counters, “and Nathan released you into my custody which means I'm responsible for getting you back there.”

“Fine.”

“It's lovely to see that you're so grateful,” Vince says.

Grateful, really.

“Me, grateful?” I ask him, “What about you? After what I just did? Considering...I mean. Do you know how long I've been back?” I ask him, “What time is it?”

“One thirty,” he says.

“So, four and a half hours. Four and a half hours, Vince, and you've already had me do a thing.”

“You're ranting about that, but you're not thanking me for getting you out of there?” Vince mutters.

“They would have had to let me out eventually,” I retort, “You didn't have to come get me.”

Vince sighs, “Get in the damn car.”

I do so, “Why did they even call you to come get me?”

“I was the last person in your phone that you'd talked to...”

I snort, “Lucky I didn't have my other phone on me. They'd have been calling Russia,” neither of us say anything for a while but I have to ask, “So, when did the Troubles start back up?”

“When I got in touch with you we'd had confirmation for two days. I wanted to make sure...these things are tricky. You're the one who took your time getting back.”

“I had a job to finish. I told your flunky that when he radioed. I'm not going to bail on a client. That's bad for business,” my head is pounding which isn't making my mood any better. Neither is the fact the fucking client's flunky never actually showed up.

“You know what the Troubles starting back up means for your business.”

I lean forward, trying to focus on something else so I'm not scratching at my left arm but it feels like something is burrowing it's way through the skin, “That doesn't mean I want some pissed off client tracking me back here.”

Vince doesn't say anything for a moment, “Fair enough.”

I try leaning back in the seat but I can't get comfortable. I close my eyes against the sun, where the hell are my sunglasses? but it doesn't help, “I don't want any more of this bullshit for at least a week if not two.”

“That's not up to me,” Vince says.

“You have how many Guard? You can't find someone who can talk people down from their crazy so they don't have to be dealt with?” Why is this chair so fucking lumpy?

“I don't like when we have to do these things any more than you do.”

“Yeah, but you don't have to do it.”

Vince sighs. I swear he is the slowest driver, “If I haven't said it before I do appreciate that you are not like your father though.”

I could get out and walk faster than this. Why is it taking so damn long?

“Whatever.” I can't sit in the car much longer. I am going to wind up ripping my arm off. This chair. His slow ass driving.

“It wasn't a conspiracy to bring you back here and immediately have you—have a job for you. That just happened.”

“Just stop and let me out, okay?”

“We're not back at the dock yet.”

“I can walk. Just stop.”

“I'm not--”

“Just stop the damn car or I'm going to get out right now.” I pull at the lock.

Vince pulls over, “I told them I'd get you there.”

“I know where my fucking boat is, and since when are you beholded to the cops?”

Vince just looks disgruntled, “That's...I'll be in touch.”

“I'm sure you will.”

He drives off. I would flick him off if there wasn't something fucking with my arm. I stop trying to get to it through the layer of jacket and shirt and slip my hand up the sleeve instead as I continue to walk. The docks are...wait...which way were we driving? Left, down the street here. It's left and down from the Police Department, they're always left and down.

Ugh, my head is going again. Fucking marimba band, and the crumbling street, making it tricky to walk. I lean against the wall of the building and it feels as though it's going to come away in my hand, all chalky and sticky at the same time. What do they make these things out of? Is the whole town falling apart? This one crumbles. This one is a sponge.

Maybe if I go this way I can find something more solid? You can get to the docks like six different ways anyway. I can hear the water rushing backwards and forwards close. If my arm would just stop itching I could concentrate more but it refuses to cooperate.

Is this the same street I was just on? The building with blue edging and the round fish sign? No, that's a life saver. Fuck, my head. If only I hadn't been so pissed earlier and smoked all the laced ones might have a better time of it.

Let's just keep going.

There are people, too many, I need space, quiet. I need to be away. The docks are supposed to be quiet. Towards the sound of birds, and away from the other noise and the keening, and keeping my hand against the wall, though it seems to be sucking me in. I can hold myself. If I just wait for a moment things will clear up. It's supposed to be clearer by now, isn't it? Usually? I can't make out the time on the phone. I'm not going to call Vince back even if I could see his pompous face on the sign.

I can stand back up if the wall would let me go but it's too spongy and the floor is sucking me down.

%%%%

There's a feather tickling my head, bee raw mess flows towards me over the waves, as I bob over a gray stormy sea flecked with white swaying back and forth.

I haven't seen it this stormy in a while. Not since coming back from Barbados.

Clouds and cloth. I can feel things battering at me. Pulling. Darkness in and out.

Creaking and clattering.

Thasonyoulltaykeeminther

I'm being pulled this way and that but I can't pull back nothing wants to work. My feet feel light though, and then there's rain, warm rain. So tired. I feel as though I'm resting against something soft and warm, and being massaged.

It's the most pleasant dream I've had in ages.

My head. My hair. My whole body.

Even after the rain ends.