A Conversation

Who: December and Brett
Where: One More Round
When: Late

December had dragged herself out of bed not because she had a burning desire to be anywhere else, but because she'd laid there so long that she was starting to physically hurt because of it. So, she got up. And after a grand total of five minutes staring at her walls, she left. She threw clothes on and marched out of her place, and went to the nearest bar, which happened to be the Round. It was as good a place as any. Hell. Maybe she'd write another one of those stupid notes. Wait, had she got a reply from her other one? She hadn't gone back to see. Not that it did her any good now.

Once there, she shoved her way to the bar--not the easiest task for someone of her size--but she managed just fine. She had hardcore internal angst on her side at the moment, it made one able to shove just about anyone. At the bar, she dropped money on the counter and ordered herself a bottle of the worst whiskey in the place, and she asked for her envelope from the advice-chick. She stood there, staring down at the envelope as she waited for her bottle, not even sure she was going to open it.

Brett was already at the bar. He hadn’t meant to stay. He’d got into a kind of a routine, over the last few days. He’d appear twice a day. Once to drop off a letter, once to pick one up. He knew it was screwed up that they were the highlights of his fucking day, but that was his life at the moment. And now, even that was blown out of the water with his cousin’s news, and the day he’d just had. Yet, still he came back for the damn letter he knew would be waiting for him and, for once, he’d opened it there and then, rather than waiting. He’d always waited before - waited for some semblance of privacy. Waited because the Round was possibly the worst place in the entire fucking city for him to be. Him, a cop. Him, a former member of the Syndicate. Strikes on both accounts and, usually, he wasn’t so stupid as to go looking for a third. But today he’d had a really bad fucking day, and if someone wanted to try throwing a punch at him - well, at least it would give him an excuse to work off some of his frustration.

So he’d opened the letter, wanting to know what she’d said this time. Whether he’d predicted her right. He had, of course, and maybe another day, that would have made him smile. But, not today - today it just made him throw caution even further to the wind and order a double, straight up, throwing it back before ordering another to follow. He was just finishing that one when a glance revealed his cousin as she accepted her bottle. “Gonna share that?” he asked her, gruffly, pushing his now empty glass a little way down the bar to her.

Jolting just a little, December looked over when he spoke. Keeping her gaze on him for a moment, she sighed, then nodded. "Apparently, yes." she answered, then she glanced around. "Back booth." she said, pointing out one that was much less in the mix of things. And sure, it was occupied right now, but she'd fix that. She glanced towards the bartender for a second glass, picked up both of them, then walked for the booth, assuming he'd follow. When she got there, she set her shit down, and gave a good death glare. "First person who gives me shit is getting this bottle shoved straight up their ass. It will not be a good thing." she promised. And, really, people opted to leave then, and she dropped heavily down into the booth, already reaching for the bottle to pour the first round.

Brett said nothing as she threatened the now former occupants of the booth. He’d had long years of practice of standing behind people looking large and threatening, so he went with that, ignoring the muttered probable threats that were thrown their way as one of the guys walked passed them. If the guy had been willing or looking to follow through with them, then they would have been louder. As it was, whilst Brett would have happily responded to someone else starting something tonight, he wasn’t actually going to go looking for trouble. Especially not in the Round where he could guarantee that the only person who would take his side would be the petite woman who sat across from him as he slid into the booth.

She poured far too much into both glasses, and killed a good quarter of hers. This of course ended with a harsh bout of coughing, because wow that was terrible, but whatever. It burned down her throat and eventually she was sure it would burn all of the taste buds out of her mouth. So, right. "Doesn't seem like the best place for you to be hanging out." she said.

Whining and wallowing. Feeling sorry for himself. That’s what she’d said in her letter. So fucking what - didn’t a guy get to do that every now and then. Especially right now. He downed half of his glass, knowing that he was drinking too much, too quickly and not giving a damn right now. “Here for the same reason you are,” he said, nodding toward the letter she held, though he noted hers was unopened.

She arched a brow. "You wrote to Letter Goddess Chick?" she asked. "...I was blind drunk when I did mine, what's your excuse?" she asked. Though it actually made her consider opening it more. Which after a few long moments, she did reach out and tear the end open, pulling out a page with loopy handwriting.

I know who she is. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to tell her that. But then again, he wasn’t sure of anything these days. Eris had told him, once, to tell December. That he needed someone to talk to, but he wasn’t convinced. He’d been right, he thought, when he’d decided that he shouldn’t trust people, that he was better off just assuming the entire world was going to fuck him over. Didn’t make the bad shit stop happening, but at least he didn’t have to deal with the emotional shit that came with betrayal. At least he would have been proven right, not proven wrong. There was some comfort to be had in that. The world was screwed up and the sooner he went back to accepting that, the better. Hell, what was he even doing lately? Trying to fix things? Trying to make the world some kind of a better place? He’d stopped being that naive fool a long time ago, or at least he’d thought he had. And now - he knew he couldn’t get that back and this only proved that.

