Chapter Text
He shifts uncomfortably in a steel chair. The chair is most likely one pulled over from the interrogation room. The table is cold, the air conditioning is blasting on him, the room is dark and the projector in front of him is glowing a faint yellow. The paper texture that is illuminated onto the screen looks quite old and stained, the agency utilizing one of those old-school projectors from the 90s. They still haven’t cleared out the now scarcely used darkroom back in the days of handprint and film photography crime journals. The voice crackles from the speakers with a firm, “Please state your name, age, and position.”
Declan furrows his eyebrows, not knowing who is speaking.
“Declan Rice, 25, Head Detective.” He states firmly, straightening his posture. This room, fairly empty, echoes his voice clearly. He takes a look around and stares directly into the security camera that’s planted right under the projector.
“Date of birth?” It comes out less of a question, more of a statement.
“January 14th, 1999. What is this for?”
“Please state whatever word comes to mind to accompany the image,” He sounds bored, uninterested, continued drone from before. Declan flashes a confused look at the camera. “Are you ready to begin?”
He purses his lips. “Yes,” And the projector clicks off. He’s bathed in complete darkness for a brief moment that feels longer.
Then, the images start flashing;
Jagged edges, “Knife,”
Smooth circles, “Family,”
Square, “Polaroid,”
A horizontal oval, “Eye,”
Blue, “Sea,”
A small black dot, “Pupil.”
The answers are rapid fire, the images all flickering for a split second. The black dot is still on screen, almost staring at him like the camera. He shifts again, eyeing around the room.
And that’s it. The announcer tells him to leave.
“It’s one of those personality tests,” Mason would later tell him in the break room as he’s stirring cream into his coffee. Mason, the lovely eccentric head secretary, who practically lives in the break room and Declan’s office. He tends to barge in during critical points of Declan’s researching, Did you catch Wrestlemania last night? And, Wanna golf later? To which Declan screams at him to get out each time. “Like, to see if you’re mad in the head.”
“I know how personality tests work, Mase.”
“Oh, good. I was worried about your comprehension skills.” He laughs, setting up Declan’s cup.
Declan huffs, “Ha-ha,” deadpans a laugh, “It was just odd.”
“It’s sporadic. Chill out.”
“Have I been acting differently?” Just stress, is all, but he hasn’t taken a proper break away from any of these cases.
“What about chill out don’t you understand? Shit, Deccie. Ease up a little.”
“Just frustrated with this case.” Mason puts his mug in front of him, the steam hitting his nose.
“They’re probably concerned because you’re a freak for drinking straight black coffee.” Declan’s refusal of adding any sugar or cream into his coffee is some sort of self-harm, he supposes. Lamely stating It’ll wake me up more when in reality he knows he’s ripping himself away from any comfort. Some dingy Google article told him that the effects are better. He’d trust that anyday over Wikipedia.
Declan groans and moves to get up and Mason tugs him back down, “Deccie! I’m fucking with you. Talk to me.” He says as he slides into the seat beside him. He hates being called that, feeling so small, reminiscent of their childhood. Mason’s been with him since a kid and can’t help but smile at the stupid pet name, the days of Chelsea academy and always winding up in detention together.
“It’s fucked, the case,” Declan starts, encasing his palm around the burning porcelain of the cup, “You know, the victim was found naked and tied to a tree. I didn’t even know there were these types of lunatics up in north London. It’s giving me a headache.” He shouldn’t be telling him any of this, but despite the NDAs and paperwork bound to his contract, it’s difficult to not let your mate since year 8 in on the maddening secrets of any case. Mason is a loudmouth, and most definitely tells other people about it in the office, Declan is sure.
“Listen, Dec. I got a date tonight, come to the bar with me, yeah? Pregame?”
He scrunches his face. “With who?”
