Chapter Text
December 31, 1989
Beyond wakes with a violent twitch to his entire body as his knees hit the ground in a memory-turned dream. Oh. Oh. He sits upright slowly, trying to keep the images fresh in his mind, in that order. Should I wake Lawliet?
It turns out he doesn’t have to. Lawliet mumbles slightly in his sleep, then rolls over to look at Beyond, “Nightmare?”
Beyond shakes his head, then hesitates, “No– yes. Sort of. I’ve been meaning to tell you since yesterday– I think I remember what happened that night. It’s been coming back to me in patches and dreams. Since I saw Cillian Walsh.”
Lawliet stares at him, then smiles tentatively for a moment, “I’ll get my notebook.”
He turns on the lamp by the bedside and Beyond gathers his knees to his chest. It’s so clear now. Beyond can see the whole scene unraveling in his mind, like he was a witness rather than a participant. He takes a deep breath.
Just get it out and get it right. Make it right.
“Remember I told you about following them, then hiding in the stairwell and getting scared?”
Lawliet nods, “And then you said you weren’t sure what they spoke about, only that they got angry.
“Yeah. I remember what they were talking about now,” he remembers the drip of the rain from yesterday, remembers how it sounded like voices that he tried to block out. But some of them were voices, “Cillian was mad about a job– something my dad did. Something about a job leak that got out. He mentioned the Netas getting involved, and that they were losing territory.”
Beyond slows down a little bit there, the damning evidence laying out in the open. Well, fuck, dad. I guess it got you where you said it would get me.
“Pretty sure you were right about my dad being involved with the gang. I think Cillian thought my dad was selling them out,” he says into the darkness, heaviness in his voice. Lawliet squeezes his hand briefly, “My dad denied it, but he looked scared, and he told Cillian he ought to be more careful after what happened with the Porsche. Cillian didn’t like that.”
The details are flickery, even as he tries to sort out the gore-covered maws of the smokey monsters, he remembers now what really happened next, “Cillian stabbed him– in the stomach. I remember that, and that’s when I tried…I tried to stop him. I couldn’t tell who was who. Then I remember seeing my dad, bleeding out, and I was trying to stop it, or hit him, I couldn’t tell which, or who was who. ” Beyond swallowed hard, the blood on his hands turned his hands themselves into monsters. He tries to go back into the space of dreams, where he watches this happen to a stranger, “Cillian cut his throat, and that killed him, cause I saw it when his name went out. Corpses don’t have the numbers and the names.”
“Cillian gave me the knife when I stopped trying to stop the bleeding. I didn’t start moving till he’d gone. I thought if I moved, he’d kill me, or else the monsters would. Then I tried to fight back against the monsters.”
Beyond is shaking now, the scene now almost flickering on the dark folds of the duvet cover. He hears screaming. That was me. Lawliet drops the pen and notebook onto the counter and tugs Beyond tentatively closer for a hug. Beyond exhales, a weight that seems to tug at the blood inside his veins. He squeezes Lawliet back gratefully.
It’s alright. You know now.
And Lawliet knows too.
“I mostly remember what happened after that. Does that sound like it makes sense?” Beyond falters a little when he asks– it feels real, but then again some of the monsters he sees have felt close to real as well. And the names and the numbers shouldn’t be real. But they are.
Fuck if I’ll ever know for sure.
L gives B a calm nod. “It does make sense. I can tell Clarke about Netas, too. It might lead to evidence that will implicate Cillian for good, especially if Cillian’s boots match up to the print found at the scene.”
B sags against his shoulder a little, his breath a long sigh tinged with relief. L nudges him, pulls on the end of his sleeve. “I’m glad you were able to remember. Do you feel alright?”
“Think so,” B straightens up, appears to gather himself a bit. “It’s good. Thanks…I. I couldn’t have remembered if we hadn’t done this."
L smiles. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without you. We’re not done yet, though.”
He pulls the curtains open and looks out on downtown Brooklyn. There’s a fresh dusting of snow over the city, but the skies are clear, the sun shining through the haze. Tonight is New Year’s Eve, he realizes, and abruptly there’s a fire burning in him to close this case before 1990 rolls in.
“I’m calling Clarke to debrief,” he announces, unpacking his computer and mobile phone. B settles on the end of the bed, watching him with bright interest.
Clarke doesn’t answer at the station, so L phones him at home, where the line is picked up by a girl who is probably only a few years younger than himself. “Daddy!” she screams, too close to the receiver.
“I expect this is L?” Clarke drawls down the line.
L gets straight to the point. “You and Jenkins raided Precision Collision yesterday.” The voice-altering program makes the words sound flat, unconcerned.
“I couldn’t shut him down without tipping my hand. But I think you’ll still be happy with the results.”
L looks sharply at B, tapping his fingers along the edge of the desk. Happy with the results? “Go on,” he says carefully.