He realised that he hadn’t answered her, that he was just sitting there, contemplating his drink whilst his thoughts ran away with him, and he didn’t have any answer to off up but the truth, as much as he wasn’t convinced he wanted to let that out. “I know her,” he said, eventually.

The reply wasn't long--she read it over fairly quickly. And it had sound reasoning. Unfortunately, it was too late, not by the fault of anyone but herself. Non-special snowflakes are the most special. Right. she thought. She ticked her gaze back to Brett, however when he spoke. She blinked before she responded. "Really?" she asked. "Oh. I...she seems like she gives halfways decent advice, from the letter back. I...sort of figured it'd be shit." she admitted. "Who is she?" Somewhere she realized that she probably shouldn't be so shocked that Brett knew someone, but well. He was kind of the epitome of Loner Guy.

“My ex,” he said, this time an immediate reply - though one that was followed swiftly by his tipping his head back and swallowing the rest of his drink in one go. He didn’t sound happy by the news, though he so very rarely did in any event. Right now, however, he sounded bitter.

December, even in her own haze of 'Let's hate everyone and become the Ice Queen', caught that. She drank some more of her drink, and poured him some more. "You don't sound overjoyed by this. How recent was this?" she asked. She was pretty damn surprised at the idea of him having a girlfriend in the first place. And sure, it was possible that it was ages ago and he was still mad about it, but she didn't think so.

Brett shrugged and cradled his glass on the table once again. About the same time the Commissioner was murdered. “About the same time I rejoined the force,” he told her, pushing down the instinct to down another glass. Even in a funk, he knew what was suicidally stupid and not being able to walk out of this place himself would probably mean he would never walk out of here at all.

Propping her cheek on her hand, December sipped at her whiskey some more, considering him. "Why'd you break up?" she asked. "...what was she like? Who the hell was she? Cuz...you're not really..." she made a vague gesture at him. "Boyfriend material." she finished. "No offense. But you're about as datable as I am. Which is to say 'whole lotta not, let's never go there ever'. Like I really shouldn't have, clearly."

Brett considered her questions and answered them out of order, judging how much he actually wanted to say as they went. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be having this conversation at all, but at least it meant he wasn’t ‘wallowing’ or whatever she’d said he was doing. Or, maybe he was, but he was wallowing about something else. Really, with the alcohol, Brett was finding the whole world fairly fuzzy right now. “Does it matter who she was?” he started with, because that was one piece of information he wasn’t going to be giving up easily, not if he was going to even consider talking about the rest. Shit, everything that was going on and his instinct was still to protect her. And he knew that December’s instincts weren’t the same. She’d shown that clear and simple this morning when she’d hadn’t hesitated to turn Martens in. “We broke up because she did something I couldn’t agreed with. Kinda unfixable. At least it is, was - who the hell knows. And I’ve been working and she needs time I can’t give her and - wrong time, wrong place and the whole fucking thing is a screwed up fucking mess and I just... Right from the start, a screwed up fucking mess. But what else can you really expect because, yeah - not boyfriend material, right? So, clearly, if that ever happened, it was going to be fucking screwed up and...” He shut himself up abruptly, taking a sip of his drink as an excuse to stop talking before his mouth decided to start addressing the ‘what was she like?’ aspect of things, because his emotions were far too near the surface right now to get into that without saying things he’d regret in the morning.

"No." December answered the first question. "Just curious." In the end it didn't matter who she was, it was just such a strange thing she wanted to know. But really, even if she got a name, it was supremely unlikely that she'd know her. So in the end, nope. Didn't matter at all. And then she fell totally silent, as he kind of carried on for a bit. She definitely let him, listening to every word. It was possible she'd never seen him this animated. Staring again, she waited to see if there was more before she tried to scrape up a response. What she said wasn't planned. "Got it bad, huh." It wasn't a question. But people didn't carry on like that and ramble and spark up emotion when they were usually deadpan unless something mattered. "...wait so you broke up cuz you disagree about something?" she asked. "Like..." she frowned, trying to come up with something big. "...fuck, I don't know, breeding?"

Brett ignored her first remark in every way but a look that raced across his expression before he chased it away, only for it to be replaced by a moment of confusion as he clearly didn’t get her follow up question. “Breeding?” he asked her.

"Yeah, like...kids, or something." December clarified. "Was that it? Like...major life shit that you absolutely can't budge on?" Not that she was weighing in on that sort of thing herself. Though it did make her think about the religious aspect of things with Mickey. That boy was fucking Catholic. And oh wait, she was never speaking to him again anyways. Right.

The confusion remained for a moment before Brett pushed it away. “Not that kind of a disagreement,” he clarified in possibly the most vague way possible, though his tone suggested otherwise as he took another sip of his drink.

