"Welcome back," she offered him a tender smile.
His eyes fell flat. He slumped. Without granting her as much as a glance, he mumbled a 'thank you', grabbing the items from a box and organizing them on his desk one by one.
Isabelle touched his arm; he flinched. His dull eyes met hers.
"Don't touch me," he commanded.
She nodded, moving her hand away hesitantly. She wanted to pat his shoulder. She wanted to say it's okay, and if it's not, it will be. He won't want to hear it. He won't care for it.
But she had to say something. "It'll be- "
"Okay." He let go of the notebook in his hands, letting it slam onto the desk. "It'll be okay. I'm very aware. I've been told many, many times," he crossed his arms. "Close the door on your way out."
She looked away. Slowly, she dragged herself out of his office.
Rocco put his thumb and index finger to his temples. He rubbed his eyes and fell into his chair.
He allowed himself to sink into the comfort for a few moments. He hadn't wakened up this early in a while. Often, he'd sleep in until it was post meridiem. He had no reason to be awake, either way.
His eyes closed for just a second. The hairs on his arms stood up.
All he could see was Warren's lifeless body. Once so bright that he swore his eyes shimmered every time he saw him, yet now they were closed. All that's left of him is a tomb, dull and grey and everything he would've hated.
Warren's favorite color was dark orange; it reminded him of autumn leaves, the smell of trees and grass in the park after it rained.
Once, Rocco joked about him trying to be poetic, and Warren laughed and told him that the only reason Rocco wasn't dressed in full black was because of him.
He stared directly at the wall, his eyes wide because if they weren't, a tear might fall. He couldn't allow that.
Two short knocks came from the door.
Isabelle returned, this time, with two others.
The man kept his eyes firmly on the ground, whilst the woman stared directly at Rocco, curiosity in her eyes.
Rocco crossed his arms, looking them up and down. Both dressed in full black, they shared something. They knew something. The woman crossed her arms when his eyes met hers. "Who are they?"
The woman stepped forward, letting her arms rest to her sides. "Yara Navarro. I'm the new Intelligence Specialist."
"Thomas Jones," he stood still, stiff as a tree. "I'm an Operative."
Rocco nodded, staring directly at Isabelle. "Ainsworth, what exactly do you think you're doing?"
"Helping you," she raised an eyebrow, eyeing the box on his desk. A bottle of whiskey was sticking out. Rocco stepped to the side, covering it.
He wasn't an alcoholic. Drinking never eased any of his pain. Perhaps after all that happened, it was a mere formality.
"I don't appreciate it," he replied. "I don't want to work with anyone. I know the kind of cases you'll give me. They'll be easy and tedious to work on until you have a grand revelation on how I'm ready. I wonder, Ainsworth," he took a step closer to her. "Will I also get a speech on how far I've come?"
"No, that's not true," she scoffed, pushing him slightly and confiscating the bottle. "I don't see how you'd be able to work on any case, easy or hard, if you're drinking on the job."
He gritted his teeth. "My team was the most important one in this entire building. Without it, you and all of the other higher-ups would be nothing. I don't care what you think I need; I know what I want."
She smiled, her eyes not corresponding. "I don't know what sort of ego boost you went through, but you're making it really hard to be on your side, Anderson. I'd suggest you get off of the high chair before you fall, but everyone can tell that you're already breaking from the inside out."
He scowled. "I'm not sharing an office with them."
"That's not your decision to make," she tilted her head. "It's mine."
"Yours?" his voice raised slightly. He cleared his throat. "Your last name is Ainsworth now. I'd have hoped you'd already known that."
"That's an inappropriate topic to speak of at work," she stammered.
Thomas whispered something to Yara, and she shrugged in response. Ainsworth turned around, offering them an unhappy glare.
"Then don't make it everyone's business," he grabbed the bottle from her, walking to the back of his desk and sitting in his chair. He leaned back. "You can leave; you know that?" he said. Isabelle opened her mouth, but before she could reply, he raised his voice. "I mean, you should leave."
