Chapter Text

“I solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of the State of California, and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of an attorney and counselor at law to the best of my knowledge and ability. As an officer of the court, I will strive to conduct myself at all times with integrity, dignity, and courtesy.”

Integrity. Ryan Bergara laughed bitterly. His integrity has gotten him so far. Two years out of law school with a career that was basically over. His Medal of Honor gleamed on the wall, a stark contrast to the rest of his dingy apartment. Considering it was handed to him by the freaking governor, it was probably worth a lot. Maybe he could sell it.

Dignity. Ryan’s thoughts drifted to a client he’d met earlier that day:

“No way in hell you’re representing me. I heard what you did. Tell the judge to appoint someone else.”

Ryan Bergara, Esq. looked up from his case file.

“Sir, I’m a public defender. That means I'm your attorney. My role centers around advocating for your best interests and no one else’s. You’re due in court tomorrow. Shall we discuss your charges?” The burly man grumbled.

“I’m not paying you to rat me out.”

Ryan just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“Ratting you out is exactly the opposite of my job. And you’re not paying me. I’m here as part of a service paid by taxpayers because you can’t afford an attorney. So no, you don’t get to choose. I’m all you’ve got.”

“But I can fire you?”

Ryan’s jaw clenched. Is this guy serious? The man is being charged with vehicular manslaughter. The breathalyser generated a freaking .15 blood alcohol content. It isn’t even this asshole’s first offense. If the idiot tries to represent himself, he could be facing life in prison. Does he really have such little faith in me to risk that?

What Ryan said was:

“Yes Mr. Braxton, you can fire me. But know that you'd be effectively waving your sixth amendment right to effective assistance of counsel. You won’t be receiving another lawyer.”

Mr. Braxton staggered up from his seat across the metal table. Ryan carefully maintained his composure. He leaned into the attorney’s personal space, breath smelling faintly of alcohol. He glared down at the smaller man. Ryan didn’t flinch.

“Understood. Now get out.”

Fucking moron.

Ryan couldn’t help himself from muttering, “Your funeral,” as he snatched up his briefcase and his “so-called” dignity. He was getting out of this shithole of a prison.

That asshole didn’t even take one minute to get to know me. It only took a look for the security officers to let him pass. Ryan stormed to the parking lot. But at least I get to go home, unlike him.

In reality, going home was the only choice. Not many other clients had wanted him that day, either. There was no more work to do.

... What was the last part of that oath? Ah, yes. Courtesy. That one was just a joke. But he supposed certain people did smile politely before stabbing him in the back.

Ryan slammed his laptop closed. Why was he rewatching himself swear the lawyer's oath with his Stanford classmates anyways? Fucking depressing. Maybe this is what his therapist meant by it might help to stop stewing on the past, Ryan. As if less than a year ago was in the distant past.

But what else was he going to do? All he had in his life right now was work. Even with that, Ryan was barely scraping by, if the late payment notices littering his kitchen counter were any indicator.

The thing is, Ryan never had a Plan B. He was so sure of his destiny. He had what it took. He worked his ass off in high school and college. He barely had to ask for scholarships after his LSAT score came out. 176, baby. Not a 179 like Elle Woods, but truly, who could measure up to her? Pre-jaded Ryan had watched Legally Blonde so many times he knew it by heart. But that's besides the point. Ryan’s team won the countrywide mock trial competition. He oversaw law review. Ryan was valedictorian for God’s sake.

Ryan had grown up fascinated with unsolved cases. Although he was well liked in his social circle, he’d been mostly a loner. He spent free time delving into unsolved cases, from Amelia Earhart’s death, to the disappearance of Roanoke, to alleged spontaneous human combustion. Doctors diagnosed Ryan with insomnia from an early age. His mother blamed “those scary books he read.” But that wasn’t it. He wasn’t scared.

Ryan was obsessed.

To be frank, school was easy for him. A breeze. Boring, even. It took a lot to challenge his admittedly above-average intellect. Conundrums kept Ryan up late into the night, scrolling through his phone under the covers where his mother couldn’t see. Now that he's 26, no one can stop him from theoretically staying up for days venturing down internet rabbit holes. Don’t ask Ryan how long he’d spent trying to crack the Zodiac Killer’s code. And don’t look at his reddit page. With a username like BigFootisRealandHeAteMyAss, no one would know it was him anyways.

But the worst of these unsolved mysteries? Cases of straight up injustice. Ryan was twenty when JonBenét Ramsey and Nicole Simpson were murdered in the same year. He followed the developments on television, growing increasingly frustrated as events unfolded. Who the fuck terrorized and murdered a child and got away with it? How much money did it take the former football star to pay off the LAPD?! It made him livid.

All that effort to end up with virtually no job offers after “the incident.” His mom cried when he told her he took a position as a public defender. It wasn’t that she disapproved of the job; she was worried. 60k for each year of law school would take a while to pay off with the best legal job. This barely covered his rent. But Ryan explained that if he worked for 10 years in public interest, the state would forgive his loans. He’d find something else to do after that.

I guess being an attorney wasn’t my destiny after all.

It was only 4pm, but Ryan was tired. He was crabby. And he was bored. The upside to being shunned from the only career he ever wanted? He slept like a baby.

Chapter Text

Ryan’s shitty Nokia woke him up at 6pm. He would’ve ignored it, but it was probably his mother. She checked in daily to make sure Ryan had gotten out of bed, eaten, and showered. She was thrilled on days he left his apartment.

He didn’t deserve her. Ryan’s parents had given up everything for his education. His mom immigrated from Japan and his dad from Mexico. They set aside their dreams for Ryan’s. As outsiders, they worked twice as hard for half the credit. Countless sacrifices to give Ryan what they never had. He remembered seeing their faces in the audience when his class took the oath. Both in tears. Our golden boy. His family loved him unconditionally. They would never say it, but he let them down. He’s going to have to live with that. He grasped for the phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this the office of Mr. Ryan Bergara?” If by “office”, the caller meant Ryan’s unmade bed with sheets that hadn’t been changed in far too long, then yes.

“Yes, this is he. Can I ask why you’re calling?”

“Oh great, great. Yes. I’d like to hire you. I need a lawyer.” Not this again.

“Are you the prank caller from last week? Because I can have you tracked and take you to fucking court for harassment. The newspapers are wrong; I still have my license to practice, you little shit.” Not that this would actually be enough for a lawsuit, but this idiot doesn't know that.

“What? No, no. My name is Mark Peterson. The police think I murdered my wife. I didn’t do it.” Crap. Nice one, Ryan.

“Oh my Lord, I’m so sorry Mr. Peterson. I thought you were someone else.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Bergara.”

“Please excuse my language.”

“You’re fine. I don’t care about that.”

“I promise I’m a professional. It’s just, no one’s called this number in a while. How did you get my number anyways?”

“From the bottom of my heart, Mr. Bergara, I don’t give a flying fuck how you talk or how professional you are. I just need you to take my case. I got your name from that Los Angeles Times article a few months ago. Thought it was great what you did. Never thought I’d need to talk to you.” A bitter laugh.

“Thank you Mr. Peterson…”

“Yeah, whatever. Listen, this is a conversation best had in person. I’d like to meet you.”

“Okay then, I can do that… Hey, are you calling from jail?”

“No. I posted bail. Fuckers wanted $850,000.” How much money does this guy have?! “Now I’m stuck at home with an ankle bracelet. I can’t leave my property.”

Integrity. The word was branded into Ryan’s psyche. It was all he had left. Even it was self-defeating, he had to maintain it.

“I have to be honest with you, Mr. Peterson. I don’t know if I’m the right man for the job. You do know I graduated from school only two years ago, right? It sounds like you have a significant income; you could afford a more experienced attorney.”

Mark huffed. “I don’t want a more experienced attorney. You think I haven’t called all of them already? What I’m saying is I saw the article. I know what you did, and what it cost you. I want someone like that to represent me.”

“I’m not sure…” He was probably damning himself, but he just couldn’t help it. Ryan practically memorized the legal rules of ethics before making the decision that ended his career. One more ethical violation and his license was toast. "A minimum level of knowledge and skills is necessary to take on a client." He had never defended a murder case on his own, but supposed he could do it...

“I need you.”

When did someone last say that to me?

“I’m coming over. Have your arrest record ready.”

Chapter Text

Cold. Wet. A stench of decay.

Ryan stood over a dirt mound off highway 89. He was trembling. The rain pierced his skin like bullets. Relentless and unforgiving. A stoic man passed him a shovel. The icy metal handle froze him to his core. He couldn’t bring himself to say a word.

“This is why we’re paid the big bucks, Bergara.” Ryan glared through tears.

“Now start digging. We need to get this done quickly.”

Ryan jolted awake. Never again.

Ryan looked up the address before heading over the next day. A mansion nestled in a sprawling property just outside the city. Not the worst place to be on house arrest.

Ryan walked up the long driveway, feeling stiff in his only nice suit. His potential client answered the door with a grimace. He locked it behind them before shaking Ryan’s hand.

“I’m innocent.” This guy certainly gets right to the point.

“Okay, there’s a lot we need to discuss. Is anyone else here?”

“No. My kids moved out two days ago. It’s just me.” Do his children think he killed their mother? “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.”

Mark Peterson was a strange man. He was maybe mid 60’s, thin with glasses and graying hair. Unimposing was the kindest word Ryan could think of to describe him. His translucent blue eyes were shifty, and he jumped at the slightest sounds. A jury wouldn’t like him. They made their way to the living room. Mark shoved a coffee in Ryan’s hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Peterson. Now before you start talking, there’s some things I need you to know. One, I’m not your attorney yet. I need more information before I decide to represent you. Regardless, everything you tell me is confidential, even if this doesn’t work out between us. And I do need you to tell me everything.”

Mark opened his mouth to speak.

“-Two, if you are culpable in any way, I won’t say anything. Legally, I can't tell a soul. But I won’t represent you.”

Mark huffed. Ryan wasn’t deterred.

“And even if you’re completely innocent, I won’t be making any compromises of my morals. That article should’ve made it clear. That means no lying. No hiding evidence. And no harm to third parties. I will work my ass off to defend you, but we’ll be playing fair.”

“I said, I’m innocent!”

“I hear you. But moral innocence and legal innocence aren’t necessarily the same thing.” If I learned one thing from my last job. “I’ll explain once we get more into it. Do you understand what I’m asking of you?”

Mark nodded.

“Alright, let’s get into it. What did you say when the police took you in?”

“I shut the fuck up. I know my right to remain silent.” Ryan smirked. At least the guy is smart.

“Do you have your arrest record?”

Mark gestured to the papers on the coffee table. Ryan took a minute to look them over.

Defendant Mark Peterson is charged with aggravated murder in the first-degree.

Well, it can’t be much worse than that. There was a brief description of the incident leading to his arrest in slanted police scrawl:

"Defendant is charged with the murder of spouse Karen Peterson around midnight on January 28, 2001. At 1:45am, Peterson called 911 in a panic. He stated his wife fell down the stairs and wasn’t breathing. The operator had him attempt CPR, but he failed to revive her. When emergency services arrived at the scene, Mr. Peterson led them to his wife’s body at the bottom of the back staircase. Mrs. Peterson appeared to have suffered multiple blows to the head from a sharp object. The blood spatters were not typical of a fall. Police took Mr. Peterson into custody at 2:15am.“

Ryan put the papers down and took a generous sip of his coffee. He was going to need it. He set the report aside to examine the crime scene photographs.

“Don’t.” Ryan looked up. Mark suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Just please, look at the pictures after you leave. I don’t need to see it again.” Interesting distancing language. The attorney took a closer look at the possible murderer lounging on the sofa.

“Tell me your version.”

“Finally,” he grouched. "This was Sunday night. We're both retired, so we watched a movie and then drank wine for a few hours while dipping our feet in the pool out back. She had maybe 3-4 glasses of wine. I’d say I had four.”

“Intoxication on your end isn’t a defense.”

“Would you let me fucking finish? She headed to bed earlier than me, maybe 11:45pm. I stayed by the pool. I went in fifteen minutes later and my wife of thirty years is laying in a puddle of her own blood at the bottom of the stairs. I freaked and called 911. Next thing I know I'm charged with murder. Do you believe me?”

“I haven’t decided. You know what this looks like, right?"

“Some lawyer,” he gruffed. “Are you even on my side?” Ryan’s eyes flashed.

“Yes, I’m on your side. But it’s important to think like a jury. You have to sound believable.”

“That’s your job. To make me sound believable.”

“This is a team effort, Mr. Peterson.”

“Would you just fucking call me Mark already?”

“Fine. Call me Ryan. What I’m saying is, the only way I’m saving your ass from prison is if we work together. Completely.”

“God, you talk as if you’re the one trying to put me in jail. Why did I want to hire you again?”

“Cut the attitude," Ryan snapped. "You called me. You read the article, right? You’re a smart man. I’m sure you also searched my name? Learned my credentials? Saw the footage of my trial?”

A low moment for Ryan. If possible, he’d never bring up the subject again.

“You know what I did and what I stand for. I’m smart. I’m good at what I do and I’m not intimidated. Most importantly, you know I will go to hell and back for someone I genuinely believe in. All that’s left is for you to persuade me you’re innocent.”

Mark seemed satisfied. “I told you what happened. What more do you need?”

“I need full disclosure, Mr. Peterson. Mark.”

Mark glared at the unlit fireplace to their left.

“Fine. There’s something else.” Ryan raised an eyebrow. “I was seeing other people around the time when this happened. Some men. Nothing serious, but it’s going to come out at trial.”

“You’re telling me you were having affairs?”

“Not affairs. Karen and I had an arrangement. Our marriage ended 25 years ago, but we love our kids. We loved the life we built. She was my friend. We worked well together. I let her do her thing and she let me do mine. Just because the sex was gone didn’t mean our marriage was loveless.” Ryan finally saw some emotion cross the other man’s face: grief.

“So it was an open marriage?”

“You could call it that.”

“Be specific, Mark. Did she know about these relationships or not?”

“Fine. No, I guess not. There was never a specific conversation. We didn’t want to go there. But we knew. Now, ask me what you really want to ask me.” Actually, Ryan wasn’t sure what Mark was getting at.

“Ask me if I’m gay. Yup, I’m a fairy. Technically, I'm bisexual. I’m almost positive Karen knew that. Like I said, it was an arrangement. You ready to get up and leave?” Oh, that’s what this is about?

“I don’t care about your sexuality or extramarital relationships as long as you didn’t kill your wife. The jury will though.” Although they were fortunate to be in liberal California, it was still 2001. Blatant homophobia wasn’t even a social faux pas. “But we can work through that. See if we can eliminate jurors who hate the LGBT community. That would be discriminatory.” Not that discriminating against gay people is illegal anywhere in the United States.

“You really don’t care? You’ll represent me to the best of your ability no many how many men I’ve slept with? It might be a lot.”

“Yes. And you know how our relationship is built on trust? I’ll tell you something confidential about myself.” Ryan leaned forward. “I’m gay. Always have been. But it’s my business. No one in my field has to know because it has nothing to do with my work.” Plus, even fewer people would hire me. “And your attraction to men has nothing to do with whether you murdered your wife.”

Mark’s sour mood somewhat dissipated. “Alright, then. What’s your rate? Last woman wanted $500 per hour, that good for you?”

$500 per hour?! Something’s not right here.

“That’s really it?” Ryan asked suspiciously.

“Psh, lawyers. $600?”

“That’s not what I’m asking about. You found out I’m gay like you and now you’re willing to pay me the big bucks, just like that?”

“That’s part of it. But no, what I want is a lawyer who will fight tooth and nail for me. What I want, no offense, is a guy who has nothing left to lose. What I really want is a lawyer who genuinely believes I’m innocent. None of the other guys did. Even if they told me what I wanted to hear, they didn’t care about my innocence more than their cash advance. I don’t want someone who’s just going through the motions. Now, do you believe me?”

Actually, Ryan was pretty sure he did. Not that the guy was husband of the year, but his gut was telling him the man in front of him wasn’t a killer. His intuition that, until very recently, had never failed him.

“I understand, Mr. Peterson. Now, I’m going to ask you this question just once. And I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God. Did you kill Karen Peterson or have anything at all to do with her death?”

“No.”

Although Ryan was intelligent, he didn’t have many abilities he considered to be talents. "Bergara Guitarra" lasted about two months. His father gently suggested he hang his water color paintings somewhere other than their living room. His stand-up comedian career was short lived. He shuddered.

But there was one talent he had. If Ryan focused, he could absolutely, infallibly tell if someone was lying. “The human lie detector,” his friends called him. He made a hell of a babysitter. Of course, he had higher ambitions.

Over the years, Ryan learned his gift was also a curse. He learned to use his power sparingly. You’d be surprised at how much you don’t want to know. He didn’t want to know how much his previous boyfriend was actually hung up on his ex. Ruined relationship #1.

He didn’t want to know his closest friends from school weren’t actually busy, they just didn’t want to associate with him after the news came out. Even though they believed he was in the right. Ruined relationships 2, 3, and 4.

He didn’t want to know his parents were still struggling financially, and the $40 they gave him to fill his gas tank was a bigger sacrifice than they made it out to be. He had slipped the money back in his father’s wallet and bought a bus pass on the way home. Ruined bank account.

Ryan didn’t know if Karen Peterson died from an accident. He didn’t know if there was a killer out there. He didn’t know how on earth he was going to defend this man. But he knew one thing:

Mark Peterson was innocent.

“I’ll take the case.”

Chapter Text

Shane Madej groaned as the crowded LA metro lurched into motion. From his high vantage point, he could see every phone screen. Text messages about VIP events. Designer clothes. Tanning booths versus spray tans.

Shallow ass city. The only thing faker than everyone’s implants were their personalities. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he could get back to Sacramento. After what happened to his mom, he vowed to never return. But his boss didn’t care about that. Actually, California Attorney General Ricky Goldworth didn’t care much about anything besides himself.

And why did Goldsworth demand he leave for LA before he could finish his freaking burrito? The case was as straightforward as he’d ever seen. A middle-aged couple, separated because they didn’t want to pay for a divorce. Wife dies in mysterious circumstances. Hubby gets all the money.

So obviously, Colonel Mustard killed Karen Peterson in the library with a candlestick.

When Shane accepted this job, he’d hoped to be challenged. But spoiler alert! It’s the significant other! And it was for the money! Every damn time.

Shane had done some research on Peterson’s defense attorney on the plane. Always know your opposition better than they know you. His first thought: “Bergara” is an unusual surname. Was that Mexican? His second thought: I know this name.

“Young Attorney Ryan Bergara Unmasks Golden State Killer as Joseph James DeAngelo”

Impressive, right? Until you find out DeAngelo was Bergara’s fucking client. Yup. He ratted him out. And brought the whole legal profession down with him.

Lawyers were used to being called rats, leeches, crooks. "What’s the difference between a vacuum cleaner and a lawyer riding a motorcycle? The vacuum cleaner has the dirt bag on the inside!" And now, snitches. Thanks, Bergara. You see, when the media frenzy died down, all the public really remembered was a lawyer threw his own client under the bus with no consequences.

Bergara probably did it for the glory. How heroic to take down the East Area Rapist. Diamond Knot Murderer. Golden State Killer. But the days of sexy Ted Bundy-esq serial killers were over; DeAngelo was just a miserable sad sack. And the thing about revealing locations of dead bodies? They’re already dead. Bergara didn’t save anyone.

Shane remembered the two weeks when everyone who wasn’t a lawyer gushed about what a hero Bergara was. The thing is, solving the mystery isn’t a fantastic feat of intellect if the killer literally told you he did it. DeAngelo’s currently in prison awaiting death row. A+ representation, Bergara.

Look, Shane understands why someone wouldn’t want to represent a murderer.

But then… don’t ... go... into criminal defense? It’s that easy.

Shane knows he could never do it. Almost every defendant is guilty; sentencing just depends on how well they covered their tracks. And psychopaths like DeAngelo made Shane’s fists clench so hard that he's splintered several pens in court. He wanted every last one behind bars.

But that’s why I'm not a defense lawyer!!!

He’d also taken a look at Bergara’s school records. Stanford. A resume a mile long. He almost whistled out loud. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven, baby? Did it hurt more when you fell from the brink of success to the soup kitchen line? The asshat probably thinks he’s too good to just get a job and work his way upwards. He probably sleeps with his Congressional Medal of Honor at night to remind himself how smart and righteous he is.

Then Shane realized who he was dealing with. A man who had something to prove. Ugh, those were the worst.

Ryan Bergara stepped into the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse. He tried not to remember the last time he was there. He pulled out some crinkled notes from his briefcase. Okay, he was supposed to be meeting the prosecutor today. Room 412. Just an initial meeting to feel each other out. He could do this. Mark was counting on him.

Turns out, room 412 was an empty jury room. Ryan took a seat and imagined a group of people sitting around discussing his client's fate. Probably commenting on how shifty Mark’s eyes are. This was going to be an uphill battle.

