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He should have been a bad cop. Every single day of his life for the past few months, David Tapp has wished that, for once, he’d have made the choice to pull the trigger. That he’d have just shot Jigsaw when he had the chance, instead of trying to bring him to justice. Instead of letting him get away. If he’d just killed him, or even just got him in the leg, Sing would still be here. If he’d just shot the bastard, he wouldn’t have been able to get away, wouldn’t still be parading around that hospital pretending to be cheating on his wife.
“Lying through his perfect teeth, wasn’t he, Sing?” Tapp mutters, going over his newspaper clippings for the third time that afternoon, and the umpteenth time since he’d lost his position on the force. “Didn’t believe that alibi for a second. She could be his accomplice, right Sing?” He looks over at Sing, who’s leaning against the wall. No, that’s not him, Sing is dead. He saw his body. His blood.
“You need to sleep,” says Not Sing, and Tapp waves his hand at him impatiently, forgetting to doubt his existence. He paces back over to his desk, too restless to stand still. He can't rest. If he rests he'll miss something, some vital detail, the key to finally catching Lawrence Gordon. Jigsaw. He'll fail. He'll fail Sing again.
“No, no, I have to, I’ve gotta stay vigilant!” He smacks his hand down on the desk, making the collection of empty to-go coffee cups jump and knock together. “I’m gonna catch him, gonna make him pay. For you, Sing. For us.”
“You know I would rather you take care of yourself,” Not Sing says, disapprovingly. “You’re just going to get yourself killed.” Tapp shakes his head vehemently, spreading papers across his desk, looking through them again, his eyes frantic.
“You’re not really here,” he says, voice cracking. “You’re not here. You’re not here.” Not Sing doesn’t say anything this time, and when Tapp looks over, the hallucination is gone. “Good riddance,” he grumbles, but he’s already missing the sound of his voice, the reassurance his face brings. God, he misses Steven. Misses his jokes, misses his laugh, misses how he always made sure to check up on him after every case. Misses how he always knew when he needed to pull his partner back from the brink of obsession.
He should have told him how much his friendship meant to him. How much he appreciated him, how much he- Tapp shakes his head again, still unable to bring himself to think the words, even now. Even after everything.
About a year after Sing had first joined the force, he’d had to take a life for the first time. The perp had a gun, not aimed at Sing, or even Tapp, but a child, and was threatening to kill him if they didn’t back off. The guy looked completely unhinged, sweating and spit flying from him mouth whenever he yelled for them to fuck off. Tapp had been thinking as fast as he could, trying his best to piece together a plan that didn’t end in bloodshed, or at least in as little as possible. There was only one plan he could think of in the moment, one that required absolute trust in his partner. He’d met Sing’s determined gaze and knew that he could be trusted to do what needed to be done.
When Tapp sprinted towards the space between the kid and the gunman, two shots rang out in the room, and there was an explosion of pain across his upper arm as a bullet grazed his skin. The man with the gun crumpled to the floor, and it was over. Well, the worst part was over. After all the paperwork was filed and the kid was delivered to his mother, after the dust had settled, Sing had asked to be taken home. Tapp had driven him back to his apartment in silence, and at his partner’s request, had come inside. Not two seconds after Sing had sat down on his couch, he’d dropped his head into his hands and sobbed.
When Tapp had gingerly sat down next to him, Sing had grabbed him by his coat and buried his face into his chest, hot tears staining the front of Tapp’s shirt. With only a moment’s hesitation, Tapp had wrapped his arms around the man and held him until no more tears would come. Afterward, they’d talked about it. He didn’t tell him he was proud of him, or that he’d get used to it. He’d apologized for making Sing have to pull the trigger, that he’d given him no choice. He told him he was thankful for his actions, how they’d saved an innocent life, but that the guilt wasn’t on Sing’s shoulders alone. It was a burden they would carry together.
Sing brought out some kind of cheap beer, and they talked of other things. Sports teams, office drama. That new, incredibly inaccurate cop show. Horse races, and whether or not pigs could look up. Just the two of them, passing the time and distracting each other from thinking about the events of the day for a little while. Empty beer cans gathered together on Sing’s coffee table like pigeons in the park.
The talking stopped about the time Sing leaned up to gently put his lips against Tapp’s, cheeks still streaked with damp tracks left by his regret. Tapp had frozen in place, looking down at the anxious face of his partner, finding both fear and hope there. Dozens of thoughts had tried to fight to the surface of his mind, but when Tapp leaned down to kiss him back, they all faded. Sing tasted like beer and salt and he didn’t even care as he eased him down onto the couch cushions.
When Sing woke up the next morning, Tapp was gone. They never talked about it again, at least not directly. It was in the way they guarded each other, looked after each other, trusted each other. It was in the way they sometimes spent the night at Tapp’s, or Sing’s, sometimes sharing a bed and sometimes not. It wasn’t something they ever really defined, and now it was something they never could.
“I'm sorry, Steven,” Tapp sighs, clutching his stomach as he bleeds out from the gunshot wound Zep has given him. Tapp has so many regrets, so many things he wishes he could have done, a laundry list of things he wanted to do before he died.
“I told you that you were going to get yourself killed,” says Sing, crouching down beside him. Tapp looks up at him, eyes watering, chin trembling as he finally lets himself sob. “Shhh, it’s going to be ok.” He places a hand on Tapp’s, just over the wound. Tapp knows he’s not really there, but the touch feels so real, so like it would have, that he can’t help but put his other hand over it.
“I should have told you,” he says, blood bubbling up in his throat, and he coughs wetly. “I should have told you how much you meant to me. How I really- how I-” the coughing turns violent, red splattering the ground around him. Sing smiles sadly at him and puts a hand on his cheek.
“I knew,” he says. “I love you, too.” He leans down and kisses Tapp, who sighs out, closing his eyes. When the last of the breath leaves his lungs, they are both gone.