He rumbles his palms harshly against the table to imitate a drumroll, and Declan winces. Mason’s grin only brightens when he sees the annoyance on Declan’s face. He talks about some girl he met on Tinder, how they’ve been really getting it off, Declan could care less. He hasn’t been with a girl, let alone fuck her, ever since his University days. The good old in-and-out, Leo and Martin would laugh at that stupid A Clockwork Orange reference, with a girl over his desk on top of his papers. Every hour of him fucking around is a percentage taken off of overdue work. The awkward glances the next day in the English lecture after Declan bids the girls goodbye. Buzzing his hair off everytime and having a permanent baby-face. So, he really wishes Mason would shut up. He still loves him to death, though.
“Oh, unfortunate. Wish her my best.” Declan smiles, and Mason cracks a grin and laughs loudly in his ear. Another wince, another pain to the headache.
“Ah, there's my Declan. Come on, cheer up lad. There's probably some ladies in the bar that would fancy you, I mean, the entire office is all over you.”
Declan shrugs. “That’s not– I’m not into all of that.”
“You were in University.” He finishes his coffee, gets up to go put the mug in the sink.
“People change, Mase. Hookups are more reasonable in school.”
“Not really. You were failing anyway. That's why they sent you off to West Ham.”
“Alright, bye Mase.” He tries to leave, again, and Mason runs after him to grab at his shoulders.
“After work we’ll go straight to the bar, watch a game, Martin will drive us home.”
“Sucks for him.”
“Took a bit of begging.”
“See you, Mase.” Mason bids him goodbye, a heavy pat on his shoulder and Declan hurriedly goes towards his office. However, he stops in front of Arteta’s office. Knocks once despite the door already being open and Mikel shoots him an annoyed glance with a bowed head.
Declan smiles, eyes bright and walks over to a fish tank that sits beside his desk. Inside is a malnourished betta fish. Staring blankly into the tank, watching Granit – if Declan can remember his name properly, glide elegantly in the water. Red gills sparkling in the wake of the light rays from the shitty LEDs. There’s algae growing over the light and the sides of the tank and Declan scrunches up his face in disgust. The water is too low, the tank is too small.
“The water is too low.”
“Why are you in my office again?”
Declan ignores him and speaks up louder this time, “You’re not taking care of him properly. The water is too low, his tank is too small. There’s no toys for him in here,” Declan pauses, eyeing at the clearly marked Tropical Fish, a rookie mistake in babying a fish. “You’re feeding him the wrong food. Tropical fish food is unhealthy for Betta fish. There’s specific food for them.”
He warns him with a stern “Declan—“
“The algae is no good either. The light you're using is no good. You can get a snail or something to clean all the mess but Betta’s are better off to be alone.”
Mikel sighs, “Then take him. Stop bitching over it.” He’s clearly done and when Declan looks over his shoulder his uninterested, bitch-face confirms it.
And that’s that. He’s hauling the tank into his office carefully (as much as careful as he can be) down the hall and a few coworkers spare amused glances on his way. Leah, of course, had to be there, and muttered a small cocky I knew it while shaking her head, knowing Declan is fully obsessed with that fish.
“Ah, I see you’ve adopted Granit.” Leo says from the doorway while Declan is busy dealing with the cable to the LED. The light looks like a cheap lamp you can clamp onto the cover of a book for nightly reading. He’d have to buy a new one, a far more fancier one than the cheap one that Mikel got. The setup is all laughably bad that it looks like buying the fish was an afterthought. “Win is here too. Hi, Win.” The chocolate labrador is trotting in, tail wagging as usual, butting her head against Leo’s fingers. Win scratches at the big dog-bed to fluff it, swirling around until she lays down with a satisfied huff. It’s one of her many dog beds in the entire building, but Declan spent far too much on the bed so Win chooses it over the others. He succeeded.
“Mikel wasn’t taking proper care of him.” Declan shrugs. “So I took him.”
“Smart, he looks pretty unhealthy. Anyways, the latest victim of the case was male, in his mid-twenties. Cause of death was a puncture wound to the chest caused by an arrow and it is unclear if any of the other puncture wounds were inflicted post-mortem, meaning–”
“We don’t even know if he was alive while he was still being shot at.” Declan finishes, because of course, he’s not being paid to take care of the fish, he’s being paid to take care of this bloody murder.