Twenty minutes passed. Ryan hoped he wasn’t in the wrong room. He got up to leave. At that moment, the door whipped open, narrowly avoiding smacking him in the face.

“Hey! Watch where you’re fucking going!”

Shane Madej was unimpressed. “It would be helpful not to lurk behind doors, Mr. Bergara,” he suggested as he strode past him. A towering, well dressed man with an air of condescension. Exactly the type who turned me down in school.

Ryan went back to his seat, willing himself to regain his composure. Asshole probably did it on purpose to throw him off.

“Alright, Mr. Bergara. Let’s hear it.” Madej opened his laptop.

Ryan cleared his throat. “My client is innocent. Drop the charges.”

Shane raised his eyebrows, but continued looking at his monitor. “That’s it?”

Ryan shrugged. “It’s that simple.” His opposition seemed faintly amused.

“Okay. So tell me who killed Karen Peterson.” The man’s long fingers began to tap on his keyboard.

“Not my job to do your investigations for you. Someone else might have killed her, or it might've been an accident. I’m just saying Mark didn’t do it.”

“Well Mr. Bergara, you’ve certainly convinced me. Gotta hail that Stanford education.” His hands kept typing away. The prick hadn’t actually bothered to make eye contact yet. Ryan crossed his arms. “You are an attorney, right? You know how this works?” Of course Ryan did. But he hadn’t had time to form a theory on what actually happened. This meeting was basically just to tell Madej to suck it. Tap tap tap.

“I can tell you everything I know right now. Mark was sitting in his backyard for 15 minutes after Karen went inside. He came in and found her body. The timeline in the police report is wrong. He doesn’t know what happened to her.”

“Well, that’s a gripping tale. Truly. But you know what I know?” He leaned forward. Shane Madej looked Ryan Bergara in the eyes for the first time.

“They had 5 million in assets. They wanted a divorce. They didn’t want to pay for a divorce. Mark Peterson received 1 million in life insurance after her death. And then Mark Peterson began the single life. All these facts lead me to a certain conclusion, Mr. Bergara. Unless you have anything to convince me otherwise?”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything yet. I’m here to tell you he’s pleading not guilty.”

Madej leaned back and sighed. “Well, at least you know to do that much.” Tap tap tap. “Let’s stop wasting our time. We both know Peterson did it. But it comes down to what I can prove. With this evidence, I’m confident I could persuade a jury that he committed aggravated first-degree murder. He planned it. And you remember the lacerations on the back of her head? They will.”

They weren’t necessarily lacerations. They could be gouges from her head hitting the corner of the wall.

“Anyways, it would be time consuming to go to trial. Expensive. I’m busy, Bergara. With cases a lot more important than this. Which is why I’m prepared to offer your client a plea.” Tap tap tap.

“Don't bother.” His eyes snapped up. The second time Shane Madej made eye contact.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr. Bergara. This would allow your client to plea to lesser charges. Then I can have one less trial to deal with and he gets a shred of hope of getting out jail someday.” God, this prick is arrogant.

“I understand what a plea deal is. I’m saying we’re not interested.”

“You don’t want to hear the details?”

“No. No plea deals.” Mark had made that crystal clear earlier that morning:

“Because my kids won’t fucking talk to me.”

“Mark, the death penalty is potentially on the table if you don’t take a plea.”

“I’m 65. My health isn’t great. If I’m anything like my relatives, I won’t live past 72. That’s 7 years left, maximum. Prison would kill me even faster. I want to spend those years with my children. I’m dying either way, Ryan. I want my kids to remember me as “Dad”, not as their mother's possible killer. I don’t want there to be any doubt about my innocence. I’m fighting for them.”

"Understood."

“Still with me, Mr. Bergara? Something you don’t understand?”

He snapped back to the present. “I understand perfectly.”

“Listen, I know you’re new at this. But even a young attorney should research his opponent. You know what I can do in trial, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Ryan jeered, “I know exactly what you’re going to do. Mount your homophobic argument. Newsflash: just because someone’s gay does not make them a murderer. Or a pedophile. Whatever you’re going to say at trial.”

Madej snarled. He stood up from the table and smacked his laptop out of the way. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Bergara. I’m surprised you’re even here, how the hell did you not lose your license after what you did?!” Hmm. I finally got to him. Ryan stood slowly. He was not to be looked down upon by anyone. Not anymore.

“They gave me immunity for the one charge in exchange for a full confession. Other than that, I didn’t actually break any ethical rules. Saving someone from imminent danger and all that.” How long was he going to have to explain himself?

A flash of surprise. “Oh right, because not breaking the ethical rules is the highest we should all aspire to,” Madej sneered, “It’s like you don’t even know what attorneys do.”

“That’s rich coming from you. You know prosecutors are supposed to seek justice, right? Not just jail as many people as possible to get your boss re-elected.”

“Don’t you tell me how to do my job,” Madej snapped. He grabbed Ryan’s collar, dragging his upper body across the table. “Don’t you fucking act like you know me at all.” Ryan shoved him off. The taller man stumbled backwards and hit the wall. Didn’t realize I’m stronger than I look, huh?

Ryan kept his voice steady. “What I’m saying, Mr. Madej, is my client is innocent. If you take the time to look at the facts you’ll see that. I’m saying we’re not taking the plea deal. Clear enough for you?”

“Oh Bergara,” Madej sighed, “you genuinely believe that, don’t you?”

Shane stomped back to his office. Goldworth was not going to be happy with him. He thought about the prick he left standing in the jury room. Bergara didn’t think Shane was looking, but he was. The man was attractive, he’ll give him that. “The Golden Boy” was certainly an apt title, considering his golden skin, taut body, and stupid round doe eyes. Maybe that's why he got away with treason.

But years of discovering people’s lies had taught him the importance of picking up on little details. Five o'clock shadow. Dark circles under the eyes. Chewed fingernails. An ill fitted suit, contrasting with the man’s meticulously styled hair. It was barely even the right size for him. A Nokia sticking out from the inside pocket.

Shane realized what he was dealing with. A man who had nothing left to lose. Hadn’t dealt with one of those in years. This little shit was going to make the next few months hell for him, wasn’t he? He thought about Bergara’s response when he asked if he actually believed Peterson was innocent.

“You know the answer to that.”

And that’s when Shane realized he wasn’t just dealing with a man who had something to prove. Or a man who had nothing left to lose. He was dealing with the most dangerous man of all: A man who genuinely believes he's doing the right thing. A man with "justice" on his side. God deliver us from those with good intentions.

But Shane had been dreaming of a challenge like this for years. Bring it, Bergara.

Chapter Text

A rickety Ford Sedan raced down a bumpy road, practically burning pavement. Ryan Bergara was behind the wheel. And he was livid.

The arraignment was yesterday. Just routine stuff. Judge Cavallaro informed Peterson of his charges. He plead not guilty. The court reporters scheduled the trial dates as Madej glared at him from across the courtroom in his stupid fancy suit. What kind of guy wears a navy blue jacket with a Hawaiian print tie? Anyways, it had seemed like things were finally calming down. Ryan was about to enter “Concern My Mom” mode: periods of time when he becomes so engrossed in unraveling a mystery that he forgets his body needs food and water and sleep.

But ten minutes ago, Peterson called him in a panic, saying the cops were at his door.

“It’s okay, Mark. Just don’t answer the door. They can’t come in without a warrant.”

He heard curtains rustle as Mark peeked outside.

“But they have a warrant!”

Those fuckers. He got into his car half-dressed. How ironic that he was wearing a wife-beater.

It wasn’t that Ryan thought there was any damning evidence. But Madej was crafty. He could make almost anything look incriminating.

Plus, no one likes strangers ransacking their home. When Ryan signed the retainer, he swore to protect and serve. In all ways. Yes, Mark Peterson was kind of an asshat. But he was Ryan’s asshat. No one was going to mess with his client. And Shane Ma-Douche didn’t even give me a five minute warning!

Ryan parked and stormed into the house. He might've left the ignition running. Whatever. What he burst into was nothing short of a maelstrom. Mark’s relatively neat living room was trashed. His meticulously organized DVD collection was strewn in random piles in the corner. Crunch! An especially dumb-looking officer wasn’t watching where he was going. The ignoramus looked down, shrugged, and started yanking books off the bookcase.

That. Was. It.

“ALL OF YOU SCUMBAGS GET THE FUCK OFF THIS PROPERTY!”


Several officers startled, hands instinctively reaching for holsters. But Ryan was too far gone to care. He was just glad he stopped himself from finishing with before I call the police. Madej would never let him live that one down. Speaking of...

Over there, in the midst of commotion, leaning nonchalantly against the staircase like he was the eye of the fucking storm, was Shane Madej. Ryan started barreling through the crowd to go give him a piece of his mind, but Peterson beat him to it. Ryan couldn’t hear what his client was saying over the pandemonium. The gestures suggested it wasn’t so nice to meet you, Mr. Madej. I’ve heard great things. Mark might've heard the back end of Ryan’s rant yesterday.

His client was probably getting himself in even more trouble. Ryan rushed over. Madej glanced up from his fingernails, as if he just noticed Ryan was there. Dick.

“Get the fuck away from my client,” Ryan growled, “You know you’re not supposed to talk to him. All communications about the case go through me.”

Once again, Shane Madej was unimpressed.

“Mr. Peterson came up to me, Bergara. I suspect he did it because his lawyer took his time showing up today.” The man’s brown eyes flicked to Ryan’s tank top and sweats. “Sleeping in, I presume?”

“Shut up and show me your search warrant.” Madej lazily held out a piece of paper. Ryan snatched it. He squinted to read the fine print. “You’re an idiot. This warrant only authorizes you to search for ‘communications potentially related to Karen Peterson’s death.’ That means texts, emails, and phone records. That’s it.”

“Give me that!” Madej grabbed it back. His eyes shifted left to right across the page.

“Didn’t read your own warrant, Madej? Unbelievable. You have five seconds before I contact Judge Cavallaro.” Ryan held up his phone. Probably the first time a Nokia’s ever been used as a threat.

“Fine.” Ryan began dialing. “Fine.”

“BOYS!” Madej shouted. The tempest ceased. The sole female officer shot him a dirty look. “Put everything back. All we need is his laptop, phone, and any letters or other communications you can find.”

All his officers managed to take was Peterson’s laptop and cellphone.

“What do you want us to do with the belongings, Sir?”

“Bag it and throw it in the trunk,” Shane barked. If Goldsworth finds out he made such a careless mistake, Karen won’t be the only one dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Shane knew what the warrant said. Obviously. He just expected Bergara to be as clueless as he seemed the other day. Thought he could get away with it. But no, the little shit had to come running in and start screaming at everyone. In that black tank top like some kind of vapid sports model. Ryan Bergara won’t be besting me again.

While they managed to get was helpful, Peterson seemed too intelligent to keep text messages like:

Peterson: Hey man whats up

Guy with the misfortune of being friends with Peterson: Just chilling. U?

Peterson: Nothin, just killed my wife today LOL

You’d be surprised how often Shane’s convicted people with that. But there still could be some clues or indirect evidence on the laptop. Regardless, it wasn’t what he was really looking for.

Shane Madej needed a weapon.

The lacerations on Karen Peterson were unusual. Once the mortician wiped away all the blood and shaved off the remaining clumps of her auburn hair, Shane could see everything. Gouges on the back of her skull. Deep enough to leave a flap of skin hanging off her scalp. Cuts across her left eyelid and above her right eyebrow. Scrapes on her nose and right cheekbone. Nothing anywhere else on her body, besides light bruising on her back and shoulders.

Besides being disturbing, it was confusing. If Shane wanted to prove Peterson did it beyond a reasonable doubt, he needed to show the jury a weapon. But there were no bullet holes. Or stab wounds. Or bite marks. Nothing like that. He must've hit her with something, but it wasn't anything like a baseball bat.

But then Shane saw something. Passed by it in the garage on his way out. A rusty fire poker sticking out under some other tools. Hidden, but not too hidden. Smart move, Peterson. It appeared just the right size for her injuries, but Shane would need a closer look. But because Bergara picked the most inconvenient time to actually start doing his job, Shane probably wouldn’t get the opportunity to search again. Goddamn it.

Shane elbowed several interns aside as he stalked back to his office.

Ryan Bergara was not to be underestimated.

The two men were left standing in the aftermath. Ryan was fuming. He picked up what was left of a glass vase and threw it against the wall. It splintered into a million pieces. “Cops are pigs!” he roared. But his client wasn’t listening.

Alleged killer Mark Peterson knelt down in the middle of the floor. Picked up a cracked frame of him and Karen. And began to cry.

Chapter Text

Ricky Goldsworth was not pleased.

“But I don’t understand!” Shane protested, “Why does it matter so much? It’s barely been in the papers.”

“It’s not your job to understand,” Goldsworth thundered. The only thing shorter than the attorney general's loss record was his temper. “It’s your job to do as you’re fucking told!”

“But what could I do? I can’t force him to take a plea. He didn’t even want to hear the details!”

“For how much I pay you, I expect a lot more, Madej. Who’s his attorney?”

“Ryan Bergara.” He spat the name like a curse word.

“The Golden Boy. How interesting. And how humiliating for you if you lose this case to him. So help you God, Shane, if you embarrass me you are done here. And you know my reach. I’ll make sure you’re done everywhere else, too.”

It wasn’t an empty threat. Shane remembered the day he overheard Goldsworth calling every district attorney in the state to demand they shun the last employee to leave dishonorably.

Shane didn’t even necessarily like this job. He cared about bringing issues to justice, but he always felt he’d make a bigger impact working in policy advocacy. And besides his ambition to provide the best possible life for his cat, he didn’t care about the money. He’d taken this job to fulfill one mission. Once it was done, so was he.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, Madej. You’re going to learn everything about Mark Peterson. And everything about Ryan Bergara. Then you're going to break them.” That’s a little uncalled for. I don’t actually want to hurt the twitchy guy or the doe-eyed man.

“After he’s convicted, you’re either getting him life or the electric chair.”

“Sir, there's really only enough evidence to establish second-degree murder.” Unlike what I told Bergara. “Without proof he planned it, the maximum sentence is 25 years. I can’t do either of those.” Shane's superior waved his hand dismissively.

“I’ll work with the parole board. And the judge. They’ll see it my way. Whatever his sentence is, he won’t end up getting out.”

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting.” Shane clenched his jaw.

“Ah yes, Shane, you’re always so intent on doing the “right thing.” How about this? If you win the case, you’ll be putting a murderer behind bars. You’ll be protecting people. And not just from a spousal killer. A killer who took three childrens’ mother away from them. Surely you can relate to that…”

“Leave my mother out of this. I told you never to bring her up.” Shane would’ve snapped another pen if he was holding one.

“Fine," his boss relented. "Regardless, my message is clear: convict Mark Peterson or you’re fired. And destroy Ryan Bergara. Now get out.”

Shane didn’t need any more clarification. He was going to do what he was told. And beyond that. He was going to find out exactly what grudge Ricky Goldsworth held against Mark Peterson. Because this case shouldn't matter that much.

After Ryan threatened to call the judge, Madej backed off for a good two weeks. Turns out Ryan gets his best research done when he’s not distracted by a strong jaw, broad shoulders, and sleepy eyes.

Let’s get into it:

Madej could only win this case if he proved each and every element of the crime to the jury beyond a reasonable doubt. That means he had to establish Mark Peterson (1) intentionally murdered Karen Peterson (2) premeditatively (3) with malice.

As defense, Ryan’s job was easier. He just had to convince the jury to doubt the prosecution’s version of the facts somewhere along the way. He didn’t actually need to solve the case. But they weren't going to acquit Mark without having something else to visualize besides him beating his wife to death that Sunday night. Ryan had to paint a picture.

That being said, let’s get into the theories:

1. Karen Peterson died from falling backwards down the stairs.

Admittedly, this one didn’t make a lot of sense. But since Ryan didn’t know what actually happened, he was taking on a “throw it at the wall and see what sticks” approach. It didn’t matter as long as at least one of his theories gave the jury doubt.

He spent a day with a forensic analyst. Dr. Rachel McBeal sat with him for hours in her UC Berkeley laboratory. She was good at explaining complicated subjects in simple terms. Imperative for an expert witness. Behind her, students in lab coats squirted red liquid at the wall and photographed the results. What inspired Dr. McBeal to create this specialty, he’ll never know. But she was brilliant.

You see, Dr. McBeal has a PhD in bloodstain pattern analysis. The missing linchpin of the accident theory. There was just too much blood for a fall. Seemingly.

When emergency services arrived after Mark’s frantic 911 call, they photographed the crime scene. In one picture, Ryan could see the blur of an officer shoving Mark away from his wife’s body. He looked almost as pale as she did. Which was saying a lot.

The staircase aligned with two walls, inverted at a right angle. Mark found Karen laying on her back with her head resting on the last step. A halo of blood around her cranium. Expected. Violent splatters along the adjacent walls and the wall across from the base of the stairs. Unexpected. It looked like graffiti underneath the Golden Gate bridge, or those art projects where you sporadically throw globs of paint at the wall.

How on earth could someone walk up the stairs, fall backwards, and end up with their insides projected onto three walls? McBeal explained it was possible. Karen could've walked up the stairs, fell backwards and hit the base of her head on the corner, which burst the basilar artery. She became disoriented afterwards and kept trying to walk forwards, which resulted in her repeatedly falling back to gouge her head three more times before losing consciousness. This created "cast-off", a more linear pattern that's created when a bloody object is in motion. The object being her cranium, not a weapon. There was also what looked like a transfer stain, which is when a bloody object touches something clean. The smear of Karen's hand along the wall as she tried to regain her balance.

Sure, you’d have to be pretty clumsy to do that. But Mark told him Karen had taken valium with her wine that night. And not a prescription dose. As for the blood spatters on the far wall?

"Think of it like this, Ryan. What happens when you dip a brush in a paint can and then flick it? We call that impact spatter. The paintbrush was her hair."

“Thanks, Dr. McBeal. That, well… that certainly paints a picture.” Ryan laughed weakly.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Bergara. And don’t use that joke at trial.”

2. Someone else killed her.

“So Karen had no enemies? Of any kind? Everybody hates somebody.” An intrusive mental image of a lean man with a smirk.

“I said, no. The only thing I can think of is she was mad at her last hair stylist because she screwed up her hair. Left a strongly worded Yelp review.”

It said something about Ryan’s desperation that he legitimately looked into that lead. The owner of the Curl up and Dye salon had, in fact, never made someone curl up and die.

“Oh, and she was always trying to show up Susan at our high school reunions. The girl who beat her in the science fair. Never got over it. That’s the only time she would get snippy with me. Always so worried about impressions. Told me to act less gay beforehand.” His brow furrowed. “But she was a good woman. A lot nicer than me.”

“Fine. Do you have any enemies?"

“Ugh. Here we go.”

Mark didn’t actually have what Ryan would consider enemies. Not like him and Madej. Mark was just an old man who grouched through life and kicked kids off his lawn. The type to not say ‘thank you’ to the waiter or bus driver. A deadly sin in Ryan’s eyes, but not in many others’. Also, Mark was probably less grumpy before he was framed for murder.

Nothing quite fit… fortunately, Ryan still had some time to investigate. The first portion of the trial would focus on Peterson’s character. He groaned. Too late to invest in charm school?

Shane knocked the files in front of him to the floor and rubbed his temples. Besides the obvious, he just couldn’t find any dirt on Ryan Steven Bergara.

Everyone has something they’re ashamed of. Drug addiction. Gambling problem. 'Copious orgies with men thirty years younger than them' problem. Oh wait, that was just Peterson.

Regardless, even if someone doesn’t have blatant dark spots on their record, everyone’s been an asshole at some point. Shane was a jerk in high school when he was desperately trying to conceal his sexuality. At the time, it seemed like jackassery was the best way to uphold his masculinity.

But Ryan Bergara. Just. Keeps. Being. Nice.

He started an Innocence Project clinic at Stanford. Shane watched a video about a man on death row for a crime he didn’t commit, due to faulty witness testimony. Something warm welled up in him as he watched Kirk Bloodsworth walk out of prison for the first time in fifteen years. Ryan Bergara was at his side.

Shane couldn’t stop reading about his opponent. With the introduction of DNA evidence to solve crimes, Bergara spent most of his law school career re-opening old cases to get innocent people released. And here he was. Guiding the tentative man out into the light. Shielding him from the cameras. Encouraging him. And if Shane cried a little bit at that, it was his own business.

It was when Shane learned Bergara created a task force to shut down puppy mills across the state that he gave up. Really, the picture of the raven haired man cradling a quivering puppy was unnecessary. His heart and dick couldn’t take it, okay?

Who knew Golden Boy was a fucking saint as well? Shane tried to focus on his irritation rather than the pang of empathy in his gut. He saw how Bergara beamed in pictures with classmates at the state summit against domestic violence. With colleagues after they won funding for a free clinic to help transgender people legally change their names. With allies at the latest press conference for prisoners' rights. Humanity. That’s what this man has been fighting for.

Shane tried to ignore the pang of empathy because Ryan Bergara just didn’t smile that way anymore.

