On The Line

Thank you again for all your great comments. :)

Yes, the use of Steve Cuthbert twice was intentional. I was looking for a name that was pretty common, but not too common and found this one. No mistake, nope. *g*



No, I didn’t mention all the victims’ names. Some aren’t important for this story.



As for Davey Donnelly. He was working for a mob boss, of course they had a lot of people in their pocket, which means they could exchange bodies without much problems.



The Alan Rickman-quote someone mentioned, wasn’t that from Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves? Oh well, I’m not sure.



And now – enjoy!





Chapter 24: Legacy



CALLEN (watching tattoo artist working on a topless female customer with her back to them): What was your first like?

SAM: We're talking tats, right?

CALLEN: Yeah, we're talking tats.

SAM: San Diego, sixteen, nervous as hell, didn't really know what to expect. Afterwards, I just kinda felt like a man , you know. I don't know how else to explain it.

CALLEN: We're talking tats, right?

SAM: Yeah.

NCIS L.A., First Season

When Michael and Edward entered the precinct the next morning, everything was in a total uproar. Edward saw Michael stop for a moment and frown, as if trying to understand what was going on.



“Mike!” Christine came running down the hallway toward them, her hair loose and in total disarray. Edward felt a prickle in his nape. “There you are,” Christine said breathlessly.



“What’s going on?” Michael demanded, touching her arm.



“O’Neill’s dead.” Her eyes were huge and sad.



“What?” Michael stared at her in shock and Edward moved closer to him. He could feel Michael’s body vibrate, and only then realized he was shaking as well. O’Neill was – dead? No, that couldn’t be. O’Neill was a friendly face, the first guy in the precinct who had smiled at him.



“Why didn’t anyone call us?” Michael’s voice was completely blank.



“Your cell wasn’t on.”



“What?” Michael reached into his pocket, took out the phone and cursed. “Fuck. I forgot.”



Edward let his gaze travel to the sergeant’s desk, sure that O’Neill would be there after all, grinning at them. But he wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t. Because he was dead; Christine had said so.



“What happened?” Edward asked, keeping his eyes on O’Neill’s desk.



“He blew his brains out,” Karen offered. Edward hadn’t even realized she had joined them. “Took his service weapon and bang. His wife was in the kitchen, washing the dishes.”



“Holy shit,” Michael muttered.



“Why – why would he do that?”



Karen bit her lower lip, her hands tightly clenched together. “I have no idea.” Her eyes were red rimmed, her face blotchy. She had been crying, Edward thought, feeling a strange sort of detachment at that. Karen didn’t cry. He had never seen her cry before.



But O’Neill was dead.



Another one was dead.



And this time it wasn’t a stranger, a boy whose clothes Edward would touch and then experience their fear and pain. No, this time it was someone they all knew.



Like Xavier.



Granted. Only Edward had known Xavier, but still … And O’Neill was one of their very own. A police officer.



He hadn’t been killed in the line of duty, but did that matter?



“Edward?”



He blinked, and when his eyes focused, he only saw Karen. He blinked again. “Where did Michael go?”



Karen’s smile was so sad, it almost broke Edward’s heart. “He said he needed to make a phone call.”



“Okay,” Edward said automatically, missing Michael’s presence the way he would miss a severed leg. Under different circumstances he would probably find that disturbing, but as things were, he didn’t give it a second thought.



Again his gaze turned to the sergeant’s desk, still not able to believe what he had heard, what had to be the truth.



“Why would he do such a thing?” he asked again, not directing the question at anyone.



Karen answered it anyway. “I wish I knew.” She leaned closer. “Phillips hasn’t said a word. But he looks,” she paused as if to search for the right word, then decided on, “dead.”



Edward felt his brows go up. “Dead?”



Karen shrugged. “I don’t know how else to explain it. He sits in his office and just stares at nothing.” She ran a hand through her hair and Edward saw it wasn’t quite steady.



Jesus. O’Neill was dead.



“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You think it has anything to do with the current case?”



“I damn well hope not,” Karen said and started walking toward her desk. Edward followed after a second.



