Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE

Whoever Said Chivalry is Dead Has Clearly Never Been Accosted By It In The Rain

(Morrighan’s P.O.V.)

Jack Thompson opened the interrogation room door.

The bullpen came back in pieces.

A typewriter resumed too quickly, hammered out three guilty strikes, then lost its nerve. A telephone rang until the fourth chime, when someone snatched it up and answered with the breathless pitch of a man who had briefly forgotten his own name. Chairs shifted. Papers whispered. Cigarettes burned forgotten between fingers.

Morrighan stepped over the threshold without looking toward the observation glass.

She did not need to.

Some rooms had teeth.

This one had eyes.

The mirror behind her held the warmth of men who had laughed at the wrong moments and fallen silent at the right ones. Their attention pressed between her shoulder blades as she crossed into the bullpen dressed in black wool, bottle-green silk, and every question Jack Thompson had failed to make her answer.

Peggy's desk was empty.

Morrighan saw it at once.

No dark head bent over paperwork. No red mouth set into professional indifference. No sharp eyes finding hers across a room full of men and saying, without words, Careful. Hold. Breathe.

Jack saw it too.

His gaze cut once toward the desk beside the Chief's office, then moved away before the glance could become evidence. Not before something tightened in his expression, though—a thought arriving sharp enough that he had to kill it quickly.

The corner of Morrighan's mouth nearly moved. Very interesting. . .

Thompson closed the door behind them.

The click was soft.

The bullpen heard it anyway.

For one suspended moment, no one spoke.

Then Jack crossed to his desk with the file tucked beneath his arm. He moved like a man trying not to hurry and failing only in the smallest places: the set of his jaw, the hard placement of his shoes, the way the folder landed on his blotter with too much restraint to be gentle.

Morgan Scamander stared up from the tab.

A neat name.

An obedient name.

A name that had no business looking so comfortable beneath government ink.

Jack set his pencil beside the file, took his hat from the corner of the desk, and lifted his overcoat from the back of the chair.

"I'll see you out."

Morrighan looked at the coat first.

Then at him.

Unnecessary, she thought.

Interesting, her subconscious observed.

She gave him the sort of smile women gave men while deciding how much trouble to become—and whether they wanted him to notice. "How gallant."

His expression did not reward her. "Don't make me regret it."

"I'm not sure that's one of my talents."

"That," he said, "is not the impression I've formed."

He started across the bullpen.

Morrighan fell into step beside him.

Not behind.

Not quite with.

Beside.

Their pace carried them between desks crowded with carbon copies, ashtrays, coffee rings, and carefully lowered heads. One agent turned a page he had clearly already read. Another opened a drawer, stared into it, and appeared to forget what drawers were for. A typist struck the same key twice and winced as though the machine had betrayed him.

Government offices, Morrighan reflected, were simply gossip sessions with desks.

They had nearly reached the far end of the bullpen when the observation-room door opened behind them.

A laugh came out first.

Small.

Nasal.

Mean enough to have learned confidence from cowardice.

Morrighan did not turn.

She knew that laugh.

It had pressed itself against the glass during the interrogation, eager and ugly, the sound of a man who believed a wall made him brave.

Krzeminski stepped out with a cigarette between two fingers and the remnants of amusement still sitting badly on his face.

His eyes found Morrighan.

Then Jack looked back.

No order. No speech. Only Jack Thompson's face, all office rank and cold displeasure.

The amusement vanished.

Krzeminski looked away first.

Morrighan kept walking.

She did not smile.

That would have been too generous.

The disguised door opened before Thompson reached it.

Rose Roberts stood on the other side, one hand on the release and the other close enough to the underside of her desk that Morrighan appreciated her even more than before. Beyond Rose, the operator room hummed in its tidy storm of voices, cords, paper, and controlled secrets.

Rose looked at Morrighan.

Then Jack.

Then the conspicuous absence of blood, handcuffs, or smoke.

"Well," she said brightly. "That went better than expected."

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Morrighan saw it.

Rose saw it.

The nearest operator saw it and immediately became fascinated by a switchboard cord.

"No blood," Rose added.

"Not for lack of opportunity," Morrighan said.

Rose's smile widened. "I knew I liked you."

"Rose," Jack said.

"Yes, Agent Thompson?"

"Elevator."

"Of course."

Rose pressed the release with all the obedient sweetness of a woman who knew obedience could be made insulting through proper timing.

The hidden elevator gate rattled open.

Morrighan paused beside Rose.

"A pleasure."

"Likewise, Miss Scamander."

"Do try to keep them alive."

Rose glanced toward the bullpen beyond Jack's shoulder. "All of them?"

Morrighan considered the question. "Use discretion."

Rose laughed.

Jack stepped into the elevator.

"Miss Scamander."

"Coming, Agent Thompson!"

The gate closed between them and Rose's smile.

The elevator lurched before beginning its descent.

No Sousa.

No audience.

No glass.

