Work Text:
333: Variations On A Theme
Demi:
I dream in music and I wake up with earworms every morning. This morning, it was the bird’s theme from Peter and the Wolf. Fortunately, I don’t mind Prokofiev.
I hummed Peter’s theme as I brushed my hair, the hunters’ theme as I got dressed, and the whole symphony joined me for breakfast.
The bus wasn’t running late, and I got to work on time. My boss, Agent Henrietta “Henry” Marchen, brought donuts, including some gluten-free ones for me. I even got to the special ones before Sloane ate them all just to be a jerk. A good start to the day.
The day stayed good until about 10:30, when dispatch reported a probable 333 in progress at a shopping center in a suburb. That’s a Little Red Riding Hood. I’ve read reports on those, and they get really messy.
The site of our mimetic incursion was a bakery next to a florist. The police were on scene. I recognized Officer Troy, talking to a distraught forty-something woman.
“…And when I came back from the bathroom and Mrs. Mantilla was gone,” the woman finished explaining.
Officer Troy saw us coming and swore. He walked over to us. “Marchen, are you sure this is one of yours?”
“Yes,” said Sloane.
“The girl was wearing a red hoodie and stopped in the florist’s on the way to the bakery. It’s our case,” said Henry.
“Wonderful. Good luck. No one saw either the girl or her grandmother get snatched. Your perp is a sneaky fucker,” he told Henry.
“Oh, goodie,” she said. “Thanks for the info.”
Henry directed Andy to interview the distraught woman, who turned out to be Gloria Mantilla’s nurse. Jeff took charge of the physical evidence from the scene – a broken cell phone belonging to Rosa Mantilla, the granddaughter.
We interviewed the few witnesses. While no one saw Little Red and Grandma get abducted in broad daylight in the middle of a strip mall, a couple of people did remember seeing a jeep painted with a camouflage pattern leaving the scene in a hurry.
“What’s in that direction?” I asked, pointing down the street where the jeep had gone.
“Is it a forest? I bet it’s a fucking forest,” said Sloane.
Henry checked Google maps. “It’s a forest.”
Sloane looked down at her stompy platform goth boots. “Yeah, these’ll do for a hike.”
We met back at the van to plan our next move. Jeff had bought us all coffee while he’d been interviewing the bakery staff, because Jeff is a wonderful human being and definitely my favorite coworker.
“This guy knows how to abduct people. I think we’ve got a serial Big Bad,” said Andy.
“The same wolf can be involved in multiple 333s?” I asked.
“In a lot of variants, nobody rescues Little Red and Grandma. The wolf just eats them and gets away,” Jeff told me.
“Ever hear of Jeffrey Dahmer?” said Sloane.
“Holy shit,” I said. “We’ve got to stop this guy.”
“Yeah, we’ll get right on that. It’ll be easy to track a wolf through an actual forest and get to him before he eats Grandma and Little Red. Assuming he hasn’t eaten them already,” said Sloane, taking a gulp of her coffee.
She had a point. I pulled up Google maps on my own phone. It looked like an impossibly big forest. “So where do we start?” I asked.
“He’s likely to be really remote, so we can probably rule out the popular campsites…” Jeff started, looking at my phone. “We’ll need to pull in another field team, probably more than one.”
“I have an idea,” said Henry.
“What’s the idea?” asked Andy.
“Dr. Faelan.”
Sloane sprayed out the sip of coffee she’d just taken. Mostly onto my cream-colored shirt, because of course she did. “You are fucking crazy.”
Jeff’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no. Henry, no.”
“Who’s Dr. Faelan?” I asked.
“Dr. Conroy Faelan. He’s a Big Bad Wolf in abeyance,” Jeff explained to me.
“He’s also better than a cadaver dog, and we might be looking for bodies at this point,” said Andy. He was nodding along with Henry. “Plus, nobody is going to be better at finding our Little Red.”
“That sounds really, really risky,” I said. “What if he goes active?”