Chapter Text

Ryan Bergara kept his hand firmly on Peterson’s shoulder as the tape began:

Emergency dispatcher: 911, what’s your emergency?

Mark Peterson: uh… 1810 Chestnut Street, please! *gasping*

Shane Madej paused the recording. A Russian woman with a sleek bob continued to testify:

“Even Mr. Peterson’s first word is a red flag: “uh”. Why would he need time to remember his address? This shows us he’s on guard.”

Dispatcher: What’s wrong?

Peterson: My wife’s had an accident! She’s still breathing…

Click. “Immediately stating it’s an accident. Mr. Madej told me Peterson's a novelist. Here, he’s already implanting a script in the dispatcher’s mind. And she’s still breathing? That means it’s unexpected. Why did he expect her to have stopped breathing?” Click.

Dispatcher: What kind of accident?

Peterson: She fell down the stairs! She’s still breathing, please-

Dispatcher: Is she still conscious?

Peterson: Uh, what? No, she’s not conscious, just please come!

Dispatcher: Okay, how many stairs did she fall down?

Peterson: Huh? She fell down the stairs! I-

Dispatcher: Sir, how many stairs?

Peterson: *panting*

Dispatcher: Calm down, Sir.

Peterson: No, uh, 15-20, I don’t know! Please! Get somebody here right away!

Dispatcher: Somebody’s already dispatching the ambulance while I ask you questions.

Click. “How did Peterson immediately come to that conclusion? He didn’t see her fall. Notice when the dispatcher asked how many stairs, he replied ‘No’ before correcting himself.”

Ryan cautiously slid his legal pad across the table. The last thing he wanted to do right now was make his client jump. Mark looked down. Write down three green colored objects in this room. Find five items beginning with “F”. How many pearls are on the judge’s necklace? One of the jurors has a cold today, can you tell me which one? It said a lot about Mark’s trust that he picked up his pen and began answering. His posture relaxed minutely. Click.

Peterson: Oh god, she’s not breathing, is anybody coming?! *sobbing*

Click.

“And there you have it,” Madej finished smoothly, “the beginning, middle, and end of Mr. Peterson’s script. Sounds like Ms. Peterson died while the ambulance was on its way, right? But Mark knew she was dead long before. To summarize, Ms. Ivanov, can you tell us again what you do?”

“I’m certified in statement analysis, a forensic science. We study word choice to discover deceptive patterns.” Ryan leapt up.

“What about tone of voice? The fear, pain, and confusion on Peterson's end of the call is evident.”

The expert witness looked directly at Mark Peterson.

“Tone isn’t necessary. Words tell us the truth.”

Next, Ryan placed Dr. Rachel McBeal on the stand. She answered the direct testimony exactly as they practiced, explaining how the blood pattern could be the result of a fall. The jury leaned forward. Shane looked pissed.

"... to put it vividly, have you ever seen a dog shake off water? It could've happened like that."

“Thank you, Dr. McBeal. No further questions.” Ryan shot Madej a smirk as he made his way back to his seat. It’s on Bergara, he mouthed. Time for cross examination. Ryan's opponent stood and straightened his tie.

“Good morning, Ms. McBeal.” Don’t take the bait, Rachel!

“Good morning, Mr. Madej. And it’s actually Dr. McBeal.”

“Doctor?” Madej examined his notes with a frown. “I’m sorry, I must be confused. You don’t have a medical degree, correct?”

“I have a PhD in Forensic Evidence with a focus on Bloodstain Pattern Analysis.”

“Ms. McBeal, I would appreciate if you answered my question. Is it true that you aren’t actually a doctor? As in you’ve never even set foot in a medical school?” Ryan prepared Rachel for these types of questions. She was doing great; she just needed to keep her cool.

“Medical degrees aren’t required for what I do, Mr. Madej. Instead, we attend graduate school for five years, conduct in-depth research, defend our thesis, and complete 600 hours of field work before graduating. The field work consists of working closely with experts, including investigators, the police force, and medical doctors.” Madej opened his mouth to make some snarky comment.

“-AND the program includes several anatomy classes.” Don’t interrupt him, Rachel. We need to make him look like the bad guy here.

“Well, thank you for convincing us you’re smart, Ms. McBeal. Are you smart enough to answer what’s being asked of you?” Ryan stood abruptly.

“OBJECTION! Harassing the witness.” Judge Cavallaro glanced up from her notes.

“Overruled. There’s no requirement for Mr. Madej to be polite, although I suggest he do so. Answer his question, Dr. McBeal.”

“No. I don’t have a medical degree.”

“Thank you. That wasn't so hard. So the "doctor" in your title actually indicates you've had no medical training whatsoever?"

“OBJECTION! Asked and answered.”

“Sustained. You’ve made your point, Mr. Madej. Now move on.”

“My sincerest apologies,” he said insincerely. “I only have a few questions left. Now, do you understand the difference between correlation and causation, Doctor McBeal?” Did Madej realized what a sexist asshole he came off as? Did he care?

“Yes. Correlation is when there’s a statistical relationship between two factors, such as when X increases, Y is likely to as well. Causation is when there’s a direct relationship between two factors, where X causes Y to increase.”

“Is there any correlation between these types of blood spatters and falls down the stairs?”

“This is the first time I’ve seen this pattern from a fall, but-”

“And you can’t guarantee a fall is what caused it?”

“No, what I’m saying is-”

“So, am I understanding correctly? To make it for clear for the jury, you’re saying there’s no correlation or causation for Ms. Peterson to have projected her innards on three walls from bumping her head on some stairs?”

“She didn’t hit her head on the stairs. Her wounds were vertical; stairs are horizontal. I’m saying hitting her head on the wall might have caused the projectile.” Madej seemed deep in thought for a moment. He began rifling with whatever was under his desk, still talking.

“So… wouldn’t causation… look... more like this?”

WHACK!

Collective gasps. A juror screamed. Somehow, Madej had rolled a dummy head out onto the courtroom floor. Before one could even be sure of what it was, he whipped out a fire poker and struck fake-Karen on the base of her cranium.

The aftermath happened in slow motion. Scarlet liquid began to traject outwards.

No! The jury couldn’t see blood on Mark. Even if it was just ketchup, the image would stay with them forever. Ryan pulled Mark’s chair back and threw his body in front of him.

SPLAT!

Ryan was soaked.

The room erupted.

“I’LL HAVE ORDER IN MY COURT! Remove him.”

Two officers dragged out a satisfied Shane Madej. Fucking asshole! Ryan frantically dabbed at the red paint on his front. He was going to be sick. After what happened, he'd had countless nightmares about someone else's blood dripping off his hands. Several jurors ran to the bathrooms.

“And people say defense attorneys are the sickos…” Judge Cavallaro muttered.

After a recess for damage control, the judge allowed Madej to finish his argument, provided he give a sincere apology. Easy to say when you didn’t get Party City™ blood on you.

“... And Mr. Bergara,” Madej sauntered up to him and held out a $2000 check. 'I’m sorry:)' was written in big letters on the memo line. “To pay for a new suit.”

“No, thank you,” Ryan said gruffly. His opponent’s eyes trailed lazily down his body. He shrugged.

“Alright, then. As I was saying, I offer my deepest apologies to everyone in this room. I only wanted to show you high velocity blood spatter from a weapon, but I understand the shock value wasn’t necessary.” Pretense dripped from his every word. “Now, I had another demonstration, but…”

If collective looks could kill.

“-but I’ll save it! I'll save it. I just have one more question. Mr. Peterson, can you tell me who Eliza Turner was to you?” I don’t recognize that name…

“Um, uh, she was our family friend. We adopted her daughter, Martha…”

“That’s all! Thank you, Mr. Peterson. And now here’s how she died.” The projector broadcasted an image of a middle-aged woman laying dead at the bottom of a staircase.

It wasn’t Karen.

Judge Cavallaro gasped. The jury burst into discussion. Mark hung his head. Every individual in the room was zeroed in on the photograph, except Ryan and Shane. In the middle of the chaos, the tall figure smirked at him. Shot him a wink. In any other context, those were bedroom eyes. But in this case, it was less fuck me and more you’re fucked.

Chapter Text

Ryan Bergara paced back and forth. His backstabbing client was on the second floor, putting his ankle bracelet back on.

Mark Peterson descended down the staircase.

Step.

After.

Tired.

Step.

He came in and sat down heavily on the sofa. He was in his late 60's, but this was the first time Mark truly looked old.

“Mark,” Ryan began in a frighteningly casual tone, “Do you remember what we promised each other when you hired me?”

“Full disclosure,” Mark replied weakly, “But I swear Ryan, I’ll tell you all of it right now-”

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO TELL ME ALL OF IT RIGHT NOW, YOU ASSHOLE! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TELL ME EVERYTHING THAT FIRST DAY!”

“... I know. But this is something I’ve barely been able to admit to myself.” His attorney turned to leave.

“I didn’t kill her, Ryan! Not on purpose. It was an accident, I swear to God!”

“Oh yeah, you swear to God? Does that even mean anything to you?”

Mark's confession spurted out onto the white carpet. Impact spatter. “Eliza was our friend. Mine and Karen’s. We were friends with her and her husband George, when we lived in Germany for a few years. Martha, my Martha, is their daughter. George died from a heart attack a few years before Eliza. But you see, they were like family. We took Martha in after her parents died-”

“Tell me about the FUCKING STAIRCASE, MARK!”

“I didn’t kill her; it was an accident! She found out I was gay; she saw it open on my laptop. She totally lost it. Getting in my face, screaming the devil had taken ahold of me. I begged her not to tell anyone. She slapped me and I shoved her away. And then...” He gulped and began again.

“It wasn’t really self defense,” he admitted, “She was a small woman; she couldn’t actually hurt me. I just wanted her to stop yelling. And calling me faggot. I just wanted her away from me. I tried to grab her as she fell backwards towards the stairs.” The old man began to sob. “I swear I did, Ryan. I t-tried to c-catch her. My God, I didn’t mean to kill her. The look on Eliza's face as she fell...”

“And when the cops came?”

“I do what I always do. I shut the fuck up. They just thought she lost her balance going up the stairs. The coroner even determined it was a hemorrhage… She’d been having headaches in the weeks prior. I’ve never told anyone. I justified it to myself by thinking admitting it wouldn’t make anyone’s life better. I didn’t mean to do it and I would never hurt anyone else. It wouldn’t b-bring her b-back...”

“You make me sick.”

“I know. I’m a coward. God, I’m such a… We adopted Martha. I treated her like my own daughter; she is my own daughter. I started going to church. I didn’t see any men for three years. I tried to be the best possible husband to Karen. I thought maybe Eliza was right and the accident was God’s personal punishment for me being gay. And Karen dying in the same way and me getting the blame? Maybe this f-faggot is getting what he d-deserved...” Mark broke off into whimpers.

“Finish the pity party. You’re making this woman’s death all about you. And there’s nothing wrong with being gay,” Ryan snapped.

“No, no, I guess there’s not. But there’s a lot wrong with me, I know. I’m trying to be better, I swear. Please Ryan, don’t tell the jury I shoved her. They’ll never believe it was an accident.”

“-But there’s a lot wrong with lying to me. I’m on YOUR side. But you broke our trust. I have half a mind to walk out that door, and then who knows if you’ll ever see your kids again.”

Peterson’s watery eyes widened. “No, no, Ryan please help me. Nobody else can do it.” Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. He saw a faint aura, a sure sign a pounding migraine was headed his way.

“Peterson, you scumbag. I want to hear it. Stop being a coward for once in your life and admit you KILLED HER!”

“FINE RYAN. YES. I killed Eliza in an accident! And I’ve hated myself every day since. But I swear to you, Ryan Bergara, I d-didn't kill my w-wife...”

Ryan didn’t need his power to know if Peterson was telling the truth. What trembled on the carpet before him was a man stripped off all dignity. A man with almost nothing left to lose. Ryan had been there. He remembered how firmly he held onto his integrity when it was all he had.

Whatever sins this man committed in the past, this trial was about whether he killed Karen. In that sense at least, he was innocent.

“This is your last chance, Mark.”

Aside from the bomb he dropped yesterday, Shane didn’t have much else on Mark Peterson. But his boss insisted on taking the man down. The bastard was so focused on Mark that he barely ever mentioned who the case was really about: Karen Stacey Peterson.

Actually… maybe Shane had been looking in the wrong places. Why did Goldsworth never mention Karen? And why did he really hate her husband so much?

Maybe hubby wasn’t the only one having affairs...

Two days later, Ryan was in the law library determining his next move when he got a call.

From Mark. Firing him.

The man sounded more than a little drunk when he told Ryan he just found out Martha was pregnant. From Facebook. Not one of his children had bothered to tell him.

His speech wasn’t coherent, but the message was clear: Mark was done. When Ryan urged him not to be impulsive, he said he’d pay Ryan everything he’s owed plus a $10,000 bonus.

“You got your money. Now leave me alone.” Click.

Naturally, Ryan was outside Mark’s front door 15 minutes later.

BANG-BANG-BANG!

“Let me in or I’m calling the police for a wellness check! You know I’ll do it!”

Mark Peterson opened the door. He smelled like a brewery.

"Mark, what the hell-"

“You… are a good man, Ryan. And maybe the closest thing to a son I have left.” Ryan’s eyes welled up. Mark laughed humorlessly. “Who knew a lawyer was the one I could trust the most?”

Ryan began to launch into his speech.

“-But I’m not going to kill myself. I’m assuming I have 2-3 nights left in this house at the most. This is the home where I had the best times of my life with my family. Yes, I was having affairs, but I wasn’t “living a lie” like Madej said. I loved them. Now, I just want to savor the time I have left and drink wine and watch Pawn Stars. Please just let a miserable old man be a miserable old man. Goodnight, Ryan.”

Ryan’s newfound purpose shut in his face. His saving grace locked him out. His last hope switched off the porch light.

Shane couldn’t find any evidence that Goldsworth and Karen were having an affair. But of course, the attorney general would be the very best at hiding evidence. Something still wasn’t adding up...

This prosecutor needs a fucking drink.

Ryan dissociated so intensely afterwards that he shouldn’t have been driving. But he didn’t have the capacity to determine what he shouldn’t do. Memory after memory took ahold of him. His fingers gripped the wheel; he could barely see in front of him anymore. What he saw instead was…

The ethics committee weighing Ryan’s achievements versus digressions before him like he was at heaven's gate. Stanford removing him from their alumni network. Repeatedly sent to voicemail when he called his friends. His parents telling him they were proud of him no matter what. His baby brother asking if Ryan’s not going to be a lawyer anymore, then who’s going to save everybody?

The rest of the night was a blur.

Besides a man with the softest eyes saying let me take care of you.

Chapter Text

Shane sat in a bar two blocks away from his apartment with some friends. Hoping for distraction. But of course, the thing he wanted to be distracted from staggered in as he ordered his second bourbon.

Bergara didn’t look too good. The irritatingly endearing man didn’t notice Shane stewing in the corner. Didn’t seem to be aware of any surroundings, really. He ordered round after round for himself. Shane tuned out a discussion about the latest episode of the Bachelor to monitor him. Neither of the final contestants were there for the right reasons anyways.

Every few minutes, another hopeful approached Mr. Short, Tan, and Angry. It didn’t take long for each to walk away dejectedly. Although… he did seem to entertain the men for a little longer, could he be...?

Shane’s thought was interrupted when Ryan almost tumbled off his bar stool. Without thinking, he jumped out of his seat and rushed over. But Bergara had already righted himself by the time Shane was standing in front of him. So much for being his knight in shining whatever.

“Uh, hey Bergara…”

“Not in the mood, Madej,” he grumbled.

“Not in the mood to get your ass kicked in court again? Understandable.” Shane smirked.

“No, I’m not. That what you wanted to hear? Now leave me alone.”

... No banter? Damn, that was his quickest rejection yet.

Standing this close, it was clear the guy was very much not okay. Far too many empty glasses in front of him for such a pipsqueak. Shane rocked on his heels.

“Um, are you alright… little guy?” Wow. Apparently attractive, angsty men made Shane’s charms go out the window. Bergara grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair and stood up.

“I’m going home,” he declared to no one in particular. This dude’s really out of it.

“Oh, okay… do you want a ride or anything?” Shane’s car was parked outside. He’d planned on driving some friends home anyways.

“No. I can walk back from here. Also, I fucking hate you.”

“Touché, I guess…” Shane watched his not-crush stagger out. He waited a grand total of one minute before getting into his car and trailing him.

In a totally not creepy way, of course. Listen, Shane was concerned. No one that small should be walking alone at night drunk off his ass. Legit, the guy was too far gone to even notice Shane’s car. Shane was just planning to make sure Bergara got to his destination. Then he’d honestly leave him alone.

But something was off.

It took five turns before Shane was absolutely sure. Because drunk Bergara was going in circles. And so was Shane. And so was the other man following Ryan.

Who the hell is this guy? Someone who Ryan knew wouldn’t stalk him like this. And he definitely wasn’t one of the rejected hopefuls. Shane knew that because… fine, he’d been watching Ryan Bergara all night because he’s got a big lesbian crush on him, okay?

Now who the hell is this guy?!

Shane was deciding what to do when things escalated quickly. Disturbingly silent, the man closed the 200 feet between him and his prey. He crushed Ryan against the wall of an alley with his forearm on his neck. Strangulation. It was how so many victims died in the domestic violence cases Shane prosecuted.

Looks like it’s been decided for him.

BANG!

A warning shot. The attacker bolted. Ryan stumbled. Shane rushed forwards and righted him, firmly gripping his shoulders.

“Who the fuck was that?! Are you okay?” He has to be okay, right? That lunatic was only on him for a few seconds... Ryan’s eyes welled up. No no no no...

“Ryan! Did he hurt you? Talk to me.” The inebriated man flung himself into his arms. Whatever he said was muffled into Shane’s jacket. God, he was so small. Who would want to hurt someone so small?

“Ryan…” Shane tentatively hugged him back. “Please tell me what happened. I’m worried.”

“I s-said M-Mark fired me!”

What?

“It’s over. An innocent m-man is going to j-jail. It’s over. I’m over. How am I going to look at my family now? I let them down again!”

Shane was lost for words.

“But you’re h-happy aren’t you? You won. Go celebrate with your fancy hair and your fancy friends!”

Ryan shoved him weakly, but in his state it did more harm to himself than Shane. He tumbled backwards. Shane caught him again.

“Ryan… you need help. Let me help you.”

“No! I’m going home!” But Bergara just plopped down on the sidewalk and rubbed his eyes. Shane knelt down beside him. He thought about the trauma-informed lawyering seminar he attended recently. This guy has obviously been through something. He tried to speak as gently as possible.

“I’m going to ask you to do something, Ryan. And it’s not going to be easy. It’s not going to make a lot of sense.” Bergara barely seemed to hear him, but nodded anyways.

“I’m asking you to trust me, Ryan. I want to help. Let me take care of you.” He meant every word. No one in his archenemy’s situation would believe him.

But Ryan did. A trembling hand reached out for him. Shane took it.

"Okay... we're doing good... easy there..." Shane dragged him up. Ryan nuzzled into his shoulder. Shane was struck with the urge to protect this golden human.

“Come on, buddy. We can hang at my place until you sober up. Then I promise you can go home.”

Shane guided his distraught not-friend onto the sofa. It was an expensive leather sofa, great for impressing the rare guest. But for Ryan, he wished he had something more comfortable. Comforting. Like those couches families hold onto for way too long, because the padding has been broken down in the best way. Those couches that know you as well as you know them...

Why am I getting emotional about furniture? Moving on.

He did have some nice blankets. Ryan was quiet, for once. He seemed to be watching events from miles away unfold in front of him. Shane did what his mom would do; he gave him tea. Lavender chamomile. Every few minutes he would ask another question to try and keep Ryan present.

“... Favorite color?”

“Green.”

“Come on, man. You can’t just say green. What shade of green?”

“Green like… the underside of a willow tree when the sunlight shines through, just after it’s finished raining. When the branches seem to almost glow themselves. It’s magical. Like each leaf is a little soul…” Well, okay. “Yours?”

“Brown.” Ryan really looked at him for the first time that night.

“Just brown?”

“Not just brown. A strong brown. Solid brown. Like when your alarm goes off way too early and you drag yourself out of bed, still mostly asleep. You walk like a zombie into your kitchen and start preparing your coffee. As you pour it, you start to wake up and you really notice its color. A rich, medium, chestnut brown. The first color of the day. And then you drink it and you’re filled with warm brown and then the warmth radiates out of you and then everything else explodes into technicolor, because you’re finally fully awake...”

Ryan was beginning to smile. Shane would ramble for hours if he’d keep doing that.

“Dude, are you sure you don’t just really like coffee?” They both laughed, sleepily.

“Shut up, leaf head.”

“Make me.” Nope, Shane thought. Not going there tonight. He got up.

“Where… where are you going?” And if that small voice didn’t just break his heart.

“I’m just getting you more water, little guy.” When Shane came back, it was Ryan’s turn to ask a question.

