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The Rendevous Motel, Port Charles
Detective John McBain stared at the file in front of him, willing it to make some damn sense.
There had to be a lead somewhere, something that would take Sonny down and bring him justice. He just hadn't found it yet. The sooner he found it, the sooner he could think about moving on.
Things had been getting too intense at the station as of late, and the Port Charles was feeling far too crowded, and besides, it wasn't even his home. He needed time to do what he came here to do and avenge his sister. The smoking gun was somewhere, and if he couldn't find it…
Dark thoughts of vengeance filled his mind, unfurling in vivid detail till he began to recoil from the ruinous cognition that was distracting him from his work.
Get a grip, man. Just work through the evidence.
As much as he didn't want to admit it, this type of work was much easier to do if he wasn't on his own. A partner could be a useful and necessary evil from time to time. He picked up a coffee mug and took a swallow, gagging when the cold liquid hit his tongue. How long had he been sitting in this solitary seedy motel room? The shadow's in the floor told him it had been long enough to seek something stronger than coffee.
McBain took it as a sign. It wasn't like a hot lead was going to jump out at him now any more than it did yesterday. He walked over to the dresser and retrieved a bottle of Johnny Walker from the paper bag that sat here and opened the bottle, taking a moment to breathe in the acrid aroma of the whiskey; it helped mask the stale smell of cigarettes and stale pizza that was always pervasive no matter how he tried to air it out.
He got up and stretched his aching muscles, grateful for the reprieve after he had held them in one position for so long. He looked over at the empty chair in the corner of his hotel room and tried to imagine his son, how much he must be growing, wondering if he was favoring himself or his mother. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't go and find out. As far as they were concerned, he was dead to them, and he might as well stay that way. But God, he hated that he would be nothing more than a stranger to his own flesh and blood. He poured himself a drink, ready to dull some of the pain.
He wrenched open the rusted window pane, then sat back down on the bed, listening to the sound of rain falling onto the crumbling pavement, punctuated by the occasional splash of a tire meeting a sodden pothole and underneath is all the continuous lullaby of the freeway. The artificial glow from the one uncovered bulb in the lamp cast a strange and eerie light that he would have been more than happy to turn off if there was any other light source he could use. Reading by tactical flashlight was even less appealing.
The temperature had dropped significantly, making the day somehow even more miserable, and he was glad for his leather jacket at the moment. He looked at the dusty wall unit and said a quick prayer before he walked over and flicked it on, flinching ever so slightly in anticipation of some sort of electrical failure but was pleased when it purred to life without belching any smoke like the first time he had used it. A bright flash was followed by a low rumble. A storm had blown in, and it seemed somehow appropriate that the weather was as unsettled as his mind.
A gust of air breathed into the room, and McBain was suddenly grateful for the chill of the storm. After sequestering himself in the room all day, he needed some air, gave him clarity, and helped organize his thoughts. Perhaps it would help him see what he needed to see. He's reached the button of his glass. It hadn't done a thing to cure his irritability or calm his nerves. He questioned why he did this to himself; to keep hoping for justice that might ever come, wanting to heal relationships that might never be mended, thinking about a woman that might never be his.
A sudden rap rap rap on his door disrupted his tranquility like a hammer to his head snapping him alert. He frowned, listening closely for any sign that whoever stood at his door was friend or foe. Why could it be at this time and in this weather? He set his glass down and quietly moved to the door with his hand on his holster. Then an idea pushed his paranoia aside. His heart jumped singularly, and his pulse lightly accelerated. Maybe he had a visitor; maybe it was her. His hand turned the doorknob. Sam…
"Anna?!" he said in surprise. Something was wrong. Why hadn't she called ahead?
"Is everyth-" he began before her cool accented voice clipped him off.
"That's Commissioner Devane to you, detective." She pressed a carton into his hands and then stood with an expression that a professional poker player would envy.
"What's this?" he asked warily.
"Chicken noodle soup. I figured you needed it since you rang in "sick" today." she said, her fingers quoting for emphasis and sarcasm dripping from every word.
He was in the doghouse. John brought his fist to his lips and coughed unconvincingly. Her eyes snapped a scowl at him but were met with his own irascible resolve- a dare for her to make a mountain out of a molehill. She accepted the challenge. Her jaw set and her eyes glinted like flint, and John instantly regretted his cavalier response.
"Seriously? You don't show up at the station today, leaving your colleagues and myself to pick up the slack so you can waste your time here, and you are going to insult my intelligence to top it off? Is that it?" Her words were clipped and precise, and each one seemed to hit between his 4th and 5th rib with rapier-like precision.
"You could at least let me come in, or do I get to stand out here in the rain to add insult to injury?" she said expectantly.