When they passed Phillips’ office on the way, Edward risked a glance inside and felt his gut clench. Karen had been right – not that he’d really doubted it. Phillips sat behind his desk, his body unmoving. His frozen face had lost all color.



Dead was the fitting expression for it. Not that it was a surprise if you really thought about it. They had been lovers after all.



Had been?



Edward frowned to himself as he followed Karen to her desk. What if the affair hadn’t been in the past the way everyone believed? Or maybe the affair was in the past, but the feelings remained? Did that mean Phillips and O’Neill had been living a lie? Could that be enough reason for someone to take a gun to his head?



Of course it could. Edward chided himself for asking such stupid questions. He had seen it more than once. People killed themselves – and others – for less. Sometimes for a wrong word.



Or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.



He thought of Xavier again, alive and vibrant Xavier, with his ready smile and those all-knowing eyes. And O’Neill, eyes twinkling at him, trying to set Edward up with his nephew. They were both dead now. One killed, the other had taken his life. Of course, there was no proof yet, but Edward had a feeling the two deaths were connected in some way.



And, fuck, someone would pay for this.



Edward took a deep breath and turned to Karen. “Could I see O’Neill’s things?”



+++



“Thank you, Dad,” Michael said, then ended the phone call that had turned out not quite as awful as he’d feared.



“You called your father?”



Michael jumped a little, then let out a pent-up breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. “Karen, shit. And – yeah. I think he needs to come down here again. Also, I wanted him to hear it from me. He and O’Neill … knew each other.” He had wanted to say they were close, but Michael wasn’t sure they were anymore. Or that they had really ever been.



Karen sighed, looking pale and a little sweaty, he noticed. “Are you okay?” he asked.



“Yeah,” she nodded absently, running a hand through her hair. “Look, Christine and I are going to see Mrs. O’Neill, Phillips thinks it’s better to send two female detectives,  but Edward went to see his things.”



Michael frowned. “What?”



She sighed, the sound weary and sad. “He went to see O’Neill’s stuff. I would have gone with him, but,” she pointed at the door where Christine was already waiting.



“He went on his own?”



“Yeah. But only a few minutes ago.” She turned and joined Christine at the door without another word.



Michael cursed under his breath, then stopped for a moment, wondering where O’Neill’s things were. Still with the ME? Or in evidence?



Fuck.



He started to walk, imagining Edward lying on the ground somewhere, writhing in pain caused by the memories of a dying man, of someone who had decided to end his life.



He didn’t really look where he was going, and it was probably because of that he collided with another body in the door to the hallway.



“Fuck,” Michael exclaimed, before he blinked and focused on the person he had bumped into.



“Not,” the very impeccably dressed man said in the most British voice Michael had ever heard in his life, “that it surprises me to hear that expression in this of all places, but I would have still preferred to not hear it at all.”



“Who the fuck are you?” Michael asked and had a moment of perverse satisfaction when he saw the guy wince.



“My name,” the man said, “is James Mallory. I was told that I could find Lord Bradford in these,” he stopped and waved an imperious hand around, “well … here.” He sniffed and  his gaze swept over the detectives’ desks in disdain.



Lord Bradford? “Sorry,” Michael replied, his thoughts already back on Edward and what he might be going through right now. “Sorry, no lords around this precinct,” he said, when it hit him. “Wait, are you talking about Edward?”



Mallory looked down his long nose at him, which was quite the achievement, given that he was at least a foot shorter than Michael. “Edward St. John, yes,” he then said. “Lord Bradford.”



Lord Bradford. Holy shit. He’d known that Edward’s father was an Earl, but somehow he’d never thought of Edward that way.



Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on strong. “Look, he’s working right now,” and probably experiencing agony, “but I’ll tell him to contact you. Do you have a card or something?”



Mallory gave him another stare that made Michael want to squirm. How did these guys do that? He wasn’t a little kid for God’s sake. He was an experienced cop, dammit.  Mallory sighed as if put out terribly, then reached into his inside pocket and produced a very classy card. Shiny, with bold black letters on white.



Michael snatched it out of those long, white fingers. “Thanks,” he said, shoved the card in the back pocket of his jeans and left without waiting to see if the guy had anything more to say.