"Uh huh." December said, clearly not buying it. "Try again, that was less than convincing. Did she wanna get married or something? Or...jesus I don’t know what real people problems are." she said. "And why're you here getting letters if you broke up?" she asked. "You just torturing yourself, or are you guys like, talking it out?" she asked.

“Someone screwed me over. She found out. She decided that wasn’t going to fly and they had to pay for it,” Brett told her, though he didn’t answer any of her questions about why he was writing. Or why Eris was responding. He wasn’t sure there were really answers there to be given. He didn’t know if he could even begin to explain it in any way that he could get to make sense.

Watching him with confusion now living on her brow, she waited for more of an explanation, then when he didn't give it, she shook her head. "...you broke up because she got your back on something?" she asked, that being what she would take from a situation he described. Sure, it was bare bones, but still. “Who did the leaving?”

“She didn’t have my back. Having someone’s back means that they’re in on what’s going down. I didn’t fucking... She didn’t tell me any of it until it was too late. Fucking - hell...” He shook his head a little and took another sip of his drink. He’d put money on the fact she’d have known he would have stopped her. So she’d said nothing. She’d just gone out and killed a man. For him. “She left me. Or - I left...” He looked a little confused for a moment, blaming the alcohol. “She left me a note. Telling me what she’d done. She disappeared. I tracked her down. Then I left. Something like that - we’ve always spent a lot of time trying to leave,” he explained. Not that it was much of a clear explanation.

"I guess I'd see it differently. I'd probably be grateful, if someone did something to someone who fucked me over. But it's not my life, I guess." December said, not knowing the full extent there, so she didn't even imagine it was something as dire as it was. "That and I guess if someone did something to someone I cared about, I'd probably do something stupid." she added, drinking more. Then she refocused on Brett again, confused once more. "...sounds like you're not sure who broke up with who. Why did you both try to leave a lot?" she asked. "Especially when you sound like that when you talk about her? Was this some manipulative bitch or something? Someone who needs to be told you're not to be contacted?" Because this was all kind of seeming to be one big shit storm of twisted, and if Brett was twisted up himself, she didn't like that idea. They were family, whatever that meant.

“I can fight my own battles, December,” Brett told her, sharply, reacting both to that and to Eris being called a manipulative bitch, which kicked his back up even though that wasn’t what his cousin had meant. “There was a lot of leaving because neither of us wanted to get involved. We’re not exactly... Trusting people. She’s not the girlfriend type, either, I guess.” He leaned back in the booth and looked at her for a moment. “You say you’d see it differently. That you’d be happy if someone got vengeance in your name on someone who fucked you over. You got any limits on that assumption?” he asked her, the ‘cop’ seeping into his tone without him noticing as he asked a seemingly innocent, innocuous question that could turn out to have a sting in the tail.

December held her hands up to ward him off at his tone. "Alright, just asking. Sounds bad, from here." she told him, pouring them both more alcohol. "But then you sound like you're still all torn up and confused over it all too, so there's that." She went back to listening, thinking that it also sounded a lot like her and Eric. How neither of them were really the type to be involved in the first place, but passion and true connection won out, and...then she found out he killed a bunch of dudes, and that really kind of killed the magic. Serial killing--not a turn on. When he asked the question, she considered that. "I don't know." she answered first. "I guess it would depend on what happened to me first, and what happened to them. If things felt balanced to me." she explained, aware he was probably looking for something specific but she didn't know what that was, so she just gave her honest assessment. "Like, if someone get glassed in the face for stepping on my toe, that's probably a little over the line, y'know? But I guess I could go for an eye for an eye, in the non-literal sense."

He paused for a moment, rotating the glass on the table, watching the liquid move inside. “A lot of my life’s bullshit,” he told her, seemingly unconnected with the conversation. “The stories you hear, the things they say. The shit that gets into the papers. A lot of it’s pretty much fiction.”

Frowning, she kept her eyes on him. "You've lost me. Explain?" she asked, downing some more alcohol, and she realized she'd stopped tasting it by now. That was probably a bad sign, but she didn't even attempt to stop drinking.

“I was set up,” he explained. “When I went to the O’Malleys. Thought I was going undercover, but it was a set up. The people who had sent me undercover ended up dead, paperwork was disappeared, I was set up for theft and murder and given the choice between suicide, prison - which was pretty much the same thing - and going and working for the O’Malleys. And, well - I’m still here. Fast forward a handful of years and she helped me get out, we took down the O’Malleys and she found out who set me up in the first place. What’s your eye for an eye in that scenario?” he asked.

That frown didn't leave her features as he kept talking. She really didn't know all of this. In fact, her knowledge on her cousin's life had just gone up exponentially. She knew the basics of the public story. Which clearly missed out on some major fucking details. And she remembered when the O'Malleys were winding up on her table. Like...all of them. It took her a second to answer him, not really able to fathom an answer properly. "I have no idea on that, Brett." she said honestly, voice a little quieter than before. "Jesus. Who set you up? What happened?" she asked.

