Chapter Text
Shared Portion:
Sweetheart POV:
I stared at the files on my desk, unfocused and tired.
It’d been less than an hour since I walked Milo out, less than an hour since his little…goodbye gift.
Was that what that was? A ‘see you later’? ‘Well wishes’?
The only time I’ve seen someone do that was when my relatives kissed my cheek when I left their houses, but that was years ago. Can’t remember when I last had a chat with them now that I—
A hand falls heavy against my - admittedly, a little unorganized - desk, and guessing from the wedding ring indent on one of the fingers; heavy noting on the absence of said ring, it was the boss. If I were a new hire, I would’ve flinched.
My eyes trail up his arm slowly, feeling the irritation seeping into my bones; my jaw flexes when I press down on my teeth.
“Mr. Schmidt?” I’m too tired to moderate my tone or even fix myself to look presentable. The looming figure tilts his head down at me; the condescending position he held me at rolls over my body in uncomfort. I resist the urge to make a face.
“What’d you get on the shifter?” His tone is low as he mellows out the question, despite how much of a statement he made it out to be. Schmidt didn’t do questions, they gave too much room for disappointment. That’s how he puts it at least.
I sigh and lean back in my chair; only having to lift my eyes up instead of craning my neck. I’m not breaking my back for a racist.
“Nothing we don’t already have; I keep telling you his connection to this runs cold.” My arms twist over each other, pressing against my chest as I leer at the tall man. I take a deep, calming inhale before refraining from gagging.
Schmidt reeked of tobacco, many people did - hell, Milo did too but at least he was classy enough to cover it up with cologne - yet it was giving me a headache, it only got worse when he opened his mouth.
“Oh yeah?” He scoffs and stands upright, crossing his own arms, “I swear after we started putting it under surveillance, you started getting soft.”
It?
My hands wrapped around my arms, the muscles beneath my fingers were tense and warm with a rush of blood.
“Fucking it ? Have some damn decorum Schmidt.” I snarl, spitting out the remark as level-headedly as I possibly could, “be mature about this and accept the fact that running after him is useless - just drop it already, we have far more plausible suspects than him.”
I can just tell that everything is going in through one ear and right out the other. We had this conversation - argument - so many times that it sounds like that stupid broken record my folks refused to get rid of.
It was grating on the ears and made the teeth in my own mouth feel like nails.
Schmidt walked away, completely ignoring me. He waved his hand dismissively when he strolled out of my office, muttering indignantly a simple; “I always have to do the all the work.”
He shut the door before my pen reached him.
I burned crescents into my palms - blunt nails boring into my skin hard enough to keep me from running after him and emasculating him - staring at the ballpoint that was wedged into the wood of my door, I realized I was milliseconds away from actually hitting him.
Shame .
~
Milo POV:
I sigh loudly, fumbling through the variety of keys in my coat’s pocket - dragging my fingertips against the engravings of each of them.
DS , AT , T , and finally, MG .
Pinching the metal between my fingers, I pick it out and secure it into my apartment’s keyhole. A small click rings in my ears and I push open the door with my shoulder, a routine huff causes the curls that fell into my face to fly up - the swift movement of my entrance has my door slamming behind me.
I jumped at the sudden burst of strength I had, having half the mind to check if I broke the damn thing; ultimately deciding to just wave it off for now. That’s for future Milo to worry about , I reason with myself as I remove my coat to hang it on the rack beside the door and twirl my keys around my finger to do the same. Once it’s all in order, I make a beeline for my kitchen.
My hands immediately flick on the lights when my legs carry me to my mini liquor cabinet. Swinging the oak wood open shows an array of different alcohols standing in a line - my eyes dart across the labels before catching onto my favorite bottle, the label might’ve been scratched off but I knew exactly what it was…vaguely.
I knew it was Rum and frankly, that’s all I really care about right now.
Popping the lid open is easy and done before I even scour my other cabinets for a glass. I was tempted to just drain the liquor straight out the bottle but - for one - this drink was expensive as hell and I only allow myself to drink a glass or two whenever I whip it out - for two - I did that a while back and ended up seeing the pack’s doctor for possible alcohol poisoning.
No , I am not exaggerating and, no , it was not actually alcohol poisoning. Sam didn’t have to use that patronizing ass dad-voice on me though. ‘You should be more careful, Milo! I almost got a heart attack seeing you hobbling into my office like a damn zombie!’ , hmph.
I’m not some sorta kid, I’m a grown man who did a little dumb thing; grown men do dumb things all the time! I know plenty of dumb men. My old man was definitely one of them.