“Do you, uh, believe in ghosts?” Shane chuckled.

“As much as the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”

“Hey! The evidence is out there. If you’re not looking for something, you might never find it…” Shane raised an eyebrow.

“I actually... I actually had a YouTube show in college. Called Unsolved, believe it or not. I was a solo ghost hunter.” Ryan giggled. Shane laughed with him.

"You're an idiot." You're adorable.

"You're a jackass." You saved me.

“That's mostly true. Alright, one last question. Hmm. Well, do you believe in yourself, ghoul boy?”

Ryan made a choked off noise. He began to cry again. Nice move, Madej.

“Hey, hey… I’m sorry. You’re okay. Come here.” Reaching out for the other man was instinctual. It amazed him how much Ryan leaned into it. Warmth.

Ryan clung to him until he realized Shane wasn't letting go. He gradually calmed in his opponent's arms. Oh, no... Shane took a moment to look at the ceiling and ask the God he didn’t believe in to give him strength.

Shane tried to move, but lost the little resolve he had when he felt Ryan's arms tighten around his waist as he squeaked in protest.

"Shhh," Shane whispered, "Relax. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here as long as you need me."

Oh crap, I think I meant that...

Instead, Shane readjusted so he was laying back on the couch, with the life-ruiner snuggled against his side.

Shane consoled quietly while Ryan pressed his face into his chest. He smoothed his dark, wavy hair. It smelled like vanilla and honey, amber and sparkling in the sunlight. Shane felt a little drunk himself. Ryan hiccuped, this tiny sad sound and Shane just couldn’t help it.

“You know… I believe in you...” It was easier to say these things into his hair.

“Wha-?”

“Yeah, uh, I do. You’re stiff competition, Bergara." He coughed. "This is the hardest I’ve had to work at my job in years.”

“Oh… thanks...”

“You’re welcome.”

Thinking about it, Shane could ask his rival anything in his current state and get an honest answer. He could ask who Ryan’s key witnesses were going to be. He could make him spell out his main arguments. Find out some dirt. Or just get right to the point and ask if Mark Peterson really did it. The tiny Goldsworth on his shoulder was screaming his head off. Finish him.

“... What about aliens?”

“Aliens are definitely real.”

“Agreed.”

When Ryan came to, he was distressingly cozy. That peace you feel when you're all cried out. Shane Madej was holding him close to his chest in his nice apartment, fast asleep. Way too comfortable for a stiff leather couch. This should be weird. Who replaced the prick from court with this soft spoken, fluffy-haired knight in shining flannel?

But it was just so… safe. His brain was telling him something terrifying happened tonight. But he nuzzled into the taller man’s neck and knew the threat was over. For now, anyways. Shane made a soft, sleepy sound. His arms tightened around Ryan’s waist under the blanket.

Eventually, Shane’s going to wake up. Eventually, Ryan’s going to have to stop pretending he’s asleep. Maybe they’re both pretending. But he was going to savor every moment he had left of this. After the day he had, he just needed someone to hold him until the pain goes away, okay?

Madej seemed more than happy to do so.

Ryan’s shitty Nokia rang on the walk home.

“Mark, you can’t… you can’t do that to me again, okay?”

Whatever Mark said on the other end, Ryan seemed satisfied. He hung up the phone and looked at Shane.

“His daughter just sent him a text… About her baby. She said she’s not ready to talk yet, but she’s going to name her son Elijah Mark. She chose his middle name after him… she said she wants to believe he’s innocent. Mark thinks she can get there. He re-hired me…”

And WHY am I so happy for him right now?

“Looks like you’re back in the game, Bergara. I’m glad. I haven’t had competition like you in years, and I need the challenge.”

"You're not pissed?" Shane shrugged.

"All I ever really want out of these cases is justice. Whatever that means for each circumstance. If this guy has you for an attorney, then at least he has the very best chance if he's actually innocent."

"Would you entertain the notion that he is?" Shane smiled sadly.

"I've worked at this job too long..." Ryan kicked a pebble. They were almost at his place.

"Madej, why are you a prosecutor? There wasn't too much about you on Google. Except Cornell Law school. Nice." He googled me?! Calm your gay heart; everybody researches their competition. Something about those round, innocent eyes made Shane spill. Transfer stain.

"Yeah, Cornell was great. But my final year there, my mother, my mom, was murdered."

Ryan looked dumbfounded.

"It happened back here, in LA. Two days before my fucking graduation actually. I wanted to get home right away, but with all the chaos it took a while to get a flight from New York to California. By the time I got there... they had already c-cremated her..."

Shane stopped walking. Ryan gently touched his arm and waited. God, why does he have to be so nice?

"She wanted to be cremated. It was in her will. But see, it was... it was a problem because then there was no evidence. Except a fingerprint. One fucking fingerprint. It's the shittiest police work I've ever seen in my career. I should have been there to stop them. If I had been there, I could have made sure they saved every scrap of evidence." He took a shaky breath. "What's the point of my law degree if my mother was killed and I can't do anything about it?"

"It's not your fault." Shane wasn't aware of how much he needed to hear that.

He laughed shakily. "It was a theft. You know what my mom had in her wallet? Fifteen bucks and a Rite Aid coupon. That’s it. That’s what he killed her for. Oh, and I guess a bracelet, too. The bracelet probably looked silver, but it was fake. We didn’t have any money.” Ryan squeezed his arm gently.

“I’m so sorry…” Shane shrugged. He lost her four years ago, but he still hadn’t figured out how to respond when people said that. Then Ryan did something unexpected.

He hugged him.



And you know what kind of hug it was? A Gatsby hug.

He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

Wow, Nick Carraway was gay as hell...

Before he could stop himself, Shane asked, “Ryan… I know I'm kind of a dick, but you don’t really think I’m a terrible person, do you?” Why does his opinion matter?

“No, Shane. You’re not.” He used my first name. “I get where you’re coming from.”

"You do? Because all I have is that one stupid fingerprint. That's why I changed my mind and decided to be a prosecutor. Before I was thinking real estate. But every time a new criminal is taken in, he gets fingerprinted. That's one step closer to finding who killed my mom."

"I understand, you'll find them. I know you will." Shane gazed at Ryan for maybe a moment too long, before glancing away. ...Whoops, he was probably expecting a response. The men walked in comfortable silence for a minute.

“Um, Ryan?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t… exactly explain why I’m saying this, but you need to be careful. Things aren’t adding up, and I think your stalker might be related to it. I know I can’t actually convince you to back out of this. God knows you’re hellbent on driving me up a wall. I’m just saying... I don’t think either of us knows the full story. About what happened to Karen. Something’s going on here. Believe it or not, I don’t want you to get hurt…”

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. But the risk is the part of the job. I’m responsible for Mark now. I have a duty to look out for him. And he might not know it, but he’s helping me too. I need… to be needed.” He shrugged. “Kinda pathetic, I know. But it’s the truth…”

“You’re not pathetic,” Shane said earnestly. You’re wonderful.

“Thanks, Madej. And thanks for walking me home. Maybe all prosecutors aren’t full time bloodsucking leeches.”

Shane chuckled. “Only part time.” He winked and holy shit, did Ryan just blush a little?! “But really,” he said seriously, “call me if you need something.” Anything.

“Thank you, but I do have a family. They take care of me, too. Let’s just… leave this here, okay?”

Shane nodded, even know he wasn’t quite sure what Ryan was asking for. Somewhere deep down, he knew.

“Goodnight, Ryan.”

"Goodnight, Shane."

That night, Ryan had a dream.

Chapter Text

Tequila always gave Ryan vivid dreams. They reminded him of late nights during final exams, when insomnia constricted his grasp on reality. His younger self splurged on blackout curtains for his dorm room, hoping to induce sleep.

Instead, Ryan sat in bed and watched what wasn't there. Inky shadows shifted along his wall, twisting and contorting themselves into anything his subconscious desired. It was rarely pleasant.

That was the closest he’s ever felt to truly losing his mind. To Ryan, intuition was everything. For Mark’s sake, let’s hope I haven’t been doing the same thing with his case: seeing what isn’t there.

Ryan awoke, or didn’t awake, at 3am.

He awoke, or didn’t awake, to a woman sitting in the corner of his room.

In that dream fog where you don’t quite react to things correctly, Ryan simply asked his intruder a question:

“Who are you?”

“Actually, I’m here to ask who YOU are. Are you another one who’s been sleeping with my husband?” The woman crossed her arms over her petite frame. She was older, with auburn hair and a kind face.

Karen?!

She cracked a smile.

For some reason, Ryan Nearly-Shit-Himself-Numerous-Times-On-Camera-in-College Bergara wasn’t scared. Do not be afraid, the logical half of his brain supplied, It’s in the bible; Jesus said chill.

“I’m not awake. I’m dreaming.”

“Of course you’re not awake,” she chuckled, “but why does that mean you’re dreaming?”

“Karen... did Mark kill you?”

“Hpmph,” she pouted. “I thought you believed in him.”

“I do, but…”

“No,” she answered softly. “Mark didn’t kill me.” Has any other person in a room with a Lady-Casper felt such relief?

“Honestly,” Ryan’s nightmare confessed, “I suppose I killed him. In a way. Maybe it’s more accurate to say I didn’t let him live. It’s hard to describe the afterlife, and since I’m a ghost I don’t even know if I’m in the afterlife or the after afterlife. But here… everyone’s treated the same. Regardless of sexuality. And many other things that turned out not to matter. Thank my church for me, will you?”

Did a ghost just throw shade?

Karen’s eyes began to shine. “I killed Mark slowly because I never let him be himself. I knew he was gay. Of course I knew. I felt he deserved the shame he carries with him for hiding it. I never wanted him to actually tell me.”

Mark really was honest with me.

His delusion continued, “I’m really the one who wouldn’t let us get a divorce. Because of the kids. And because I loved him. But he could never love me the same way; it was hard to accept that.” She sat up straighter on Ryan’s worn ottoman.

“There, I said it. That feels better. You know, it’s hard to confess your sins when floating into a church almost ignites your not-body and even when the priests leave they can’t freaking hear you.” Uh. Not going there.

“Karen… who killed you?”

She smiled sadly. “Maybe you’re asking the wrong question…”

“So, you're saying you just fell-”

“I believe in you, Ryan. And thanks for believing in me; I don’t think I could have appeared to a skeptic. You can figure this out. Just… be careful. Only do enough to save Mark and then leave it be. You don’t want to know what you’d be getting into.”

“Okay.” What else could he say?

“Thank you, Ryan. I suspect I won’t be able to go to the after-after life until this all ends. I don’t really care about taking down my killer as much as reuniting my family. That’s what actually matters, when you wake up floating over your body and no one can hear you.” One last laugh. Wistful.

“And do me a favor, Ryan? Tell Mark I’m sorry. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, so I can’t appear to him. But don’t tell him this happened. He’ll think you’re crazy. That old man is set in his ways. Please, find a way to tell him I loved him. In your own way.”

Ryan’s voice had holes in it. Gunshot impact. “I will.”

And she was gone.

He never saw her again.

Shane also dreamed that night. A standard, hazy representation of his unconscious desires. Because ghosts aren’t real. Duh.

Shane dreamed of…

Light sparkling off water.

He dreamed of...

Minerals glittering deep beneath the earth. Out of sight, but don’t worry, still there. They’ve always been there, prismatic and gleaming.

Opalescence. Glistening lashes.

Sunflowers: bountiful, cheery, luminous against the gray. Petals dancing between life and death. Advancing frost going unnoticed. When the sun is gone, they face each other.

Shane dreamed of efflorescence: the state of being in bloom. A wheezing laugh.

His childhood friend, her name just out of reach. Prickly grass. A dandelion held under his chin. That means you like butter! It didn’t need to make sense for the two to burst into peals of laughter. Maybe it was better that it didn’t. He closed his eyes. Blotches scorched into his retina. The light touch of a hand, branded into his arm.

Shane dreamed of…

Rolling hills in Ithaca, guarding the skyline through the last hours of evening. A chiming clock tower, fluttering cherry blossoms, rushing waterfalls, all tinged in warmth. Shane dreamed of life, as seen through rose colored lenses.

Shane dreamed of the morning after his mother's light went out. A dingy dormitory. His heart lost amongst unwashed assignments, broken plants, incomplete dishes, unwatered relationships…

Golden light filtering through his curtains, over Ruth Bader Ginsberg, sternly demanding excellence on his wall, over battered history textbooks, through a butterfly encased in glass...

An illuminated note on a dry erase board. A silly message his mom scribbled during her last visit. He couldn't decipher the words, but the green marker glowed.

Shane dreams of someone with a radiant grin...

Shane dreams of someone who encapsulates all these things and more....

Shane dreams about understanding, and being understood...

Shane dreams about communication, without language...

Shane Alexander Madej woke up with a start.

Did I just fucking cum my pants?!

Chapter Text

Ryan woke up to his alarm and a strange feeling. The remnants of a dream sifted from his mind like the white sand from Venice Beach. Probably didn’t matter anyways.

What Ryan really woke up to was clarity.

What if everyone’s been asking the wrong question? Not who killed Karen…

What killed Karen?

Goldsworth knew about the gay porn on Peterson’s laptop. He commanded his top employee into his office for a discussion. This is going to be fun.

Shane decided long ago he’d probably stay closeted for life. For safety reasons. Blatant homophobia, even in sunny California, was alive and well. Shane called in sick the day his firm hosted a blood donation drive. But Goldsworth knew. He had enough resources to buy anyone’s silence; it worked the other way around as well. That’s why his toupee is so big; it’s full of secrets.

“I’ll get to the point, Madej. You won’t be allowing your illness to get in the way.” He looked up under thick brows.

Shane clenched his fists.

“I know I know, you think homosexuality is totally normal and healthy. That’s fine. I don’t care who you fuck, Shane. But you need to win this case. That means pulling out all the stops. You don’t even need to focus on the actual evidence as much as how many stripper dicks the old geezebag has had in his mouth. Trash his reputation. Public opinion is everything.”

Shane launched himself across the desk.

“No.”

The glint in Goldworth’s dark eyes was outright dangerous. Shane did what he did best, and talked himself out of it.

“I’ll bring up the affairs. Because I do think a liar is more likely to be a killer. But I am not bringing up his sexuality. I can win without it; I know I can. Emphasizing that will make us look like we have a weaker case anyways. I’ll do more investigating and find other dirt.”

Goldworth stood. He carefully circled Shane; a predator assessing its prey. The thick Italian ring on his thumb glinted in Shane's peripheral vision. Don't show any fear...

“You are on thin fucking ice, Madej... but I need you. I offered you this job because in my 40 year career I’d never seen a law student with such natural ability. I trust your instincts. Your integrity, on the other hand, is pretty stupid, but it makes you come across as genuine.” A disingenuous laugh. “The one thing you have that I don’t."

Shane remained rigid. Goldsworth ran the place like a military; Shane was the only one who ever stood up to him. With his case record, he had some leeway.

"... Fine. Do the case your way, but don’t make me regret it. Lose the case to that has-been and you’re fired.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“One more thing.”

Goldsworth reared back and punched Shane in the left eye. White, hot pain. He cried out and doubled over.

Blinding rage. How dare his boss lay a hand on him?! He rose to his full height and took his stance. At almost seven feet tall, Shane Madej could intimidate. He looked into the face of possibly an evil man. With one bloodshot eye. One watering eye.

Goldsworth only came up to his shoulder. He looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“You’re not going to fight me, Madej. That was just your punishment for disobeying me. You’re smart enough not to blow it when you’re getting what you want.”

Shane lowered his fists.

“Good boy,” Goldsworth cooed, “I know you better than you think; you’re a gentle soul. You wouldn’t punch me. And you better not let your sensitivity get in the way of winning. I’ve seen how you look at Bergara. Hot stuff, huh? Hell, I might even go gay for him. Think I’m his type?”

Shane raised his fists again.

“Oh my, maybe you would punch me. Thanks for letting me know where your pressure point is." Fuck.

"Don't worry, I won’t lay a hand on your frenemy. As long as you do your job. Consider this your final warning. Now get the hell out of my office.”

Shane drove straight home even though he could barely see with his swollen eye. Not Ryan, not Ryan, please God, not Ryan...

“Hear me out, Mark.”

“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how I’m going to prison because of a fucking owl.”

“Well, you’re going to hear it anyways. Owls are native to this area of California. They’ve actually been known to attack people before. Unprovoked. It’s not even uncommon.”

“So you’re saying a bird mistook my 62 year old wife for a field mouse?”

“Listen, she lost a lot of hair. There were clumps of her own hair in her hands. Why would she grab her own hair out? Only if she was trying to dislodge something from her head!” Ryan was on his feet, pacing excitedly around the sun room.

“Now Mark, I won’t make you look at pictures of Karen’s body. Although, fair warning, you'll see them at trial. But I’d never do that to you. What I am showing you is a sketch I made of the back of Karen’s head after the mortician removed the rest of her hair.” Ryan handed him a sketchpad. Mark sighed.

“Take your time. I know it’s hard. But I want you to take a good look. Then tell me what you think.”

Ryan had tried to make his sketch as accurate as possible. On the back of Karen’s cranium were several gouges. It was unusual for someone to die by long, vertical gashes. Don’t tell Madej this, but you might even be able to call them lacerations. That is, before taking a closer look.

“The gashes are unusual. But they aren’t random. Look Mark, they’re tri-lobed! And there’s two separate pairs.” Ryan gestured erratically. “The gashes are deep, but there’s no skull fracturing or brain damage. If there was, it’d be consistent with a beating from a weapon. That’s why everyone’s been so confused. Because it’s not from a fall backwards or an attack. At least, not a human attack!”

Mark set the sketchpad on the table.

“And I even know which type: the Great Horned Barred owl. Do you know how powerful that freaking bird is? They don’t call them birds of prey for no reason. They essentially have six knives on their feet. Which brings us to our final theory: The Owl Theory! Basically, Karen was walking inside from the pool when the owl attacked her. It landed on the back of her head, gouging her with its talons. It got stuck. They both panicked. It tore at her scalp even more while she tried to pull it out. That’s why she had her own hair in her hands. Eventually, she got the owl off and it got the fuck out of there. She was disoriented. She rushed into the house to get away from the owl. The staircase was just the place where she succumbed to her wounds. That’s what happened, Mark!”

Ryan finally looked down. Mark was breathing slowly. Pale, trembling fingers rubbed his temples. Whoops.

“Shit. I’m... I’m sorry Mark. She’s a human being, and she was your human being. That was insensitive of me…” Mark’s gruff voice contrasted with his heartbroken expression.

“It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t have to be fine,” Ryan responded gently, sitting back down. “Actually, nothing's fine for you right now...”

Mark grunted in agreement. “Tell the jury about this. I’m going to go finish my laundry.”

“Understandable. Just one more thing. There was something microscopic in Karen’s hands. The autopsy couldn’t determine what it was. I’m going to have them check to see if it was owl feathers.”

Mark hesitated on his way out. “But Ryan… why couldn’t I hear her? Wouldn’t she have screamed? And wouldn’t a trapped owl shriek?”

Ryan didn’t have an answer for that one.

“... Could I have saved her?”

Ryan didn’t want to answer that one.

Chapter Text

Ryan breezed through Eliza’s death at trial. He presented the autopsy report, which listed the cause of death as a hemorrhage. He also made sure the jury looked at the police record, which categorized her death as a fall.

“Members of the jury, I’d like to draw attention to the fact that Mark was never even interviewed after Ms. Turner’s accident. That means not one person thought Mark had anything to do with it. Since that day, fifteen years have passed with no one questioning my client’s character. Until Madej, who felt the need to resurface this painful event simply because it fit his narrative. What word did he use again? Script.”

Madej glowered.

“I’d like to remind my opponent that coincidences happen. Ms. Peterson’s death and Ms. Turner’s deaths were both tragic for all involved. And yet, they are coincidental.” Ryan stepped closer to the jury box.

“I have faith in you, members of the jury. I know you understand that a coincidence is not evidence. And that a coincidence doesn’t even come close to proving this alleged crime occurred. I have faith. You won’t let a coincidence imprison an innocent man for life.”

During the break, Ryan went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He looked in the mirror. Dark circles looked back. Remember when I told Mark I’d never lie for him?

Madej entered the bathroom, looking like he had a stick even farther up his ass than usual. I wonder where we stand now...

“Um, hey…” He didn’t bother to answer, jostling Ryan as he passed him.

Dick.

... Was that a bruise under his left eye?

Shane was pissed at himself for getting so soft. Pissed at Ryan Bergara for jeopardizing his career. And pissed off because he was so worried about him.

The scrawny man stood up, effortlessly taking command of the room. Started yapping excitedly about a freaking owl. It was highly unprofessional, but Shane couldn’t stop himself from chuckling throughout Ryan’s presentation. Who knew Hedwig was so bloodthirsty?

Ryan projected a detailed sketch of Karen’s wounds.

Hoo hoo could have done this? HAH! Shane snorted. He cracked himself up. Judge Cavallaro was not amused.