+



Edward wasn’t in evidence. So Michael called the ME’s office, only to find out that O’Neill’s clothes weren’t there, either.



Shit.



Where the fuck? … Oh no. No.  



Dammit.



Michael ran all the way to Phillips’ office.



+++



Edward knocked once. Phillips didn’t react and Edward hadn’t really expected him to, so he opened the door and went in without an invitation. They were past all that shit, anyway.



“Robert,” Edward greeted and closed the door again.



Phillips didn’t acknowledge him in any way, just continued to stare at something only he could see. His fingers, however, were busy kneading something dark. A tee-shirt, Edward realized. And it wasn’t really dark. Originally it must have been green, but now it was almost black – with blood. Edward wasn’t close enough, but he could feel vibrations – faint only; it was like a very distant buzz, a connection he couldn’t yet grasp, but was affected by it already.



Edward tried to lick his dry lips, but his tongue seemed stuck in his mouth. He felt his heart pumping, felt his hands starting to sweat.



“I…,” he began, but had to clear his throat because his voice sounded more like a squeak. “Can I … I want to …” Shit. Suddenly it felt impossible to find the right words to ask.



Phillips did look up then, his eyes dull, his face that of an old man. “What?” he asked. “Oh, Edward.”



“Can I have it?” Edward pointed at the shirt. “I … just want to help.”



Phillips blinked, a frown forming on his forehead. “You … the shirt?”



“Yes, I … maybe…” Edward shrugged, uncomfortable. It wasn’t the first time, but it was more awkward than most.



Phillips nodded slowly, his fingers still buried in that bloody shirt. “I … loved him,” he said then, eyes downcast. “All my life.” His voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “But we agreed that it couldn’t be. It would have ruined our lives. So we made do.” He laughed, a short sound that had to hurt his throat. “And ruined our lives anyway.”



I’m sorry, Edward wanted to say, but it seemed so inadequate. Besides, what was he sorry for? There was no reason. O’Neill and Phillips had been grown up men, they had decided and the consequences had been theirs to bear. They could have stayed together, but instead they’d chosen a path that seemed smoother. Only, it hadn’t been. Not really. Could there be anything worth giving up yourself over?



Phillips finally let go of the shirt, and Edward walked over and took it from him, bracing himself for the onslaught that would undoubtedly come.



It was worse than expected.



Edward stumbled backwards, his back hitting the wall with a dull thump, his legs giving out the very same moment. He sank to the floor, while behind his eyes light exploded, blinding him.



Pain. There was pain. So much pain.



Despair.



Guilt.



Shame.



Rage.



And a bleakness he hadn’t felt for a long time, but that was so typical for suicide victims.  



Faces raced through his head. Phillips, much younger then, smiling brightly. O’Neill, without the extra pounds rounding his belly, grinning like a loon. Edward could hear laughter, could feel deep emotions – and there was something … blond?



More faces. But only flashes he didn’t recognize. Screams. Moans. and then …



… nothing.



Edward’s eyes flew open, the artificial light of the office hurting his eyes. Phillips was still sitting behind his desk, but his gaze was on Edward instead of staring into space.



“I’m sorry,” Edward whispered, the words just as stupid as they had been before. But  they tumbled from his lips, honest and heartfelt. He knew now what they had lost, what they had given up, had felt it firsthand.



Phillips shrugged. “We made a decision. We had to live with it.”



“Or die with it,” Edward said, hugging his knees to his chest, his body wracking with cold shudders. It was one of the after-effects he already knew. It didn’t frighten him, but it was damn inconvenient.



“I feel as if a part of myself’s missing. Why did he have to do that?”



Edward thought back on what he’d just experienced. “He didn’t feel he had the right to ask,” he said slowly, knowing the words had to hurt, but saying them anyway.  The truth was the only thing that could help now. Denying it would only create more confusion. “And,” he added, “O’Neill didn’t want to bring you down with him.”



“Bring me down?” Phillips stared at him incredulously – then he laughed sharply. “I’m already in hell.”