“We stop him,” Henry said. Like it was just that easy.
Wait. For me, it would be.
That old Disney song “Who’s Afraid Of The Big Bad Wolf?” started playing in my head. My fingers twitched over imaginary stops. Such a simple melody.
“He’s a person, right?” I said. “Not a talking animal with a college degree?” Not that it mattered. The song would work on either.
“Person,” said Jeff. “Medical Examiner.”
“Demi, you’re with me when we get back to the office. Andy, run this by the director. Jeff, see if you can get some good maps of the forest so we don’t get lost.” Henry assigned tasks as we piled back into the van.
Morgues are super, super creepy. There weren’t bodies laying everywhere, but just knowing they were present in their refrigerated drawers was enough. We didn’t see anybody living or dead in the room with the autopsy table, but I heard the steady clack of typewriter keys. We followed the sound of the typewriter to an office off to the side.
A wiry man in dark green scrubs with graying auburn hair and reading glasses sat behind the tidy desk working on a report of some kind.
“Agent Marchen,” he said without looking up. “Why are you in my morgue?”
“I need your help,” said my boss.
He looked up. His eyes were honest-to-God yellow. “With what? An autopsy?”
Henry explained.
He stopped typing. “I must have misheard you, Apples. I could have sworn you asked me to go out into the woods and find a little girl.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what we need you to do,” said Henry.
“I do crime scenes. Not search and rescue. Not anymore. Do you know what happened the last time I tried to do the exact thing that you want me to do?”
“I read your file,” Henry told him.
“Not carefully enough. Go away.” Dr. Faelan started typing again, the rhythm of the typewriter keys angry.
“You’re the best hope we have of finding this kid,” I told him.
“Have you tried Grandmother’s House?” The typewriter clacked away, not even pausing.
“Her grandmother lives in a nursing home in the city, and she’s also missing,” Henry told him.
The typewriter keys stopped. He looked up. “That’s unusual.”
“I know,” said Henry.
“You’re sure this is a 333?” he asked.
“Agent Winters thinks so,” said Henry.
“She has a good nose for the story,” he said, frowning. He glared at the report he’d been typing. “I hate that you’re right, Apples.” He took off his reading glasses and stood up. He was tall, definitely over six feet. “I need better shoes if I’m going hiking. I’ll be right back.”
He left, then came back a few minutes later in black dockers, hiking boots, and a blue flannel shirt. “I’m really going to regret this. Let’s go.”
We met up with Jeff, Sloane, and Andy in the parking lot by the van. In Sloane-land fishnet tights and platform boots are perfect for trekking through the woods. And in Henry-land, a suit and tie are ditto. My jeans, sneakers, nice blouse, hoodie combo was better than both of those ideas in my opinion.
Jeff had maps, which he passed out to everybody.
“Thanks, Keebler,” said Dr. Faelan.
I saw Jeff’s jaw tense as he gritted his teeth but didn’t say anything.
Sloane got in the doctor’s face. “Hey. Nobody mocks my team but me.”
“Ok, Elphaba.”
“Fuck with me, not with them, Dahmer Doggo.”
Dr. Faelan was tall enough to look Sloane in the eye, maybe a hair taller, even with her platform boots. A slow, crooked smile crossed his face. “You’re good at this game. All right. I’ll have you know I’ve never eaten anybody.”
“Yet,” said Sloane.
“Fair.”
“Did I just watch them fight for dominance?” I muttered to Andy.
“That’s what it looked like,” he muttered back.
Henry drove, because we needed to get there fast. Jeff sat in the passenger seat. In the middle, it was me and Dr. Faelan. It felt like sitting next to a well-trained wild animal, that hum of exhilaration and almost-fear, knowing that it could kill you but probably wouldn’t. Andy and Sloane sat in the back.
“I’m Demi,” I said.
“The Piper. I know,” said Dr. Faelan.
Well, this was going to be a long car ride, no matter how fast Henry drove.
