Chapter Text
Sitting on the edge of the chilled window trim, Max stares outside, letting his breath fog up the glass. He catches sight of litter left behind by joggers and street-goers. Despite the pile of discarded to-go boxes and paper ads, the crosswalk is deserted.
Time crawls along, testing the rabbit’s dwindling patience. The world around him blurs, the sound of Sam speaking on the phone distant in his mind. Nothing holds his interest, yet he can’t help but be distracted by the empty cityscape.
‘We’ve had an influx of...violent happenings.” The commissioner phoned the agency not two minutes ago, to which Sam more than eagerly answered. Max hadn’t even bothered to lift his head.
Sam scribbles notes on a pad. “Interesting,” he hums to the other voice on the line. After all, it is just that - interesting. It piqued his curiosity because most of their cases don’t involve criminals. At least not gun-wielding, unpredictable -
‘Murders, to be precise.’
- criminals.
Both parties on the line fall silent, which alerts the lagomorph sitting idle, head resting in paws. At last, something grabs his attention. He lifts his head up, staring at the back of his partner. It’s not often Sam goes silent.
Sam sits himself down at his desk, eyes wide. The seat groans and rocks with the added weight. ‘No kidding?’ he thinks to himself. He rubs at his temple, asking what he already knows. “What type of killer we talkin’ here?” (Is there a good kind?)
A beat passes as if he was thinking whether or not he should tell him. At last, the truth comes out: ‘Goes after the vulnerable, the open. Mainly, prostitutes. Women walking alone at night. We’ve found three cold bodies in the past month.”
Damn. Sam scoffs, despite himself. The insanity of it all. Why trust them to find the murderer? I mean, hell, the guy should be honored that he entrusts them to deal with any precarious criminal. But they aren’t exactly experienced in the field, to say the least.
Before Sam can ask, the commissioner answers for him: ‘You aren’t my first call, no offense.’
‘None taken,’ Sam thinks.
‘I got several of my guys on the case. Hell, I got three psychologists studyin’ the guy’s past behavior alone based on the stab wounds. Angry fellow. Takes his anger out on them. From what I can tell, doesn’t feel any psychological consequences.’ He breaks to exhale a sigh. ‘I figured I’d let you in on it too. Who knows, maybe you’ll be the ones that’ll catch the perp once and for all. Stranger things have happened. Anyhow, I’ll fax the details.” He hangs up his line, clearly not expecting much to come up from this. Obviously, he had to be desperate to reach out in the first place, not to mention busy with the onslaught of murders.
“What was that all about, Sam?” Max asks, letting his legs flop down to the floor. He walks over to the desk, lifting on his tippy-toes to read the notes he scribbled. “Sounded awfully important.”
Placing the handset onto the base, Sam replies, “Could be somethin,’ could be nothin.’ But what it is is a real opportunity.” He turns in his swivel chair, facing the small rabbit with keen eyes. “I know we’ve only dealt with small guppies, but the commissioner just threw a bone. Don’t-” he ends, finger in the air when Max opens his mouth, knowing what cheap jokes were to come. “It’s finally time to get our asses off the bleachers.”
Max closes his mouth, thinks, then opens it again. Only this time the ring of the fax machine interrupts him rather than the six-foot dog. Sam stands, walking around him to retrieve the paper before it falls to the ground, reading over the assignment - careful not to smear the fresh ink with his paws. Staring him in the face is a crude sketch of a man with a sharp chin, a glowing smile. Subconsciously, the fine hairs on his fur raise knowing he’s looking into the eyes of a killer, the paper being the only shield between.
The description came from a survivor, who managed to leave a large gash on his forehead from her car keys. Good for her, he thinks.
Age: 25-30
Height: ~6’0”
Weight: ~220
Average. In a sea of strangers, this guy wouldn’t stand out like a needle in a haystack, which is what they need. No wonder they’re having tough luck catching him. The only thing that stands out is a tattoo, apparently, a falcon on his upper left arm. Not much to go by, that’s for sure.
On the next page is what the criminal psychologists have come up with so far. Which is much the same - vague. A copy-paste of killers who go after vulnerable women in the same sense. The final page is a description of a car that the victim saw speeding off and a list of everyone in the city that has the type of car in their name. Luckily, it’s a relatively new model, so it could be much worse.
“What makes em’ think he’s here in New York? I would’ve gotten a one-way ticket to Canada and never looked back.” Max asks, tugging at Sam’s pants. Which his partner learned that he wants to see whatever is in his hands. Almost like a toddler would, although he would be killed if he said such a thing.
Sam hands the paper to Max, shoving his hands in his pockets afterward. “All three killings have been here in our old scruffy city. Probably doesn’t think he has anything to hide from. Doesn’t think he did anything wrong.”