"Er...of course, Sorry. Please come in," he stepped back, and she walked passed into the room. John took a moment and looked both ways out of habit, half expecting to see someone following her, but there was no one. Closing the door, he watched her in the dim light of the room. She was antsy, incapable of being still- her hands moved in and out of her pockets- itching for something to do, her lips were pressed together in a thin line, and she looked like she needed to get something off her chest. John braced himself. He didn't know what he was about to face, icy cold wrath or volcanic ire. She picked up a crime scene photo and then threw it back down in frustration.
He realized that this was about more than being busted for taking a sick day. He put on a look of feigned indifference to her presence but realized from the way her eyes narrowed that he was only making the situation worse.
"I always gave you credit for being a smart investigator, but lately, I can't ignore your recklessness. And you can bet that there are others who are more than happy to let you hang yourself. Listen, John. You are going to bring Sonny to justice with solid above board detective work, but you hamper that work at every turn. You should be staying off Sonny's radar rather than getting into schoolyard squabbles with Jason Morgan, especially over his wife. You already lost your wife and son over this infatuation. Have you really lost sight of what your goal is here?
John winced. So she knew what he had been up to.
Hot shame was followed by a wave of burning anger, anger at himself but mostly at the fact that he knew she had a point. That didn't keep him from spitting out a retort.
"Jason Morgan is a thug. Anna, how can she be with a guy like that-"
"Stop right there." Anna Devane held her hand up, and her voice was laced with a no-nonsense warning, "You don't get to judge her choices. She is a grown woman, and you have no right deciding what is or is not best for her. She will do that herself. And the consequences will be her own also, no need for you to carry that mantle. She hasn't asked you to; no one has asked you to."
"Look at you. You are filled with so much anger; there is no way you can possibly be objective about anything, and you know where that leads? To people getting hurt. And then you are no use to anyone, detective. So I don't know what you need to process all of this rage- go for a run, go a thousand rounds with a punching bag, unload a couple of clips at the gun range. I don't care. Just get a grip and be available for the job I hired you for, a job I will remind you that you begged me for so you could show stability and get to see your son. Get a handle on your grief and stop using Sam as a substitute to fill your loneliness. Is that understood?"
Let's get one thing straight, I'm working with the PCPD, but that doesn't mean I can't pursue my own avenues of investigation? And what is this-? You are going to lecture me about getting a grip? About taking the job seriously and not being distracted? Oh, ok- yeah sure...when you aren't even doing that yourself. You lost someone you loved. And how are you filling that emptiness? By hanging out with Luke Spencer? You nag at me to not step over the line into vigilantism when that guy never even knew a line existed. And what about that Duke Lavery?"
Anna's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he continued before a word could come out. "Don't look surprised; I know about his background. He looks good in a suit, but what about being formerly married to the mob commissioner?"
"You know what John McBain? Fuck you!"
He had done it. He had made the most unflappable person he had ever met, not only lose her temper but curse him out, and yet he couldn't help pushing further.
"Ha! Is that an invitation? A way to get out some energy? To get a grip?"
He watched her hands ball into fists, and he was sure she was going to deck him. He flinched in anticipation, knowing full well he deserved it. Picking a fight with the one person in this town that thought of him favorably was probably the dumbest move he could make. Or at least it was his latest bad decision.
He raised his hands in an attempt to de-escalate the situation and... to show her he was unarmed just for good measure.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm a jerk without any reason to be. You are trying to keep me on track. I should be grateful rather than combative." He was thankful to see her relax a fraction.
"
You know there were plenty at the Bureau that would have taken you up on that offer. Everyone wanted to get close to the mysterious Special Agent Devane."
Anna looked surprised and then smiled. She decided to accept his truce.
"Well, the inscrutable John McBain also drew attention. But I think it was clear to the ladies that you had your eyes and your heart elsewhere. And for certain, your eyes were no on me."
"My eyes might have been elsewhere, but I'm not blind. I can see what is in front of me.
"Flatterer," she said dismissively. Anna grew solemn for a moment. "Listen, John, about what I was saying before. If you care about Sam, then you have to come to terms with the fact that the woman that you are infatuated with is the same one who wants to be with a man like Jason Morgan. And by her own choosing."
She stared at the closed door of the motel room but seemed to be lost in her own memory. John chose to stay quiet and listen.
"Sometimes a woman falls in love with a man against her better judgment, even against what her head is telling her to do," she said softly, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
McBain placed a cup in her hand and took the bottle of scotch and began to pour the liquid into her glass. Once two fingers' worth was poured, he pulled back, but Anna placed her fingers in the neck of the bottle and pushed down, letting it flow until her glass was full with the clear amber liquid.
"That bad, huh?"
"You aren't judging me, too, are you?" She looked cooly at the full tumbler in his own hand.
Not at all." he smiled. "Everyone should be able to drown their sorrows any way they like. And without interference. And somewhere along the way, I think we stopped talking about Sam."