“I go out with cleanup a lot,” explained Dr. Faelan. “I’m familiar with all the field teams.”
“Oh. Right. Medical Examiner,” I said.
“I like your team. You don’t make extra work for me. Fewer bodies.” He smiled. I think he was trying to be friendly and make me feel more comfortable, but that’s not what happened. His canine teeth were legitimately fangs.
“So, Dr. Faelan,” said Jeff. “What part of the woods do you think is most likely to be where our target is?”
Dr. Faelan studied the map. He pointed to a spot. “Here, or somewhere like it. Far enough away from the road that no one will hear them scream and close enough to carry someone who’s resisting.” A dispassionate analysis. He might be a wolf in abeyance, but it sounded like he’d gotten really close to becoming an active one.
“So, um…” I began. “How is this going to work? Do you turn into a wolf like Agent Remus does and we just follow you, or…?”
Dr. Faelan shook his head. “No. Slightly different tale type. I can be a bloodhound just as you see me.”
“That’s good,” said Henry. “It’s easier to communicate with a person.”
“Generally, yes,” Dr. Faelan agreed. “And I encourage you to do so frequently and profusely. It will help.”
“You’re fine,” sneered Sloane from the back seat. “This story already has a wolf.”
“Caution never hurt anybody. You’ll excuse me if I’m a little twitchy about 333s. Do you know how many times the Big Bad Wolf ends up on my slab?”
Probably a lot. In most 333 variations, the Huntsman slices the Wolf open or beheads him, sometimes filling him with stones. That’s not usually something people or wolves live through.
“Look, if he’s a serial killer, he’s a much better candidate for the role than you are,” Sloane said. Her tone of voice sounded almost reassuring.
“I hope you’re right,” he said.
“Better safe than sorry,” Jeff said from the front seat. “We’ll keep you talking if that’s what you want, and we won’t leave you alone for a second.”
“I appreciate that,” said Dr. Faelan.
Even though Henry drives like, well, Henry, the drive took forever. We took a bridge over the river, and now we wound through the woods on increasingly perilous country roads. Seriously. Whoever built these roads apparently never heard of guard rails.
“Dr. Faelan, can I ask you a question?” asked Andy.
“Another question, you mean?” said the doctor with a smirk.
“Why the morgue?” asked Andy, ignoring the quip. Working with Sloane gives us all lots of practice with that.
“Because if I give into temptation and eat my patients nobody dies.”
“Does that happen often? The temptation?”
Sloane burst out laughing. So did the doctor. Big, barking laughs straight from the belly. I snorted a little. It was a dumb question to ask the narrative personification of hunger, but I try not to laugh at my coworkers.
“Well, I guess that answers that,” said Andy, unperturbed.
“Oh, you sweet summer child,” said the doctor, wiping tears from his yellow eyes. Sloane was still doubled over in the backseat, cackling. “You’re not on the spectrum, are you?”
“No,” said Andy.
“Only every single Goddamn day,” said the doctor. “The story wants me to swallow the entire morgue whole.”
“Good to know,” said Andy.
It turned out that the van could get surprisingly far on half-eroded dirt roads. Eventually, Henry had to give up trying to get us any farther into the woods and parked.
“It’s on foot from here,” she told us.
We climbed out of the van, stretching a little after nearly an hour of rocketing into the wilderness.
Dr. Faelan sniffed the air and scanned the woods around us, getting his bearings, trying to scent the narrative. It’s still unsettling to watch a human being do that, no matter how many times I’ve watched Sloane at work.
“Which way?” Henry asked him.
“Hard to tell,” said Dr. Faelan. “That way… I think.” He pointed off to our right, where the woods looked darkest and thickest.
“We’ve got to split up,” said Sloane. “He’s fucking with my radar.”
“I second the motion. She’s messing with my nose big time. It’s like standing next to a giant block of marzipan.”
“You’re one of those people who can smell cyanide, aren’t you?” said Sloane. It seemed almost like she was…flirting?