Only brass, old mechanics, and Jack Thompson standing close enough that his restraint felt like a third passenger.

A chain clattered somewhere above them.

The cage shuddered as it passed the next floor.

Morrighan's right hand curled against the seam of her fitted black coat before she forced the fingers flat.

Jack noticed the movement in the tarnished reflection of the gate.

He did not ask.

A wiser man might have pretended not to see.

A kinder one might have offered concern.

Jack Thompson did neither.

"You enjoy making friends in restricted areas?" he asked instead.

Morrighan watched his reflection rather than turning toward him.

"I enjoy recognising competence."

"Rose is an SSR operator."

"Yes. I gathered that when she opened the hidden door into your federal clubhouse."

His mouth tightened.

Almost.

Not quite.

"She likes everyone."

"No, she doesn't."

The elevator groaned downward.

"You decided that quickly?"

"Women usually do."

Their eyes met briefly in the tarnished brass.

Morrighan smiled. "Careful, Agent Thompson. If you continue introducing me to interesting women, I may begin to suspect this agency has hidden virtues."

"Don't get comfortable."

"There it is."

"What?"

"Your charm."

The elevator struck the ground floor with a jolt.

The gate opened onto the working telephone company below, all respectable noise and ordinary lies.

Jack caught the folding gate and held it aside.

How inconvenient, Morrighan thought as she stepped through.

She passed him without thanks, because manners were one thing and surrender was another.

The front-desk clerk glanced up as they crossed the lobby, took one look at Jack Thompson's face, and returned to her papers with the absolute commitment of a woman intending to keep her employment.

When Morrighan had entered the building, the sky had only been heavy.

By the time Jack walked her to the front doors, Manhattan had split open.

Rain sheeted down the glass in cold silver rivers, turning the street beyond into something viewed from beneath the surface of the sea. Traffic hissed past in gleaming streaks. Umbrellas tilted and dipped like badly behaved fungi. Somewhere down the block, a man swore at a taxi with enough passion to suggest personal betrayal.

Morrighan stopped beneath the lobby lights.

Jack stopped beside her.

For a moment, neither moved; they simply looked through the glass.

The pavement had turned black and slick beneath the downpour. Water coursed along the gutters in narrow, determined rivers. Rain struck the curb hard enough to bounce. The sky had committed itself entirely to misery.

Morrighan considered the deluge with the gravity of a judge preparing a sentence.

"Well," she said, "it appears the Atlantic has relocated."

Jack surveyed the street.

For once, he did not argue.

That alone nearly made the situation worse.

"Yeah," he said at last. "Looks that way."

Morrighan glanced at him.

Jack Thompson's agreement with her felt so unnatural that she briefly considered checking him for a fever.

"Well." She drew her fitted coat closer around herself. It had been selected for a cloudy August afternoon, not the biblical punishment occurring outside. "I suppose I'll walk."

Jack turned his head.

"You'll walk."

"It is a very old method of transportation. I'm surprised the SSR hasn't classified it."

"In that?"

"It's only water."

"That is not water." He looked back through the glass. "That is weather with a vendetta."

"Now who's being dramatic?"

"How far is Sutton Square?"

Morrighan lifted her chin. "Far enough to build character."

"You already have plenty."

"Careful, Agent Thompson. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"Good. I'd hate for either of us to become confused."

He gave her a flat look. "You got someone to call?"

"No."

"A ride?"

"No."

"An umbrella?"

Morrighan's mouth tightened.

One of his brows lifted.

She looked away first, which was irritating on several levels.

"I was abducted before lunch. I neglected to pack for monsoon season."

"You were brought in for questioning."

"Men with badges forcibly inconvenienced me."

"You were evasive."

"You were irritating."

"You planning to argue every point?"

"Only the incorrect ones."

Jack watched her for one beat.

Then another.

"We brought you in," he said. "We're not sending you halfway across Manhattan on foot."

There it was.

Duty.

Responsibility.

A clean federal justification for what he had already decided to do.

Morrighan narrowed her eyes. "We?"

"The SSR."

"How reassuring. I was beginning to think you had developed a conscience."

"Don't push it."

Before she could answer, Jack pushed through the glass door.

Cold air and rain rushed inside at once, sharp against her face and carrying the smell of wet pavement, petrol, and the river.

He stepped beneath the shallow overhang, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled.

The sound cut through traffic like a shot.

A cab half a block away struck its brakes with the offended squeal of a creature summoned against its will.

Morrighan blinked.

Then Jack was already moving.

He pulled off his overcoat as he turned toward her.

"No," she said immediately.

He ignored her.

"Agent Thompson—"

The coat dropped over her head and shoulders before the rest of the sentence could assemble itself into anything useful.

The world narrowed to darkness, wool, and trapped warmth.

Rain pattered heavily against the awning overhead. The lining smelled faintly of cold seawater, black coffee, tobacco from other men's cigarettes, and him.

Morrighan froze.