Not sure what to say to that, Edward tried to get up instead. He still felt weak, and he heard himself groan when he pushed to his feet, slowly, like an old man.



“Hey, easy there, tiger.”



Strong arms were suddenly supporting him and with a sigh, he let himself fall into that grip, smiling gratefully up at Michael. “Where did you come from?”



“I was looking for you,” Michael replied with a wry grin. “Bad one?”



“Not really.” It was nothing but the truth. As awful it had been to feel O’Neill’s despair and shame, Edward felt had worse. Much worse.



Michael cupped his cheek and held it for a moment, forcing Edward to look into his eyes so he could see for himself. He seemed content with what he found there, because he let go and nodded. “Anything new?”



“I’ll tell you later,” Edward said quietly.



“Okay. Sir.” Michael straightened and turned around his boss, who was looking at them with wide eyes. “I called my father. He’s on his way down here. Said he’d bring my mother, too.”



Edward frowned. “Your mother?” That was odd.



Michael shrugged. “No idea what that’s about. Oh, and I talked to the ME’s office. It seems besides the bullet that finally killed him, O’Neill was already dying. He had cancer. His lungs.”



“He was … sick?” Phillips’ sat back in his chair, even paler than before.



“ME says he would’ve had three months, tops.”



Oh man. That explained a lot of what Edward had felt. <I>That</I> had been the despair that had come in waves. “So – he killed himself because he didn’t want to die of cancer?” It made sense, and as painful as it was, it was still much better than any other alternative. Although … Edward frowned at the bloodied piece of clothing still in his hand. It was quiet now, not giving him anything. There had been more. Edward looked at Phillips again. They could talk about that later. The guy had enough. Probably more than he could bear already.



A knock at the door had them all turn around.



“Robert?” Antonio Castellani’s face was drawn with grief, and Michael’s mother had clearly been crying. “I’m so very sorry.”



Phillips nodded, but didn’t stand up to greet his visitors. “Luciana.”



Michael’s mother nodded. “I will pray for him,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Antonio took her arm and led her over to a free chair that stood at the side of Phillips’ desk.



Edward watched them, tried to read their body language. Something was off. They were familiar with each other – of course they were, but something was different. Could they have had a fight? And if the answer was yes, what had it been about?



“Why is Mom here?” Michael asked, looking at his father with a frown, which had Antonio bristling in return. Macho posturing, Edward decided, and under different circumstances he would have found it extremely sexy, but right now it was completely misplaced.



“I brought your mother because she has something to tell us,” Antonio said, but his eyes weren’t on his son anymore, they were resting on Phillips, instead.



“I …” Luciana began, but faltered. She dabbed her eyes again, took a deep breath and then said in a rush: “I was the one who called your wife. And O’Neill’s too.”



Edward felt himself frown. What? He turned to Michael who seemed equally puzzled.



Phillips, however, seemed to unfreeze. “You … It was you?”



“I’m not proud,” Luciana whispered, biting her lower lip. “But … it seemed so unjust. You … they … I felt …” She broke off again, seeking her husband’s support. None was forthcoming, though. Antonio stood very still, and as far away from his wife as it was possible in a small room like this.



“What are you talking about?” Michael finally asked the question Edward wanted answered, too.  



“I …” Luciana stared up at her son, eyes luminous. “I called Mrs. Phillips and Mrs. O’Neill and told them what … their husbands … were doing behind their backs.”



Oh, fuck.



“You did what?” Michael’s voice was as sharp as a whip. Edward moved closer to him, touching his back lightly. Michael didn’t evade the touch, and his body seemed a little less rigid at least.



Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “How could you do something like that?”



Luciana threw her hands in the air. “It was such a long time ago. I … heard about it by accident and … They were doing abominable things – and they were married!” Her eyes pleaded with her son to understand.



“So you thought you’d play the good Samaritan and tell them what was going on? Or did you just think – hey, those guys are taking it up the ass, so they deserve whatever they get?”



“Michael,” Edward hissed, grabbing the man’s arm.



“Michele!” Antonio’s voice was loud and sharp. He kept the distance to his wife, though.