Then the owl theory made sense. And Shane wasn’t laughing anymore.

They really did look like talon marks. Though Peterson looked especially frail at the moment, he was still frail the day Karen died. It was hard to imagine those thin fingers gouging into a woman’s cranium. Could a person even do that? Ryan pulled up an autopsy report, and oh shit...

How the fuck am I going to prove Mark beat Karen to death and then stuck microscopic FEATHERS in her hands for no Goddamn reason?!

When it was Shane’s turn to rebuke, he said owl attacks were incredibly rare. And the feathers could be from Karen touching a pillow or comforter or something. Not great.

During the final break, Shane paced back and forth in an empty room.

Curse Bergara for being so good at his job.

There were several things at stake here: Ryan’s safety, Peterson’s freedom, Shane’s values, and Shane’s job. He couldn’t save them all.

It was honestly looking like Peterson could be innocent now. Shane could just let the trial run its natural course in his favor.

Goodbye, undefeated record. I guess everyone’s undefeated, until they’re not. Goodbye, job.

Shane wouldn’t care about losing the case and his job if it meant an innocent man went free. He could even maintain his values that way. Unfortunately, Ryan’s safety was at stake. All it took was that Goddamn smile to get Shane to risk everything.

Shane knew what he needed to do. He needed to win the case, at any cost. Dirty tactics included. Then he’s fucking quitting.

Goodbye, Peterson’s freedom. Goodbye, job. Goodbye, values. I’m so sorry, Mom.

And even though Shane would be keeping Ryan safe, he’d have to humiliate him. Shane knew he came off as an asshole to the jury. But juries were willing to hold in an asshole’s favor as long as that asshole was persuasive.

However, with this last theory, Ryan had outsmarted Shane. To his own detriment. If this next trick didn’t work, Shane would have to bring up Peterson’s sexuality and let homophobia finish him off. That would upset Ryan even more. He would blame himself.

You said you trust me, right? Wouldn’t you rather I hurt you than Goldsworth? I’m so sorry, Ry.

And I’ll never be able to tell you that.

The break was over. Let’s see what you’ve got, Madej.

The ridiculously lanky man approached the bench and whispered something to the judge. She nodded.

The room went dark.

Ryan whipped his head towards the drawling voice.

“Not to worry, everybody. I’m just going to be projecting a little clip. It’s Mr. Peterson, lying about receiving two Purple Hearts from Vietnam. Alcohol really is a truth serum, isn’t it? At Ms. Turner’s wedding, ironically. Or coincidentally, as Mr. Bergara would harp on.”

Mark had told Ryan about this one. He’d been bragging to try to impress one of the groomsmen. Tasteless, but not damning. A liar doesn’t mean a killer.

A voice boomed from back of the room. “I’ve had enough of the unprofessional comments, Mr. Madej,” Judge Cavallaro reprimanded, “Skip the theatrics and play the tape.” She was certainly in a mood today. Ryan's heard legends of her temper.

“Yes, your Honor.” Ryan braced himself. Click.

It wasn’t Mark Peterson on the screen.

It was Ryan.

College Ryan. At Bobby Mackey’s haunted nightclub in Kentucky.

“U-um… is a-anyone here? My name is R-Ryan. Would you, uh, feel comfortable c-communicating with me?” He watched himself tremble like a leaf in a pounding thunderstorm. Oh no. He knew what was coming next.

The darkness shifted. A hundred mirrors, refracting. Reflecting back and forth at themselves, ceaselessly.

A high pitched screech. Mark covered his ears.

Yup. Ryan pissed himself over a disco ball.

The camera panned over soiled pants before glimpsing his mortified face. Young Ryan frantically jabbed at buttons to turn the camera off. The screen went back.

Silence.

Then the courtroom exploded into hysterics. Guffaws. Cackles. The kind of laughter that waters your eyes and dries your throat and punches your gut. The kind of laughter that hurts.

The lights came back on. Even the judge was stifling a giggle into her sleeve. Mark was chagrined beside him. But the worst of it, the absolute worst of it, was Shane Fucking Madej. Smirking.

“Whoops, sorry. Wrong clip.”

That. Was. It.

Ryan snarled. He strode over, wrenched Madej’s macbook out of his hands, and slammed it onto the ground. Stomped on it for good measure. It shattered. Overpriced thing didn’t stand a chance.

Finally, Ryan had wiped that smug look off his face.

“WHY YOU LITTLE-“

“YOU SASQUATCH-“

He lunged for Shane. What his plan was, he didn’t know. He just had to get his hands on him. Nonsexually, of course.

They knocked each other to the ground, punching and rolling like 8th grade wrestling class. Ryan yanked a fistful of Shane’s stupid hair. Shane somehow ripped off his tie.

“ORDER, ORDER!”

Both men were too far gone. Ryan was hellbent on destroying Madej’s pretentious Calvin Klein shirt. Rip!

“There! That’s what you get for ruining my suit!”

“Oh, come off it!” Shane shoved Ryan off him. “What was it worth, $20?”

“SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL HAVE ORDER IN THIS FUCKING COURT!”

An officer intervened to separate them, but the two kept coming back together like magnets. Magnets that wanted to beat each other’s ass. Two more officers joined the heap on the floor. Both attorneys were pulled back on their feet, with hands forced behind their backs. Click.

Well Mark, guess you’re not the one getting handcuffed after all.

Ryan squirmed against the restraints. “I’m gonna strangle you!” he hissed.

“Can you even reach?” Shane deadpanned. That son of a...

Judge Cavallaro was furious.

“I've had ENOUGH of the testosterone overload in my courtroom. Mr. Bergara, you’ve been holding onto your license by a thread! You really want to lose it for this idiot?!” Ryan looked down and shook his head, concealing a chuckle. Shane turned slightly to display the middle finger behind his back.

“And YOU, Mr. Madej. I expect so much more from you. You are a professional and unlike Mr. Bergara, you don’t have inexperience as an excuse.” Ryan shot him a smirk.

“YOU ARE BOTH HELD IN CONTEMPT OF COURT.”

Wait, shit, no.

"Maybe a night together in the holding cell will help you resolve your tensions. Come back when you’re professionals again.”

Security dragged them off.

“This is hilarious.” Flash!

“Delete that picture, or so help me God I will sue your ass for all you have,” Shane hissed.

“Fine, fine…” The officer pocketed his phone. “Anyways, Judge wants you here until 7am tomorrow morning. I don't get paid enough for this, so I’m going home. Try not to kill each other. We’re not giving you food; you can get your water from the sink. And the handcuff stays.”

Yes. Handcuff. Singular.

Because Judge Cavallaro ordered for them to be handcuffed together. Ryan should’ve listened to the rumors about her temper. Mr. Snapchat left, closing the door behind him with a rusty creak.

Before this, Ryan thought the worst mistake of his life was the two months he spent in Scientology. That was nothing.

Shane was at his wits’ end. He just gave up everything for this ungrateful pipsqueak, and what does he get for it? ANOTHER black eye. Plus property damage.

They sat against the wall, glaring at each other. So close that each could feel the other’s hot breath on his face. This was the most intense staring contest Shane’s ever had. Were they going to fight again?

"Don't you say a single fucking word," Bergara growled. Shane scoffed.

"Why me? This is all your fault, you little brat. Couldn't control your temper, huh? I bet Mark's so disappointed in you."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, MADEJ!" Ah, yes. There's that pressure point.

"Why don't you get over here and make me?" Ryan looked lethal for a moment, before taking on an alarmingly calm expression.

Ryan’s free hand stroked up Shane’s thigh. What the hell is he doing? Ryan’s eyes flicked to his lips.

They shouldn't.

Like, they really shouldn't.

God, but I want to… I want to...

Shane leaned forwards. Ryan bumped him back with his shoulder.

“No. I’m not kissing you. I just want to pump your cock.”

“Wha-?” Ryan’s free hand continued to slide up and down his lower half, purposely skimming just over his groin. Shane tried not to care. Curse his traitorous erection.

“You heard the judge,” Ryan said roughly, “we have to find a way to release this… tension.” His hand squeezed the bulge and Shane stifled a groan by biting into Ryan’s shoulder.

“That’s it,” Ryan purred. “Now here’s what we’re going to do-”

“So you’re always this bossy?” Shane interrupted as Ryan pulled his fly down. He gasped as he was exposed to the cool air. “Even in the bedroom?”

“Especially in the bedroom.” Ryan’s fingers swirled around the tip of his dick. “And this is a holding cell, idiot. Now shut up and let me make you cum. You’re doing me next.” Ryan spit into his free hand and made a quick job of it.

Ryan Bergara took care of the other man briskly, desperate to ease what had been building for too long. Shane came into the tight circle of his fist with a gasp. But Shane Madej was going to take his time.

His eyes roamed ravenously over Ryan’s body. Finally, he could take a good look. Even with a dress shirt and slacks on, Shane drank in the sight. Before this, he always had to wait until Bergara’s back was turned to stare... He clumsily pulled Ryan’s shirt out from his pants and smoothed his hand up his front to flick at his nipple.

“FUCK, ugh, fuck. You weren’t supposed to touch me there.”

“You don’t like it?” His finger gently circled the neglected one.

“No I… fuck…”

“Is that a yes, Ryan?” He yanked the handcuff to force him closer. “I need explicit consent.” Ryan gritted his teeth.

“Yes, you cocksucker. Now cut the legal talk and touch me.” Shane roughly shoved the smaller man onto his back. Surprisingly, Ryan just took it. The pretty one was now under him, silent except for a few gasps. Pliant.

This will be fun. Shane straddled his hips. The metal cut into his left wrist as they rearranged themselves, but he was more focused on the growing erection underneath him. With some difficulty, he unbuttoned Ryan’s shirt with one hand. The effort was worth it. Shane ran the tips of his fingers up and down Ryan’s front. Nice abs...

“What was that you called me?” Shane murmured distractedly, fingers sliding up to gently squeeze Ryan’s neck. He moaned and arched against the cold floor. “Cocksucker, was it?” He tugged at their handcuffs, twisting his arm this way and that. Ryan’s connected arm followed limply. Hmm. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I can do that tonight.” He chose to grind his hips down onto Ryan’s hard cock instead.

“Fuck!” Ryan shouted. Shane shoved his free hand onto his mouth.

“We have to be quiet, you moron,” he hissed. Ryan nodded. Shane wrenched open his jaw and began slowly fucking his mouth with two fingers. Ryan closed his eyes and sucked, moaning quietly.

“Ryan…” This was going to be over quickly. The dominant man lifted the handcuffs over Ryan’s head to brace himself on the floor. Ryan’s right hand fumbled until he secured a grip on his wrist. Ryan’s left hand curled around the small of Shane’s back, a soft contrast to everything else that'd happened so far. Shane leaned forwards, burying his face in his enemy’s neck. He began to thrust, slowly and deliberately. It only took a minute for the thrusts to become erratic as the man pressed under him moaned louder and louder.

Every time Ryan tried to arch, Shane would shove him back down and pause, delaying his orgasm. If I only get to make Ryan Bergara cum once, it’s going to be the hardest nut of his life. But it was a losing battle. Shane’s hips staggered as Ryan worked his way up, gasping faster and faster. Shane came again, but there wasn’t much left. But when Ryan came…

He bucked up into Shane, hot and pulsing underneath him. Shane held his shoulders down as he spasmed. Full lips parted, closed eyes, and a sheen down his neck. Whispers of Shane's name. Intoxicating.

Ryan was rapidly approaching his highest peak and Shane could tell he was about to shout. He can’t do that. He wrenched Ryan’s left hand off his waist and slammed both hands above his head while he kissed Ryan with all he had. He swallowed his moans and pounded him through it. Whoa. Even with total loss of bodily control, Bergara was an expert kisser.

It was quite an extended orgasm. But even the best things must come to an end. “Too sensitive… “ Ryan gasped against Shane’s lips, “too sensitive…” Shane fucked him through his clothes a few more times. Punishment for all the bullshit. They collapsed into each other. Shane eventually lifted himself onto his shaking forearms.

Bergara moved to kiss him again. Shane blocked him with their handcuffed hands. Ryan whined.

“Tension’s gone. Now hands off me, Bergara.” Ah yes, back to last names. His opponent laid back on the floor, the usual contempt restored.

Hahaha yeah, the tension's gone, hahahahahah

“Fine,” Bergara grumbled, “Now get off of me.” Shane complied. The men were out of sync again, straining against the handcuff as they each tried to find a comfortable position to stew in for the rest of the night.

Oh God, what did we just do?! Ryan had came in his pants. Luckily, his slacks were dark enough not to show once he zipped himself up. But... shit.

“My cum’s on the outside of my pants. We can’t let them see.” Shane forced Ryan’s head to his crotch with his free hand. “Lick it up.”

And Ryan did.

Oh no. Shane was not getting a boner again.

Chapter Text

After Ryan effectively lost his mind for a night, he returned from the holding station, changed his fucking pants, and banged on Peterson’s door.

“Get the coffee ready. We’re staying up all night until we figure out a way to beat this asshole.”

A shadow was outside Mark Peterson’s house.

A silhouette glided slowly, methodically through the decaying garden.

A figure crept passed the fire pit, slinking around the perimeter of the yard. It paused over the pool. Crouched over its inky depths. Lifted the tile covering the pool filter. Reached in.

Gaunt fingers resurfaced, clutching soggy leaves, dirt, and a dead field mouse. The figure cursed.

The man snuck into the shed. Rifled through rusty objects. Clink! Clink! Clink!

He swore again. Slipped quietly into the garage.

Into the barrel of Mark Peterson’s gun.

“Don’t move a muscle, cunt.”

Oh, Shane Madej certainly wasn’t thinking of it.

Shane surrendered. He raised one clean hand in the air, one downright filthy.

Mark Peterson looked lethal.

Oh fuck, what if he actually is a killer?

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

Bergara showed up a tense fifteen minutes later. Fifteen minutes of a furious dude practically shoving a gun up Shane’s nose. God help him if he sneezed.

The other attorney burst into the garage. His captor jumped, fumbling with the rifle. Shane flinched. This is it.

“Mark,” Ryan gasped. “Gun. Down. Now.”

“I just need to say a few things.”

If I’m going to die, at least the last thing I get to see is Ryan. Who cares how long I stare now?

Mark began to rant, about everything from Karen’s death, to the trial, to his kids not speaking to him, to Eliza’s accident (he pushed her?!), to all the people he’d built bad blood with over the years. To the last man to leave him naked in bed and not return.

It wasn’t about Shane at all. But as the dirty, suited man found trespassing on his property, he personified much of it.

But Shane wasn’t really listening. He searched Ryan’s face, watching his expression shift from concern, to anger, to fear, back to concern...

Oh my, Bergara was worried about him. Even after everything. Shane could die somewhat content now.

Peterson’s rant was reaching its conclusion. A man at the end of his rope.

“You done?” Ryan asked. Peterson nodded. Cocked the gun. Shane was shaking so hard he couldn’t hold his hands up anymore. Didn’t matter anyways. Only a few seconds left.

Goodbye, Ryan. I think I was falling in love with you.

“Lower the gun, Mark.” Ryan's voice had taken on the authority of a babysitter.

“Why Ryan? Tell me why. I’m about to lose everything. Least I can do is take this motherfucker down with me.”

Ryan took a breath. Looked at Shane. They both knew what he needed to do. Ryan Bergara, Esq. needed to make the most convincing argument of his life.

“You’re not a killer, Mark. I know you’re not.”

“WELL NOBODY ELSE KNOWS! How about I just prove them right? What does it fucking matter anymore?!”

“No, Mark, we can convince them. We’ll tell everyone the truth and they’ll believe you. I believe you! I believe in you, Mark!” Anguish. Peterson wasn’t listening.

“You leech,” he growled at Shane. Took a step forward. “You took everything from me!”

And then Ryan Fucking Bergara jumped in front of a gun for him.

Mark stumbled backwards, clutching the rifle.

“Back off, Bergara! I don’t want to hurt you, too!” Ryan didn’t budge.

“He has two kids, Mark.” What? Ryan knows Shane doesn’t have children. He’s lying for me.

“I lost my kids, why shouldn’t he lose his?” Peterson stepped around Ryan. Took aim.

Thanks for trying, Ry. I’m sorry for everything I did to you.

Shane closed his eyes.

BANG!

It didn’t hurt. Why didn’t it hurt? Was he already dead?

No. Ryan had ripped the gun out of Mark’s hand. During their struggle, it went off and shot through the garage door. The aluminum shuddered.

“That’s the thing Mark, you haven’t lost your kids! They’re coming around. Martha called you the other day, right? Told you about your grandson? And all three were in court the other day. I saw their faces; they’re starting to believe me. What’s even more important is they want to believe me. They want their dad back, Mark. I know you’re thinking of shooting yourself...”

Ryan is so smart. He knows this was never about me, or the trial, or anything else but a man who's hated himself for the past 65 years. A man who feels he's beyond redemption.

“Please don’t hurt yourself. Please don’t do this to Martha, Margaret, and Patrick. To Elijah Mark. You have to fight for them. They need you. And I need you. We need each other.”

Peterson screamed. Picked up a ladder and threw it against the wall. The impact shook the garden tools on the shelves. They fell. Tumbled down step after step.

“Fine,” Mark whispered. Then he was quiet. Waiting for instructions. Ryan exhaled.

“We’re not going to kill you, Madej.” He was never going to hurt me. He’s using “we” to reassure Peterson he’s on his side. Bergara sighed. “But we can’t let you go either.”

Okay...

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. I need to talk to Madej. Alone.” Peterson started to protest. “Shut it, Mark. Get that rope over there. Feel free to tie him up as hard as you want to that chair. Then go inside and back to bed.” It never failed to astound Shane how this small man could order around people twice his size with utter conviction. Peterson turned to leave.

“No. Leave the gun with me.” He gently placed the rifle on the floor. The door shut behind him.

Ryan crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, studying Shane.

You don’t understand, Ry. I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about YOU. But he couldn’t just say that.

Shane Madej knew what a prick he came off as. Hell, what a prick he actually was most of the time. Those who know him would be more convinced by a selfish explanation than a selfless one. More in character.

“You better let me go this instant Bergara, because the police will be here any minute to rescue me. We planned this all along. I never cared about ethics. I just want to take you down.” Years of trials had made Shane quite the actor. And that one improv comedy class. But Bergara wasn’t buying it. He tried harder. “There’s a recording device in my left shoe. AND it’s a tracker. Go on, check. And then let me go!”

“I’m not going to check, Madej. Because everything you just said was a lie.”

“Wha- how did you know?!”

“First, I know you care about ethics. It’s one of the few things I respect about you. So I need to know why you’re really here." He respects me? “Second, I can just tell. Call it my not-so-secret talent. If I focus, I can always tell if someone is lying.” Ryan was circling his chair like Goldworth did a few days ago. But who could fear someone with a golden heart? Shane wasn't afraid of him; he was afraid for him.

What better lie than the truth? “Fine,” Shane confessed, “I don’t think Peterson did it anymore. I was here because I was desperate to find something to prove he’s guilty, but there’s nothing. I thought the weapon was the fire poker, but I can see it from here. It has so much dust and cobwebs; he never touched it. I know he’s innocent now.” Soft fingers brushed against Shane’s wrists to untie him.

“Thanks for the truth.” He’d left his ankles bound. Shane was going to have to provide more truth to be released.

“You know my boss, right?”

“The asshole who needs an eyebrow wax?”

“Yup. He made it clear: I’m going to lose my job if I withdraw. And I don’t want to send an innocent man to prison. I’m trapped, Bergara. In more ways than just the obvious.” Ain’t that the truth. Step, step, step. His captor stopped pacing.

Ryan knelt in front of the chair. Placed his hand on Shane's knee. Looked up at him with empathy.

“What can we do?”

“You... you want to help me?” Ryan nodded.

"After everything that's happened? After everything I did to you?"

Ryan squeezed his knee. "I believe what you're saying. Let me help you."

"Ryan..." The dam broke. There was no stopping the tears that hadn’t burst through since he lost his mom. Arterial spray.

“Hey… hey, come here.” His friend? untied his ankles. Shane fell forward into Ryan’s arms. And just fucking let himself cry.

Who knows how many minutes passed? Shane wasn’t counting.

“Shane…” Ryan said gently, “I hope you know that you deserve to be saved. You deserve someone on your side.”

Shane sniffled. “C-can you be my attorney, Bergara?”

Ryan wheezed. A wonderful sound.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Ryan decided, “We’re going to throw the case.”

If only that would help.

Shane leaned in, giving Ryan plenty of time to back away. The kiss was nothing like before.

Tentative. Slow. Soft.

Ryan's fingers brushed away the last tear on Shane’s cheek.

Look at us. Star-crossed lawyers. Lovers. Whatever.

Soft lips, smooth tongues... not fighting for dominance this time, but seeking comfort. Reassurance. A life-line.

Ryan broke the kiss first.

“Shane…” he said quietly, “You need to go home.”

Madej hadn’t recovered his voice yet.

