Chapter Text
Damien, Lasko and Gavin had come back from the store to find Huxley and the Freelancer still outside. The pair were sitting on the steps leading up to the side entrance door, and hadn’t heard the car pull into the driveway. The three had peaked around the corner, eyes misty as the Freelancer allowed their head to tip back and laugh for the first time in over a week. Their fingertips were turning a light shade of blue as their lip trembled from the cold. The group had approached slowly, but it was the Freelancer in the end who pulled Lasko in by the hand for a hug, the rest joining in soon after. They had all gone inside after that, making hot cocoa and enjoying each other’s company for the first time in so long.
With the turning of the days and long nights passing gradually faster, The Freelancer became more active. About four days after that initial day in the snow, they returned to Dahlia Academy. They were excused from their missing work (with some incredibly strong words from Lasko to the professors who had refused to wave their grade) and the Freelancer launched themselves into the new semester. They were still distant in some ways, uncomfortable with lingering touches and sitting farther away from their partners, still curling their legs into their chest when they sat. But despite this, it almost felt like things were going back to normal.
Until the police knocked on their door and asked for the Freelancer by name.
Caelum could feel the knots in the Freelancer growing by the second, winding tighter and tighter as more walls were built up around them. He tried to pull them away, make everything better, lighten their mood just by a fraction, but Gavin grabbed his arm before he could open the door.
“Don’t,” Gavin warned, with no room for arguments in his tone.
“Why?” Caelum pleaded, tugging at Gavin’s grip. He clawed at his chest with his free hand, feeling the despair and ache from the Freelancer crawling up into his throat. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Can’t you feel them hurting? It’s so much, all the time, but now it’s drowning them-”
“Of course I can feel it.” Gavin hissed, leaning closer to the Daemon. “I feel it constantly. When they sleep, when they study, when they breathe against me, it’s always there.” Gavin’s face twisted in anger, but slowly fell as he droned. “But, Caelum, this isn’t the Department. This is the Human Police. We can’t do anything about it.”
“ Why? ” Caelum asked again, still struggling in Gavin’s grip. “Can’t we at least be with them? We can’t let them do this alone.” The tears that were building in Caelum’s eyes were freely falling now, pooling beneath his chin. Gavin gathered him into his chest as he sobbed, gripping at the Incubus’ sweater with a fervent need.
“They can’t hurt like this anymore.” Caelum gasped, shaking his head. “It’ll kill them if it keeps going on. We can’t let it.”
Gavin didn’t know how to tell him that they would have to. The Freelancer’s journey to recovery would have sections of road that had to be walked without them. And while they would all rally behind the Freelancer with every step, there were parts that they couldn’t interfere with.
As much as it pained them all.
-
“So,” The police officer sat across from you began, digging a red translucent lighter from his pocket and lighting the cigarette in between his teeth. “Tell me again how it all happened.” The officer waved his hand nonchalantly, clicking his pen against the notepad as he huffed a breath of smoke from around the stick. It moved in his lips as he spoke, the embers dropping every once in a while“From the beginning, when you first met your classmate.”
“He’s not my classmate,” You swallowed, bunching up the fabric of your joggers in your hands. You both were sitting on the porch, the air from each breath billowing out in a small cloud and trying not to cough at every expel of smoke. You were wearing Damien’s coat, which still somehow had the Fire Elemental’s energy coating the fabric and keeping you warm. “We met at orientation, he said.”
The cop furrowed his brow. “He said?”
“I never saw him, but he said he saw me.” You fought the bile building in your throat as you recounted the way he introduced himself to you. The officer nodded, jotting down on his notepad.
“And he was pleasant then?” He asked, fumbling around the pen in his gloved hand.
“No.” You bit, not missing how the cop looked at you quizzically. “He insisted that we study together, and locked me in a room with him. It was very uncomfortable at first, but it got worse when he br-” You caught yourself on the edge of your sentence. This was a Non-empowered human police officer, you couldn’t explain how Bridging worked to him. The entire police department would go insane.
“He… touched me. Grabbed me in a way I wasn’t comfortable with, so I ran.”
“And how did this affect his reputation?” The cop asked, hooking his ankle up onto his knee and leaning forward. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and gestured with it as he moved his hand. “You said that in your most recent encounter, he was getting ‘revenge’. Explain that to me.”
Fuck.
“...I reported his behavior. Dahlia takes that stuff pretty seriously, so he was put on probation.” You sighed inwardly, suddenly thankful for the theatre classes you had taken in high school. All that improv practice finally did you some good.
The cop nodded, clicking his pen once more and turning his full attention to you. He took another drag of smoke.
“And, at your last meeting, what were you wearing?”
What ?
You must’ve looked positively shocked, because the cop chuckled to himself and waved his hand dismissively.
“I mean, he’s never had any previous reports, his family all remark him as an upstanding citizen. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person to do this… unprompted. You understand, don’t you?”
He grinned lopsidedly at you, shrugging his shoulders when you didn’t return the gesture. You took a steadying breath, frustration building in your core. It thrummed beneath your skin, magic and pure energy begging to be released.
“With all due respect, sir, It-”
“My name’s Dylan.” He offered, still grinning at you. His teeth shone in the porch light, and you couldn’t help but feel meek under his gaze. You righted yourself and intertwined your fingers in your lap, knuckles going white.
“Officer Dylan, it’s the middle of December.” You gestured around to the growing snow piles around your abode, not missing the twist in his expression. “I was dressed for the weather, but I can’t see how that would affect anything-”
“Were they tight-fitting? He had to be tempted somehow.” You felt like vomiting in that moment as his eyes raked up and down your form. “It’s out of character for him to act this way.”
“Didn’t I tell you that he had previously assaulted me?” Your voice grew in pitch, tears pricking in your eyes. “This is far from out of character, it was bound to happen eventually- if not to me than to someone else!”
“Then you should have called it in sooner.” Dylan scolded, leaning back in the chair you had provided him like he lived there. Made himself comfortable as if he deserved it. As if he’d earned it. “If you knew him so well, you should have distanced yourself from him. Then, you might not have even been in this mess.”
He didn’t wait for you to reply as he stood, brushing off his pants and freeing up the creases that had gathered.
“I’ll leave you be for tonight, I can see you’re still emotional about it.” You opened your mouth to retort before he dropped a ripped square of paper in your lap. “If you ever need help… recovering, just give me a ring.” He winked (fucking winked, that self-entitled bastard) as he snuffed out his cigarette and began the decent down the railed stairway. He waved to you again as you let the tears roll down your cheeks. You trembled, but not from the cold.
Your porch still smelled of cigarettes.
-
The Freelancer opened the door and stepped inside, shucking off their shoes and coat. Damien was waiting on the couch and looked up as they entered, frowning at their red-rimmed eyes.
“Everything go alright?” He asked, patting the cushion beside him.
The Freelancer shook their head, but didn’t elaborate. Instead, they cleared their throat and asked:
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.” Damien said, standing as they walked closer. They handed him a slip of paper with shaking fingers, not meeting his gaze.
“Burn this.”
And with that, they retreated to the guest room. Damien looked after them, mouth open in a retort that didn’t leave his throat. A minute after the door clicked shut, he unfolded the lined paper. Inside was written a phone number, with an X below it.
It turned to ash in his hand.