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“I made dinner,” Abby called out from the kitchen. David snorted. If Abby was the one cooking, it was either cupcakes, cherry pie, cookies, or some form of charred vegetables with a dash of raw meat. She was no good at dinners: he usually spent his time on the weekends cooking and freezing savoury meals whilst poring over cases and paperwork.
“You ordered in?” He dropped his bag on the hook, his coat on the radiator and a kiss on her cheek. She poked him with the spatula in retaliation.
They ate quietly. The radio was on in the background but he found that he didn’t mind the white noise. He’d spent the past week in his head and he was glad to reach Friday: he was always glad to reach Friday. Police work wasn’t kind.
They spent the rest of the evening on the couch, watching something inane. Abby was an incredibly light sleeper but David always dropped off, falling asleep on her shoulder. It helped that he’d already seen whatever film was on, and that it wasn’t very good.
“David,” she whispered, some indeterminable time later. “David, your phone’s ringing.”
“Shut it off,” he grunted.
“It’s Andrew,” Abby insisted.
David sat up and snatched the phone from her hand, shoving it to his ear. “What have you done, Minyard?”
“Ye of little faith, old man. It’s not even midnight: doesn’t all hell break loose when the clock strikes twelve?”
“You are not funny,” he told the detective.
“I’m a paragon of comedy,” Andrew insisted. “This is irrelevant. I’m calling to say I’m taking the week off.”
“You can’t just take the week off.”
“Call it a family emergency.” He did sound rather on edge, David supposed. “Yes, I do have family, Cap’n.”
“I recall a cousin and a brother. Someone kicking up dust?”
Andrew hesitated. “Not quite.”
“You need to give me a little context.”
He huffed out a sigh. “Fine. My husband’s been shot. I need to stay home and look after him.” In the background, David heard someone complaining along the lines of I’m fine. Andrew shushed him.
“Sorry to hear that, Minyard.”
“Yeah, well. If he keeps insisting that he’s fine, I might just shoot him again. See you next week.”
Again? Wymack mouthed, because he knew damn well that Abby was listening. Her eyes were appropriately wide. “Bye, Minyard.”
The dial-tone beeped at him: he threw his phone onto the counter.
“And I thought our marriage was tough,” Abby snarked. When David glared, she just laughed.
*
It was late, Monday evening, when David remembered to write up Minyard’s leave paperwork. From his files he withdrew Andrew’s, (of which was a little thicker than the others - brilliant cop, bad attitude, lots of altercations) and set it down atop of his already chaotic desk.
Flicking through, he landed on the newest page, towards the back. It was a resubmission of personal details, but there was only one difference. Spouse, y/n? Yes: Neil Abram Hatford.
Wymack leaned back in his chair. Fucking hell, Minyard.
Of course the name was familiar to Wymack: the Hatfords were federal prosecutors in the UK, a flashy front for another renowned crime dynasty. Wymack remembered when he and Kayleigh had worked tirelessly against them to no avail. They were no longer as active as they had once been, which meant only older Irish and British detectives would recall their prevalence.
It was no wonder that Andrew was becoming one of the most infamous detectives, focussing on gang and group violence and criminal families. He’d fucking married into one.
But why the hell was a Hatford in Baltimore?
Wymack sighed and filled out the paperwork rather than overthinking it. He’d leave it up to Minyard: he seemed to know what he was doing. Not that he’d listen otherwise.
He shook his head, sealing up the envelope to be sent in to HR and packing up his bag.
The phone on his desk rang. Wymack shoved it under his ear. “I’m coming home now, honey.”
“Good on you, sweetheart,” Minyard responded. Wymack huffed. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“How did you - ?”
“I’m a good cop,” Andrew said, sounding bored to death. “Don’t,” he insisted, hanging up.
Wymack simply rolled his eyes.