“What?” Max grows bored of the paperwork three lines in, flinging it to the air to be forgotten amongst the other mountains of paper lining the stained floor. “Hell, even I know murder is wrong.”
Sam sighs, “Victims were prostitutes, you know the type. Think they’re above em.’”
“Oh, that just boils my blood, Sam! Wait till I get my claws on him, I’ll rip him to shreds!” To demonstrate, he brings his claws out and lashes at the air.
“Heh, no doubt about it, little buddy. But, uh,” he pauses, looking aside, suddenly nervous, “in all seriousness, this could...help.” He cringes, not the right wording he was seeking here. “I mean, uh, put our foot in the door, so to speak.”
Serious? When did Sam ever use that word? “Whaddya’ mean, Sam?” He tilts his head, one ear flopping to the side, his paws still mid-air.
Awfully cute...Sam shakes his head, refusing his mind to wander where it often does. “Could help us keep the lights on, ya’ know? Only been in this freelance gig for so long, could give us some new clients. Which we, uh,” he pauses to rub the back of his neck, “we need.”
Max’s ears fall. “Sammy…?” he hesitates.
Shit. Sam swallows - Max never uses that name unless he’s in trouble, or the little guy is feeling particularly soft. It seems that fate favors the first option this time around.
“Is there something you’re keeping from me?” he asks softly, hurt dripping from his tone. It’s no secret Sam still thinks of Max as a child, one of which he needs to keep certain things from, to prevent needless worry.
Sam quickly averts his gaze from the beady brown eyes, knowing full well the spell he’d be under if he looked directly into them. “‘Course not, little buddy. And don’t look at me like that,” he chuckles, ruffling the fur on top of Max’s head. “Nothin’ for your little melon head to worry about.” Max’s worried expression lifts just like that, a smile returning in a matter of seconds. He leans into the touch, holding onto Sam’s forearm to keep him there.
“Awe, I think I get it, big guy. You wanna impress ‘em with your big guns. But, uh, keep this between you and me but I think you’re mighty impressive as it is.” Max winks, which leaves Sam choking on air.
“If you say so,” Sam mutters, pulling slightly on his collar with his free hand, the other still gripped by his smaller pal. He coughs into the air, “Whaddya say we get a head start?”
“Really? As in right now?” Max asks although Sam moves to put on his coat, answering the question for him. “Don’t they have, like, the entire city in this case?”
“Exactly why we need to get a head start!” With vigor, Sam lifts Max into the air, seemingly growing impatient.
“You’re awfully ‘cited bout’ a murder, Sam.” Max wipes some stray fur off of his shoulders while speaking. “Think somebody’s been watchin’ too many true crimes shows lately…”
“Me?” Sam laughs, poking at his twitching pink nose - which earns another giggle. “Nah, I’m just excited about us having a case. Bout’ damn time.” He pivots toward the door, Max having to dig his claws into his coat to hold on.
“If you say so…” Max mutters, swallowing the doubt. It’s too early to think the worst. But if he’d learn anything from the past, it’s that Sam can get carried away real fast.
They go about the day seeing familiar faces, people they see on a monthly, if not weekly basis. Without much else to go by, what other option do they have? The crime in itself is under a sort of gag order, presumingly so the local enforcement doesn’t look ill-equipped. Killings aren’t uncommon in these parts, however, serial killings are.
All they can ask is simple: Have you seen this man? When the man looks similar to just about every other person in their apartment complex, the answers can be clouded, to say the least.
As they exit their tenth building of the day, the sun has long begun its descent into the darkness. The shadows behind them lengthen, the street encompassing a hazy orange hue, spilling into twilight.
Sam’s stomach begged to be noticed, growling loudly into the evening. “I think I may have gotten sidetracked with the case and all.”
“You think? My feet can’t take another step,” Max groans, leaning into Sam’s side.
“Awe, buddy,” Sam chuckles, his heart twitching. “C’mere lemme’ carry you.” Without any argument, Max allows himself to be hoisted into Sam’s arms, carried like a limp teddy bear. It’s second nature, to lift and be lifted. “That better?” Max nods against Sam’s shoulder, wrapping his hands around Sam’s neck lazily.
The area of the city they ended up in is decent, compared to the sketchy alleyways where their office resides. So when Sam continues walking down the desolate sidewalk, the Thursday traffic slowing considerably since rush hour, he doesn’t think twice when he sees a neon sign. It isn’t the name he worries about, just focusing on Bar and Grill.
“Could you go for some overpriced drinks and greasy burgers, pal?” Sam asks, not too sure if Max had already dozed off in his arms.