She gritted her teeth. "I know you're going through a lot, but that doesn't mean you get to take it out on everyone you see."
"Close the door on your way out," he tilted his head.
...
Yara and Thomas set up their desks silently, only exchanging short glances and brief whispers.
Rocco didn't mind it too much; It was quiet.
Occasionally, they'd ask Rocco questions, anything to stir up some sort of small talk.
"The painting is from my old co-worker," he shrugged. "It was just a random piece of junk he picked up when he went to vacation in Puerto Lobos."
"Puerto Lobos?" Thomas leaned forward on his desk; It had been there for over ten years, as far as Rocco knew, and it was made of spruce. The desks in the room were all the same, but every Union had a different office setting. "So, then, what's it called?"
He took a long look at the picture. It consisted of two wolves. One was smaller, crouching beneath the other. They seemed at peace; The smaller wolf was asleep while the larger one was on his guard, his teeth grinding. They were inside a small cave with light staring at them. Almost as if you were the one shinning the light at them.
"I don't know," he opened his desk, grabbing an old document. "It's a piece of junk. His wife didn't like it, so he threw it to us."
"When are we going to start working on a case?" Yara questioned, crossing her arms.
Rocco sighed, narrowing his eyes. "Do you see that light?" he pointed towards a square, alarm shaped object. "When it turns red, it means we're busy working on a case. Nobody is allowed to walk in without my permission until the case is solved other than the members of the Union."
"It'll turn on the second we're handed a case?" she raised an eyebrow.
"No," he put his hands in his pockets. "I'm meant to manually turn it on, but that's his job now," he turned his head towards Thomas.
Thomas squinted his eyes, "What? Why me?"
"You're the operative," he shrugged. "You don't really do much in this office, and quite frankly, I usually do your job all the time. I don't need you much."
He nodded hesitantly, "I can be very useful, though. In many situations."
"I'm sure," he countered.
"I can, though," he raised his voice slightly, flustered. "I'm a trained fighter."
Yara stepped in, letting go of a grey binder. "So am I."
"Everyone here is a trained fighter," Rocco said, checking his watch. "Listen, you can both go on ahead and do whatever you'd like. It's not my concern. Ainsworth can answer whatever questions you have, and teach you whatever you need to know. That's her job, not mine, so from here on out, refrain from bothering me with useless questions."
He sighed, putting his hands in his pockets and walking off as Thomas and Yara stared quietly.
...
He took a large sip, pushing the empty bottle towards the bartender and sighing, trying to get the smell of London dry gin out of his nose. It didn't work.
She smiled softly, "Bad day?"
By the dimly lit bar, a band played every few days. It was usually blues or jazz, and today it was blues. His throat burned with a familiar warmth that he longed for, but the smell of alcohol and wood-burned pizza made Rocco want to puke. He took a long glance at the bartender, who was oddly chipper.
He raised an eyebrow. "Sure," he replied, leaning back.
"If it makes you feel any better," she tilted her head, "You drink two more shots; I'll give you one for free. On the house."
He furrowed his brow, "Do you pity me?"
She refilled the glass, then looked him in the eye, allowing her customer service smile to drop into a slight frown. She shook her head, "A little bit."
"Don't," he yawned. "It's quite a waste of time."
The band consisted of three people, a singer-guitarist, a drummer, and a bassist. The bassist had a dark red jacket on, and his jaw clenched every time his eyes met with the drummer, who had a graphic T-Shirt with a skull on it. He seemed apologetic.
Rocco watched them intensely. He grabbed the shot glass, swallowing and feeling every second as it burned down his throat and stomach.
"Still watching people?" a voice questioned.
He turned his head, revealing a tall man, features eerily similar to Rocco's.
"Gabriel." He turned back. "Why are you here?"
He sat down with a smirk tugging at his lips. "I thought you'd miss me."