Leo continues like he wasn’t interrupted, “We also found a wound on the head caused by blunt force trauma which probably rendered the victim unconscious, giving the perpetrator enough time to bind him to the tree. Although abrasions on the wrists and knees indicate the victim was conscious and struggling while the perpetrator shot at him.”
Declan sighs, “Anything else?”
“No, no traces or murder weapon found at the scene but we’re quite sure some sort of bow was used. You know, considering the arrows found in the body.”
“Very funny, Leo.”
“Sorry, didn’t want to spare any details in case you’ve already got a lead or something.”
A lead without any traces and clues, yeah sure. He huffs and drags a hand across his hair. Maybe he should take up on Mason’s bar offer after all.
So, he does.
“Heya Dec. Mason, Martin, Leo… how come you all here together?” Ben’s scrubbing at a glass with a microfiber cloth. Ben, the nonchalant bartender, always pristine in his looks with his sharp tattoos. There's a positive to knowing the bartender; free drinks, crazy stories, and surprisingly helpful advice that would put any licensed therapist to shame.
“Here for the Man-United game rerun,” Mason grins. “Missed it while at work. I’ll take a Rickards Red, yeah.”
Martin sighs, “He’s here because he has a date tonight. He doesn’t give two shits about the Man-U game. They won anyway, two-nil.” Mason promptly yells at him, firmly pushing his feet against the stool supports and Declan roughly shoves him back down onto his chair with gritted teeth.
“Now I know who was the one who was suckered into driving the lads home tonight. A shame,” he cracks a grin, “You’re happy today, Declan.” Ben adds, eyeing at him.
“Just case stress, is all.”
“You say that every week.” Leo chimes in, swishing around the liquid in his glass. He doesn’t recall inviting Leo over, so it must’ve been Mason. As always. He’s too tired to care, as he is most of his days.
“Ease up on Dec, yeah? Enough of this work nonsense. Declan needs a chick in his bed, and he’ll be all good.” Mason grins, patting his back heavily.
“Told you it doesn’t work on me like that.” He mutters stubbornly, and Mason kicks at his foot playfully. “Whiskey please, Ben.”
“Don’t go all acting like a sad wet dog. Sure you just want whiskey? Can make you something sweeter to cheer you up.” He adds with a wink, and Declan huffs. The subtle flirting comes with the bartending application. It’s all in good faith, and gets people to buy more. The group has naturally flocked to Ben always yet his tactics still work on them without fail.
“Thanks, Ben. It’s all good. Whiskey, please. On the rocks.”
“I suppose you can’t tell me the details.”
“No, I’m trapped by my NDAs. Mason isn’t, though. Surprised he hasn’t gotten into any trouble.” Mason, the secretary, surprisingly tight knit with the entire faculty, naturally hears bits and pieces about ongoing cases from employees. Even details that are legally bound to not get weaselled out through the fine print.
Ben grins, “I’ll ask him then.”
Declan smiles, “Suppose I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s fucked, the case. That’s all I'll say.”
Ben pushes the cold drink towards him, to which Declan hands him a twenty but Ben shoos the money away, a hushed; No, you’re glum. It’s on the house. “Fitting. Halloween murders.”
Declan swishes the glass then takes a sip, the liquid biting at his mouth harshly. “You dressing up?” He breathly asks, drinking more with a furrow to his brow.
“Hmm, maybe. Slow down, Deccie .” He grins, ruffling his hair. “Was invited to a party, so, guess I have to. You?”
Declan shrugs, “Maybe I’ll be a vampire or something.”
“A hot one.”
Declan laughs, “Yeah, course.”
“Ben, stop giving Declan all the attention. I’m the one getting hammered tonight.” Mason whines, Declan’s eyeing at his already empty bottle. Declan’s drinking the harsh stuff and Mason’s already hammered by a mere beer– not even craft.
Ben shrugs, “Sorry, Dec.”
“It’s all good.” He smiles warmly, “Thanks for everything, Ben.”
Ben grins and ruffles his hair before moving to Mason. He doesn’t bother to fix his hair.