I scrunch my face at the migraine peeking around the corner, grumbling and searching for a glass to subside the pain, eventually snatching up one and hurriedly pouring myself some giggle water.
The aged color only fills the cup half way before it’s funneling down my throat, my brows pin and my eyes shut at the burn that chases after it. I chug the liquor till nothing is left - I place the glass back down and hiss at the pain rising up, my eyes stay shut as I lean against the counter, a little phrase repeats in my head while I wait; it gets worse before it gets better.
The words replay over and over for as long as my mind is rattling, I can feel me white-knuckling the glazed surface despite being drowned in darkness; slowly but surely, the headache lessens and my face softens alongside it. My hand goes to unbutton my shirt the moment I push off the counter, my eyes open slowly - thankful that my lights were more dim than most - and drag my shirt out from its tucked in state in my pants after it’s fully undone.
The fabric falls off my shoulders and I’m relieved the strain is gone, at least the material one. My muscles still ran taut from the long day of excursions, I felt it more when I walked back into my living room - thinking about running myself a bath and having a nice meal, or maybe just going straight to bed after the soak.
Brrrring!
My body tenses at my phone’s abrasive ring which pierces my already sensitive ears, and just like that, all the stress floods back. A groan slowly creeps out to a growl as I march over to the little desk near the door, my phone practically ringing off its hooks. I snatch up the dark material and bring it to my ear; my growl tagging onto my words in agitation.
“Milo Greer speakin’—“ My hooded eyes catch onto the clock nearby and the sun rising from the windows, “—whadaya’ want at five in the damn morning?”
My skin crawls and my body tenses at the voice that comes over the phone. Schmidt. That rat bastard. What’s he doing calling me at the ass crack of dawn?
“Greer! What a fantastic surprise.” His tone is sarcastic but happy.
I clench my teeth, taking a deep breath and rubbing my forehead.
“What the fuck do you want.” I grit out.
“That’s no way to talk to your superiors!” He laughs and I cringe at the loud, boisterous noise coming from over the line.
I sigh, grabbing a nearby pen and a notepad. I need to do something to get rid of this anger or I’m going to punch a hole in the drywall and I know David won’t be happy about that.
“First of all, ya’ not my alpha, and secondly, I’ll talk ta’ ya’ however the fuck I please.” I say sharply.
A grumble follows shortly after and the rag-a-muffin of man on the other end mutters something so quietly I almost didn’t hear it.
The faint flick of a lighter tells me he’s lighting a ciggy, which is more likely than not the explanation for his incomprehensible speech.
The words ‘fuckin’ dog’ was what he shallowly remarked and my pen pauses for a little before repeating my attack on the thin paper; the ink pooling into my harsh and darkening circles - lines violently scratching onto the yellowed surface with growing frustration as his belittlement repeats in my head.
Dog.
Dog.
Dog.
Despite it all, the seedy Department boss’s voice continues along like he didn’t say anything.
“Fine—“ He pulls his cigarette back and huffs into the phone, “—I want you back at the Department for a reevaluation and further Investigation by five-thirty today.”
Five-thirty? Is he fucking kidding me right now?
“Fuck do you mean five-thirty? Like in the afternoon?” I snarl and pause at my scribbling again, hardly noticing that half of my little notepad was already filled. I can’t help but feel like I knew his answer already.
“No, as in about—“ Schmidt hums slowly and playfully, most likely taking another drag of his cigarette, before responding with a smile in his voice, “—thirty minutes from now?”
I figured as much, the fucking scumbag. My hand goes back to chicken scratching, adding more and more pressure to the paper causing it to tear a bit. I try to regain my cool, remembering what my Ma’ said about the people who tease and bully; they just want a reaction - I’ll be damned if I give a high-hat having prick any satisfaction.
“Listen, I just got home like twenty minutes ago — how about we reschedule for another day?” I give myself a metaphorical pat on the back for keeping my voice leveled, no matter my urge to make his ears bleed with a scream, “why don’t we take it to the cafe nearby too? It’s much more cozy.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Greer.” My pen almost snaps hearing Schmidt’s voice dip, his voice distorted a little under the smoke clogging his throat.
“Ya’ see, there’s been some lapses in judgment in correspondence to some of our detectives—“ Sweetheart . I know he’s talking about them, he has to be - my teeth grind against each other and I have to take a calming breath, “—we’ll need you back immediately and in the comfort of the Department, us cops need to be safe y'know?”
I hear a snap. I didn’t bother looking at what broke, I already knew it was the pen.
