Chapter Text
Farah Reyes awoke slowly, blearily, and instinctively groaned. It felt like there was a goddamned sportscar revving up right in the front of her head, burning rubber against the inside of her skull and spewing exhaust through her brain. She cracked her eyes open and instantly bit out a swear, clamping a hand over her eyepatch—goddamn piece of shit light-sensitive implant! Fuck!
Her headache now about a billion times worse, she forced herself upright in her bed with her free hand, still not daring to open her eyes. Farah wasn’t exactly inexperienced with this sort of thing; she wasn’t one to turn down a little relief at the end of a long day, and ever since her promotion, she’d worked some damn long days. But normally London was there to keep her from getting entirely shitfaced. It’d been a while since she’d woken up feeling this awful.
She remembered why she’d started drinking: that damn Blueblood with her stupid, fake, too-wide smile, and Qasim, who’d seemed far too happy to play nice with the orcas. It was bullshit. It was all such bullshit. And then that stupid insufferable lawyer had shown up, so she’d taken Qas up on that walk he’d suggested, found one of the only bars in the lower wards that she knew wouldn’t kick her out because of her badge, and…
Well, she remembered drinking, but not much else. There was a bed under her, so she must’ve managed to get herself home, or Qas had gotten her home, or… Fuck, she couldn’t remember! She grit her teeth—she needed to be better than this. She was a detective now; had responsibilities and shit. Couldn’t just go around blacking out in seedy bars. She was better than that.
She bit the bullet and ripped her left eye open, ignoring the way the light seemed to stab right into her brain—and was immediately sobered. The unfamiliar room around her was like a bucket of ice water to the face. This wasn’t her apartment. Wasn’t London’s apartment, either. She looked around, hunting for a clue as to where she’d managed to end up, only to see…
What the fuck was Morgan doing in bed next to her?!
For a second, all Farah could do was stare. Counsellor Morgan, Asshole Extraordinaire, lay on the pillows next to her, her bright, unbound hair sprawled across the sheets. Aside from the hair clip, she’d also lost the doorman jacket, the pretentious bolo tie, and the vampire corset, but that was it. She was still wearing a dress shirt, and fucking gloves, while she slept, like a complete freak.
That prompted Farah to look down at herself, and—oh, hell. No shirt. No pants. No bra. Not even half a meter of distance between herself and the psycho lawyer and her tits were out.
Why did Farah suddenly feel like she’d been the one caught red-handed at a crime scene?
“Screw this,” she mumbled to herself, but real quiet, because if Morgan woke up right now, Farah would… she would… Well, okay, she didn’t know what she would do, exactly, but it didn’t fucking matter because she was going to leave and never think about this again.
Thankfully, her missing clothes weren’t far—scattered in a pile on the floor, as if they’d been taken off in a hurry and she was not going to keep thinking about this, thank you—so it was only a few minutes before she was stealing down the stairs and out Morgan’s front door.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This was bad. This was terrible. How could she? Even if she was plastered, never in a million years would Farah… and with a lawyer? With a fucking mob lawyer? With that mob lawyer, specifically? Farah didn’t give a shit how tight Morgan’s shirt was, she had standards!
Not… Not particularly high standards, she was forced to admit to herself when her brain unhelpfully decided to recall basically every date she’d ever been on since she’d enrolled in the force. And granted, on a purely looks-based level, she could do a lot worse than Morgan. Had done a lot worse than her. Almost exclusively had done a lot worse than her.
But—but still! She was… She was Morgan. A total weirdo. Farah hated her guts, and the feeling was mutual. They were at each other’s throats literally every time they saw each other, slinging insults back and forth, exchanging jabs—it took talent to piss Farah off that badly that consistently. God, she could see it in her mind’s eye, and it was already making her furious: Morgan looking down at her with that insufferable little smirk, making fun of her in that condescending little fake-nice voice, calling her infuriating little names…
Farah huffed and pulled her jacket tighter around herself as she waited for a cab. She was thankful she wasn’t needed to testify today. She’d planned on going to the trial anyway, to support Qas and the others against Morgan’s awful squawking, but right now she didn’t think she could bear to even look at that witch’s face. She’d just go to the station. As much as she hated paperwork, it would at least keep her mind focused on shit that actually mattered, rather than things that definitely, certainly, one-hundred-percent had not happened.