His bones are heavy when he’s dropped off at his flat, bidding Martin a sympathetic lazy smile. He wishes him a good night and he doesn’t care to hear Mason’s whining when Declan slams the car door shut. Mason somehow sticks to Declan despite supposedly meeting a girl to fuck, You’re my wingman, Deccie. What do I do when I get there? Do I just start undressing her? Declan would groan with his head in his hands, rubbing harshly at the skin, Jesus, Mase. That’s like, assault. Mason would then cling onto him and cry, I didn't mean it like that! Trust me! That’s why she’s inviting me over! To fuck! And continued to say that until Declan acknowledged it begrudgingly.
He fumbles with opening the door, and Raffa’s bounding towards him before assaulting his leg with scratches and slobbered kisses.
Declan groans and shrugs off his coat and shoes, going down to pick Raffa up and carrying her to the kitchen. On we go, girl. You want your dinner, yeah? He murmurs, bouncing her in his arms like a baby, and Raffa’s nipping at the short hairs of his beard. He leans his head upwards to avoid the dog breath. He settles her down and grabs her food, some semi-expensive canned food that only lasts one whole meal, double that with breakfast included, multiplied by seven days a week. He winces at the price everytime when he’s out grocery shopping, always depositing the overpriced shit in the shopping trolley. He’d spend his whole life earnings on that dog.
After Raffa’s finally soothed from running in circles around his legs by her food, Declan watches her with droopy, adoring eyes, smiling softly at her lapping up the food, resting his chin on crossed arms over the counter.
Afterwards, he takes her out quickly for her nightly business, hindlegs kicking at the small patch of dirt thats the mayors excuse of greenery in such a polluted, concrete ridden city. Declan always picks up after her, so her efforts of concealing her damage are futile. He thinks it's cute.
He carries Raffa to her bed like a baby, pulling up a small blanket, to which the dog kicks it off. Not very nice, Girl, Declan would frown, but smile despite himself. He whispers his goodnight and a kiss to her soft fur, on her forehead and on her side. Raffa would huff dramatically to then almost immediately melt into her bed. The scene makes Declan yawn, lazily getting himself ready for bed; shrugging off all his work clothes till he’s standing naked in boxers, cold water and some soap to his face and brushing at his teeth eagerly. Guzzling down a glass of water, the sharpness of the mint from the toothpaste always making his teeth almost yell in sensitivity, the water chasing down some antidepressant that he’s almost 99% sure that doesn’t do shit. He takes it, anyways, ignoring how his doctors said that taking them before or after alcohol consumption can give him liver-damage.
He’ll die someday, everything causes you to rot. Every tiny thing is breaking apart your body, and Declan’s all too tired to care. He just wants to feel good, even if that’s momentarily. He stumbles into bed, avoiding the mess of clothes and stray objects on the floor, limbs feeling a little less heavier than before.
The previous thought scares him that he ends up hauling himself back up to pluck Raffa from her own bed, then pulling her under Declan’s duvet that the small cockapoo is more than happy to accept, tail beating against Declan’s stomach before she winds down into a silent snore.
He’s still too wired to sleep, and cuddles into Raffa a bit tighter, nosing into the brown curls, dreading the restless night.
“Shagged her.” Mason states proudly the morning after, as if he hasn’t had a total of ten different girls in his bed in the past month.
“Why can’t you guys talk normally,” Leo murmurs while preparing the coffee machine, to which Mason nudges him roughly, nearing knocking the poor boy down. “Stop it, Mase. My head hurts.”
“Suck it up, Leo.”
Declan peels Mason away gently, moving him off to the side. “Leave the lad alone, Mase. She probably left right after knowing his luck.” Mason’s about to attack him until Declan eyes him wearily. “Chill out, yeah. I didn’t sleep well and Leo doesn’t look too hot either.”
“He always looks like that.”
Leo’s about to bark back, eyes widening before Declan shoves in a firm “Enough, Mason. Can you pass me my mug, Leo?” He nods towards the drying mat, the gimmick #1 Dad that Ben gifted him for his birthday, Got it for ya since you’re always keeping everyone in check.
Leo nods and hands it over, before Mason’s beginning his story back up and Declan thanks Leo before he sighs. He’s dreading the restless day, too.