“It doesn’t matter who set me up now,” Brett told her, then smiled coldly, sarcastically - it didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s out of the picture. Though you were probably the last person to see him.” Brett didn’t remember which coroner did the autopsy on the late commissioner, but it might have been her. At the time, he had other things on his mind.

It took a minute for that to click into place correctly. She was just about to ask 'why' she might have been the last one to see him, and then it dawned. And she sat back, and stared at her drink for a long moment. "We know how to pick 'em, I guess." she said, tone pretty flat. Then she ticked her eyes back to Brett's to confirm. "I'm getting that right, right? He's no longer among the living?"

Brett toasted her with his glass. “The Trents - there’s a reason we’re loners,” he offered. “Might be sharp, but we have fucking terrible taste. Or attracted to the wrong type,” he added, the certainty disappearing from his tone as he tried to figure that out.

December flinched. It was a hard wince that was unmistakable when he said 'or attracted to the wrong type'. After all, that was turning into the bane of her mind, just--who the fuck got so taken with a fucking serial killer? Who did that? What kind of person did they have to be? So it hit hard. He might as well have smacked her one. She picked up her drink with a hand that wasn't so steady, and she drank it all, setting it back down with a clatter. She said nothing, staring emptily ahead. She'd been distracted with the story of his life, she'd been happily concentrating on him, but that set her squarely back to the quiet horror she was facing.

Brett knew what she had to be thinking, with that reaction. He’d purposefully included her own situation in that, and Eric had been his friend, after all. Or, the nearest that Brett had gotten to having a friend since before hell, even the first. And that had been a decade ago. After the fire he’d cut off as many people as he could, then after the con the rest had cut him off. Bull O’Malley had thought they were friends, but that had been entirely one sided - and it hadn’t been Brett’s side. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

She hadn't actually cried yet. Maybe she wouldn't ever. December wasn't really a weepy girl. But for just a moment, she felt like it, felt like just bursting into tears, and starting a fight, or something. Anything to take herself out of her own head, if even for a few moments. She didn't want to live with this. That much was starkly clear in her head. She didn't want to live with this burden, with this idea that she'd been what...in love? Maybe? Something close? To a man who tortured and killed people. Who'd sat there and rubbed her feet and listened to her talk about her trauma, about what she'd seen, the monstrosities she dissected that he'd created. She'd never suspected a thing. Not until the one little fuck up. She almost shut out the fact that he was there at all, until he spoke. Then she raised her gaze to him again. "No you aren't." she said, voice still quiet. "If you were sorry you wouldn't have said it. Well, congratulations. You've reminded me that I was sleeping with a serial killer. That he took people apart, painstakingly, taking hours to do his work. That they wound up on my table, and he listened to me as I told him about it. I confided in him, and he sat there, and calmly listened to every word. And I had no idea." A pinched, pained expression twisted her features for a second, then it cleared again and she poured herself another drink. "And you know I don't think I'm ever going to get over the idea that I should have figured something out. That this was going on for weeks, and I should have caught something. Should have realized there was a problem, that there was an issue. That someone I knew, was turning people into fortune cookies. And I didn't. And I think I might have loved him. And what does that say?"

“That when you love someone, you don’t really see them,” Brett told her, his voice softening as he took in that she looked close to tears. “Not really. Not the way you would have done otherwise. Hell, even when you just like someone, that happens. I didn’t see it, either. You know, I actually went to see him to ask for help getting contacts in the veterans community and it never even - I didn’t suspect him either, December. For you... You don’t go looking for the shit, not when it’s like that. Even the shit you’re aware of, you’ll overlook, just because. So the shit that’s kept hidden? You don’t stand a chance of seeing that.” Even when it’s waved in your face. After all, Eris had made no secret of who and what she was and Brett had still found himself in deep.

"I thought I did. I thought I loved him because I saw him. And the stupid thing is? Maybe I did. I just missed the killing thing. Everything else fits, Brett. Everything else adds up, just..." she broke off, unable to really finish the thought. She just upended her glass again. "Maybe I did see him, he just happens to be a monster, and that's who I fell for." She took a beat, then nodded to herself. "I think I saw. He's just a monster, and that's that."

Brett shook his head. “You didn’t fall for the monster,” he averred. “You fell for the man. It’s different,” he told her, emphatically.

"Are you sure? Why is it different?" She asked, shaking her head. "I think they're the same thing. I think they're entwined. At least they are with him. He's...got his mission, his war. And that's what he believes in. That's the fucked part. He believes in what he's doing. He truly does. He understands. He just...doesn't care. You know he told me this all came about before we got together? That he knew from before we even...he knew and he went for it anyways, knowing full well it was going to end how it did. He...he sacrificed me." she said, frowning, a little hurt expression and tone present. Then it cleared again. "Maybe it's different for you. Or it was different for her. Or...whatever. I don't know."

