Chapter Text
The NYPD administrative assistant, Darla, was refreshingly direct, as most New Yorkers are. She weilded a deep baritone that she used to keep order in her fiefdom.
"Have a seat Ma’am,” she says, pointing at the waiting area. “Someone'll go find Detective Doggett for you."
Darla leans over her desk and whispers just to her: "Listen honey, don't let them boss you around back there. We’re real glad to have you, honest." She shakes her head. "Poor kid. I pray to God you find him soon."
Special Agent Monica Reyes, FBI, agrees with a soft sound of assent, and sits in the offered seat, a hard molded plastic that would have suited a subway car just as well as it did the reception area for Precinct 18. The robin’s egg blue of the bolted row had long lost it’s sheen to both time and graffiti, but if you looked hard enough, you could see the original gloss peeking out in places not often touched.
Home for Monica was New Orleans, where it was always warm, but in New York it was sweltering. Here, the wide asphalt streets and concrete buildings worked as heat sinks, and the beating heart of the city and it's people generated and then stored the heat, like a kiln, until nightfall when it could radiate off into the atmosphere. She was thankful she picked the skirt, but was less thrilled about the light cotton turtleneck, though sleeveless.
She really, really hopes she smells okay. She's pretty sure. Like 99%. Maybe ninety. It was hard to tell, since all she can smell when she tries to sniff herself casually is the recycled air from the plane ride. She had reapplied deodorant in the taxi cab and tried to make sure she was as put together as possible, giving the driver a big ‘sorry about that smile’ when they accidentally locked eyes as he checked his 4earview mirror. The cab driver, a kindly old man with a thoysand yard stare had assured her it wasn't even the weirdest thing he'd seen today, and she believed him. She used to live here. She knows.
She sat, fresh off the plane, more or less, in reception, and she tried not to make the puppy like head tilts too obvious as she attempted to shoo away the barotrauma of a rough descent into LaGuardia. She was honestly just happy she'd been able to sneak a quick half smoke outside the terminal, or she'd be going nuts.
She closes her eyes and rests, once she tires of the futile attempt to right her vestibular organs. She had learned to take the little moments of quiet wherever she could. You never knew when you might have to immediately spring into action, guns blazing, possibly literally, so any rest she could get, she took.
And she very much wants to be rested and sharp as she prepared herself mentally for the upcoming event; The Ritual, ie; the inevitable dick measuring contest. The Ritual, without fail, always immediately followed the arrival of an uninvited Federal Agent. It was practically how some local forces said "Hello" to her and her colleagues, the NYPD included.
So it was gonna happen, especially since she was not here at the NYPD’s request.
That'd been happening a lot lately, she realizes. She was increasingly getting pulled from one end of the country to another, assigned to a case... but not at the behest of the locals. In short, whenever she shows up she's not wanted, hence The Ritual.
This time, one of her boss's boss's bosses had sent something right back down that same chain, until it hit the last person it could, wayyy down at the bottom, Monica Reyes. Normally when this happened, the magic incantation of "ritual?" or "cult?" were penned somewhere on the front page in a margin, or written on the attached sticky noted on the front of the file. This time really took the cake, however: the words “ritualistic undertones?” greeted her when she had opened the file cover. They were scrawled on a napkin. Someone’s leftover pizza grease was soaking into the question mark.
Well, that's the price she pays, sometimes, for the freedom to do what she does.
And she had to admit, once the shock had worn off, she was intrigued.
She isn't missing persons, which this is. She isn't juvenile cases, which this also is. She isn't even identification services, and she has hella security clearance, so why was the missing boy's name and family history redacted?
This case is the opposite of what she does. She is Jonestown. She is Waco. She is Y2K cults and people trying to grift off whatever rapture may be upcoming.
So why the hell was her boss’s boss’s boss so insistent on sending her, when it was plain as day that doing so would consitute a serious misallocation of resources?
There were a few options. She'd found kids before, but it was mostly incidental, and mostly related to trafficking and organized crime, because of the port. She was OC for a while. She cut her teeth on it, her first years, right here in New York.
Of course, she supposes it could be that demons and dark forces both exists and were involved, somehow, but that was unlikely. In all her many years with the Bureau, looking into hundreds if not a thousand reports of such things, not once had it ever been anything remotely resembling honest to god Satan and his cronies.