“Yep. You smell like cyanide and sugar to me.” And he was…flirting back? Maybe?
“All right. Jeff, Andy, go with Sloane. Demi, Dr. Faelan, you’re with me. Everyone got their radios?”
We all had our radios.
We set off into the forest a few yards apart, heading in roughly the direction Dr. Faelan had pointed.
“Agent Santos,” he said to me in a low voice where Henry couldn’t hear.
“Demi.” It still felt weird to hear “Agent” in front of my name.
“Demi. Under no circumstances should you leave me alone with your boss. She smells like bacon and apple pie to me right now, and that is a bad sign.”
Yikes. “Ok. She’s a really good shot, you know.”
“Bullets don’t always stop wolves. A Piper will.”
My story liked that respect, that confidence. Of course I could stop him if I had to. I could make him do whatever I wanted. I have to be really careful about that feeling. I can’t trust anything that makes me feel confident and powerful. Ever.
Dr. Faelan moved through the forest like he’d been hunting there all his life, fluid and stealthy. It was hard to keep up.
He stopped, head up, eyes closed, sniffing.
“What is it?” asked Henry.
He opened his eyes. “Nothing. Deer carcass. Remind me to come back for it later – it’s fresh and I have a good recipe for venison sausage.”
“Ew,” I said.
Dr. Faelan shrugged. “Free meat. My grocery bill is insane.”
We hiked a little farther, fighting through a bramble thicket. Dr. Faelan stopped and sniffed the air again, every muscle tense. He turned to our left, still sniffing. “That’s it.”
“You’re sure?” asked Henry.
“I smell fresh baked cookies in a forest.”
I thought I heard a snippet of Peter and the Wolf coming from the same direction. “Weird,” I muttered.
“What’s weird?” asked Dr. Faelan.
“I thought I heard music,” I said.
“I didn’t hear anything,” said Henry.
“My ears are almost as good as my nose, and I didn’t hear anything either,” said Dr. Faelan. “You’re a Piper. I bet you hear what I smell.”
“I didn’t know you could hear the narrative,” said Henry.
“I didn’t either?” I said. “This is new?” Because getting weirder was exactly what I needed. Yay.
“We’ll figure that out later,” Henry told me, laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
We followed our noses/ears. I heard the music again, a little louder. “You guys really don’t hear that?” I asked.
“Nope,” said Henry.
“Not a thing,” said Dr. Faelan.
After about a hundred yards, Henry said, “I smell apples.”
“It’s still cookies for me,” said the doctor. “Chocolate chip with walnuts.”
All our various weird ass sensory inputs from the story led us in the same direction. We went through some more brambles and found a clearing with an abandoned log cabin in it.
“I think we found Grandma’s House,” said Henry.
“Something smells rotten,” said Dr. Faelan. “I don’t like this.”
“I also do not like this,” I said. I kept hearing the ghost of music, but it wasn’t the right music. It was like the pitch was off somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on just what was messed up.
“We check the perimeter for any ugly surprises, then we go in,” Henry told us. “You two go right, I’ll go left.”
We found the camouflage jeep and a dirt almost-road around the side of the decrepit house. Henry radioed the other group to tell them what we’d found.
“We’re already headed in that direction,” crackled Jeff’s voice over the radio waves.
All three of us made our way up the rotting steps to the porch. Dingy lace curtains over the mostly-unbroken windows blocked our view to the inside. The door was locked, or maybe just stuck when Henry tried the knob. It popped right open when Dr. Faelan turned it.
Inside, it smelled like mildew. It was full of dusty furniture and moth-eaten rag rugs, rustic and cozy once upon a time. Henry scanned nearby rooms with her flashlight, gun out and ready for trouble. My hands tightened around my flute, ready to bring it to our defense in a second.
Dr. Faelan stalked around the decaying living room, letting his sharp nose lead him. His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light.