“She left me a note. Said what she was going to do and that by the time I got it, it would be too late. Said she wasn’t coming back because she knew I wouldn’t want it, that she knew that what she was doing would be the end of us. But she went and did it anyway,” Brett told her. “And it’s different because if you’d fallen in love with the monster, your first reaction wouldn’t have been to come straight to me and hand him in.” Brett knew that had to say something about him, and the steps he’d taken to ensure that Eris never paid for her crime.

"Why would someone do something like that?" she asked, sort of to both of their dilemmas. She sighed, and took another drink. "I get what you're trying to say. That...that I didn't fall for the monster. But the more I think about it, the more I think it was just him. He just happened to be good at compartmentalizing. He wasn't a false person, even if I really really would love to say he was. That what I knew was just some...some illusion. But I don't think it was. I think it was him. He just, alongside of being someone who seemed to understand me like no one else ever had, carved people up for some...ideal in his head. I think maybe that's what it was. He was him all the time, I just wasn't told about the other shit. About his personal war against the russians." She was quiet for a second. "Did she torture people? That's kind of what keeps me awake. I did the autopsies. I know what he did to them. What he did took hours. He was so damn careful and precise. The one guy..." she closed her eyes, seeing her table again, seeing that fucking poem. "Don't get me wrong." she said softly. "I do actually believe some people need to just die. I believe some crimes should be punishable by death. But I don't believe anyone should drag it out. Not like that."

“She wasn’t anything like him. She just... she had principles that didn’t match up to mine. Something had to give. Maybe in that she was something like him, if his reasons for all of this shit was some kind of personal war. She just wouldn’t go about it in the same way.” He thought for a moment, actually thinking about things. “If she wanted the Russians gone-” which, actually, he could see, given what the O’Malleys had done to her, given their connection with the Syndicate. “-she’d taken them down, but not like that. She’d only get her hands dirty if there was no other way, and she wouldn’t - like you said, it would be quick. She’d set it up so that others did the work for her. A word here, a piece of information there.”

December was back on the 'manipulative bitch' train again, but she didn't say it. Instead she took another drink, sitting back as she held the glass against her shoulder. "How did you wind up with her in the first place?" she asked. How did he let himself fall in with someone like he was describing? She knew what had happened with her--she hadn't known a goddamn thing. She was stupid. Or...something. She didn't know. Maybe it really was what he said. Terrible taste.

“I saved her life,” Brett told her, simply - though it was probably the only ‘simple’ thing about his relationship with Eris.

Her first instinct was to ask why, but in the end she didn't. Instead, she took another drink. "So why do you write her?" she asked. "And how does she get letters back and forth from prison?" Because she assumed this lady was in jail, after all. At no point did she consider her cousin, the homicide detective, to have let someone walk.

Brett opened his mouth, but he didn’t have an answer for that. He’d known it had to be coming. Given what she’d done today. He knew he should be ashamed of his actions, of the way he’d conducted himself. He knew it stood against everything he held, yet he couldn’t regret what he’d done.

She waited, then kept waiting, then finally figured out he wasn't going to answer. Sitting forward again, she looked at him, frowning. "...well?" she asked, not really feeling the need to rephrase the questions again, but he was obviously stuck on something. She just really didn't have a clue what, and that much was clear.

Brett had the sudden urge to leave, to get up and walk out, but he didn’t. He couldn’t meet her eyes though. “She doesn’t,” he said, quietly.

"She doesn't what?" December asked, still not getting something. "Obviously she writes you back, and...apparently everyone else too, since I got one. Why do you write? And how...." she trailed off, things kind of sliding into place. "Wait." she said, sitting up straighter, and she was staring at him for some form of denial that this lady hadn't been put away.

Brett raised his eyes to hers as she clearly connected the dots, his avoidance turning into a head on facing of what was coming. He didn’t say anything, he just met her gaze without challenge and waited.

She said nothing for a good few minutes, just wrapping her head around that. Mostly it was difficult to process because Brett was...well. He was hailed the hero cop, now wasn't he. And he just let his ex girlfriend get away with murder? It was a lot to try and figure. "Why?" she asked. And he could fill in that blank himself, whether it was 'why did you let her go' or 'why are you still in contact' or 'why did this not come up in the reasons you really broke up'...whatever. There was a lot of leeway.

“I couldn’t do it,” Brett told her. There were other things that he could say, justifications he could have thrown out there, but Brett’s personality wasn’t one where justifying himself was something which sat well with him. His actions were his actions and the person he had to answer to for them was himself.

Considering that, December eventually exhaled and nodded. "Said earlier you got it bad. Think I'll chalk that in the 'correct' column." She took another drink. "So, she killed someone who wronged you. You broke up. And you write her, and she writes you back." she said. "You keep in contact because you can't let go? Or you keeping an eye on her to make sure she doesn't hurt anyone else?"