She is not disappointed, just... you know... might be cool. Then again, be careful what you wish for, she guesses. Which left the third reason as to why she, specifically, was assigned, and it makes her sick to her stomach if she thinks about it for too long. For God's sakes... a child is missing. This is no fucking time for petty politics-
A man's voice: "Agent Reyes?" he says, and she stands.
"Detective Doggett?" she asks the blue eyed, blond man in front of her. She takes him in for a moment, because he seems so familiar, but... ah well.
Detective John Doggett, NYPD's smile is present, which is some kind of solace. Still, she suspects if it hadn't been a social requirement, it would have never appeared.
He reaches out so they can shake hands, another requirement, of course.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," she says
"Follow me," he says, indicating the direction with his head.
He is an expert at weaving through this particular maze of desks and chairs and people and papers. She is out of practice but grew up among crowds and festivals, so she's relatively pleased she only bangs her hip once or twice on a series of desks. Their destination is a stale conference room way at the back of a small but open area, that houses a few chairs and a table. It was relatively spacious, housing a few chairs and a long conference table, stained with the water rings from a thousand errant cups of coffee, and scratched all to hell, but large nonetheless. It was a useful place, clearly, well... kind of, in the way a junk drawer is useful. Important information lines the walls, about shift changes and holidays, missing persons posters. Of course the vast majority of these were ancient, wildly out of date, and new notices were simply taped over top the old ones.
She sits in a chair with all of it's wheels still present, and he begins the Ritual proper as he recites the traditional opening pleasantries that immediately precede the dick measuring saber rattling dance:
"Can I get you some water? Coffee?" he asks, and she recites her part of it in response, saying she's fine, thanks. He nods and closes the heavy metal door with a loud clunk.
A rusting metal sign riveted to the concrete wall behind the door informs her that, in the event of an emergency, this room could function as a fallout shelter.
Ah, New York. One hell of a town.
He straightens his tie as he sits. Only half of the room's lights are lit, in this damp bunker and it's making her sleepy, which, of course, was the intended effect.
But if she looked carefully, he was in more trouble than she was, from that particular trick. As she observed him, she picks up on the signs of his exhaustion, hidden things that shine bright as lighthouse if you knew what to look for.
She had to admit, it was odd for this part of the ritual: usually her unwitting hosts would send the most dynamic, most imposing men or women to impress her with their might. This man, Detective Doggett, only a few hours away from haggard.
Odd, very odd.
His blue eyes were more grey, here, a trick of the half light. The clothing he wears is more presentable than not, but the pressed jacket is covering up a shirt collar that had wilted like the petals of a flower with only one or two days left before it died.
For a man wearing a tie, one too many buttons of his collar were undone, to boot, and he blinked far more often than a well rested man would. A slight sheen of sweat makes this normally handsome man look greasy, and it all contributed to a sense of unease one might have if they had to get near him. 'How long has it been since he’s changed clothes?' she wonders.
Curious, she thinks. Curious, curious.
For her part, all she can offer is a bright smile and a pleasant demeanour. She will allow him to lead the dick dance, if he wishes. She fully intends to cooperate, until it's her turn.
Meanwhile he's been staring at her since he sat down, and that was unsettling for a few reasons.
It's not that she isn't used to it: she is, and God knows she she has been on his side of the staring contest as well. The awkwardness of prolonged eye contact is a useful tool, and she has withstood it thousands of times, from worse and more powerful forces than him.
Still. It feels like less of an investigation and more of a dissection. There is an intense set to his features as he observes her, the whole of her, the idea of her. She feels like he's trying to pull truth from some unconscious source directly from her mind.
It is excruciatingly intimate, which only adds to the discomfort. He is clearly practised in this, and despite his exhaustion he showed no emotion other than a general weariness and some personal annoyance. His affect implies a clinical detachment but with the nerve wracking undertones of the slightly unhinged, and she fights a shiver. To be fair, it is cold, too, in the bunker.
She decides to break eye contact first and she closes her eyes in a slow blink like a cat saying 'I love you' as she looks away. That's one point for him, incidentally, not that she's keeping score or anything.