“I’m not goin’ back to the department and I’m not talkin’ to any more investigators - how many times do I have to tell you that before you get the message?” My hands are sporadically waving around, my pen barely hanging on by a limb.
How could he even try to insinuate that Sweetheart - My Sweetheart - is any type of incompetent? They’re the best fucking thing that’s happened to that shit hole and he knows it. My Sweetheart is the reason that place is even standing; why it’s even credible or worth funding.
They aren’t some hopeless pawn that’s working in the background. No, they’re at the front of the line, working overtime and actually solving shit. The only important person there; the royal on a chessboard.
I want to tell him that - in fact, I want to yell at his prejudiced ass while I still have liquor coursing through my veins - but I can’t because he cuts me off, with a scoff.
He fucking scoffs at me .
“Down, boy—“ a guttural noise trills against my throat, “—I thought your dog dad taught you to behave better; guess he was too busy playing fetch with some other bitches, huh?”
And he laughs, a degrading and condescending noise that makes the alcohol in my body ignite - a burning fire rises to the surface and the corners of my eyes start pulsing with darkness; the color clawing to override my vision, begging I repent to it just to show that inhumane fuck what was what.
My jaw draws open and I get ready to run for the hills, for when the sleaze tells the rest of the Department that ‘I’m a dangerous creature’ who ‘threatened’ his sorry ass ‘unprovoked’ . I don’t care about the consequences anymore, I don’t care if he puts a hit out on me.
I want him to shut up and listen .
“You motherfu—“
KISHHHHH.
A string of curses fall out my mouth at the sharp noise of technical interference. I’m scrambling to grab the phone with my hands, tossing my still-broken pen and torn notepad to the end table - I drag the phone as far away from my ear as possible, wincing at the ringing still permeating in my head. I can hear the hellish sound even from a foot away, my brows are pinned as I glare at the device in confusion.
A minute passes and I contemplate on hanging up; I’d give anything to get out of this situation - hell, I’d sell my soul just to never hear from Schmidt again - however, the noise quiets down. I anxiously gnaw at my lip, cursing my nosey genetics and hesitantly pulling the phone back to me.
There’s still a disturbance on the line but it sounds more like two people arguing - angry arguing - the type where all you could decipher was shouts and threats. I can’t tell who's speaking but I know it’s somebody different holding the phone, their voice was more palpable than Schmidt’s. However, that’s not too big of an accomplishment. Anything is better than that prick’s voice.
The argument dies off after a slamming door, the person holding the phone huffs; muttering swears between gritted teeth and if I strain my ears enough, a growl follows. It’s nowhere near my growl - so, they’re definitely not a shifter - it’s softer and just a little more…human.
What am I saying? I’m still a human, just a bit more advanced. Animalistic—
“Two-faced, bigoted bitch.”
A voice interrupts my thoughts and I perk up. It’s familiar, very familiar — soft spoken with apathy lagging behind - it’s a bit raspy too, probably from the onslaught of their extreme voice range which could make systems fry, yet I could tell they kept quiet so it wasn’t noticeable.
Is that…?
“I’m sorry about that, is this still Mr. Gre—uhm, Milo?”
Sweetheart.
I could feel my breath hitch and hear my heart beating in my ears, I barely noticed the smile creeping up my rapidly warming face. I suddenly feel shy, and a bit weak in the knees - my darling detective saved me - my canines catch onto my lip and I’m rolling it around gently. They’re so close to my ear, they sound so soft and concerned.
Their voice rolls up my spine and I resist the urge to preen at the mere sound of them. My sudden weakness has me leaning against my desk and grabbing onto my phone, as well as its curling wire; which I deliberately allow to encompass my finger, pressing the device closer to my ear.
“Milo?” The detective calls, unsure and a bit uneasy. My body hums and shivers in delight at my name being called in that soothing voice of theirs, I snap out of it and blink quickly, responding just as fast so they won’t hang up.
“Yeah, yeah - I’m here, Sweetheart.” I can feel the alcohol buzzing in my skin, making me feel lighter than air itself - if I was empowered with said element, I would’ve been worried that I started floating. I’m smiling ear to ear regardless.
“Hello. I.. um, how are you?” They ask and I grin, twirling the phone cord with my finger giddily.
“I..I’m doin’ good, Sweetheart. How are you doing?” I reply.
The detective sighs, seemingly a mixture of relief and exhaustion, “tired but that's a part of the job.”
I hum while worrying silently; the thought of the Department running them into the ground has me feeling bad. Sweetheart’s voice chides in and dissuades me.