Brett considered that for a moment, taking another sip of his drink. “Honestly? I have no idea. I just know I came in here a few nights back, saw the note, recognised the writing and few hours later I was back with a letter. And she replied. And it’s been back and forth since then.”

"What do you talk about?" December asked. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, but she had to ask. What did a homicide detective write back and forth about with his murderer ex? It was still blowing her mind a little. She poured herself some more whiskey, and wondered if she'd ever get to a place where she could talk to anyone again. Maybe not. She didn't really like the idea of it just now, though maybe talking to Brett was okay. Maybe.

“Talk about? Bits and pieces. The letters are never very long.” He laughed, again without actual humour. “Until today, at least.” He shook his head, tossing the latest letter in her direction. “Read it, if you want. I told her about Eric. It’ll be all over the papers soon enough anyway.”

December wasn't entirely positive she wanted to read the letter, but in the end, curiosity got the better of her, and she picked it up to read. "I did too, kind of. I asked what I should do if I suspected someone of horrible things." she said, a little distracted as she read the letter. Then she arched a brow and glanced over the top of it at her cousin. "This Julia chick is pretty blunt, isn't she." she noted. She could see a whole lot else, too. "And she thinks you're a hero." she added. "Which apparently is something you guys have talked about before." Or that was what she took from the tone of the words.

“She thinks I’m a lot of things,” Brett said, dryly. “Most of the people in her life... They’re the bad sort. Or were. There’s not a whole lot of people in her life any more. What did she say? To you? About what to do?” he asked her, pretty sure he already knew the answer.

December held out the letter she'd gotten from the woman, so he could read it over. It was only fair. She kept glancing over the words that were written to Brett. "She sounds like she still has it bad for you too." she added. "And there's of course this end bit. Where she sort of invites you back in." There were few ways to interpret 'you know where I am', after all.

Brett took the note and scanned it over, feeling a moment of strangeness seeing that handwriting directed at someone else. “I know she still... cares,” he said, carefully. She was always careful with what she said, but he didn’t doubt her actual feelings for a moment. “And she’d take me back.” He knew it was down to him. He just didn’t know how to deal with that. He could neither walk away, or walk back in.

"Would you take her back?" December asked. It was definitely odd, seeing all of this. Seeing how he reacted to things, seeing that he clearly still carried a torch for this broad, and she still held one for him, and...she was seeing a mess, that was for certain. But one that had a whole lot of strength on both sides. She just didn't know nearly enough about it to weigh in on anything. She wouldn't.

Brett shot her a look. “If I had the answer to that one, I wouldn’t be writing letters,” he pointed out to her.

"What? It's a valid question." December said. "Just because someone knows something doesn't mean they act on it. You could know but not be acting." she said. "Did the guy she killed deserve it?" she asked. "Besides fucking you over, what else was done? Or is that it?" she asked.

“I can’t ever believe that someone deserves that,” he told her. Which, actually, was something he still held despite all of his bending in other areas. “He deserved to be arrested, tried, convicted and thrown away. But she knew - and I have to admit, having considered it all - that given the guy’s particular connections in the city, there would have been no way that we could have gotten anything to stick, even with the evidence we had. And it wasn’t just me. As I understand it, the guy liked to play with people’s lives. That doesn’t mean I agree with what she did,” Brett said, tightly.

Well they definitely differed in that opinion. Which was probably strange. And she shared the thought. "You believe no one deserves death for certain crimes, I do, I turned in my boyfriend, you didn't turn in your girlfriend." December said, shaking her head at the both of them. "Interesting, I guess." she noted. "She always that sweet to you, telling you to shut the fuck up and all?"

Brett quirked his first genuine smile of the evening, though it was only half of one. “Yeah - always that sweet,” he told her, not minding Eris’ words at all. She knew the best ways to get through to him when he needed it.

December mirrored the expression, though hers died immediately. But it was there for a second, anyways. His smile was telling, though. "So...what's the long and short of this? You're in love with a woman who killed someone, you're going against your profession and everything you believe in by not throwing her ass in jail, and you're writing notes back and forth like you're in class? and....that's your life? Tossed in there with endless hours at the station, of course."

“Guy’s gotta have a hobby,” he quipped, pushing the glass a little away from him. He’d drunk enough for tonight. “Long and the short of it is that my life’s a fucking mess, and I had a choice: I could either sort it out, or I could do the job. Don’t think I need to tell you which choice won out there, really, do I?”

December shook her head. "The job is always easier than sorting things out." December said. "That's pretty much my decision. My life was easier when I didn't talk to anyone, when I didn't bother with people who weren't on my slab. Think I'll go back to that. My foray into having a life didn't work out." she admitted, understanding why Brett went the way he did.

Brett nodded a little, though he knew that his track didn’t quite match up to what she’d just described. “I told her that we’d talk - once things settled down with the job. That things would get sorted out, one way or another. Just with...” Eric. “-everything. It wasn’t a good time. Not to do with what was easier or harder. I couldn’t walk away with everything.”