“We’ll figure all this out; we’ll make a plan. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“Okay. But one more thing. I think I saw someone else out there.”

Chapter Text

“There’s another prowler out there?!” This was the longest night of Ryan’s life. He’d stayed with Mark until one in the morning, perfecting his closing argument for tomorrow. Only to return at 2:30am because of who other than Shane Fucking Madej.

“Hey! I wasn’t exactly a prowler...”

Ryan gave him a look.

“Okay, I was a prowler. But really, I thought I heard someone else in the yard a few times. I never got a good look because I kept hiding, thinking it was Peterson. But no, the dude was waiting in the garage to shove a rifle up my ass. So it wasn’t him.”

Ryan walked out of the room.

“Where are you going?”

“Setting Mark’s alarm system,” he called back, “The guy has a freaking top level security system, but he never turns it on unless I make him. Says he’s sick of accidentally setting it off and having the police come… idiot.” He came back and sat next to Shane on the couch.

“Dude, there’s nothing up your ass anymore. Don’t you want to wash your hands? Uh, hand?”

Shane looked down and giggled. Actually giggled.

“Wow, I look ridiculous.”

“Why the hell did you wear a SUIT to creep through someone’s yard?!” Shane’s laughter was infectious.

“I don't know! I didn’t really think it through, okay?”

“Yeah. That’s a first.” Shane gasped.

“Are you throwing shade at me, Ryan Bergara?! The golden boy with golden morals?”

“You deserve it.”

“I do. I guess that’s justice for me…”

“Justice,” Ryan began, “is a dish best served cold…”

“Oh?” Shane tilted his head. His long hair stuck out in all directions. He looked like a muddy puppy. The kind that destroys your shoes and never stops yapping.

“Yup. If it were served warm, it would be just water!”

“W-what?”

It took Shane a moment.

“WAS THAT A FUCKING PUN, BERGARA?” He burst into laughter. “Oh my God, I hate you so much!”

“I hate you more!” Ryan joined in. It was the worst joke he knew, the one that got him approximately zero chuckles during his brief stand-up comedian days. But damn, did it feel good to laugh.

“License. Revoked. Immediately.”

“Touché, long legs.”

“Yikes. That may be a little too on the nose for both of us.” Ryan sighed. Comic relief over.

“Yeah… well, I’m going home. Thank you for losing me yet another night of sleep.” Madej smirked.

“Bergara, have you been dreaming about me?” Ryan scoffed.

“More like nightmares. We both know you’re the one who’s been dreaming about me.” Why are Shane’s cheeks getting so red?

“But Ryan, wait. We have to figure out how we’re going to throw the case.”

“Ugh.” Ryan rubbed his temples. He felt a hand on his back. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“Um. Comforting you.”

“Is that your dirty hand?!” Shane snatched his hand away like he’d been burned.

“Shit, fuck, shit-fuck-”

“You did that on purpose!” Shane fled from the scene of the crime into the bathroom. Ryan cracked up.

He returned with way too many paper towels.

“Here, uh, I promise I’ll buy you another Lakers shirt…”

“Oh yeah? Another check with a fuckin’ smiley face on it?” Shane sheepishly ran his now clean hand through his stupid hair. Made it stick out even more. God, why does he have to be so adorable?

“I’m teasing you, idiot. I don’t care about the shirt. That’s way down on the list of grievances I have against you…”

“Uh, I’m sorry?” This man hasn’t made many apologies in his life.

“Whatever,” Ryan got up, “I just want to go to bed. Just, I don’t know, give a shitty argument tomorrow. Or accidentally contradict yourself. Whatever. I trust you. I’m probably a moron for that, but I do.”

“Ryan, wait,” Shane insisted. “If there’s really a guy outside, he might not be after Mark. What if he’s your stalker?”

Fuck.

“I mean, my apartment has locks…”

“Let me come with you.”

“Oh yeah, 'cause he’ll take one look at the human gumby with me and flee to Canada.”

“I'll protect you.” That was quite a serious look on Shane’s face. Ryan ignored whatever was fluttering in his chest.

“Yeah... okay. I guess.”

“My car’s parked a few blocks away. You can drive me to my car and then I’ll follow you to your apartment.”

It’s been quite a while since Ryan’s brought a man home. Not that this was “bringing a man home.” Ryan pulled out his lavish wine in a box. His nerves were shot, and he needed it, okay? Shane wandered through his small apartment, touching this and that. Occasionally picking something up with a smile. Get your paws off my paddington.

“Ah yes. Personal space and boundaries are so overrated, right?”

Shane ignored him. He rifled through the cabinets and grabbed his own wine glass. Yup. Doesn’t care about boundaries. He poured a generous amount. Ryan waited for the sarcastic remark on his wine quality that never came.

“Oh my gosh, it tastes like grape juice!”

“Dude, wine is grape juice!”

“No, really!” Shane swirled the glass and held it up to his ridiculously pointed nose, “With essence of… red!”

“Red is a color, you dumbass!”

“I thought it was an aroma? A flavor?”

“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan muttered. “Here’s the couch. I’m not making it up for you because you suck. But there’s blankets over there.” Once again, Madej had selective hearing.

He picked up a photograph of Ryan with his parents and baby brother, Jake. “They look nice.”

“They are nice. My favorite people in the world, actually.” Shane smiled sadly.

“Uh, sorry about your mom…” He shrugged.

“She uh, was kinda my only family left. My father noped the fuck out of there when she told him she was pregnant. But I’m glad you have a good family. Really, I am…”

“I’m so sorry, Shane…”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” This was Ryan’s out. He could go into his room, shut the door and lock out the world for a few hours. Even with his insomnia, he’d fall asleep in minutes. But the man in front of him just looked so sad…

“Do you, uh, want to talk about something else?” Shane tucked his hands in his pockets and glanced around. His eyes settled on the medal of honor hanging next to the coat closet.

“Tell me what it felt like to be a hero, Bergara.” He sat on the couch, stretching his long legs over the cushions.

“I’m not.”

“Sorry, I’ll reign in the sass. I’m genuinely curious.”

“Fine. Move over.”

“Nah.” Ryan grumbled, lifted his absurd chopstick legs, and settled down with Shane’s feet on his lap. Who gives a shit at this point.

“Yay! Bergara bedtime story!”

“Ugh. I’m going to tell it and I’m only going to tell it once. No interruptions, or I’ll kill you in your sleep. Maybe I’m the one who murdered Karen.”

“You’d never hurt anyone.” So much affection in his voice.

“Well, uh, I kinda did. So yeah, I got a job with the best defense firm in LA after I graduated. I guess I had a really different idea in my head about what the job would be like. No first year associate gets to choose their clients. I knew that. But did my first client really have to be the golden state killer? Goddamn.”

Shane leaned forwards, resting his chin his hand. This is the longest he’s ever shut up.

“When I found out he killed 11 fucking people, I asked my boss for a different case. He didn’t care, of course. That’s what they hired me for. I told myself that things would be okay, and the justice system would run its course and convict him. It didn’t.”

“While we were working on his defense for one murder, DeAngelo told us he’d actually killed 12 people. There was one more body the police hadn’t found. The man was just a taxi driver DeAngelo didn’t want to pay, so he killed him. And nobody even knew he was dead. He was listed as a missing person. His family was looking for him.” God, I’m so sick of crying…

“Hey…” Shane took him in his arms. Because that’s just something they do now.

“It was horrible. But I signed a confidentiality agreement; I couldn’t say anything! I went to the judge behind my boss’s back and begged to withdraw. I couldn’t give my reason, obviously, so she refused. Then it got even worse...” He wiped his eyes. Shane stroked his hair.

“My boss... my boss wanted to confirm everything. He had DeAngelo draw us a map of where he buried the body. Just a mound of dirt off a highway. Like the victim was nothing. He made me go with him to make sure it was there…”

“Holy hell...”

“I didn’t want to go. Of course I didn’t. And when I got there, he said we had to dig it up. He even took pictures, Shane. For our records. The bastard moved the body so everything would fit in one frame and took a fucking picture. I w-wouldn’t touch it…”

“Ryan, here…” Shane handed him his glass of water from the table.

“But I still couldn’t say anything! I read every single ethical rule. I can only break attorney-client privilege if someone’s going to get physically hurt. That’s the only exception to model rule 1.6: breaking confidentiality "to prevent reasonably certain death or substantial bodily harm." And it’s not even a requirement; just an option. How many other times has this happened and no one said anything?!”

“I don’t know…”

“They were trying another man for the taxi driver’s murder. A totally innocent man. And I couldn’t say anything! I followed the trial every day, hoping he'd be acquitted. He wasn't. And it was a death penalty case. I read the rules so carefully. I had to wait until he was at risk of physical harm. So I waited until just before execution. Security let me through; they know me. I ran in there, screaming my head off that he was innocent. They took me into an interrogation room and I told them absolutely everything. They let him go.” Somehow, Ryan had ended up on the other man’s lap. Shane’s arms were tight around him. Holding him together.

“I still violated ethical rules. I shouldn’t have told them about all the other people DeAngelo killed. But I didn’t care anymore. In my boss’s trial, they gave me immunity, so I got to keep my license. The only thing my boss technically did wrong was touching the body, can you believe that?”

“Christ… I didn’t know... the papers just said...”

“I know. With all the confidentiality and ethical violations, only so much information could go out to the public. So I was a hero in public opinion, but a disgrace to the legal profession.”

“Ryan, you could never be a…”

“But you know what? It’s okay. I saved that man. I even got a Christmas card from him this year. A photograph with him and his wife and kids and a pomeranian. It makes it worth it.”

“Yeah,” Shane replied gently, “Pomeranians are cute.”

Ryan laughed. A heartbroken sound.

Chapter Text

Ryan moved to get up from the couch. Shane reluctantly let him go. Ryan rifled through his bathroom cabinet until he found what he was looking for. He returned to the living room, looking for his glass to wash it down.

Shane knocked the pills out of his hand. They clattered in all directions. “What the hell, Shane?!”

“What’s wrong with you? You can’t mix those!”

“Relax, it’s just a couple Xanax.”

“You shouldn’t be taking more than one. And you definitely shouldn’t be mixing it with alcohol.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I’m just trying to get some sleep. I’ve done this before.” Shane whipped out a laptop from his briefcase.

“Where’d you get another one?”

“I had a backup, in case a self righteous guy with a Napoleon complex decided to destroy it in front of the entire courtroom. Now, give me a second… Here.” He pulled up a website and read out loud:

The side effects of mixing Xanax with alcohol include fatigue, lethargy and lightheadedness. At higher doses, the effects can be more severe, including cognitive issues such as inability to focus, memory issues and potential loss of consciousness.

“... Potential loss of consciousness? So that’s why it always helps me sleep.” Shane snatched the bottle out of his hand.

“By literally knocking you out, you dumbass! Didn’t your mother ever tell you to be careful with alcohol and medications?”

“Why do I need my mother when I have you, Mama Madej?”

“Whatever,” Shane grumbled. “I’m not giving this back.”

“Awww, were you worried about me?” Shane shoved everything back into his briefcase.

“Of course I worry about you," he muttered. "You're so freaking small." Ignoring the jab, Ryan began to pace. Something was starting to make more sense. “Why are you being weird? Did you take some already?”

“No, no… I was just thinking. Mark told me he and Karen drank a significant amount of wine that night. She took a Valium, too. Would that cause the same side effects?”

“Probably…” Shane took out his laptop again. “Actually, it looks like it may be even worse, depending on the dosage. If you’re trying to say that’s why she fell down the stairs, then sure, but it wouldn’t make her fall down the stairs five or six times.”

“No, I’m not thinking about her… Mark said he was drinking, too. But he didn’t say anything about Valium. His time frame never quite added up, but he swore that was all he knew. I assumed his memory sucked because of the alcohol and the trauma. You can tell on the 911 call that he was totally out of it.”

“You mean like how my statement analyst said he knew Karen was dead long before the police got there?”

“I’m not saying that! I’m saying, what if he had taken Valium, too? He had at least four glasses of wine. Even just half a pill could've caused him to lose consciousness. If anything, it explains why his memory is fucked up.”

“Ryan… are you saying he blacked out?”

“Potentially.”

“So my expert witness was right! He did lie about the timeline!”

“He didn’t lie, he remembered incorrectly. You know trauma can do that, plus the substances.”

“Fine, fine… either way, that means we have about an hour and 45 minutes unaccounted for.”

“Not ‘unaccounted’ for, like they say when someone has no alibi! He doesn’t remember.”

Shane waved his hand dismissively. “That’s semantics. Lawyers. This is why I work alone.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Yes, Madej, you’re a one man wolf pack. You walk a lonely road down the boulevard of broken dreams. You done?”

Shane winked. “I walk alone, baby! But seriously, that’s a lot of time. If he doesn’t remember, we can’t say with 100% confidence that he didn’t blackout and kill her. Plus, like you said, the brain would likely repress the trauma of murdering your wife.”

“For God’s sake, Shane, I’m not saying that! Can you stop thinking like a prosecutor for a second?”

“I mean, that’s what I am…”

“Whatever. What I’m saying is, that’s an hour and half where we don’t know what happened. One witness is dead and one was high as balls.”

“So you’re saying the owl hid behind a tree, taking notes until it found the perfect time to commit a murder? Maybe even dropped a Valium in his glass?”

“No, you dick. I’m saying someone else might’ve been there.”

“And the security system?”

“You really think I didn’t look into that? Mark keeps it off.”

“Well, there were no footprints or anything,” Shane pointed out. “The police were pretty thorough.”

Ryan rubbed his chin. “Professional hit?”

“Bergara, you’re doing the opposite of your job right now. Now I’m less convinced it was an owl.”

Ugh! Why did I ever think he was cute? “This is called brainstorming, Madej. It’s what happens when two people with a common goal work together to come up with ideas. I’m on your side. Now, are you on mine?”

“Yes,” Shane responded quietly. “But you do have to consider all the possibilities. What if your client really is a killer? You have to be careful; it’s not wise to always see the best in people.”

“Neither is it to perpetually see the worst in people!”

“Ryan, my job centers around criminals. Of course I see the worst in people.”

“Alleged criminals. That are innocent until proven guilty. You’re so ignorant.”

“You’re adorable.”

“What?!” Ryan sputtered.

“Seeing the bright side. It’s ridiculously naive. But cute, too.”

“Shut up, Shane. Just shut the fuck up.” His guest mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key. Ryan’s head was pounding. He sank down onto the kitchen floor.

“Whoa, hey... you okay there?”

“I’m so freaking tired. I could sleep right here.” His eyelids were heavy. He just might.

“No, come on. At least get on the couch with me.” That’s an idea. Who needs medication when you can get the stress pounded out of you?

Shane came over and dragged the mostly-asleep Ryan up.

“Hey Shane, remember the jail cell…”

He chuckled. “I don’t think I’ll be forgetting that for quite some time, buddy.”

“Wanna do it again?” he mumbled as Shane guided him onto the couch.

“Mhmm.” Shane left the room and came back with an armful of blankets.

“Cool, ‘cause I kinda wanna suck your dick…” Shane tucked him in.

“Oh yeah, little guy?” He sounded more amused than turned on. That’s irritating. Ryan sat up as Shane began turning off the lights.

“I’m average height. A sexy height…” He rubbed his eyes.

“Yes, Ry, you’re super sexy. Now move over.”

“I’m trying to dirty talk you…” He cuddled into the pillows.

“You’re doing great. Scooch.”

“Fuck me…” Ryan yawned.

“Watch your language, Bergara.”

Why isn’t my seduction working?! It always works.

Ryan might’ve felt a kiss on his forehead as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Shane was only able to sleep for a few hours, but it was one of the best nights of his life. Even though he almost fell in a pool, nearly got his head blown off, and was temporarily tethered to a plastic lawn chair.

Because he could picture it so clearly: Ryan Bergara bursting into death row, ready to practically sit in the electric chair himself if it meant saving a stranger.

Because for a couple hours, they got to be just Ryan and Shane. He got to hold Ryan tighter when he mumbled in his sleep. He had the honor of getting drool on his Ralph Lauren button-down. The privilege of having his right arm fall asleep for so long that he's considering amputation.

Shane watched the clock tick away their last moments together. At 6am, he was going to have to leave and get ready for court.

At 6am, he was going to say goodbye to the Ryan who believes in him, trusts him, and maybe even returns his feelings.

This is going to crush him.

He nudged Ryan awake.

The men got up and started moving around, as if this wasn’t the most bizarre way to start the day. Shane tried to skedaddle, but Ryan offered to make him waffles. What mere mortal could resist that? They had breakfast on the rickety kitchen table that also served as a desk.

Ryan dumped more maple syrup on his pancakes. “You know, now that we’re working together, maybe we’ll eventually meet in the middle. About all this criminal justice stuff.”

“Doubt it.” Shane stole the maple syrup back.

“You know, I think I can convince you to see things my way. Eventually.”

“You know what I think?” Shane countered, “I think you need to learn to not be so scared.” Actually, you need to stop being so brave and listen to your fear.

“Oh yeah? I think you need to learn to see things for what they are.” Shane put down his fork.

“I think you need to shut the hell up.”

Ryan leaned forwards. “I think you need to shut the fuck up.” A pause. His face was inches away. “See, I stepped it up with the bigger curse word there.”

They both cracked a smile. Ryan’s gaze was so warm underneath his lashes. Shane swore the other man's eyes flicked to his lips for a moment. “Besides, what the hell have I ever done to make you think I’m scared? I’m taking you down, Madej.” Please, don’t try to. For your own sake.

“I just… see it. It’s okay. Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“And you’re afraid of?” Shane shrugged. Goldsworth hurting you.

“See you in court, Bergara.”

“Wait,” Ryan grabbed his hand, “I just wanted to say, you know... uh-” He blushed.

“I know.” Shane squeezed Ryan’s hand back. “Me too. Let’s leave it at that until this is all over, okay?” Because if you say one more word, I won't be able to go through with this.

Ryan kissed him on the cheek. “Okay.”

Shane’s heart fractured.

Madej didn’t throw the fucking case.

Ryan wore the best poker face of his life as Shane Madej, Esq. summarized his arguments. No more theatrics. No fiery demeanor. He explained the facts simply, as if to a child. As if the answer to all this was easy, logical, and inevitable. Like the ending has been obvious to everyone but Ryan.

This reasonable, levelheaded man inflicted more pain with every "therefore..." Lacerations. This Shane hurt Ryan more than the Shane who splashed blood on him, broadcasted his most humiliating moment, and ripped his tie off ever could.

Ryan had told his client about their plan. If Mark was surprised, he didn’t show it.

Right. Because anybody else would’ve seen this coming. I don’t deserve to be here. I never did.

Madej thanked the jury and returned to his seat. He was right; I shouldn't see the best in people. He made it so obvious all along. I'm such an idiot.

Ryan stood up, buttoned his jacket, and pushed in his chair. He approached the jury box and gave exactly the closing he’d practiced. It was reasonable and persuasive, but he sounded as numb as the last attorney. No one noticed.

Judge Cavallaro slammed her gavel against the hardwood. Two court officers herded the jury into the deliberation room. The People of the State of California vs. Mark Andrew Peterson had concluded.

The trial was over.

Madej avoided eye contact as he packed his briefcase. Ryan remembered the last type of blood spatter: blowback. When a bullet strikes its target, some high velocity impact splatter is directed backwards toward the gun. The closer the gun is to its target, the more violent the spatter. He had just one last thing to say:

“Don’t you ever fucking speak to me again.” Ryan intended to sound indignant and furious. His voice cracked.

Shane looked up from his papers. Why are his eyes watery? And his hands are shaking. He looks so pale. Is something going on? No. Ryan spun on his heels and stalked off to find Mark. He was done listening to his intuition. It’d failed him too many times.

Ryan drove Mark home. Neither brought up Shane; Mark just wanted to talk about his children.

“... did you see them all come up to me after you finished your closing? They said they know I’m innocent now! After seeing the case you presented! All three... thank you Ryan. They told me how upset they were when they learned about the affairs, and how they thought they didn’t know me at all anymore. But Ryan... they called me Dad. They said... they said it'll take a while to forgive me for everything, but they know I didn’t kill their mom. They want me in their lives, eventually. That’s okay, we have time... Martha said she wants Elijah Mark to have his Grandpa.” Ryan parked in Mark’s driveway.

“That’s amazing... I just hope I don’t end up letting you down." How could I be such a trusting moron? "I’m so sorry, I don’t think I did enough...” Ryan’s eyes began to sting.

“It’s okay, Ryan.”

“But it’s not!” He looked up to see Mark looking strangely calm. “What if you have to rebuild your relationship with them from prison?”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“How can you say that?!”

“I guess... when you’ve been through something like this, you realize what really matters. My family is reunited, and that’s all I can really ask for. I’m Dad again, no matter what the jury decides tomorrow.”

Ryan sniffled. Mark placed his hand on his shoulder. Awkwardly, but kindly.

“Um, Mark?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve talked about how I can get a good sense of people..." Isn't that just the fucking joke of the century? "I know I never met Karen, but she loved you.”