I pushed some curtains to the side, letting in more light for those of us with totally human eyes. The curtains left my fingers feeling gritty. Dr. Faelan’s head snapped in my direction, like he’d forgotten we were there. The feral look on his face sent chills down my spine. That expression was all wolf. Then he blinked and the doctor was back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was drooling.
“They’re definitely here somewhere, I think in this room,” said Dr. Faelan. “Look for a trapdoor.” He dropped to his hands and knees, sniffing along the grimy hardwood. “Ah-ha. Help me move this rug.”
Henry and I helped Dr. Faelan tug the braided rug to the side. It used to be a kaleidoscope of bright colors, now mostly gray with dust. Sure enough, there was a heavy trap door underneath. Dr. Faelan grabbed the ring handle and hauled it open.
Underneath was a little root cellar and two women trussed up with duct tape over their mouths: Gloria and Rosa Mantilla. Henry clambered down the rickety ladder into the cellar and untied them, then helped them up the ladder. I helped them climb out of the cellar. Dr. Faelan stood off in the corner, trying not to get too close.
“Are you ok?” I asked him, going over to his corner.
“Not really,” he replied through gritted teeth. “It smells like a fucking buffet in here.”
Rosa, the Little Red, looked at us oddly.
“Just a little bit longer,” I reassured him.
We heard a door slam – a back or side door.
“Jeff?” Henry called out.
No reply.
“That’s our guy,” said Henry, gliding toward the sound with her gun drawn, motioning for me to check out the front door.
I couldn’t see anything from the porch, so I went down the front steps, careful to avoid falling through the most rotten ones, and looked around the side of the house. No side door. Nothing. My heart pounded like timpani drums. I looked around the other side, the side where we’d found the jeep. Also nothing. I checked behind the jeep. Still no bad guy.
Sloane, Jeff, and Andy crashed out of the woods and into the clearing.
“We found them, but the wolf is out here somewhere. Henry went out the back door,” I briefed everybody.
We heard a scream, then a yelp, and then a slamming door.
I realized what I’d done. I left a Big Bad Wolf - our Big Bad Wolf - alone with Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother.
The four of us pelted into the house, expecting carnage.
What we saw was…nothing. Nobody.
And then we walked around the side of the moldering sofa.
Dr. Faelan lay curled up on his side in the middle of a spreading pool of blood on the braided rug by the trap door. No Little Red. No Grandma. Bloody men’s boot prints leading towards the back door. Drag marks in the dust.
“Not… wolf,” whispered Dr. Faelan. He was still alive.
Jeff knelt by the doctor. “What was that?”
“He’s not the wolf,” repeated Dr. Faelan, louder, pained.
Sloane pelted out the back door. Andy had his cell phone out, calling in backup, calling in medical help.
“But it’s a 333. If he’s not the wolf, then what –“ Jeff started.
“Oh my God,” I blurted. “He’s the Huntsman.”
“Apples…” said Dr. Faelan.
“Henry’s alone in the woods with a huntsman!” cried Jeff, panic creeping in. He lurched to his feet.
Andy put his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Not alone. She’s got Sloane.”
“Go…” whispered Dr. Faelan. “Story’s over. He doesn’t need – hngh!”
“Andy,” said Jeff.
“Gotcha.” Andy left, following Sloane out the back door.
Jeff and I rolled Dr. Faelan onto his back so we could try to treat his injuries. And then I found out what it looks like when a living person has some of their intestines hanging out of a stab wound. I must be getting used to seeing horrible things, because I didn’t barf.
Jeff’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to keep them clean as he started first aid. I didn’t mention to him that he was already kneeling in blood. A lot of blood.
Dr. Faelan spasmed and coughed. Bright red blood spilled out of his mouth. “C-can’t breathe,” he gasped. “As…aspira…”
Jeff folded his jacket and placed it under Dr. Faelan’s head. “Better?” asked Jeff.
No answer.
“Dr. Faelan?” said Jeff. “Don’t you dare die, Dr. Faelan.”