"So is that what the letters are?" she asked. "'Talking'?" Though he'd also just said he had taken the route of not sorting anything out and instead he was just doing the job. So she was slightly fuzzy on the situation. But then that could have been the whiskey, too. It wasn't like she was sober just now.

“No - the letters are neither. The letters are. Unplanned. We’re not actually sorting anything out. They’re not actually achieving anything, and we’re not trying to.” Brett wasn’t one to get overly introspective about things.

"...it's just keeping a connection going." December said, rolling her eyes. "C'mon, maybe you wanna say it's nothing, but look around. You do not belong here. But you're coming here to write letters and get letters. They've got to be achieving something, even if it's just...I don't know, someone bitching at you through written words."

“December - you do not need to tell me how much I don’t belong here. I’m aware. I’m probably one of the only guys in this city who has multiple reasons never to set foot in this place. But, yes - here I am. Fine. A connection. I haven’t forgotten. She hasn’t forgotten. No answers, but. And I don’t have any answers. Just far too many fucking questions. At least you knew what to do.”

"I was the one who did the autopsies on the people Eric killed. Of course I knew what to do. He tortured the one guy. We're talking truly dark, sick shit. It's...well, 'disturbing' doesn't quite cover it. It left absolutely no room for anything but what I did. Not with the twisted sickness present." she said with a sigh. "I don't know what to tell you. What are the questions, even?"

“I’ve seen the photographs, December. I know all the details. I see them behind my eyes when I try and sleep,” Brett told her. He’d seen some of the bodies first hand as well. He knew. “I don’t want to get into the questions. Hell, half of them I couldn’t even put fucking words to and when I try - it gets to the point I’m going round in fucking circles and all I can come back to is ‘why?’. Why the hell did she have to go and do that in the first place, ruin everything.”

December watched him, and finished off her glass, setting it down and finally pushing it away. "People do that. Ruin shit. I feel pretty ruined. It's like I said--I'm just going back to how things were. It's not like I have that many people to run off. Shouldn't be hard." She was quiet for a minute. "You though...I know this is going to sound fucked up, but shit or get off the pot. Either work shit out, or cut it off. But this," she said, pointing to the letter. "This has got to be hard on both of you. Or, that's all I can figure from my limited knowledge."

“It’s hard anyway. And she’s still writing back,” Brett pointed out, avoiding the point. Deep down inside, he knew the issue. He didn’t want to walk away. But accepting that, going back, meant dealing with that choice, meant dealing with the fact that he was willingly walking into a relationship with someone who had killed for him.

"Doesn't mean it's good for either of you." December pointed out. "Like picking at a scab--it's not really going to heal if you keep doing it." she told him. But she didn't push the point because it wasn't actually her business, now was it? Clearly, he was just...writing letters back and forth with her, and he was willing to show up in the stupidest establishment in the city for him to be in to continue it. So...right. But that really did say a whole lot. "Maybe you should just...meet up somewhere. Or try the post. Y'know, the real one where replies would come to your house, not here." Because there was a genuine glimmer of concern in there from her, even if she was drunk.

“The job, remember,” Brett pointed out. Though, maybe now that Martens had seemingly skipped town that would start to change. “She’s... She’s made it pretty clear that, even if we got over all this, she’s not just going to be some dame who waits patiently for her guy in uniform to come home at night for dinner on the table.” Not that Brett wore a uniform any more, but it was an acceptable description when considering the alternatives.

"What did you guys do before? And if it's her or being a cop, then...er...that sort of seems like no contest, right? You're already a detective again. That won't change. So...what. You'd have to quit or something? Or...?" December wasn't sure what any of that meant. Just that it sounded a little like Julia wasn't going to be pushing for a ring on her finger any time soon.

“It’s complicated. But it’s not about the money - I have... A second income stream. I - It was never intended that I come back to the department. Like I said, the story you heard? I wasn’t undercover long term. The department took the glory for bringing down the O’Malleys, but really they had nothing to do with it. That was just good press for them at a time they needed it. And by letting them make me a poster boy, I got where I wanted to be. But it wasn’t part of the original plan.”

"Oh. That's...fucking shady, and yet utterly unsurprising." December noted about the PD taking credit for something they didn't actually have shit to do with. "Goddamn city." she muttered. "But okay, so being a cop again wasn't how it was supposed to go...what was the original plan? And does that mean that you would drop out of the force and..." she made a vague gesture at the notes. "What she said. Or...whatever. You get what I mean." she said, losing a slight bit of coherency from the drunk thing. But she thought she knew what she meant. Then she clarified better. "You could drop out and adhere to her whole 'I'm not waiting home for a uniform' or whatever she said. You could just do whatever." She paused. "What kind of money do you make on the side?"