“She loved me?”

“She did. In a flawed way, but she did. From talking about her so much the past few weeks, it feels like I knew her. She had to have known you were gay; she was a smart woman. But selfish sometimes. She loved you, and didn’t know how to let you go. Mark... I know she’s sorry. She’s sorry and she loves you.”

“I don’t, uh, really believe in the afterlife...” but Ryan could tell he was touched.

“That’s fine. I just felt like I needed to say it.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to stay here tonight?”

“No, I’m good.”

“You are?”

Mark looked so calm. Peaceful. “I am, actually. I’m so good. And you've done more than enough. So much more. Thank you, Ryan.”

“But-”

“And I’m fucking tired. I am so Goddamn exhausted, my God. So go the fuck home, Ryan. And you get some sleep, too.”

Ryan laughed.

“Okay.”

Early the next morning, Ryan got a call. Half asleep, he shoved the phone to his ear.

“This is the office of Ryan Bergara, may I ask who’s calling...”

Crashing waves rushed behind his ears. Like when you spend the whole day in the ocean and you're still treading water when you lay in bed that night. Floating away. He tried to tune back in to the voice on the other line.

“... Heart attack,” Patrick Peterson explained, “His health wasn’t great, but we didn't think it was that bad... my sisters are here with me and they think the stress of the trial did him in. With the verdict being today, I guess his body just couldn’t handle it...”

Patrick sounded like a GPS reciting directions. Ryan knew what stage of grief he was in: shock.

Ryan supposed he was in shock, too. He politely said goodbye and of course he’d come to the funeral and hung up.

Ryan sat on the edge of his bed, feeling like he was drifting. Like he was viewing his bedroom from a different angle. He looked down at his phone. Didn’t realize he was still holding it.

His shitty Nokia. He’s had it for three years. As much as it was a piece of junk, Ryan had grown attached to it. It's a part of his personality now; one of his quirks.

It had the appearance of a brick, but also the endurance. Ryan recalled when he accidentally dropped it down the garbage shoot of his dorm building. It fell five floors, clanging against metal the whole time. Ryan raced to the basement, already worrying about how he was going to afford a new phone. But there it was, his shitty Nokia, laying on the floor with only a scratch or two.

Another time, a drunk idiot at a party pushed Ryan in the pool. His shitty Nokia was still in his pocket. He resurfaced quickly, ripping his phone from his pocket, ready to give full on CPR. Miraculously, his shitty Nokia didn’t need it. The water ruined the screen, but Ryan could still receive calls and dial numbers. The thing was indestructible.

He turned the phone over in his hand. It was the only thing that felt real anymore.

Ryan flung his shitty Nokia at the wall as hard as he could.

It broke.

Mark Peterson was dead.

Chapter Text

A liminal space can be described as the time between ‘what was’ and ‘what is.’ A transition. The next couple days felt like the week between Christmas and New Years. Ryan didn’t know what to do with himself. He cried a lot.

If liminal space had a physical form, it'd be a rest stop off a barren highway. A cement detour with no facilities; its sole purpose being to host truckers from God knows where. Every couple hours, a driver pulls over his semi to stretch, or have a sandwich, or maybe take a nap. Once his mandatory break ends, he climbs back in and heads off to God knows where. The gravel crunches under the worn tires for only a moment.

Does a rest stop exist if there’s no one resting in it? Can you even call it a rest stop if no one ever does?

Now that his client was dead, Ryan didn't know 'what is.' In his mind, there'd only been two options. Get Mark acquitted or fail. Restore his golden status or fall back into disgrace. At least that was familiar.

Now, he’s an oxymoron: an attorney without a client. An advocate without a cause. Heading off to God knows where.

And coming from God knows where. Ryan didn’t even know 'what was.' Who had Ryan been these past few weeks? Judge Cavallaro told Ryan he’d been persuasive. His mother said he’d been honorable. His baby bro said he’s been using too much hair gel.

And Shane Alexander Madej said absolutely nothing. Exactly as Ryan asked him to. He didn’t show up to any of the meetings to wrap things up and dispose of files. Ryan hadn’t even seen him around the building. He had the misfortune of knowing where Shane’s apartment was. He passed by it almost daily. The silver Mercedes rested in the same spot. It didn’t seem to be coming or going anywhere.

That selfish asshole probably jetted off to Mexico. He clearly knew his purpose this whole time. Ryan recalled what he almost told Madej before he walked out that door. He’s glad he didn’t. They were only a moment, if they ever happened at all.

Oddly, Ryan was surprised Shane hadn’t checked on him. He remembered when the man who broke his heart said to call if he needed anything so sincerely. Ryan was somehow expecting explanations, apologies, groveling, and an impromptu visit with his favorite popcorn. He didn’t even get to turn him down.

Just radio silence. It reminded Ryan of when he sat on the floor of that lonely, abandoned hospital. His questions echoed off the walls: “Is anybody here? Does anybody want to talk to me?” The spirit box was fuzzy with white noise, but Ryan felt someone desperately trying to make contact with him.

The funeral home was another liminal space. Ryan’s whole family came with him, awkwardly responding that no, they didn’t know Mark. Ryan was so grateful. On the drive over, his dad gently reminded him to brace himself for the open casket. It was never a pleasant sight, seeing a strange rendition of the person you loved laid out for inspection.

But there was no casket. No coffin. Amongst the pictures and grief and nostalgia sat an urn. A plain, metallic urn. Cold to the touch.

“I know, it’s so weird…” Patrick came up behind him. “Not that any of us wanted to see Dad’s body, but it doesn’t feel like he’s gone without seeing it.”

“Yeah…” Ryan never knew what to say in these situations. “So, he had a heart attack?”

“Yeah, it’s really all we know. I guess he was in bed, since it was the middle of the night. We didn’t get any medical records. Isn't that something they give to the family after someone dies?”

“Uh, it’s a private medical record, but you are family. One of you is probably his emergency contact. But I'm not that familiar with HIIPA standards…”

“Yeah, weird. We don’t even know who found him. I guess he called 911 and they didn’t make it in time.”

“Wait, who told you?”

“About my Dad? The police called at like 4:30am. He was already cremated. We didn't even know he wanted that. I think it's fucking disrespectful, but it’s their protocol, I guess.”

Ryan had been a public defender long enough to know that no, it’s definitely not. What the fuck is going on here?

A death, out of the blue. Immediate cremation. Shitty police work…

Oh, fuck.

Has Goldsworth ever been fingerprinted?!

Ryan sprinted out of the funeral home.

Chapter Text

“It’s been days. Just do what you’re going to do already. Kill me or let me go.”

Shane was trapped in a jail. Somewhere he didn’t recognize from all his years as a prosecutor.

“You’re not calling the shots here, Madej.” His captor loomed outside his cell.

Shane threw his hands up. “Fine. What are you going to do? Why am I even here, Ricky?!”

A few days earlier, Shane was walking home from the trial, absolutely hating himself.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and trudged home, feeling an inexplicable loss. Usually when you lose someone, they become saintlike. Shane kept his eyes on the pavement and recalled the ways his mom annoyed him over the years.

How she forced baby Shane to down that putrid pink medicine when he had a fever. Didn’t he already feel bad enough?! She always made teen Shane wear a helmet before he got on his bike. The popular kids giggled and rode circles around him. All the nights she ripped a book he actually liked out of his hands and replaced it with a textbook. It never included interesting things like plagues where people danced until they died.

At least Mom could explain why she did what she did, even though Shane argued with her every step of the way. My little lawyer! She would ruffle his hair and baby Shane would grow even more indignant.

But Shane and his cat don’t speak the same language. He can’t explain why he holds him down to cut his nails or administer eye drops. He can’t justify why he locks Obi’s treats in the closet after only giving him a couple. He can’t clarify that the vacuum is for cleaning and isn’t going to suck his chubby orange kitty up into the void.

And Ryan. Shane didn’t have the words. I snapped at you when we first met because I was offended that you assumed I was homophobic. Also, you were really hot and I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I was such a jerk afterwards because I enjoyed riling you up. I might’ve trashed your client’s house and splattered you with blood mostly to see your face flush. Sorry.

I followed you and crept through Mark's yard because I was desperate to keep you safe.

I stabbed you in the fucking back because I love you.

Shane sighed.

Something hit him from behind.

Everything went black.

Once again, Ryan was sent straight to voicemail. He understood why Shane didn’t get back to him after the pathetic drunken message he left when Mark died, but this? He figured Madej would at least respond to tell him to back off.

Ryan slipped his new Razor phone in his pocket and pounded on Madej’s door. From inside, he heard a lonesome meow!

Chapter Text

Ryan stood on Shane’s front porch. The scratching coming from inside was either from a small demon or large cat.

MEOW!

Yup, that’s a cat. A hungry one. Ryan peeked through the window. A ginger furball was pawing at the door, desperate for treats and attention.

That’s not right… Madej had proved himself to be an asshole, trespasser, liar, and backstabber, but animal abuser? Ryan didn’t think so. When he researched his opposition, almost every one of his sparse social media posts included him lovingly holding this orange menace while it squirmed. His Grindr profile proudly proclaimed he was a “Cat Dad.” Not that Ryan looked too long or swiped right or anything.

Meow-ow-ow-ow!

Madej didn’t really know anyone in LA; this apartment was just a sublet until the case was over. He wouldn’t leave his only companion behind.

Meowwwww!

“Jeez, okay! Okay,” Ryan responded out loud, feeling a little ridiculous. The Madej Spawn seemed to understand and quieted, waiting expectantly. Ryan sighed.

He thought about all the ethical rules and/or laws he’d broken recently. What’s one more? He slipped into Madej’s backyard to find the back door, surprisingly, unlocked. What the hell…

The moment he entered, Orange Menace rubbed against his calves and purred like a jet engine.

“Yeah, yeah you’re cute,” Ryan muttered distractedly, “but I’m allergic. Go away.” He nudged Orange Menace, who wasn’t deterred. The kitty followed him cheerfully through the kitchen. Ryan refilled his water bowl and found a bag of food in the pantry. Once Orange Menace had his dinner, he couldn’t give less of a shit about his intruder. Good.

Ryan wandered around, not sure what he was looking for. He wondered what would happen if Madej walked in just now. Ryan would certainly be in a compromising position with his hand in Madej’s underwear drawer. For my investigation! Well, if Shane tried calling the police, he’d casually mention all the ethical rules and/or laws he’d broken recently. Plus the fact that his boxers had cartoon hotdogs on them. Ryan smirked.

The apartment was neat. Minimal. No sign of anyone coming or going. Not that surprising. Ryan tried to ignore the leather couch he’d had way too many feelings on.

There was a blank dry erase board on the fridge, next to a photograph of Shane and his mom. She was just as tall as him, which was saying a lot. The woman had the same downturned eyes and voluminous hair. She looked kind. Ryan wondered if the last of Shane’s humanity died with her.

Madej has to come back eventually. Should Ryan just scribble a note on the dry erase board? “Hey, it’s the guy who said he’d never speak to you again. I broke into your home to tell you that your boss killed my client and your mom and probably Karen, too. Awkward, right? Toodles!”

But his car was here… and Orange Menace, who resumed pestering Ryan once he finished snacking. The state of his litter box was evidence that no one’s been here for days. Ugh. Now I have to do this for you, too Madej?!

He knelt down and scooped out the litter box, sneezing the whole time. Orange Menace flopped down on the floor a few feet away, rolling to show his white tummy.

Where the fuck is he?! Did Shane Madej honestly think he could just break his heart and leave without getting a piece of Ryan’s mind?

“I always get what I want Madej. You should’ve known that.”

“I did what you wanted, Ricky!” Shane croaked. God, he was thirsty.

“No. You failed. I had the jury room bugged. The jury was going to acquit Peterson. They were saying he might’ve done it, but there wasn’t enough evidence to prove that beyond a reasonable doubt. They were going to find him innocent.”

Is anybody going to tell Ryan?! He did it!! He really did it!

Shane was never going to bring up Ryan, though. He wanted this psychopath’s focus as far away from him as possible.

“But you told me Mark’s dead!” A heart attack the night before the verdict? How convenient, Goldsworth. Shane wondered if he was next. “He’s out of the picture. It’s over now, right?”

“You think all this was about Mark? You fucking moron.”

Shane felt like he was back in law school, suffering through a Socratic seminar. The professor was waiting on an answer while a hundred faces turned to him in judgement.

“So… you’re saying he was innocent?”

Goldsworth scoffed and pulled a water bottle from his coat pocket. He dropped it casually; it rolled outside the cell. Shane dove for it. He chugged the water so fast he began to choke. Goldsworth looked disgusted.

“Of course he was.” The door slammed. Shane was alone.

What’s going to happen to me?

Shane didn’t have any close friends here, or any family left. He hoped to God someone was feeding Obi.

The only person who could possibly figure this out despised him. For good reason.

Shane punched the cement wall. Ow.

Ryan paced around Madej’s apartment, munching on some popcorn he found in the pantry. Sea salt caramel, nice. Orange Menace followed contentedly, protesting only if Ryan tried to close a door on him.

Ryan stepped into the bedroom and flopped on Shane’s bed. What kind of robot makes his bed right after he gets up? HAH, I’m getting my dirty shoes on your sheets, Madej! Orange Menace jumped up and curled up on his lap. Ryan had already accepted his nostrils were going to be permanently clogged, so he stroked O.M. absentmindedly as he brainstormed.

Hmm, if I was 6 foot 4 inches of snobbery, where would I be? If Shane had any feelings at all, Ryan supposed he’d feel guilty after the trial. Considering Ryan saved his life from Peterson the night before. Ugh, you were right, Mark. We couldn’t trust him. Ryan knew he would still never let anything happen to Shane. That was just his dumbass nature.

On top of that, Madej had violated some serious ethical rules. He probably wanted to distance himself from everything now that it was over. But Goldsworth was still in town... The barrel chested man had leered at Ryan during their wrap up meeting. Ryan thought better than to ask where his shitty employee was.

What was it Madej said about Goldsworth? That he wanted Shane to win or else he was fired. But with Mark dying, Shane won by default. Ryan never got to clear his name.

But there was something else…

Trapped.

Shane had said he was trapped by Goldsworth, in more ways than one.

Ryan sat up on the bed. O.M. hissed and readjusted himself. Ryan’s mind spun like a lottery machine in Vegas, the kind that you dump your family’s savings into, hoping desperately for the stupid fruits to line up.

Shane knew Mark was innocent.

Banana.

Goldsworth was crazy about this case. He wanted Shane to win at any cost.

Banana.

Goldsworth killed Mark, and Shane’s mother, and probably Karen, too.

Banana.

Shane could be next.

Banana!

Oh no no no no.

Ryan pushed the cat off him and darted out of the room. He had to find Shane, and fast.

As he slammed the apartment door behind him and sprinted to his car, something in the back of his mind was nagging him.

Karen Peterson’s injuries were consistent with an owl attack.

Peach.

It probably didn’t matter. He had to save Shane.

Chapter Text

Shane slumped against the cold wall, sliding to the floor. He wondered where Ricky was keeping him. With no windows, he had no idea what it looked like outside. Shane couldn't even determine whether it was day or night. Time flies when you’re assaulted and kidnapped!

Not really. Shane was losing his cool. Goldsworth came once a day to jeer at him and bring him food. Other than that, Shane was alone with a toilet and a barren bed. Nothing like minimalism.

Goldsworth could’ve easily had him killed. Shane figured it out: the swindler never did his own dirty work. Whoever attacked him was likely the same man who stalked Ryan. With everything that’s happened, Shane could at least still be grateful he had been there. Ryan would’ve been killed. Another obstacle out of Ricky’s way.

Why was Shane still alive? He had nothing else to give. No secrets to spill. He rubbed his pounding head and contemplated how this all began…

Ryan tore through Goldsworth’s office like a cyclone. It was late; even the unpaid intern had finally gotten to go home. Ryan couldn’t even tell you how he broke in. He supposed this was how murderers operated. They don’t remember exactly how they did it; it just had to be done. With Shane’s life on the line, failure was simply not an option.

In the third drawer of Goldsworth’s desk, Ryan discovered a manila folder labeled “Peterson.”

Except it wasn’t about Peterson at all. He frantically shuffled through the documents. One was a list of FBI contacts. Another was a large map of the United States, with clusters of X's in certain regions. There was a large red "X" on LA. Ryan was especially perplexed by a list of dates and locations next to cut out articles of local crimes. Did Goldsworth do all this? Was killing that many people even possible?

Ryan found another map. This one was hastily scrawled. It led through the Angeles National forest, to what looked like a storage facility in the middle of the woods. Was that a freaking owl symbol?! If Goldsworth was keeping Shane anywhere...

“And the award for best oral argument goes to... Shane Alexander Madej!” Well, duh. He knew he killed it. Almost as much as that hypothetical defendant killed that banker.

Shane shook the judge's hand as he accepted his certificate. The audience clapped politely from the benches. His mother was going crazy in her Cornell Law School sweatshirt, hat, and lanyard. Overkill, mom! As much as Shane couldn’t wait to graduate, he was going to miss mock trial.

Shane dodged past the recruiters as he made his exit. He already had contracts lined up with the best real estate agents in Los Angeles. Sure, all law is kind of boring, but it's less boring if you're selling "MTV Cribs" worthy homes to celebrities.

A large figure blocked his path.

"That was some closing argument, Mr. Madej."

"Thank you, you're too kind," Shane muttered distractedly. He was due to meet some friends for drinks.

"Oh, I'm not being kind." Ricky Goldsworth grabbed his arm. He had a firm grip. Is this douche for real? "You have excellent instincts. I saw your resume, too. My office could really use someone like you."

"Oh, um, I'm flattered Mr. Goldsworth, but I already have a job." Mr. Douche wasn't deterred.

"Oh yeah? What're they paying you?"

"I'm not looking to negotiate, Mr. Goldsworth. I'm going into real estate. Frankly, I have no interest in prosecution."

"You don't?" Ricky inquired. The bustling crowd around them pushed him even more into Shane's personal space. "You're not interested in taking down criminals, making the streets safer, upholding justice?"

"Yeah..." What do I have to say to get this guy to leave me alone? "Of course I am. Everybody wants those things. But now I really have to go, Mr. Goldsworth." Shane wrenched his arm away and set off, thoroughly annoyed.

If he had turned, he might've noticed Goldworth clenching his fists. If he turned, he might've noticed Goldsworth trailing him through the crowd. He might've noticed Goldsworth watching him embrace his mother with a deadly expression...

Shane Madej didn't turn.

Two weeks later, he was writing his mother's eulogy and signing an employment contract with the Sacramento County District Attorney's office.

Shane Madej was horrified. He couldn't believe what Goldsworth just told him. It made absolutely no fucking sense. At the same time, it made perfect sense. The only explanation that fit all the facts.

"I shouldn't need to say that if you tell anyone I'll kill you, but I suppose I just did. Let's keep this simple: I need your skills. You want to live another day. Do we have an agreement?" He slid a contract between the bars. Probably the closest someone's come to making a deal with the actual devil.

"Fuck you," Shane spat.

Goldsworth dug Shane's phone out of his pocket.

"Perhaps you need more motivation."

He pressed a button and a recording began to play. Somehow, Shane recognized him by the first sniffle. Ryan.

"Would you just f-fucking pick up?! How c-could you do that to me, Shane!? Y-you're a fucking jerk, y-you know that? You're a freaking asshole and a liar a-and a... *hiccup* God, Mark is dead. Did you know that?! Are you h-happy..." The voice broke off into sobs.

"Stop..." Shane's voice was strained. Goldsworth didn't stop.

"Can you b-believe I t-thought we were friends?" It sounded like Ryan was laughing, or choking, or both. "A-actually, I thought we were more than that..."

We were, Ryan.

Bergara's voice was fading. He must've drank so much. Drifting off to sleep as he pulverized Shane's heart. Was anybody taking care of him?!

"You know..." Ryan whispered. "I really believed in you. I don't even know w-why I'm leaving this message, because I never want to hear from you again. So fine, don't pick up, and don't call me back, and have a good fucking life Shane Madej." Click.

The threat hung in the air. Shane had no choice.

“Please leave Ryan Bergara alone. I’ll keep working for you. I'll change my identity so no one knows. With my mother gone, I have no family anyways. You just heard Ryan, he’s never going to speak to me again. Nobody’s looking for me." Shane winced. A sobering thought. "I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt him.”

Ryan frantically picked the lock of the prison. If he was in his right mind, he'd be more subtle about this. He'd come up with an actual, sensible plan. But he was just so worried.

Click.

The building was dimly lit. It seemed to be just one floor. Ryan had no idea what its purpose could be. He spun in a circle. Which way? Guess it doesn't matter. He sprinted to the right, whipping open door after door.

"SHANE!!!" Ryan was panting so hard he wasn't sure he'd be able to hear a response. But he did.

"R-Ryan?" Oh please please please... Ryan bolted towards the voice.