“It just—it just doesn’t make any sense!” Farah protested, nearly pulling her hair out. “It was the fucking Hound of Ikariya! How was it not him?”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” London said. He’d gotten back to the station only a few minutes ago, bearing some of the worst news Farah had heard in a long-ass time. “Rogers confessed. Rockford dropped the charges. You know that Rockford never drops charges unless she has no other choice.”
“The Ikariya must’ve done something—gotten to him!” Farah slammed a fist on her desk. “Why would… Why would Rogers kill his own… It’s bullshit!”
“Lots of bullshit in the world, Sunshine,” Qasim said, in the same tone of voice he used when he tried to reassure her after one of her shitty dates.
It pissed Farah off. “It must’ve been that damned lawyer, then! She must have done something, some trick! You know how she operates; always pulling shit out of her ass at the last minute like some cheap stage magician.”
He shrugged. “With how annoyed Rockford seemed coming out of the courtroom, I wouldn’t be surprised. But that still doesn’t make Rogers’ confession any less of a confession. It’s nice of you to stick up for one of your own, but at the end of the day, we have a responsibility to put the facts before our pride, don’t we? I was actually under the impression you were one of the few people around here who understood that, Reyes.”
That took the wind out of her sails. “I just…” She sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just… fuck.”
“Besides,” London said, taking on a more playful tone, “I thought you were actually warming up to Morgan, after last night.”
Farah nearly fell out of her chair with how fast she whipped around to stare at him. “What the hell? What the fuck do you—what do you know mean? How do you know about that? What?!”
“Uh, Sunshine…” Qasim cracked a half-playful, half-nervous smile. “Whole force knows about that.”
“WHAT?!” Farah screeched, her voice cracking in a way that would have embarrassed her if there were any way for her to possibly become more embarrassed at the moment.
“You radioed all of us to confirm your location. Said you were protecting a potential target. Remember?” He chuckled. “I mean, clearly you don’t. But even wasted halfway to hell, you were sticking fast to SOP. It was very… you.”
“Right. Yes.” Farah cleared her throat, desperately attempting to regain her composure. “I remember now. Morgan has a talent for pissing people off. Just wanted to make sure she didn’t get misted before the trial. Going through all of that only for it to end in a mistrial would’ve sucked. That’s all.”
Qasim gave her a long, contemplative look. “…Right.”
“W-What?” Farah frowned at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing,” he said, turning away from her, back towards his computer. For a blissful second, Farah thought that would be the end of it; but after a few seconds, he added, almost as an afterthought: “Just kind of a big reaction if that’s all you did, Sunshine.”
Reyes shot to her feet. “Shut up! Nothing happened, okay? It wasn’t like that! Shut up!”
London stared at her, unimpressed. After a second, Farah slowly sat back down, unable to meet his eye.
“Case in point.”
“I know,” Farah spat out.
“So,” Qasim started, “not that it’s any of my business—”
“Damn right.”
“—but I am your partner, and it sort of seems like maybe something happened—”
“Nothing fucking happened.”
“—and if whatever didn’t happen is going to cause issues the next time we’re building a case against a client of Morgan’s, I’d like to know about it before—”
“I don’t know, okay?” Farah cried out, desperate, angry, embarrassed. “You were right. I don’t remember anything from last night.”
“And what about this morning?”
“I… woke up next to her in bed,” she admitted in a rushed mumble. “B-But she was, like, fully clothed! She probably just dumped me there when I fell asleep and then had no choice but to sleep next to me.”
“And were you fully clothed? Does Morgan not own a couch?”
“That’s…” Farah fumed. “I wouldn’t! There’s no fucking way. I bet she set all of it up like that to make me think something happened, just to screw with me. Sounds like the sort of sick mind games that creep would be into.”
“That’s a bit of a reach, don’t you think?” Qasim shook his head. “If it’s really bothering you that much, can’t you just check the recordings from your eye?”
Wait—that’s right! Her eye; how had she not thought of that?
“Access memory banks. Playback mode.”