"It's a lovely city, New York" she says around a small smile. "I haven't been back here for a while."
He says nothing and just continues his astral-adjacent investigation of her soul, her motives. He stares, dissecting, cutting at the layers of defences all people have. As he does, his foot taps up and down slowly on the faded, thin carpeting. No discernible rhythm just... an aid to processing, perhaps.
She sighs.
Okay, fine: they'll do this the hard way and she fights against the eye roll, because, yeah, sure, by all means, O Man, lets lose another hour of this missing kid's time as we focus on this dumbass massaging of law enforcement egos. The most annoying part was that, frankly, it did not matter. In the end, they all came around eventually, the locals who didn't want her, didn't need her, and had no qualms about telling her as much, and the sooner they realized this the better, certainly while they're on a very literal deadline. They always did, the locals, but then, they had no choice.
She, as an Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was a representative of the full might of the U.S government's unimaginable power. Put simply, she always had the biggest dick, but she was polite enough not to mention it, most of the time.
This wasn't one gonna be of those times, she decides, because daylight's burning, a kid's missing, and she's getting annoyed.
Detective Doggett, for his part, also seems to want to move on. He slides a file folder towards him from the other end of the table-
She fight not to laugh, because, awwww!... bless him: he has a little prop for this next act.
It's a pretty good picture of her, and she's pleased, when he opens the file and sees herself staring back.
"Special Agent Monica..." he begins.
"Is it RAY-yez? Or Rey-yes? Or…" he plasters a smile on as he looks at her, neutral, oldest trick in the book, really trying to drive home how much of an outsider she is.
Bitch she knows. Does he think this is the first time someone has tried to point out that she, a latina (and a naturalized Mexican no less!), was -gasp!- out of place in the presence of their local authority?
She smiles back and speaks quickly, her tone 'complimentary':
"Ahh! Tu pronunciación te hace sonar como un simio!"<Ahh! Your pronunciation makes you sound like an ape!> she exults, really rolling the R sound.
She lets him flounder a moment, blush creeping up from his throat, before switching her tone from ‘complimentary' to ‘I have embarrassed myself in assuming you were more educated than you are, tee hee, whoopsie'.
“Oh, my apologies, Detective," she says. "Your pronunciation was so good, I assumed you spoke Spanish... "
He does not, and he grunts some sound and looks back at the file. Some color, at least, stays on his pasty cheeks as the blush fades but the aggravation he feels remains.
"You had it right the first time," she says, cutting him some slack. "It's Agent Reyes. But how 'bout just Monica, huh? That’s easy enough, I should think."
His nose twitches. He does not dignify that with a response, more's the pity, 'cause he started it and she's down to needle him a little.
"And what shall I call you, Detective?" she asks. "Is it Dog-get or Doh-jhay? I’ve never heard anything like it. Beautiful name. Very... evocative.”
She can only imagine what he must have heard from his classmates growing up, in terms of evocative nicknames.
"'Detective' is fine, Agent Reyes," he informs her.
She shrugs. "Suit yourself."
Point to her, there, not that she's counting.
He spreads the papers of her resume out in a line in front of him, and whistles, softly, 'impressed', reaaaaally hamming it up:
"The Federal Bureau of In-vestigation,” he says, as ‘complimentary’ as was. “Nice to be noticed, down here in the trenches."
She crinkles her nose as she smiles. "Isn't it?"
"Though I gotta say, Agent Reyes, I’m still confused as to what caught the FBI’s interest in this particular case..."
"Kidnapping across state lines is a federal offence, is it not?"
"Yes,” he admits, locking eyes with her again. “Yes, it is."
His curious tone is a knife at her throat when he speaks: "Tell me, why do you all only show up now, for..." he took a beat, "for this kid. This little white kid,” he adds, and it softens her heart a little bit.
He continues: “Especially when the people working the case, working damn hard on it, I might add, have no reason to suspect that this kid is anywhere but New York. Far as anyone knows, he hasn't crossed a state line. Unless you know something we don't..."
He puts a hand up in apology as she opens her mouth to reply, and his sarcasm taking on a subservient tone: "Not that we don't appreciate you coming alllllll the way up here!" he fawns.