“We looked everywhere but the body shop was clean, likely just as Jenkins intended. Afterward, though, Evan McIver came down to the station with video surveillance footage from the Saratoga parking garage. Lots of Hoodwave kids with stolen vehicles moving in and out.”
“Really?” L can’t even disguise the surprise in his voice. “I thought McIver’s security cameras were broken.”
“No, he fixed the cameras not long after Miller was murdered, just slapped some black shoe-polish over the red power light. Guess he got tired of taking Hoodwave’s shit.” Clarke lets out a dark chuckle, as if he’s simply describing the plot of a particularly interesting television program.
“What’s the status on Ozzy Walsh, Cillian Walsh, and Jenkins, then?” L holds in his breath, a foreboding sensation gripping his chest.
“We brought Ozzy Walsh into the station last night and showed him McIver’s footage. It was pretty damning, so right now the lawyers are working out a deal with him. Looks like he’ll be willing to provide testimonial evidence that his nephew murdered Marcus Miller.”
In the corner of L’s vision, B jerks slightly and leans forward. “Testimony in exchange for what?”
“In exchange for no charges of motor vehicle theft. He gets to keep his livelihood, so long as he’s not running a chop-shop on the side.”
L tips back in his chair a little, knees pressed to his chest. This should be good news – Cillian Walsh will be charged with murder – but he feels far from satisfied, somehow. “Ozzy Walsh and Hoodwave are a gang organization. Do you really think they’ll live like reformed boy-scouts from here on out?”
Clarke makes a noise under his breath. It sounds like exasperation. “Nope, but we have a lot more reason to keep tabs on them now. It’s like having a good leash on hand.”
“And what about Jenkins?”
“Ah, yes. He’ll resign after the new year. On my strong recommendation, of course.”
The triumph in Clarke’s voice transforms L’s dissatisfaction into cold, churning anger. “ I’m the reason McIver came to you. He flipped for my surrogate and knew his time in Hoodwave was running out.”
“That’s right, L. I guess I owe you a lot.” Clarke’s voice is both agreeable and condescending. “Look, I can tell you’re not completely happy with the outcome here, but I’ve been working in this city for a long time and trust me, this is as good as it gets. You can never win all the battles you want to. If I locked up Hoodwave, the Netas would expand and target civilians. It’s better to have the gangs going after each other than wrecking havoc on decent folk.”
L meets eyes with B. “And sometimes decent folk get caught up with those gangs. Marcus Miller was one of them.”
Clarke seems momentarily silenced, but his next words are curious, verging on sly. “You know, there’s a lot of talk about you in the NYPD, L. Your skill at solving cold cases is gonna be a legend before long, but most of us wonder how you do it. There’s some people who say that you’re just a kid. Some even think you might still be in high school.” He chuckles under his breath. “Another buddy of mine said you might be psychic. Can you believe that? But with the way you zeroed in on Cillian Walsh like that, I gotta wonder myself. You’re not psychic, are you?”
L tilts the mobile phone in his hand and stares into it for a moment. “If believing that I’m psychic makes you feel better about your own skills, then by all means, hold on to that belief.”
And then he clicks the phone off, ending the call.
Beyond shuffles over to sit across from Lawliet on the end of the bed.
“Guess that’s it then,” Beyond says quietly.
Lawliet lets out a sharp gust of breath as he packs up the equipment, “ “This wasn’t justice served. Far from it. But Clarke got what he wanted, so the case will be closed.”
Lawliet doesn’t seem happy with it, and Beyond isn’t quite sure whether to feel happy or not. He’s not quite sure what he was expecting, at the resolution of a case. Perhaps a dramatic scene more like the one in the alley, or a direct delivery of some critical piece of evidence by ‘Watari’. Being a real detective isn’t that much like being Batman, I guess.
Beyond supposes that’s a good thing.
“Yeah, case closed. I’m glad we know now, at least,” the violence of the past few months flickers through his eyes at a dizzying pace, overwhelming his vision momentarily. He lays back down on the bed, letting the unusual softness of it comfort him, bring his eyes back to reality, “And I’m glad we’re gonna be going back.”
Going home, his mind supplies. He can’t quite bring himself to say it out loud, but it does bring a small smile to his lips.
B at least appears to more readily accept the outcome of the case than L, but it does little to make L feel better. Clarke essentially used him to get rid of Jenkins and close a murder case, and in the end he will be the one to take all the credit.
What does make L feel better is remembering the CI at Scotland Yard who’d pulled a similar maneuver on L last year, then ended up reaching out less than a month later, looking for more help. It’s a long game that L is playing, making himself indispensable, and then into a true, outside authority. This isn’t the last he’s heard from Clarke and the NYDP. That much he’s sure of.
When Wammy shows up in their room L fills him in as quickly as possible, trying not to let his frustrations show too much. He was able to prove that B was no murderer, at least, and that’s what really matters. That’s what brought them here in the first place. The smile that B gives him makes him sure of it.