“We did deserve it,” Phillips cut in. “We deserved all of it. But – they didn’t. My daughter didn’t. And neither did my wife.” He stood up and walked over to Luciana, looking down on her in disgust. “I can understand that you hated me. Us. But what did they do?”



Luciana’s eyes spilled over again, and she shook her head, clearly at a loss for words. “Robert-“



He stepped back, and looked at her husband instead. “Thank you,” he said and Antonio acknowledged that with a nod.



Phillips pinched the bridge of his nose before he turned to Michael and Edward. “You two, I want you to go through everything we have so far – again. Something’s off here, something’s missing.”



“Okay,” Edward said, keeping a firm hand on Michael’s arm. “We’ll do that.” He shot Antonio a quick glance. He looked older, grief clouding his features. Their eyes met for a moment and Antonio’s lips quirked a little, but instead of taking the sadness away it seemed to intensify it.



“As soon as Hamilton and Givens are back, I want a report.”



Edward’s gaze snapped back to Phillips. “Yes.” Michael didn’t react at all, his dark and angry eyes still on his mother, who kept hers firmly on her clenched fingers.



“Fine. Then go,” Phillips said and turned back to his desk.



Edward practically dragged Michael from the office, then down the hall and into the men’s room.



“What the fuck?” he said as soon as he was sure they were alone in there.



The heat in Michael’s eyes would have probably scorched any other man. “Did you hear what she said?”



“Yes. So she made a mistake. She’s human, Michael. And she’s sorry for what she did.”



“Is she? Or just because she was caught?”



Jesus. Michael wasn’t just a hothead, he was also stubborn as a mule. Not that this was a surprise, Edward thought, and sighed. “Why are you so angry at her? This isn’t about Phillips and O’Neill, is it?”



Michael stared at him for a moment, his body still vibrating with anger. “It’s about her bigotry.”



Edward nodded. There was no doubt about that. But he knew that wasn’t all. “You’re afraid she’ll never accept you.” He paused and amended that to: “Us.”



“I thought she’d come around,” Michael replied, his eyes stormy. He was breathing hard, sweat forming on his forehead. “But now,” he shook his head. “Who knows what’s going on in that woman’s head.”



“That woman is your mother,” Edward felt inclined to point out. Somehow it seemed important.



Michael snorted. “Yeah. My mother.” The way he said it made Edward shiver.



“Michael,” Edward closed the gap between them. “She loves you. Whatever problem she might have with your sexuality, the woman adores you. I wish everyone could say that of their mother.” He kept his voice as neutral as possible, but he still felt the unwelcome pain of loss that never really went away completely.



Michael looked at him for another moment, then he reached out and pulled Edward close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in Edward’s hair. “I can be a bastard sometimes.”



Edward clung, glad to have something to hold onto. “Don’t do anything stupid, Michael. You only have one mother.”



“I know. I’m just so mad at her. How can she be like this?”



“It’s the way she was raised.” So many parents had so much to answer for, Edward thought, while he stroked Michael’s back. Including his own. Not that it would make any kind of difference, but still.



“So?” Michael pulled back and locked his eyes with Edward’s. “She’s a grown up woman. Hell, she gave birth to three children. Don’t you think it’s time for her to finally get rid of all that bullshit she grew up with?”



Edward had to fight a grin. “Well, you weren’t so welcoming either.”



Michael blew out a breath. “Fine. I probably deserve to have that thrown in my face. But I could get over it – why couldn’t she?”



“She will.” Edward shook his head when he saw that Michael wanted to argue. The problem was, he wasn’t sure Luciana would. He had seen the look in her eyes and Edward didn’t like it one bit.



“Right, just how he knew about what she did.” Michael’s eyes were stormy again.



Edward sighed. They were getting nowhere here. “How about we take care of the case first and then deal with your mother?”



Michael seemed to think about it for a moment. “Fine. Let’s do that.” Then, before Edward cold say something, he leaned forward and caught Edward’s lips in a hard, almost bruising kiss.



When they pulled back they were both breathing hard. “Let’s do it fast,” Michael suggested.



Edward could only agree.



To be continued …