She shakes her head. "Not at all, Detective. I go where I'm needed."
She hope he can see the sincerity in her eyes as his bore into hers. Man has one hell of a poker face, however, and he lets her sit, increasingly uncomfortable again for a moment.
"And are you?" he asks. "Needed?" he sneers.
She is demure, lady-like, but also assertive, when she answers, with her big ol’ swingin’ dick: "Someone above both our pay grades seems to think so.” She meets his gaze then and turns it back around on him. “Detective." she says, even, direct, as in 'know your place'.
Takes it like a champ though, and just purses his lips.
She inhales a long, loud breath that is as much as sigh as it is anything. Alrighty! She's bored now. Time to get this over with.
"Why do you think I'm here, Detective?" she asks.
A predator's sly grin blooms on his lips as he replies.
"You're the satanist, right?" he says, leaning back, maintaining eye contact.
She smiles, 'cause there it is! Fuckin' finally. Jesus.
She turns half her face away, and down, a bashful starlet on a stage, and she waves her hand slightly by her shoulder to complete the illusion of a grand dame.
"C'est moi," she says, gently, looking up at him through the dark forest of her eyelashes. She bows her head, and sits prim, proper, one hand over another, like a proper young debutant, as she introduces herself.
"Monster girl," she says, softly, but with pride: "At your service, Detective."
He is not amused in the slightest, but he pretends to be impressed again. "Ay, just like Buffy!" he says. "Boy, you get paid for that? Maybe I ought join up!"
She just smiles.
"You know we get a couple of guys like that in the drunk tank every Friday night, they might be interested in a career change. Maybe you can recruit them. I mean, can't be that hard right?"
"Sounds like you have everything you need then, Detective," she says, just as kindly. She does need to move this along though, because time's wasting and she's starting to feel bad for him.
She huffs an exaggerated, theatrical sigh. He frowns, confused, as he watches her crack her knuckles and wiggle her fingers to loosen them up, 'cause it's time to cut the shit, rip the band aid off the ego.
She rolls herself on her chair so she's closer to him, an arm's length or so away. She leans in when she stops, just a little too far into his personal space. With her legs crossed, the top leg sticking out a little, she traps him between her leg and the table.
To his credit, he stands his ground, and doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. They're about the same height, standing or sitting, she notices. She's close enough to whisper, if she wants. Close enough to oopsie brush her knee against his as she swivels idly in her seat. Close enough, even, for her to reach out and run her nails lightly down his thigh, if she needs him to be particularly off balance.
She leans closer, and he does retreat, a fraction of an inch, but retreat nonetheless. "Detective, you know as well as I do I'm not here as an expert on ritualistic crimes," she whispers, with a wink and a smile.
"Oh no?" he says, mocking, incredulous.
She shakes her head as she grins, like she knows a secret he doesn't. "Nope," she says, pulling her own prop from her bag of tricks out onto the table.
Goddamn. Even he would have to admit, the FBI’s file folders are so much better. So much nicer. Firm, thick card stock, stiff, rigid folds. They took ink like a dream, and slid across tables on a cushion of air, almost. The information within was always unique, but of course, it was far more economical to save a fraction of a penny or two, as the NYPD does, clearly, by just scribbling new case numbers over top the old ones. Austerity is it's own kind of blessing, and truly, the NYPD are blessed, compared to her.
But alas for her immortal soul, Federal Agents didn’t need to save pennies, like they did.
"This case..." she says, pressing her splayed hand atop the closed file "- has fuck all to do with monsters." She pats the folder again. "Not the kind they bring me in for, anyway."
"And yet, here you are," he laments, around a sneer.
That takes her aback actually, and she tilts her head. Sees him narrow his eyes at her, confused at her confusion.
She leans back, time out from the ego-beating she's laying in. She speaks to him as just a guy in front of her, instead of an adversary.
"Well... yeah! A little boy is missing." She shakes her head slightly for emphasis: "Why wouldn't I try to help?"
He…
Hmm.
He appears to actually consider that this is the case. She sees how unexpected her response is by the faraway look in his eye as it drifts downwards to look at his hands. Had it never occurred to him that this unwanted Fed could possibly just... be... good? For... everyone? The investigation? The Detective? The kid?