“Speakin’ of my job - I’m sure my…boss has required your presence back.” They rush the sentence a bit and quickly move on, seemingly a little nervous.
“I was hoping we could still go through with that, whenever you’re free, of course; I know you're a bit of a busybody around Dahlia.” I can hear them smile, their tone is more uppity and playful. I can't help but oblige them.
But I also want to tease a bit.
“I dunno, doll–” I hold the phone between my shoulder and ear, grabbing onto my notepad again, “--as much as I fancy you slapping those cuffs back on me, I don't really feel like sitting in that interrogation room - bit stuffy for my taste.”
I pull the drawer to my desk open and fish for another pen. My smile permanently etched onto my face when I find one and start dragging the ink against the paper; a lot softer than before.
Sweetheart gives a little lighthearted laugh. I can picture them tugging their bottom lip between their teeth; I can't help but feel a bit jealous of it.
“Well, lucky for you, we don’t have to be in the interrogation room if you don’t want to.” I hear some shuffling and a quiet yawn come over the line. “I’ve heard of interrogations taking place in.. less unorthodox places.”
“Awh, is my detective gettin’ sleepy? Need me to tuck ya in?” I say teasingly.
I hear them grumble a bit and I hold back a snicker, smiling down at my notepad.
“Shut up. I’m fine. Nothing coffee can’t fix. I have a long night ahead of me anyways. I have to get through a bunch of paperwork. The lot of the paperwork is because of you , so you should be grateful that I’m the one processing them and not some coworker of mine who’s racist and just wants to take their anger out on some random shifter.” They sigh.
“Oh, I’m ever so grateful for your help, Sweetheart.” I let out a laugh. “How could I repay you?”
“How about we set a date?” They ask.
I choke on my saliva and start coughing, putting the handset down on the desk so I can bend over and cough my lungs out.
A date???
Are they asking me out on a date? Frankly, I didn’t think they had the balls. I thought if I ever wanted to pursue them, which… probably wouldn’t happen, I would have to make a move. Huh, guess I was wrong.
I pick the handset and cough one last time to clear my throat.
“Say.. could you repeat that for me, Sweetheart? Didn’t quite catch that.” I clear my throat to get my voice back to normal after my impromptu coughing fit. Fuck, I need some water.
“...A date. For the interrogation. We should set up a date. When are you free?” They say, seemingly unbothered by my interruption.
I shrink, pouting a bit. Oh, so they didn’t mean an actual date. They were asking when we should schedule our next.. meeting.
I sigh. “..I don’t know, Sweetheart, let me check my calendar..” I say resignedly, reaching to leaf through some papers in the desk.
“I wouldn’t be.. opposed, however, to getting something.. After our interrogation. I’m sure you need something to eat after my questioning.” They add.
My face lights up and I grin, starting to bounce my leg against the hardwood floor.
“Really?? I-I.. I would like that. A lot. When are you thinking?” I say, doodling hearts and stars in my notepad.
“Hmm..” I hear some papers flipping over the line and they hum a little tune. “Does.. Saturday the 15th work for you?”
I also go through some papers, smiling ear to ear. “Um, yes. Yeah, I think that would work. What time?”
They let out a sigh. “…Two thirty.. pm?”
“Mhm, yeah, that’s.. that’s okay.” I quickly jot down the date and time. “Where’re we goin’?”
They huff out a laugh and I grin, feeling like a firecracker that’s just been lit.
“Well, I was thinking , mind if we do a.. private interrogation? I could come over to your place if that’s not a bother.”
“No, no, that sounds good!!” I let out a giddy laugh, shaking my head.
I hear them chuckle and I start doodling and jotting things down in my notepad. Mostly little notes like ‘SAT 15, 2:30 pm, Sweetheart visits, Tidy up’ but I also draw a heart and write ‘M S’ inside. I know it’s juvenile, what a kid would do when thinking of his crush, but I’m feeling romantic.
I put on my flirtiest tone and say, “You can come over anytime you want, Sweetheart. You don’t have to make a fancy appointment just to get the luxury. Ya know that?”
They laugh. “Alright, Milo, thank you for the.. clarification. I’ll see you.”
I laugh back. “Uh-huh, yeah, you keep that fine ass of yours safe now, alright Sweetheart? I’d hate for it to get damaged.”
They snort, say goodbye and hang up. I pump my fists in the air and let out a cheer. Aggro blinks sleepily at me, probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with his owner, but I couldn’t care less. I feel the happiest I’ve ever been.