Work Text:
It's been about five hours since everything had gone down. Everything from the evidence to Elliot's rammed in car was done and dealt with.
Well- almost everything.
The thing is, there's so many legal issues in this case that Tim swears he's thiiiiiis close to snapping and murdering his own father too. He'd signed that contract, which means now, everybody has to go to court- which they were going to do anyway, but that's beside the point, because now it's about how Tim screwed himself instead of seeing what type of murder Rebecca commited-, and both Rebeca and Elliot were on a temporary hold in the system. Rebecca had been taken with the other officers to keep her safe from her brother( and to keep her in confinement if she turned out to be the one who committed the crime), and Elliot was put into the town's local jail cell in case he really wasn't the murderer, as the lab results would take at most, three weeks to come back and confirm everything.
Now, the two men sat inside of the Denbrook village police department, one behind bars, and the other fighting off sleep with an iron fist while trying desperately to clean up the paint that had been smothered all over the concrete floor.
Tim sits back on his legs, arm sore from scrubbing at the blue and yellow paint over and over again while simultaneously thinking about how Rebecca insisted that one of the lambs put it there. Honestly though, after everything that had happened, he won't be surprised if he finds out that it's true.
He resist the urge to look up at Elliot (or is it technically Peter now?) standing behind the steel. He hasn't moved in hours, preferring to glare daggers into the back of Tim's head. It's enough to make Tim uneasy, if he lets it. It's why he's been scrubbing at the floor til he couldn't remember what the clock looked like last time he checked.
In sitting back, Tim knocks his head on the desk from sheer clumsiness. Even if he'd become a much better officer over the past week, there's never anything he can do about how much of a klutz he is. One of his hands quickly checks the back of his head, coming back bare, then goes to the floor to pick up what'd dropped down after his action.
It turns out to be a piece of evidence from the case, one of the photos Elliot took of George's dead body when he was discovered that morning. The photo was taken quite unfortunately for Elliot, as George's right hand was directly in view. Tim raises his eyebrows and risks a glance up at Elliot, whose hands are gripped so tightly to the metal bars that they're turning white.
"You know," he begins, his voice shaking from fear at how Elliot is staring at him, "it was kind of foolish of you to take pictures with the evidence right in plain sight."
He receives a shift in Elliot's glare. It only takes a moment, but Elliot slowly nods, as if he'd told himself that exact thing so many times in the past few hours. There's another few moments of silence, but this time, Elliot talks. "Very foolish of me indeed." Tim can't help but notice the mix in accents after Elliot finally speaks up after his silence. Right. Elliot grew up in Africa, so he has an African accent. It must just be the several days of faking a British one that caused the slight mixup. Either way, accent or not, Elliot must know he's done in, because he's just outright admitted to the murder right then and there.
Tim risks a few steps closer to the bars now that Elliot isn't staring at him with a deathly glare. He can tell just how interested Elliot is in him right that moment, and to be honest, he is too. Finding out that his brain was capable of doing any detective work in the slightest was the kind of revelation he needs more than a few days to recover from. The kind that sort of maybe changed his whole life and the trajectory of it as well.
Elliot speaks up once more, slightly spooking Tim. "Does my hair really look that fake? Didn't think it was so obvious" Tim takes a moment to tell himself to remember everything Elliot says, then nods back at him. He has to consciously remind himself to stay away from the man he'd spent so much time with in the past few days, because there was a very real possibility that Elliot's sudden talkativeness was a ploy to get Tim close enough to the bars that he could reach through and smash his head into them til it cracked open. It sort of... pains him? He isn't sure why.
The feeling sits heavy in his chest. He doesn't like it one bit, so he changed the subject to one that's relevant. "You were the one who kind of inspired me to actually act like an officer. You remember that? Telling me I'd 'be a hero' and all?"
Elliot's eyes stray to the side only for a brief moment, but Tim still catches it nonetheless. His face hardens again, and he nearly sneers. "I guess I was my own undoing. I made you too competent, too motivated. Beginner's luck, I say."
Tim has to force himself to retreat back to his desk as Elliot gets aggressive again. His heart begins to race as he sets the photo back down in its place on the tabletop, his hands shaking. Elliot's gone back to looking through his face and into his skull as if he wants to murder Tim as well, this time in a cold, frenzied outrage that can only result in blood gushing out from any and every place Tim can imagine.
The feeling begins to ache even more. Tim can't help his confusion. It hurts so bad, why does it hurt so bad? Why does the knowledge of where Elliot will be going after this bother Tim so much?
And why does he kind of want Elliot to bash his head in?