I lifted my flute to my lips and started to play. Liquid is hard to pipe, but blood, especially fresh blood, is almost a living thing. It’s the easiest liquid for me to control, which says a lot of disturbing things about the Pied Piper story. I can put it back into a person and keep it there. Of course, if I can pipe it in, it stands to reason that I would be able to pipe it out if I wanted to. I hope I never want to.
“You’re…terrifying,” breathed Dr. Faelan. “Underestimated…” He trailed off.
“Hey, hey, don’t go away on me, Conroy,” Jeff said. “Focus. Tell me how to help.”
“Can’t. Too late.”
“Not if Demi has anything to say about it.”
“Anything…to play about it, you mean…”
Jeff laughed. “That’s right.”
A pun was a good sign, right? Maybe he’d be ok.
“Wonder who’s going t’ do the autopsy… Hope not Dave. Dave’s a butcher…”
“There’s not going to be an autopsy because you’re not going to die,” said Jeff sternly. “This is not going to be one of those variations.”
We heard the popping of gunfire from the woods. It sounded like Henry’s and Andy’s service weapons, too far away for us to have any impact on whatever was going down out there. I kept playing. Seconds seemed like hours. Thick, tense hours.
Henry burst in through the back door and rushed to Jeff’s side by Dr. Faelan. “What happened?”
“Was hiding in the kitchen. Couldn’t smell him… Only person I’d never be able to smell…” Dr. Faelan groaned. “Walked right into the story.”
“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” said Henry.
“Yes. Tell me you got him, at least,” said Dr. Faelan.
“We did. He’s dead. Hostages are safe,” she assured him. “Andy’s with them outside. Sloane’s double-checking the perimeter. Help is on the way.”
Sloane stomped inside. It’s kind of a miracle she didn’t stomp her way through the ancient floorboards. “Snow-bitch. Andy says the Director wants to talk to you.”
Henry sighed. “Keep it up Demi.” She patted me on the back and left the cabin.
Sloane crouched beside Dr. Faelan. “Hey.” His eyes were having a little trouble focusing on her face. “We killed that fucker.”
“Good… You were wrong, you know.” Dr. Faelan chuckled, a bubble of blood escaping from his lips.
“Sorry about that,” said Sloane, almost tenderly. “Just hang in there, Dahmer Doggo, ok?”
I can keep blood inside somebody, but it’s much harder to keep it inside blood vessels. I was so scared Dr. Faelan would die from internal bleeding before help could get to us. He dipped in and out of consciousness. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I ignored it. Couldn’t stop playing. Couldn’t miss a single note.
Finally, FINALLY the EMTs showed up. Their ambulance was able to get a lot closer to the abandoned cabin than our van. They started an IV, attached all sorts of things that go beep, and packed Dr. Faelan onto a gurney. I kept playing.
“She comes with,” said Dr. Faelan.
“There’s not really room,” said one of the EMTs.
“Flute’s why I’m not dead. ‘S a long drive,” said Dr. Faelan. He’s probably a nightmare to argue with, because that was a dangerous and authoritative tone of voice.
The EMTs didn’t argue. They let me come with them, crammed into the ambulance. It’s not easy to pipe in a moving vehicle, but I did it. They wouldn’t have been able to control the bleeding without me.
I didn’t realize where the ambulance was going until we drove off the road.
I paused in my piping. “You’re taking him to Childe?”
“That’s where the Bureau’s best medical facilities are.”
“That’s not why. They’re afraid he’s active now,” I said, my eyes narrowing. My inner piper felt betrayed and angry. It was ready to fight.
“Both…true,” said Dr. Faelan. I felt his hand on my elbow, clammy and cold. “S-sensible precaution.” His hand slipped away as he drifted out of consciousness again. Blood welled up under the EMTs’ hands, spilling through the bandages.
I started to play again, and I piped all the way to the operating room.
When I went to visit Dr. Faelan a week later, he was still in Childe, handcuffed to the bed.