Shane Fucking Madej was in a jail cell. Shaking hands around bars. Ryan had never seen him so pale.

"Ryan! How the hell-"

"Shane! What the fuck is going on?!" He wrapped his hands around Shane's. He was frigid.

"You need to leave," Shane replied urgently, "Now. He left about an hour ago, but he could come back."

"Hell no, I just found you!" Ryan turned away and commenced a frenzied search.

"Ryan!" Shane growled. "You don't understand!" Ryan darted out of the room.

"FOUND IT! Hung right outside the door. Goldsworth is an idiot." The set of keys jingled as Ryan tried each one on the padlock.

"Will you just listen to me for once?! I'm not leaving with you!" Shane sounded exasperated. Ryan ignored him.

"THERE!" The padlock fell to the floor. Clang. It echoed through the building. Ryan pulled him into a tight embrace; he'd never felt so relieved. Shane hugged him back weakly.

"Ryan... how did you even-? Why? After what I did?" Ryan looked up fiercely.

"Shane. It's okay. I know that wasn't you," he affirmed. "That psychopath. I know what he did. We'll get him, okay? But we need to get out of here first." He began dragging Shane towards the exit.

"You don't get it!" Shane protested. "This is a cover up!"

"I know! Goldsworth killed Karen and framed Mark. Then he killed Mark, too." Ryan planned on breaking the news about Shane's mom in a gentler way later on. "Now let's go!" He took Shane's hand. Shane ripped it away.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. I can't go with you. Just please leave. You can call the police after, okay?"

"What do you mean, you moron?! The police work for him!" Ryan wasn’t taking no for an answer. He'd throw Madej over his shoulder if he had to.

"No!" Shane objected, "It's bigger than Goldsworth. It’s a conspiracy. High up in the government, or the FBI or something, I don't exactly know. Just get the fuck out of here!"

Ryan finally stopped moving. He turned.

"Shane... do you have any idea how I felt when I realized what happened to you? How worried I was?" Shane's face fell.

"But I'm trying to tell you something! You can't-"

"No," Ryan growled. "No, you don't know. Because I am in fucking love with you." Has anyone ever sounded this frustrated when confessing their feelings? "I love you, okay? Now, does that make it absolutely clear that I'm not leaving you? I'm not letting you go. Not again, not ever."

"Ryan..." Shane gasped. He pulled him in. They kissed like they didn't potentially have moments left. Or maybe like they did. Ryan's arms came up around Shane's shoulders as his made their way around Ryan's waist. Shane pulled back and leaned their foreheads together. "Please... I'm begging you..."

"Do you... do you love me, too?" Ryan hated how vulnerable he sounded.

Shane exhaled.

"Of course I do. How could I not fall head over heels for Ryan Fucking Bergara? I was screwed from the start." He laughed softly. Ryan kissed him again.

"Then that's all that matters," Ryan finished resolutely. "Let's go." He hauled Shane outside the back exit into the cool night air.

"Will you wait?! You're not getting it!" Shane gripped his shoulders.

“GOLDSWORTH DIDN'T KILL KAREN!!!"

Huh?

"Wait, then who-?"

"Shhh!" Shane hissed suddenly. He'd just seen something over Ryan's shoulders. Something in the woods. The best way to describe his expression? Petrified.

Shane stepped resolutely in front of him. Peeking over his shoulder, Ryan could just barely glimpse what had Shane so on edge.

A thing.

It came closer. He strained to see. Shane blocked Ryan with his arm. “Stay behind me!”

Closer.

A thing that was not an owl.

Ryan couldn’t hear anything over his heartbeat. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Why the hell didn’t he think to bring a gun?!

Closer.

A thing that was not an owl anymore.

Closer.

A thing that was not an owl anymore, and probably never was.

Did it just twist its entire neck around?

“Run, Ryan!”

SCREECH!!!

Chapter Text

Los Angeles Times

March 6, 2001

MISSING PERSONS
Ryan Steven Bergara and Shane Alexander Madej have been reported missing since last week. Madej was last seen at or near the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse on the morning of February 27th. Bergara was last seen at the Amigone funeral home on the evening of February 29th. Foul play is not suspected at this stage of the investigation.

Public defender Ryan Bergara represented Mark Peterson, now deceased, in the murder trial of his wife, Karen Peterson. He is 5’9” and of Japanese/Mexican descent, with black hair and dark brown eyes. He is 26 years old.

Prosecutor Shane Madej worked in the Sacramento County District Attorney's office prior to Peterson’s trial. He is 6’4” and of Polish descent, with light brown hair and brown eyes. He is 28 years old.

Anyone with information relating to their whereabouts can contact the Los Angeles police department at 555-347-2829.

LOCAL CRIME RATE CONTINUES TO RISE
Citizens of Los Angeles are advised to take extra safety precautions following a spree of attacks. Over the past four months, fifteen people have been found dead in various locations across the city. The victims succumbed to blood loss from laceration-like wounds. During a press conference last Monday, the Los Angeles Board of Police Commissioners stated they are now considering the possibility of a serial killer. “Although the victims vary in age, race, and gender, the attacks have followed a pattern,” said Commissioner Anita Rodriguez, “Every attack has occurred outdoors, at late hours of the night, when the victim was alone. The bodies all have deep gauges, which suggests a beating with a sharp weapon. There’s no fingerprints, which could mean we have an experienced killer on our hands.”

The LAPD is now working with police departments across the state to draw potential connections. In the meantime, citizens are advised to walk in groups, stay indoors after dark, and carry pepper spray.

STATE ATTORNEY GENERAL ARRESTED
Yesterday, Richard Goldsworth was formally charged with bribery, electoral fraud, and multiple accounts of murder for hire after serving as California’s attorney general for two terms. The accusations are based on information obtained from anonymous informants. The justice department has not yet released specific details on the allegations. Xavier Becerra, former member of the house of representatives, will be replacing Goldsworth until the next election.

Chapter Text

Banjo McClintock and C.C. Tinsley checked into a hotel.

The two men ignored the receptionist’s raised eyebrows as they gave their names. The shorter one may have even repressed a giggle.

“One bed, please.”

She held out their key cards. They gathered their luggage and briefcases and were on their way.

“Oh, um, I forgot to ask… can we have a “do not disturb” sign?”

Her eyebrows couldn’t have gone higher.

Banjo slammed the door shut behind them.

“You. Bed. Now.” C.C. didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned back on the edge of the bed casually, but his tapping fingers and jiggling knees gave him away. The taller man noticed.

“Ry-uh, C.C., we don’t have to do this, you know. If you aren’t ready, or you changed your mind, or…” C.C. rolled his eyes.

“Did I or did I not almost get shanked by a freaking cryptid for your dick?”

“My-” Banjo gasped. “Are you saying the only reason you rescued me was for my cock?!” He slumped into the nearest chair, laughing with his head in his hands.

“Maybe…” C.C. responded in his most suggestive voice. Banjo’s body continued to vibrate with laughter. Okay, it wasn’t that funny… His neglected lower half certainly wasn’t amused.

“This is just… this is just so ridiculous. What the hell are we doing, Ryan? Do we even have a plan?”

C.C. groaned exasperatedly. “Can we uh, think about that later? Like, after we-” Oh, no. Reality was starting to hit Banjo. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Shane…” C.C. said softly. He got up from the bed. Banjo didn’t move. C.C. knelt in front of him and gently took Banjo’s hands from his face. “Shane, look at me…” Banjo’s slightly downturned eyes were red.

“What’s going to happen to us?” he whispered. “To everyone else…? Yeah, we got Goldsworth arrested, but the attacks haven’t stopped. If anything, they’ve gotten worse. How many of those things are out there? Who’s really behind all this?! Do you think they could be, like, genetically engineering more? Is that where it came from in the first place?!”

Ryan squeezed Shane’s hands. “I don’t know.”

“We are so screwed.” Ryan reached up to cup Shane’s cheek.

“Maybe, but at least we’re alive, right? We can figure this out. We have time, no one but my family knows we’re alive, and we’re both pretty freaking smart…” Shane offered a small smile. Encouraged, Ryan continued: “I was thinking, maybe all this was meant to happen…”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Shane grouched.

“Alright, Mr. Skeptic. Whether you believe in destiny or not, all these circumstances lined up in such a way to give us the unique opportunity to know about all this, and the actual ability to do something about it. We can stop this. We can save people, together. I always knew my destiny was to help people…”

“Your optimism continues to be irritating.” Ryan kissed him on the nose.

“I know.” He got up to unpack his suitcase.

“Hey Ryan… do you have any experience with hunting?”

“Uh, not really,” Ryan mumbled distractedly. Where were his sweatpants? “I’ve always thought it’s kinda cruel and unnecessary, unless you’re actually going to be eating the animal.”

“Well, we’re not going to be eating it.” Shane pulled out a pistol. That shouldn’t be turning me on...

“Banjo McClintock and C.C. Tinsley: Cryptid Hunters? I like the way you think, Madej.” He stepped into Shane’s space. “Now is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Shane set the pistol on the desk.

“It’s not a gun.” He shoved Ryan back on the bed. Finally.

Ryan didn’t have much time to crawl backwards before Shane was on top of him, pressing him into the sheets. The first kiss was slow and deep. Shane’s aftershave smelled like standing in the middle of a pine forest, just after it’s snowed. Clean, crisp, and woodsy. Ryan saw evergreens when he closed his eyes.

He took his time kissing and sucking on Ryan’s neck, who moaned and leaned back to give more access.

“I didn’t think I’d get to have this, Ryan,” Shane mumbled into his neck. His lips moved up to nibble at his ear. “Didn’t think I’d get to have you.” A chill gusted through the forest. Ryan shivered.

In his fantasies, Ryan imagined seducing Shane with some wicked dirty talk. But he was having trouble forming coherent thoughts.

“Feels so good…” he managed to gasp as Shane rubbed into him. He hooked his legs over his hips and Shane ground harder. Whoa, he must be big. Ryan’s body trembled with anticipation. The friction was kindling a wildfire. Shane’s breaths scorched his skin. The evergreens were aflame.

“Fuck,” Shane growled. He grabbed Ryan’s wrists and held them down above his head. It was reminiscent of their encounter at the jail cell, which was hotter than any porno Ryan’s watched on his laptop in the early hours of the morning. Shane pulled back for just a moment, giving Ryan a stunning view of his swollen lips and flushed cheeks. If the size of Shane’s pupils was any indicator, he liked what he saw too. He leaned back in for another bruising kiss.

Ryan was happy to oblige. Desperate, even. He squirmed underneath the bigger man. Could Shane just take what he wanted already?!

As if he could read Ryan’s mind, Shane’s hand trailed down Ryan’s arm above his head, over his neck, down his chest, over his stomach to firmly cup his hard on. His hand was so big it enveloped him completely. Ryan found he liked the feeling of being consumed. Mist rolled into the woods, shrouding the forest in a haze of desire. Everything was out of focus, except for the flames climbing higher and higher up the evergreens.

“Fuckin’ need you now.” Madej jerked down his zipper. They were really doing this. In the fog of arousal, Ryan started feeling something less pleasant: vulnerability.

“Um, Shane…?” he asked in a small voice. Madej paused.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He leaned back and stroked Ryan’s cheek. “Want me to stop?” The intense gaze had become impossibly gentle. Baby?! The word made his heart soar. Ryan shut his eyes too late to hide the few tears that slipped through. That’s embarrassing. Guess it’s my turn for a breakdown.

“Ryan!” Shane sounded horrified. He shuffled off to sit next to him on the bed. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you or something?”

“No, no it’s not that…” Ryan scooted back and tucked his head down to hug his knees. A protective position. The best way to protect oneself from a blow.

“I’m sorry, Ry…”

Ryan shook his head. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Shane sighed. “I did, actually. Repeatedly. But you kept believing in me anyways. Have I thanked you for that yet?”

Ryan blushed. “Not really…” Shane reached over to tilt his chin up.

“Thank you, Ryan,” he said sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” Ryan averted his gaze. “I guess, I just wanted to stop to say this isn’t just, um, sex to me. What I said back there, I meant it…”

“Me too…” Now both men were shy. “I really meant it. I’m not, uh, good at saying this kind of stuff, but-”

“I’m not surprised, dude, you didn’t even know how to give an apology.”

“Will you let me finish! Give me a minute… Okay, so like, the fact that you’re such an idealist and see the best in people and stuff seemed really stupid, like so naive…”

“Awww. Should I be writing these words down in case you want to make a poem out of it later?”

“Shut it, Bergara,” Shane muttered, “What I’m saying is, you were right! About DeAngelo, about Peterson, about me, about everything. I don’t know how you do it. You are so intelligent, Ryan, and perceptive, and warm... I want to see the world the way you see it. I want to be the man you think I can be, for you... After everything, you just deserve to be so happy, and I want to make sure that happens.”

“Shane…”

“So it comes down to this: I love you, Ryan Steven Bergara. Really, I’m ridiculously in love with you. I’m so fucked. It’s absurd, because now I have to stick with you forever, because someone’s gotta protect you. You are too good for this damn world. Also, someone’s gotta buy you a decent phone and better clothes.”

Miraculously, the sun began to shine through the mist. Soft, golden light percolated through dancing leaves, setting the forest floor aglow and illuminating the haze.

“Always gotta close with an insult, huh?” Ryan teased. “I love you too, jackass.”

“Where’s my speech?!” Shane whined.

“You don’t get one, ‘cause you still kinda suck. But I do like the idea of you being my sugar daddy…” Shane chuckled and pulled him into his chest.

“I was thinking more like husband.”

“Married?!”

“Well, fake married. We’d need new social security numbers, and it’d be better to wait until we’re declared legally dead in absentia. I believe the time frame is seven years. Also, did you see how short that missing notice said you are??”

“I’M FIVE TEN! And are you seriously going to bypass the fact that you just proposed to me?”

“What about it, baby?” Shane asked seductively, “Want to become C.C. McClintock? Or I could even be Banjo Tinsley…”

“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan groaned.

“Okay, I’ll be quiet. Now can I please fuck you?”

“Since you asked nicely…” Ryan climbed on Shane’s lap. Although he was most certainly, definitely 5’10”, he enjoyed how small Shane made him feel. The bigger man’s body was like his own personal sanctuary he could retreat into.

Shane manhandled him onto his back. Ryan laughed breathlessly. “You just have to be on top, huh?”

“Obviously,” Shane smirked. “Now let me take care of you.” He kissed down Ryan’s chest as he opened his shirt, leaving scorching marks with each unbutton. He paused when he started to take off Ryan’s jeans. “This okay?”

“More than okay.” Shane smiled and dragged off Ryan’s pants and boxers before leaning back to shrug off his own clothing. He lowered down to lick a stripe up Ryan’s needy cock.

“Ugh. Please don’t tease me. Haven’t I been through enough?!” Shane pretended to consider it for a moment.

“You’re right.” Then he relaxed his throat to swallow him whole. His pointed nose nestled into Ryan’s neatly trimmed public hair.

“Whoa, fuck!” Apparently trial wasn’t the only time Shane got off on catching him off guard. Ryan pressed down to hold him still for a moment, if only to stop himself from coming right then and there. He thrust into the inviting heat out of his own accord. Shane pulled off with an obscene pop, a string of drool connecting his mouth to Ryan’s dick.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You wanna fuck my mouth, baby?” Shane purred. “Go ahead. I’m yours to use.” He sank back down without breaking eye contact. Where on earth did this man come from?!

Ryan clutched Shane’s silky hair, slowly fucking his throat. The muffled gagging was so satisfying. Ryan remembered all the times he would’ve thrown someone down a set of stairs to shut his opponent up exactly like this. The duo couldn't seem to decide whether they liked sex rough or gentle, much like their relationship.

Shane took it like a champ, moaning like Ryan was doing him a favor. His hands braced himself under Ryan’s cheeks, fingers spread wide. One slipped into his entrance, already warm and slick. It made sense that Ryan didn’t notice Shane grabbing some lube. Moth man could be twerking outside the window and he wouldn’t know.

Shane’s shining eyes glanced up. Seeking permission.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Ryan petted his hair like a particularly well behaved dog, “That’s okay. Keep going.” Shane continued giving him the most mind blowing blowjob of his life while squeezing more fingers into his ass, loosening him up. Ryan usually didn’t enjoy this part of sex; it was more of a means to an end. But Shane taking him apart piece by piece was sexy. Ryan grew more aroused no matter how he moved; if he arched up, it was into velvety heat. If he pressed down, he was fucking himself on Shane’s fingers.

“Stop, stop…” he moaned finally. He tugged Shane off. “I’m not going to last like that. I’m ready.” Shane crawled forward for a deep kiss before flipping him on his stomach. He pulled Ryan’s hips back with a firm grip. Ryan felt the head of his dick bump his entrance.

“This position alright?”

“Yeah,” Ryan got out, a little strained. Shane pressed down, but Ryan was tense. He was loosened enough to where Shane could force his way in. He didn’t. Instead, he prompted Ryan to turn over.

“Doing okay, baby?”

“Yeah… it’s just been a while.” Shane blushed.

“Me, too. We’ll do this together, okay? I’ll go slow. Tell me if you want me to stop.” Ryan nodded, sweeping some loose hair away from Shane’s lashes. Ryan took a deep breath and willed himself to relax. He wound his arms around Shane's neck. He spread his knees and they realigned themselves. Shane pressed in gently.

This position was much easier. He eased his way in, whispering words of encouragement: “Doing so good, baby. Taking my cock so well. God, you’re beautiful.”

Shane entered Ryan steadily, carefully watching for any signs of pain. Ryan appreciated the patience; the other man’s strained expression suggested it wasn’t easy.

”Breathe, Ryan. Just keep breathing, I’ve got you...” Ryan distantly remembered the two times this man had saved his life: back in that dark alley and in the Los Angeles National Forest, his hand on Ryan’s like a vice as they quite literally ran for their lives. Shane had shoved him into his car before getting in himself in the nick of time.

“Hey...” Shane caressed the side of his face, “Stay with me, Ry. I’m right here.” Ryan looked back into soft eyes, an affectionate gaze. He smiled and reached up to squeeze Shane’s hand on his face. Ryan’s going to need this man to be right here forever, basically.

Shane was almost seated. Ryan had never taken a cock so big; it was a foreign feeling. Could he even do it? He tensed again. Shane held still.

“Shhh, baby it’s okay. Let me in. I won’t hurt you. I’m never going to hurt you again, I promise. I love you so much. I want to make you feel so good.” The comforting words melted him. Ryan relaxed. Shane slid the rest of the way in, hips flush with Ryan’s ass. “There. You did it, baby.”

Ryan took a deep breath, feeling Shane’s dick throb and pulse inside him. “Just don’t move for a minute, okay?” Shane kissed his forehead.

“I won’t.” Ryan breathed deeper and began enjoying the sensation. It was so warm. They were absolutely, intimately connected. He could feel Shane’s heart pounding against his. He was safe here. He wound his arms around Shane tighter and nuzzled into his neck. Shane chuckled softly.

”You’re so cuddly. I don’t know how I thought I could’ve ever resisted you.” Ryan blushed.

“Okay.”

“You sure?” Ryan nodded. Shane shifted. One small, experimental movement. It was overpowering. Shane panted, chest heaving in and out. Ryan moaned brokenly. His nails raked down Shane’s back. “This isn’t going to last long...” Shane murmured apologetically into his neck.

“No,” Ryan gasped in agreement. He was nearly coming already. “That’s okay. Keep going.”

Shane was gentle. Shane was slow. Shane lasted about 30 seconds. But he did manage to find Ryan’s prostate. Ryan realized the expression of “seeing stars” was more literal than he thought. A meteor shower sparkled over the treelike. Shane reached down and pumped Ryan’s cock as he came, warmth blooming up inside him. Ryan spurted over their bodies. They chanted each other's names as the flames flickered. With one last thrust, the fire died out completely. In the back of his mind, Ryan remembered learning that as destructive as wildfires are, they actually pave the way for rebirth. Ryan imagined falling in love as laying with Shane in a forest, gazing in each other’s eyes as saplings rose into mighty redwoods around them.

They remained where they were for a moment. “I fucking love you,” Shane sighed.

With a goofy grin, Ryan offered his hand for a high five.

“Nevermind.”

They laughed, sleepily. The boys were out within minutes, with Ryan tucked into Shane’s body. Shane squeezed him close like Ryan had held his paddington bear throughout his childhood and maybe a little into adulthood. Ryan closed his eyes.

“Up for round two, Banjo?”

“No, no, no. Don’t you dare call me Banjo in bed.”

“You don’t want to call me C.C.?!”

“No!!!”

“Ooooh, how about instead of spies, we do some gangster role play. You’ll go by ‘Legs’ obviously. And me…”

“You’re Night-Night.”

“What?!” Ryan sputtered, before throwing his head back and laughing, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s what’s gonna happen to you if you try calling me Banjo. You’re gonna go night-night.”

“So, that’s a yes to ‘Legs’ then?”

“Shut up!” Shane growled.

“Why don’t you get up and make me?” Ryan smirked.

“Okay.”