Hmm...
He matches her more casual posture, leaning back slightly himself. He looks at her, but he's giving her, as a situation, as a person, and not an antagonist, a proper, objective, once over.
He breaks eye contact first, and returns his gaze to his hands, kneading his palm with his thumb.
She leaves him to his thoughts as she stands and oh!... oh jeez. Too fast?... maybe? Maybe? Oh... no, no she's... she's good. Phew. Hmm. Maybe she was more jet-lagged than she thought. She'd only come back from Wisconsin yesterday. Yesterday? Technically this morning.
She hides the dizzy spell well enough so that he doesn't notice. She wants to sigh and stretch her sore muscles, but there's a missing kid depending on them, and the air in the bunker is heavy and morbid. It would be thoughtless to do so, so she works out the kinks and gets her blood flowing by investigating the room at a leisurely stroll. She walks, unhurried, her arms crossed, like she's in a small town museum, just takin’ in the vernissage of administrative notices on the walls.
A menu for the attached cafe from last christmas. Law enforcement gets a 10% discount if they show their badge.
A very well done sketch of a clown, who by all accounts appears to be quite badly sought after by the cop.
A wall of fame for some less well done police sketches. She leans in making sure she read the caption correctly. Did that say a leprechaun? Alright. Hell of a town.
A few missing kid posters. Girl. Girl. Boy. Gir-
Hang on.
Boy.
She sees it, and she reads it, but she can't quite believe it, so she reads it again.
And her breath catches.
Her arms drop.
Her heart rate skyrockets-
...oh god…
It’s the full poster, with nothing blacked out, nothing redacted, of the same little boy she's here to find.
Her copy of the missing child poster had the child listed as L.D, age 9.
The full version, taped up in this dank little cavern of a room, informs her that the L stands for Luke.
And the D stands for…
She turns quickly to face him, Detective 'D' for 'Doggett'.
He isn't looking at her. He can’t. His nose twitches like a bunny every so often, in time with the blinks that are key to maintaining his stoic demeanour by keeping the tears within the boundaries of his lashes.
Her hand at her mouth trembles… when… when did she move her hand... ? She tries to clear her head almost dizzy again from the force of the revelation.
She's breathy, when she speaks, 'cause her heart is fucking pounding "...Uncle?" she begs, trembling with... hope?
…but…
Detective D for Doggett shakes his head. No, no.
"Oh, god..." she whispers as pinprick tears flood the corners of her eyes. " I didn't..." she looks away, ashamed, even though it wasn't her fault. "My…my file was redacted. I had no idea what his name was…”
She stops so her voice doesn’t crack and it's quiet, full of empathy, when she continues: “No wonder you're exhausted... Oh Detective," she says, and he inhales sharply and sits straighter in his chair, almost defiant.
She runs the tips of her fingers across the photo on the poster.
Hah, God above... so that’s why. That’s why he was so familiar, John D for Doggett. She'd memorized the photos she'd been sent, as best she could, and now that the connection was clear, anyone could see their resemblance. Kid was like a miniature version of his father, scaled down.
She walks to the door, on a mission, swiping at her eyes. They need to talk, she and the missing child's father.
She puts her hand on the lock, and looks at him, stern. She is asking for permission, but it's more of a courtesy, considering the situation.
He makes a low noise in the back of his throat. A dark snarl threatens to curl one side of his lips... but he nods, once, having made a decision. She can lock it. She thinks he probably wants to be disturbed even less.
She's enraged at him, in a way. That's his son and he insists on spending time on-
Oh. Yes it is, isn't it.
That's his son and he's hurting, and he's not thinking straight, running on adrenaline and instinct. Impotent. Powerless. Stuck in a room while his kid is God knows where, being subject to God knows what, and by God knows who.
She can help him with that feeling, actually, as a Fed, and a human.
She eschews the chair, pushing it back. She’s not going for equality here, that’s not gonna have the same impact.
She lowers herself to her knees one at a time. Sits back on her heels, seiza style, before him, kneeling, retainer to master.
He’s a little taken aback, as she expected. But he's more curious than anything, and... he sits up straight without even realizing it. She suspects it's the first time in days he's felt any kind of power, and it’s an easy enough olive branch to provide.