“The original plan pretty much involved never having anything to do with ECPD ever fucking again,” Brett said, bitterly, changing his mind on the drink and pulling the half empty glass towards it before downing the contents. “I have a business that’s currently being managed for me. But we’d talked, we were going to set up something else because she didn’t want to be involved in my business.” He knew he was saying more than he should, that the alcohol had loosened his lips, but he was still careful enough not to associate ‘Julia’ with the escort business they had run together. “We hadn’t pinned down the details yet. So, yeah - if we managed to get things sorted, I’d quit. If we don’t - then, I don’t know.” He paused for a moment and looked across at her. “I stopped loving this job years ago. I’m just not very good at walking away.”

December watched him, arching a brow as she let her head sink down onto her crossed arms on the table, listening. "Huh. Guess we both have side jobs." she said, mostly to herself. They were leading sort of weirdly parallel lives it seemed. "Okay. here's what I'm hearing." she told him. "So, you don't get things sorted, and you...condemn yourself to a life in some job you apparently don't like anymore, with shady assholes you didn't want anything to do with, and you die a lonely, awful death eventually after a bunch of misery. Or you do work things out, and you...retire to a life of relative leisure--since your business is being run for you anyways--and do whatever you happen to fancy at the time, with some chick who loves you enough to play note-tag?" She screwed up her face a little then blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "Rough choice there, Brett." she deadpanned.

Brett shot her an unamused look in return. “And we both know that that is ignoring the giant fucking elephant in the room,” he pointed out. Because if it was just a case of picking one choice or another, he’d be there in a flash. But ‘she killed a guy’ wasn’t some little bump that you got over without a second thought.

"Yeah, I know." December said, quirking a half smile. "Just...seems to me you're not good at walking away. Which you just said. And you clearly aren't walking away from her." she said, tapping the note. "So--obviously it's an elephant that you can see around in some fashion. Or something. If it was a total end all deal breaker, you wouldn't be here right now." She shot a glance at the rest of the bar. "I mean, you can't even pretend you come for the company, or the atmosphere, or the booze. This place literally has no merits, and a bunch of checks in the 'what the fuck, are you crazy?' column. So...yeah. Obviously there's something pretty powerful going on otherwise. That's a whole lot to look into for some words scribbled on a page that's basically one part bitch slap, one part 'aww, duckie' and one part 'my hero'." She shook her head. "If nothing else, you could stop being a cop, if you hate it. it's not like your partner is anything other than a giant tool who I kinda think is shady himself. And the rest of the department...don't get me started. I dunno. Call me crazy but you've sort of had a shitty life. Maybe it's time to not have one. If you can, with this business or whatever..." she trailed off, shrugging a shoulder. “Even if it isn’t with her. I’m sure you could find someone.”

Brett couldn’t agree with the last of what she said, but he didn’t bring that up. She didn’t know about his issues there, and he wasn’t going to get into that. “I don’t like what it says about me - if I can see round that elephant,” he admitted to her, after a moment or two.

December thought about that. And, in the end, it was easier to come up with an answer to that question for her cousin than it was for herself, though she did think maybe she should make the attempt to do the same. "It says what it says. The only real question is whether or not you can live with it. But beyond that...your feelings are your feelings. Feeling bad or uncertain about them won't change what they are. So maybe it doesn't matter what it says about you. It is what it is." She was going to need to accept that she'd fallen for a man who killed people. Her reaction to that was already decided, that she was going to cut people back out of her life. She was comfortable with that choice, she was firm in it, and fuck all the niggling little feelings in the back of her mind that were whining bitches about it.

“Seems to me that’s just an extension of the same question,” Brett pointed out to her. “If I can’t live with it, then it matters. And it’s always gonna be there.”

December shrugged one shoulder. "How long are you going to wait to find out?" she asked. Her eyes fell on a middle distance. "Seems to me people always think they have more time than they do. Can't tell you how many sobbing loved ones wind up in the morgue, wailing over corpses. I think that's one of the things I hear the most. Just...endless excuses of why they hadn't done something or said something or whatever, and now it's too late." She ticked her eyes back to him. "Not that I'm telling you you have to go back to this woman. Just...more make a decision about your life. If you don't want to be a cop, don't be one. Don't just hang around because you've got nothing better to do."

“I need to make a move,” Brett said, abruptly deciding that he couldn’t do this anymore. It wasn’t that she didn’t have some valid points, it was just making him uncomfortable. Hitting too close to home when he hadn’t dealt with things and she didn’t know all the issues. “You gonna be okay to get home?” he asked her.

December wasn't overly surprised. Really, she was shocked the conversation had lasted this long. In the end, she nodded. "Yeah. Don't worry about me." she told him. Not that she imagined he did, so much. But still. "Bye." she said with a light sigh, putting her head back down. She was done drinking, but she wasn't ready to go home yet. Maybe she'd luck out and a brawl would start or something, and she'd have something else to do. But going back to that empty place to just hang out with her thoughts? Not a good plan.