“This isn’t fair,” I said. “This is wrong.”
“This is safe,” said Dr. Faelan. He didn’t sound in the least upset by the restraints. “They need to know if I’m still safe to be around, and frankly, so do -.”
He inhaled sharply and looked at the door.
“What?” I asked.
A nurse came in and started taking vital signs, changing the IV bags, that kind of thing.
“Do you like cookies?” Dr. Faelan asked me suddenly.
“Celiac disease. No cookies for me anymore,” I answered, a little puzzled.
“I know some recipes for gluten free cookies,” he said. “Snickerdoodles? Chocolate chip? Oatmeal raisin?”
“Chocolate chip. In elementary school, I would kill for chocolate chip cookies.”
“Sounds reasonable to me. Food allergies? Nuts? Eggs? You’re not vegan, are you?”
“No, no, and also no. Why?”
“Good. Good, good, good.” He nodded. He closed his eyes. He looked like he was in pain.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
“Not even a little bit. She’s an active 333.”
I looked at the nurse, who’d moved on to changing his bandages, and who was apparently a Little Red Riding Hood. “Oh my God. Are you serious? This is bullshit,” I said.
“This is a test,” said Dr. Faelan.
“This isn’t fair,” I said. “To either one of you guys.”
“That doesn’t make it less necessary,” said the nurse. The name on her nametag said Sylvia.
“Agreed,” said Dr. Faelan. “So, do you like nuts in your cookies?”
We talked about baked goods until the nurse finished changing Dr. Faelan’s bandages.
“You passed,” she said.
“No, I didn’t,” said Dr. Faelan. “If I ate you, I would bust my sutures and then Amelia would yell at me for ruining her handiwork.”
“I’ve met three other wolves in your situation, and they all tried to eat me,” said the nurse. “I think you’ll be fine. You’ve got good coping mechanisms and good impulse control.”
“You’re a psychiatrist,” he said.
“Among other things,” said the “nurse” with a jaunty smile. She left.
A few weeks later, Dr. Faelan showed up in the bullpen, followed by an intern holding small wicker baskets of baked goods. He looked paler and skinnier, but very much unimprisoned.
“I’ve been baking,” he said. He turned to the intern. “Pass out the baskets.”
The intern, who looked terrified of Dr. Faelan, complied. My basket contained two dozen gluten free chocolate chip cookies. Jeff had a dozen peanut butter cookies.
“Woah, these smell amazing,” said Jeff. He took a big bite out of one. “They taste amazing, too.”
The intern handed Sloane her basket and she started laughing. “Wow,” she said to the intern. “Somebody in HR hates you.”
“No. I asked to be transferred here,” said the intern. “Hi. I’m Erwin Everley.”
“Bricks is new. Started working in my morgue while my continued employment was still in question,” explained Dr. Faelan. “I wasn’t consulted. I would have said no.”
“Someone did a real straw house job there,” said Sloane, shaking her head. She looked in her basket. “Sourdough. Nice.”
“You seem like the sort of person who would appreciate a good sourdough,” Dr. Faelan told her. Definitely flirting. And Sloane was serving it right back to him. I’m not sure if the Bureau lets villains date each other, but you could cut the sexual tension with a bread knife.
Andy received a strawberry and rhubarb pie. “How did you know what my husband’s favorite pie is?”
Dr. Faelan smiled cryptically and did not answer the question even a little bit.
Henry’s basket held an apple strudel. She said, “I get the feeling that you’re mad at me.”
“Now, why would I be mad at you?” asked Dr. Faelan. “Come on, Bricks. We’ve got a lot to do, because somebody put Dave in charge while I was gone. Fucking Dave.”
He stalked off with that same silent grace that made following him through the woods difficult. The unfortunate intern scurried after.
“Hey, Jeff?” said Henry.
“Mmmf?” he said, mouth full of cookie.
“Next time I have a brilliant idea, please stop me. And somebody please take this strudel.”
The End