“Sure Sam,” he mutters, removing one hand around Sam’s neck to rub at his eyes.
They walk in. At the bar sits three men, sitting with an empty chair each beside them. Above the bar is a line of TVs with the weather playing - mustn’t be any sports on during this hour (or season). They grab a booth away from the other patrons, Sam carefully sitting down his sleepy partner across from him.
“What are you in the mood for?” Sam asks, grabbing a menu sitting on top of the napkin dispenser. “Thinkin’ of a burger myself, can’t go wrong with that.”
“That sn’ fine,” Max slurs, eyes barely able to stay open.
Sam lowers the menu from his gaze, eyeing the rabbit across from him. Awfully cute, can’t even keep his eyes open. Should just hold him, really. Poor thing must be cold, too. Gotta’ get somethin’ in him, though. Hasn’t eaten all -
“Sorry, just me tonight.” The bartender comes up to them, removing a small notepad from his apron. “Well, aside from the cook.” He clicks his pen.
“Ah.” Sam flushes, interrupted from his daydreams. “Just, uh, a regular burger. Medium-rare. And, uh.” He quickly looks at Max, hoping to get some sort of answer.
“S’ salad,” he slurs.
“Oh! And a, uh, side salad? Or small? Which was it, little buddy?” Sam can feel his face growing hot, luckily for him, it seems that Max’s mind is elsewhere at the moment than to tease him for it.
Apparently, it doesn’t make a difference to the bartender/server. He clicks his pen once more before walking away, to hopefully give the order to the mentioned cook on the clock. Suppose they could use this time to go over some notes, write anything down they may have missed. Sam pulls out his pad, smiling briefly at the doodles Max etched onto the cover before flipping the cover.
“Wake me up when it gets here.” Max slumps his head down on the table, ears covering the hint of light threatening to spill between the cracks between his arms. It isn’t a second later that snores escape the lagomorph.
Sam nods, smiling although he’d look forward to talking to his partner. He always had an interesting insight. Although rarely helpful, it never falls short of amusing. But he isn’t going to push him. He’d take a hundred beatings to save Max a papercut. The same goes for their sleep schedule.
Adrenaline pumps through his veins, and damn does it feel good. They haven’t even caught a break yet, but if they do? It could be life-changing. After reading and rereading, his body grows stiff. The people at the bar, maybe they know something? There has to be something he can do.
As Sam walks over, one of the less-than-sober men laughs, “A six-foot-tall dog and a bunny walk into a bar, sounds like the start of a shitty joke.”
“Here you go, again sorry for the wait.” Max wakes to the smell of grease and the soft fizz of Coke landing on his fur. He rubs at his eyes, expecting to find Sam sitting across from him. But the seat is empty, and with a quick glance around he finds Sam harassing more patrons. The group of men seems far too drunk to be any help, though. Not like that’s going to stop the detective. What’s the use? Can’t even break for food? Begrudgingly, he steals a fry from Sam’s plate, chewing with a deep frown, his brows knitted.
They first leased their apartment five years ago, around the same time they started their business. It isn’t much, barely a step above their office - but it’s something. Something they own, something they share together. The kitchen is cramped, the two barely able to be in the room together at once. Not like that matters, though, given that Sam cooks most of their evening meals. The only bedroom used to have a bunk-bed, taken from Max’s childhood home. Having so many siblings, bunk-beds were the only option. Although the countless nights of Max climbing down from his top bunk to snuggle up with Sam had them putting a down payment on a double bed pretty quickly.
Max flounces up the stairs (the elevator has been down for weeks, making grocery trips near impossible). Despite being passed out half an hour before, he seems to be overflowing with energy. Then again, his energy comes in bursts - he’s bound to crash anytime.
Sam reaches the door a full minute after Max arrived at the welcoming mat, not a bit out of breath (unlike the other). He takes a moment to catch his breath, the other patiently waiting with a soft smile. After unlocking their apartment (the door handle barely hanging on by a stripped screw), Sam tosses the key on the counter and yawns.
“ Weeeeell,” Max draws out with a yawn, stretching his arms. “I’m beat.”
“Yeah? Couldn’t tell by the way you were snoozin’ on the lettuce back there.” Sam undoes his tie, letting it hang loose around his neck.
“Can’t help it, Sam.” He pulls at Sam’s pants toward the direction of their bedroom, his free hand rubbing his eyes. “Need my beauty sleep. Speaking of-”
“Nope, not yet.” Sam grabs a hold of the top of Max’s head, stopping him in his tracks. “Take your meds first then sleep.” Max groans in response, legs kicking in the air.
“ Fine. But then we’re going to bed.” He lands with a soft thud on the kitchen tile as Sam loosens his grip.