"Drown our sorrows...that's an odd term, isn't it. If only it were that easy. The problem is that sorrow is so buoyant it just won't stay down. I'd tie cement blocks to it if I could." she replied honestly, hiding the hint of vulnerability in another swig from her glass. She was getting through it rather quickly.
"My demons salute your demons." She raised her cup. He watched as Anna finished tossed the drink back, her throat muscles tensed and relaxed as she swallowed.
"Cheers to that." he nodded and then downed his own. The sat in silence for a few minutes as they each took a mental inventory of their sins.
"You know, maybe we do just need a hobby. One that isn't taking the law into our own hands." Anna finally said.
"Like I take up woodworking and you take up knitting?" he quipped. She laughed, a wry heavy sound, her expression waking up with his retort. He was happy to see that she looked less tense, so he picked up another chair, carrying both it and the bottle of whiskey, and sat down opposite of her.
"It probably wouldn't make a difference. You know- when Robin died, Robert just couldn't handle it. The despair of losing our only child was too much. He was going to throw himself off a bridge. And you know what? I can't even be mad at him for that. Some days I...nevermind." She shook her head and looked into the bottom of her glass and then set it down. "I just want to feel something else besides sorrow. Or I'll take just feeling nothing at all."
She reached to her hip and withdrew her gun from her holster and held it in the palms of her hands. She looked at it with an intensity that made John feel completely unsettled. He wanted to say something sarcastic, something that would snap her out of her sadness, something that would get her telling him off, fighting back. But he couldn't bring himself to. There was an air of quiet defeat about her that disturbed him.
"Hey." He knelt down in front of her, looked at her closely, and took the gun from her hands, and set it aside gently on the table. He gripped her left hand tightly in his and squeezed it reassuringly. "We can't give up. We're too stubborn for that. Right now, we aren't commissioner and detective or agents; we are just two old friends who unfortunately understand better than most that the world is cruel and unfair. But somehow, we keep living."
Anna let out a soft chuckle and wiped at an errant tear that had made its escape. "True. But don't you sometimes feel like just taking revenge on the world? Just burn it all down." She looked him in the eye and was stilled by the inquisitive sharpness in his blue eyes. There was sorrow there too. She felt like she wanted to let him know that she understood it. Impulsively she reached out and laid her hand on the side of his face. At that moment, something arc'd between them. And suddenly she was holding her breath. For what reason, she couldn't say. All she could hear was the sound of their breathing in the cold room.
She held still for one moment longer then removed her hand. But rather than drawing back, McBain's eyes burned inter hers, and with deliberateness, he reached to place his hand on the side of her neck, his thumb following the line of her jugular vein, noticing her quickened pulse, feeling her swallow thickly at his touch. There was a conflict within her eyes, disrupting the certainty that he usually found there. The control that she used to keep herself composed seemed to be slipping from her. Looking into her wide-open eyes that were dimmed with heartache, there was a pang in his chest, and he felt the need to be closer to her. He wanted to give her some physical comfort, or perhaps he wanted to gain some from her. However, longstanding and platonic their relationship might be, he wondered if it was what they needed.
"I don't know, Anna. Maybe you're right. Maybe we do need to burn everything down. At least once." Her control wasn't the only thing slipping. His thumb ran over the skin of her clavicle bone in circular motions. He didn't know how they had reached this point, but she knew what he meant. She knew what he was asking. And she knew her answer.
"Perhaps you are right. We should just burn it all."
She took control before he could hazard a response. Her lips moved to his without any hesitation or timidness; a free hand reached up and tangled in his hair. His hands cupped her face, holding her to him even though he half-expected her to pull away and brush the moment off as a meaningless whim. But she didn't, and his brain kicked in, like a flick of a switch, with a swift jolt of adrenaline that immediately cleared the whiskey-warm fog from his head. Her body was communicating to him what she wanted, and all he wanted to do was the answer.
He pushed the tan leather jacket from her shoulders, and she pulled her black t-shirt over her head in one smooth motion. She looked at him directly as his eyes raked over her, her smooth pale skin standing out in relief under her black lace bra. There was no room for shy coyness, just confident determination. Anna gasped when he found the edge of the bed and pulled her into his lap. Documents and crime scene photos were swept aside and carpeted the threadbare floor, and neither cared. He moved his lips against hers, and she opened her mouth while the friction he felt as she ground against him made his head spin. Her hands were under his shirt, exploring the planes of his chest and the muscles of his abdomen and back. McBain helped free himself from his shirt so she could continue.
She kissed him hungrier than before. As his tongue swept over hers, his fingers found the clasp of her bra and pulled it from her. His hands felt her bare back and then wrapped around to pull her closer till her breasts were flush against him. The brush of her flesh against his was too delicious to ignore, and his mouth had to sample what his hands longed to feel. Her soft moans communicated everything she needed him to know. And he was grateful- for the feel of her hair, how she curved against him, the way her hand pressed against his back, welcoming lips, and how she leeched the want from him and absorbed it. Strangely she calmed him even as her touch burned through his nerves. Every move was deliberate, and all he could think about was pulling the rest of her clothes off and finally burying himself in her.