She keeps her eyes averted, as she composes herself fully. He is in charge. She's not powerless, not even a little bit, but he knows this isn't what one would assume it is, looking in from the outside. His eyes are wet, beseeching, for the first time since they've met.
She closes her eyes and tries to just see and hear the emotions in his breathing. It's deep, but too fast. She's idly concerned for his heart. She will chance pushing further, then, since it might make him more receptive to what she needs to ask of him as the investigation continues.
She has always believed in the power of direct human contact. She has witnessed and wielded its simple miracles many times in her life.
She reaches out, and presses her palms together around one of his hands. It's a reassurance coded as a prayer, to look at it.
Even as he sits, she must look up to address him; that's the point. Raise him up, literally, and so he can feel it in his soul. It's already working with the unconscious straightening of his posture.
The assertive authority she has always had is still present, only now it's pitch shifted. It's the same conviction, the same power, the same alliance as before, but the soft strength of her whisper is an oath of fielty to his cause, not her employer's.
"John Doggett," she says, and he stiffens. She holds fast to his hand as it shakes. "Tell me what you need, Detective, and I will ensure that you get it."
He's gonna lose it, and she opens her hands, like releasing a butterfly. He stands and steps back, retreating, and nearly knocking the chair over with the swiftness of it, until he's at the back of the room pacing, anxious, uncertain.
He's not sure about her. His eyes ask if she can really promise him that. Hands in her lap, she nods. She does not look away from him. She is absolutely certain.
This was not at all what either of them had expected, but it's so much more impactful for him, for the obvious reasons. She watches him run his hand through his hair, crack his knuckles, and she imagines he is probably having a rapid fire debate in his head, trying to decide if she could possibly be anything other than a burden, a distraction...
But... now she was a resource? A... fucking ally, even? And she would lend him her power? Why?
He’s still processing it, but he's starting to believe her. She imagines it's probably the the first good news he’s had since this started. The first hope even, that this was gonna end well.
He is so fucking relieved and his is a subtle reaction, at first. His muscles tense and relax as his limbic system gets the message that he doesn’t have to shoulder this all on his own anymore. His brain tells his body that it's okay, it's okay... that when his own dwindling strength fails him, that's not it. It's not game over.
For her part, as she stands, her knees creaking. She is furious, internally, but keeps that private. If he were to look at her he would see a kind, concerned face, but her eyes are cut glass, obsidian sharp.
How dare they, how DARE they, keep such important information from her, how dare they use her to further fracture a victim.
Her fury cools into grief, as his pacing slows into stumbles. He needs to brace himself, white knuckled on the back of his chair. After a moment the chair sails across the room behind him, and she is startled, but otherwise unbothered.
She's not in danger. He is. His son is. She will be stoic and watch his back so he can have a breakdown, finally.
He doesn't, exactly; he's a cop and a man, and this room isn't soundproof. But its there, the agony, as it weaves through him. It's in the in the hitching movements of his back and his shoulders. It's in the set of the arm that's trying to keep himself upright as he leans against the wall. It’s in the small, thick sniffles, and the slightly more humid air as the tears he hides from everyone adds to the dampness of the room.
She looks away, hugging herself, and closes her eyes and turns her back to him. It's the only privacy she can give really. She cannot leave this room, not right now. If she's the only one to walk out when they both entered this arena, his war band out there, shuffling their feet, eavesdropping, rattling the knob every so often, will eat her alive.
To say nothing of a lawman trying not to cry.
She hears a soft sob and hugs herself a little tighter. More soft sounds of grief, and she hugs tighter, just a little more, a little more still. It helps to stop her own tremors. The pinprick of her nails digging into her sides helps focus her on something other than the appalling tragedy to which her presence has contributed.
She doesn't open her eyes until he addresses her, and when he speaks he uses both her title and the name he'd tried to mangle as a form of intimidation. When he says it again, now, it's clear, even, respectful, commanding. She turns towards him, and he's holding a hand up, in a gesture of greeting, and she is reminded of the grace and the power of ancient Emperors and Kings, and the statues they left behind.
She nods her head slightly in acknowledgement, retainer to master, as he stands broad and tall, Luke's titan father once more.