“I suppose our work here is done, then,” Wammy says, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “I can see about booking a flight in the next day or two, if you both feel ready to return?”
L meets B’s gaze and nods. “Yeah. We’re ready to go back.”
Meanwhile, it’s still the day of New Year’s Eve. Wammy cheerfully announces that he’s managed to book a two-bedroom suite at a hotel so near Times Square that its rooftop terrace has a fantastic view of the ball drop.
“That sounds good.” L carefully folds up his tee-shirts and stacks them into his suitcase, untangling B’s blue sun-hat from the mix and tossing it over to him. “Have you been to Times Square on New Years Eve before? I bet its a mad house.”
“Never been, nah. Watched it on TV a couple times, but it felt like a bit of a tourist thing. And it’s not like my parents were gonna take me,” he pulls on the pretty coat, somewhat missing Robert’s bomber jacket by now. But it’s not like I’ll be hiding much longer , “It’ll be cool to see it though.”
Especially with a friend.
In afternoon, Wammy took them on a walk about Central Park. It was fun, admittedly, being a tourist and not having to look over his shoulder too often. The clouds broke and the sun glittered over the snow, and though it was crowded, people and their deaths didn’t look quite as bad today. No one’s dying that soon, today .
Lawliet rhymed off interesting stories and crimes that had taken place there over time, and Beyond showed him a few out-of-the-way corners that he’d found the few times he’d explored there.
Wammy lags behind them, mostly observing them with a smile. But Beyond can’t help but wonder what the old man is thinking. Especially after I handed him a gun last night . They make a stopover at a dusty old bookstore called Argosy , where Lawliet is curious about old maps of the city’s underground. Beyond hangs by him to look at the thick old tomes, but catches Wammy looking at the globes and wanders off a bit, studying him.
I guess I should say something.
“Sorry about the gun last night,” Beyond mumbles, staring at the parchment-colored eighteenth-century globe that Wammy is eyeing. Sorry that Lawliet almost got hurt. Wammy simply nods seriously.
“No need to apologize, it’s all taken care of. I will remind you that carrying weapons is against the rules in Winchester, though there are classes you can take if it’s within your interest. I run a few of them.”
Beyond’s eyes widen, “No kidding, you?”
Wammy chuckles slightly, “You know I wouldn’t have taken on the role of ‘Russo’ if I didn’t have at least a few of the requisite skills.”
“It’s really okay for me to go back with you, too?” The fear struck him all at once, reminded that Lawliet was not the only one who could make decisions. And he’s just a kid too. Clarke had made that limitation clear.
“You know Lars is very keen for you to have a place at Wammy’s, Beyond. As am I,” Wammy smiles quite freely, seeming at ease in the conversation in spite of the tension, “It might have escaped your attentions at Wammy’s, but he doesn’t befriend people easily. So I think he’s seen something particularly special in you.”
More than you know. Beyond bites his tongue just as Lawliet rejoins them, two heavy books in his hand. He smiles at Beyond, looking him in the eyes with earnest eagerness. Beyond smiles back. He knows what I can do. But he can do some good with it.
The hotel Wammy’s found for them is so close to Times Square that they can both hear and see the crowd from the rooftop terrace. Plenty of people have gathered at the bar and restaurant to take in the sight, most of them adults who are dressed in their best and swilling champagne. B and L find their own viewing spot on the other side of the large, industrial air-conditioners, both of them keeping warm with the paper cups of hot chocolate that Wammy ordered for them.
“I didn’t expect so many people. I guess they’re all excited for a fresh start,” L murmurs as he gazes out at the crowd, rendered tiny by distance and height. B is quiet beside him, sipping at his drink, his eyebrows furrowed carefully together.
Sometimes… a fresh start isn’t so bad.
L knocks his sneaker against B’s. “Thanks for all your help on the case, by the way. You’ll help me on the next one, won’t you?”
B swallows, eyes wide and eager. “’Course I will!”
Smiling contentedly, L leans back against the metal drum of the air-conditioner, his shoulder plugged just beneath B’s warm left arm. He’s grateful not just for the help, but the company, too.
“What did they do back in Winchester to celebrate?” B asks, sketching random shapes into the side of his cup. “It’s been 1990 for lots of hours there.”
“It’s not as much of a spectacle as Christmas, but they do set off fireworks in the village.” L gives B a small, crooked smile. “Anyway, you’ll find out next year.”
B licks whipped cream foam off his upper-lip and grins. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
The buzz in the crowd is getting louder, and sure enough, a quick check of L’s watch shows that it’s less than a minute away from midnight. “Almost time.” He shows the watch-face to B. “The end of a decade… and the start of a new one.”
Together, they lean into the rooftop railing and feel the cold wind bite at their cheeks as they join in with the countdown below.
five, four, three, two…
A New Year Together
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