The room was filled with breathy sounds of passion and desperate lust-fuelled encouragement, but they didn't say each other's names. And though he was close enough to her that he could count the lashes on her lowered eyes, she never made eye contact with him. He understood. They knew better than to complicate the cleansing nature of their lovemaking with unnecessary intimacy. That wasn't what either wanted or needed. This wasn't about connection; it was about slaking their neverending frustration at the world that kept letting them down. They were washing their hands of everything for a moment of just feeling alive, setting aside individual loneliness for a spell.
That loneliness still echoed in her bones as they moved together, their bodies pressed tightly together. She ran her hand along his back, whimpering and gasping, and he's rumbling gruff words into her skin, pulling her right back to the focus, the core of them. This wasn't love. It didn't need to be. It was release, but it was no less powerful. In fact, this woman, this comrade-in-arms, who he knew would have his back in the face of any obstacle or danger, was more important than a lover. John McBain couldn't count on much, but he could always count on Anna Devane. What they were doing could be disastrous, but somehow he felt like nothing was more right than this stolen moment.
He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her, shifting slowly to ease her back onto the bed but never losing body or mouth contact with her. He wanted this feeling to last even as their kisses increased in intensity, and both their minds started to fog over as their bodies stained with building heat.
Despite his best efforts, it was over sooner than he wanted. But they stayed joined, neither one of them in a rush to move as they stayed wrapped around each other. John had long since recovered from his episode and was now content to just hold Anna in his arms, absorbing her warmth and appreciating the feel of another person being so close.
"Wow," he managed through labored breaths.
Reluctantly her moved off of her. John lay and stared in a daze at the water-stained ceiling, too worn out to do or say anything more. It wasn't the most eloquent thing he could say, but it summarized his feelings well enough.
"Something like that," Anna breathed. She remained still next to him for only a moment more before she got up and started to dress quickly. He watched as she gathered her things, and she turned to look at him and gave a half-smile.
"Thank you for the drink," she said simply.
John raised himself up on his forearm, not knowing if he should offer an apology or ask her to stay with him just longer, but before he could make up his mind, she had walked out the door into the stormy night without another glance back.
PCPD, Port Charles
He arrived at the bullpen promptly at a quarter to eight. Without hesitation, he walked to an empty desk, turned on the computer, and got to work. Time ticked by slowly. The precinct was busy with activity, and John McBain wanted nothing more than to enter the interrogation room and take charge of questioning the perp that was enclosed therein, but he kept his head down and doggedly attempted to shrink the pile of paperwork in front of him. He would get more done if not seated in the intake area, but it gave him the best view of the room.
And he was waiting for her. And she kept him waiting.
He had asked Dante as nonchalantly as he could about her whereabouts, but no one could tell him where the commissioner was or when she would be in. So as the day wore on, he was resolved to have his casework caught up if he possibly could.
"Good to see that you are feeling better today, detective. Sleep well?"
His head snapped up. Somehow she had managed to come in without his notice. He decided to answer her honestly. There was no sense in doing otherwise.
"Better than I have in months. I feel like a new man. Thank you for asking." And that was the truth after she had left, he let oblivion claim him, and he had slept like a stone the whole night and woke up feeling refreshed and rested.
Anna handed him a cup of coffee and smiled. "Can you give me a hand on the robbery case in the Asian Quarter?"
He looked at her with the slightest smile. He understood what she was doing. She was letting him know that she was the same today as she was before: comrade, colleague, friend. He was used to her falling back on work and practicality in order to let him keep himself comfortable guarded. Of course, she would hand him a coroner's report rather than demand them define what last night had meant. She would rather solve the next case, avert the next crisis, and he couldn't be more grateful, after all, who was he to throw stones.
"Hmm," he began as if he was considering it, his voice gruff with feigned disinterest but his unrelenting smile giving him away. She eyed him with amusement as she watched his performance.
McBain looked at her and nodded. "I'd love to." And he was sincere.
His eyes smiled warmly into hers, and she smiled back reassuringly. Relief filled him. They had let a spark turn into a flame, a dangerous proposition, but rather than a destructive force, it was a controlled burn, clearing out what was dead and decayed, setting the ecosystem to rights and allowing new growth to flourish. Making them stronger and more resilient as a result.
Sometimes the forest must burn to save it.
John reached out his hand for the file that Anna proffered. His eyes scanned the document while Anna pulled on her jacket and gloves, preparing to head out into the field. He prepared to follow her lead.
She quirked her brow and gestured matter-of-factly to the door.
"Then let's get to it."