Qasim shifted uncomfortably as a hologram shimmered into life in the air between them. “Wait, you’re doing this now? Here? Should I leave the room?”
Farah ignored him, scrubbing through the footage from yesterday evening. The visuals were muted and blurred from beneath her patch, but still distinct enough that she was able to find the point at which she saw herself enter Morgan’s apartment. She let it play.
“—cannot be legal,” came Morgan’s voice as the camera view stepped into a spacious living room.
“Oh, it’s not legal.” That was her own voice.
Morgan looked affronted. “Wha—”
“Wait, what model of door izzit? Oh, yeah, for this model of door, in this city zoning, it isssslegal for me to unlock your door like that.”
Qasim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Reyes…”
She flushed. “H-Hey, I was drunk!”
“And since you juuuust invited me in—”
“I did not.”
“Here I am. Above da book.”
Morgan’s exasperated look was somewhat satisfying, even considering the circumstances. “Okay, fine, you can come in. But only if that eye of yours isn’t recording.”
“Whaa?” slurred her past self. “I’m a cop. ‘Salways recording.”
“Yeah, well, not in my house,” Morgan said firmly. “Stop recording, now, or I’m tossing you out onto the street and hiring Han to replace my damn door.”
“Fine, fine… You’re soooo bossy, lady. OSIris, stop recording.”
The feed cut abruptly. Farah stared dumbly at the now-black projection in the air for a second or two before sheepishly saying, “OSIris, resume recording.”
The mod bleeped softly in acknowledgment of the command, right in time with Qasim’s skeptical click of the tongue. “Not looking good, Sunshine.”
“God dammit,” Farah murmured, dread pooling in her gut. “What happened last night?”
Yesterday…
Morgan glared down at the unconscious body of Detective Reyes, an unquenchable frustration bubbling up in her chest. Reyes was literally unconscious before her—pathetically, adorably helpless—but if Morgan did anything about it, she’d get arrested. Extremely arrested. It was all so unfair. All so annoying.
You’re way more trouble than you’re worth, Detective. Morgan picked the girl up and hauled her up the stairs. All that bluster, and she couldn’t even stay conscious long enough to finish watching her dumb car videos. Maybe I should’ve been firmer about not giving her any more alcohol.
She dumped Reyes unceremoniously onto the bed with a grunt, then stared at her some more, gaze sharp. Maybe just a cut. Can I get away with a cut? I’d even settle for a couple bruises. Maybe Reyes tripped and fell, you know? Hit her head.
…No. Too risky. But this opportunity is too good. Way too good. When will Reyes ever be at my mercy like this again? There has to be some way I can wring some satisfaction out of this. If it couldn’t be something violent… well, the detective was fun to tease, too. To mess with. Surely there was something she could do to screw with her—something plausibly deniable, something Reyes wouldn’t try to handcuff her for in the morning. Something like…
Morgan jostled the detective a little, as a test, but Reyes didn’t stir. Slowly, surgically, Morgan took off Reyes’s jacket, maneuvered her arms out of her shirt, slid down her pants.
Isn’t it plausible, Your Honor, that halfway through watching videos together, the witness started feeling a bit hot? Morgan reasoned to herself as she dumped Reyes’s clothes on the ground. With her inhibitions impaired by the alcohol, it’s not unreasonable to assume she might have tried to get… more comfortable. Morgan reached around and unhooked Reyes’s bra. Of course I was disturbed when she started undressing, but I could hardly say or do anything to stop her. What if I made her angry? She was drunk, with access to a weapon…
Morgan undid her own belt, pulled the claw clip from her hair. I didn’t want to force the witness to sleep on the couch, of course… She’s an honorable officer of the law, after all! But I wasn’t about to let her kick me out of my own bed, either. Morgan slipped under the covers next to the detective, making sure, for her own sake, that there was sufficient distance between them. As you can see, Your Honor, nothing untoward happened that night. Though I can see how the good detective might have… gotten the wrong impression.
Morgan smiled to herself as she started to fall asleep. It didn’t sate her in the same way a long walk in the dark did, but Morgan was an expert at bluffing. If she played her cards right… She could keep this entertainment going for weeks.