“Actually, I, uh,” Sam coughs into his fist once he frees the rabbit, the weight of his journal becoming heavy in his pockets. There’s gotta be something they overlooked or needed more attention. “About that...”
Max hops on the counter, tossing the pills in his mouth before putting his head underneath the faucet. Why he doesn’t just get a glass is beyond Sam. Probably something about fewer dishes, if he is to ask.
“Thought I, uh, would get a head start on things. Got a list of people in the city with the model of the car, y’know. Maybe I could mark some maps,” he mutters, each word softer than the last, losing confidence.
Max swallows, wiping the excess water from his chin with his forearm. “Let me get this straight - we’ve been out searchin’ all day and you wanna spend all night going over our tracks?”
Sam chuckles humorlessly. “ Won’t be a long, pal. Promise.”
Crossing his arms, Max nods, not believing a word of it. Wordlessly, he hops down the counter and heads straight to their bedroom, careful to avoid Sam’s ashamed gaze. Sam follows behind, tail tucked between his legs and waits patiently as Max climbs onto his side of the bed.
“Night’,” Max mutters underneath his breath, refusing to look him in the eyes.
Sam kisses the space between Max’s eyes, whispering he’d only be up a little while longer. Max’s head sinks back down into the pillow, blinking aimlessly into the darkness. He can feel Sam’s presence still looming. It isn’t long until Sam’s hand cups his cheek, rubbing small circles with his thumb. Sam knows that look, despite only seeing a shadowy figure of it, knows exactly what Max is thinking. After all, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened:
They get a case, Sam spends endless sleepless nights attempting to solve it like a magician's act, and when it does get solved - disappointment. Not even two words would the commissioner speak, they’d be lucky to get thanks.
It’s impossible not to see the hurt in Sam’s eyes when he’s brushed off. Although, if asked, he’d assure the other he’s fine, just fine. Glad, in fact, they put another case in the books. It’s as if he’d read from a script, saying all the things he should say. Max did everything to make Sam feel worthwhile. But the compliments fell on deaf ears. Everything from the guy’s appearance to his detective work, Sam just felt lacking. He didn’t have to prove a damn thing to Max, he’s perfect in his eyes. But still, Sam continued on, becoming his worst enemy.
It’s not easy to see one’s partner trampled on like a doormat. Max tried assuring him it doesn’t matter the effort they put in, he needs to put himself first. But he becomes blinded by the falsehood that something will come from his hard work, that it will all pay off. Perhaps one day it will, but at what cost? Nothing is worth the torture he puts himself through. One day it will become too much, surely, and it will all come toppling down. When that day comes, Max will be with him, of course. But he still fears it.
“Sam,” Max whispers before the other can speak. “It’s late, we’ll have the entire day tomorrow. You’re-” he breaks to sigh, reaching for the hand that lays on his cheek, taking it in his own. “You’re going to overwork yourself.”
Sam squeezes his hand. “Sweet of ya’ to look out for me.” Max turns away, that obviously not being the answer he wanted to hear. “I’ll be in bed in no time, k’ little pal?” Sam cringes at his own words. The third time he’d said that. The third time he’d lied this evening.
“Sure, Sam,” his voice wobbles, betraying himself, wanting to be furious. Max retracts his hand from Sam’s, pulling the covers up to his shoulders. He closes his eyes in hopes that Sam would leave him alone, no more dishonest excuses.
Sam’s shoulders fall as he stands, looking at Max intently. It’s like a punch to the gut to hear Max’s voice used in that tone. How often that voice speaks to him with love, laughter. Now it’s used with disappointment, worry. Apologies vanish from his mouth before he can say them. Knowing none of them are valid excuses. What good is an apology if you'll only make the same mistake over and over? It’ll be different this time, it has to be.
Despite his better judgment, Sam raises his arm to put on Max’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, to retrieve what was lost. He can’t stand a moment without Max’s gentle and adoring words. Guilt puddles in the pit of his stomach - he has to do something to get rid of it. He doesn’t know if a reassuring touch is what Max needs or not. But it’s certainly something Sam needs. Seemingly sensing the move, Max rolls over to the opposite side.
The ache rises to Sam’s chest. His hand is caught in the air, his mind going blank. For several moments he remains frozen, before his eyes move to the floor, hand falling onto his lap. Sure, things aren’t pretty now. But Max would forgive him, as always. As much as he hates disappointing the guy.
Sam stands from the bed, movements tentative and slow as he switches off the lamp, not wanting to wake Max (if he’s sleeping, which he highly doubts). Thinking of the laborious hours ahead, not to mention his partner pissed at him, Sam stands at the doorway, staring at the bundle of blankets that slowly rise and fall.
Neither gets any sleep that night.