Rocco scoffed.
"Don't be rude," he put his hands up, smiling. "I admit it; I was the one who missed you. I haven't seen you in a while," he sighed. "How are you holding up?"
Rocco narrowed his eyes, keeping silent.
Gabriel shrugged, "Yeah, you don't want to talk about it. I know, I know," he smiled. "You should tell me if something's wrong. Besides, if it's really bothering you, Rocco, I don't think you should do this job. Actually, I remember as a kid, you were always so quiet and—"
He slammed his fist on the table. The bartender jumped back slightly, but Gabriel stayed still, his eyes narrow and his smile dropping in half a second. "Why are you here?" he questioned. "If you want to tell me something, then say it and leave."
"I don't want to say anything," he crossed his arms. "You don't have to say anything, either. I'm just worried about you. Mom and dad are worried about you, too."
He shook his head slowly, clenching his fists. "Then send me a card," he said, getting up.
Gabriel grabbed his arm. "Why are you angry with me?" he raised his voice. "I'm checking in on you. I'm trying to do a good thing, to offer you some sort of support."
He shook Gabriel's hand off. "I don't want to talk about this, Gabriel. I didn't want to see you here, either. We haven't talked in months, and coincidentally, you show up just as I start work again."
"This again!" he rolled his eyes. "It's dangerous, that's true, but I'm not going to stop you. I'm only telling you that you can drop it if it's making you unhappy. Clearly, even if I wanted you to drop the job, I'd be incapable of convincing you."
Rocco tapped his fingers on the counter, one after the other. Gabriel looked into his eyes, "I just want to know what happened. One day you're at dinner with us, and the next—"
"I think I've heard quite enough from you," he turned.
A dreadfully unpleasant, high pitched noise came from the band. A cymbal clanged. The bassist threw a punch. The drummer has his hands in front of his face as a hopeless attempt to block his punches. The guitarist only stood there frozen in embarrassment.
Rocco rolled his eyes, walking towards the doorway. Gabriel clenched his jaw, getting up and following him. The second the fresh, humid air hit him, Rocco felt himself collapse into a sense of peace. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for only a moment.
"Just tell me one thing," Gabriel yelled. "Nothing else, alright? I just need to know that… I'll leave you alone if you tell me. I swear."
Rocco blinked slowly, putting his hands in his pockets.
Gabriel put his hand over the back of his head. "Did you mean to kill them?"
Rocco narrowed his eyes, "I'm not a murderer. And only one of them is dead."
"That doesn't answer my question!" he clenched his fists. "He was damn close to dying, and you let the other one die," he walked closer. "You can want someone dead without killing them directly, Rocco. Did you want them dead?"
"It wasn't my fault!" he turned. "Watch what you say, Gabriel. This has nothing to do with you."
He complained, "I'm your brother!" he yelled. "Someone is dead, and you let them die!"
"Get away from me, Gabriel," Rocco shook his head, narrowing his eyes.
He stepped closer, "I deserve to know."
"Gabriel," he repeated. "Don't do that."
"Why?" he questioned, tilting his head. "You're supposed to tell me the truth here, Rocco. That's how it works."
Gabriel grabbed him by the collar, "Was it an accident?" he probed. "Or did you mean to do it?"
Rocco clenched his jaw, connecting his fist with Gabriel's jaw.
Gabriel groaned, his head snapping to the side. He clenched his fists and threw a jab towards Rocco, who parried and threw a punch in the middle of Gabriel's chest, causing him to recoil back, gasping for breath.
Rocco shook his head, "You're a damn lawyer."
"A pretty good one," he replied, attempting a weak jab at Rocco's nose.
Rocco took a step back. He mumbled, "Not good at fighting."
A familiar woman walked by, one Rocco could recognize from anywhere. The shiny, mid-length black hair, and the dark blue eyes he had seen in only pictures on Warren's social media.
He stole one last glance of her before turning around and walking away.