Not because she had no response.

Because she had too many.

"Absolutely not."

"Cab's here."

"I am aware the cab is here. I am also aware that you have thrown your coat over me like a disgraced piece of furniture."

She tried to wrench one arm free.

The movement caught sharply in her right shoulder.

Pain flashed white beneath the joint and stole the strength from the motion before she could complete it.

Jack stepped in behind her and caught the edges of the coat.

His hands settled near her shoulders.

Morrighan's body locked.

He felt it.

His right hand moved away at once, dropping instead to the loose wool near her upper arm. He did not ask. Did not apologise.

He simply altered his hold.

That was somehow worse.

"Move," he said.

Morrighan allowed herself to be guided one step because tearing free would hurt and because the coat obscured the most efficient place to strike him.

She caught the threshold with the toe of her shoe and stumbled half a pace.

Jack steadied her at the elbow.

"Agent Thompson."

"Watch your step."

"I know how steps work."

"Then use them."

"You are the most insufferable man I have met this week, and I spent Tuesday with Howard Stark."

"Congratulations."

"That was not praise."

Rain struck them the moment they left the doorway.

Or rather, it struck Jack.

Most of it battered his hat, shoulders, and the back of his neck. His grey suit darkened beneath the water almost immediately. Morrighan heard the storm more than she felt it, sheltered beneath heavy wool while Jack kept one hand at her elbow and the other raised to prevent the coat from slipping.

This was outrageous.

Presumptuous.

Deeply authoritarian.

It was also warm.

That was the truly offensive part.

The coat retained his body heat. Each breath filled her with rain-damp wool, tobacco and the deep, steady pull of water before dawn. Jack remained close behind her, near enough to block the wind from one side as they crossed the pavement.

She resented every inch of shelter.

"I could still walk," she said.

"You could also jump into the East River. Doesn't mean I'm going to stand here and watch you do it."

"I have survived worse than rain."

"I believe you."

The answer came too quickly.

Too plainly.

Morrighan's next retort died before reaching her mouth.

For half a step, there was only the rush of water, the hiss of tyres, and Jack's hand steady at her elbow.

Then his voice hardened again.

"Still not walking."

"Testardo autoritario del cazzo."

The cab jerked to the curb, sending a fan of dirty water across the gutter. The driver leaned over and shoved open the rear door with the practised resignation of a man who had witnessed every variety of New York emergency and judged most of them melodramatic.

Jack guided her toward it.

Morrighan stopped.

One hand braced against the roof of the cab, the other holding the coat closed beneath her throat, she turned to face him.

Rain streamed from the brim of his hat. His suit had gone almost black across the shoulders. Water tracked along his jaw before disappearing beneath his collar.

"This is a very authoritarian form of charity."

"It's a cab."

"It is a paid cab I did not request."

"You were going to walk."

"I was considering my options."

"You considered badly."

The driver looked resolutely ahead.

Morrighan narrowed her eyes.

Jack did not crowd her. He held the edge of the coat above her head with one hand while reaching inside his suit for his wallet with the other.

"Get in."

She held his gaze for one second longer than necessary.

Then, with all the dignity available to a woman half-hidden beneath another person's overcoat in the middle of a Manhattan storm, she slid into the back seat.

Jack leaned down to keep the coat from catching in the door.

"There."

"I hope you know this has not improved your standing."

"I'll survive."

He stepped to the front window, handed the driver several bills, and gave him the Sutton Square address without asking Morrighan for it.

That gave her pause.

The address had been in the file, of course.

He had remembered it anyway.

Jack returned to the open door.

Rain ran freely down the shoulders of his suit now. Without the overcoat, he looked less armoured. Broader somehow, but more exposed.

"Go home, Miss Scamander."

There was no performance in it.

That was what unsettled her.

Not the coat.

Not the cab.

Not the money.

Just that.

Go home.

A simple thing.

Morrighan opened her mouth, a perfectly serviceable remark already sharpening on her tongue.

Jack saw it coming: "Go home."

Then he shut the door.

Not slammed.

Not gentle.

Final.

He struck the roof twice with the flat of his hand.

The cab pulled away.

Morrighan twisted in the seat, one hand clutching the edge of his overcoat where it had slipped from her shoulders.

Through the rain-blurred window, she watched Jack turn toward the building.

His grey suit had gone nearly black. His hat offered little protection against the water running down his face and collar. He shoved one wet hand against the brim as he crossed the pavement, shoulders drawn tight against the storm.

He reached the doorway.

Paused.

For one foolish second, Morrighan thought he might look back.

He did not.

He disappeared beneath the overhang and into the building.

The city slid between them.

Morrighan settled against the seat, Jack Thompson's overcoat gathered around her like evidence.

The driver glanced at her in the mirror.

"Everything all right back there, miss?"

"Perfectly."

"Hm."

He sounded unconvinced.

New Yorkers possessed the deeply irritating habit of noticing precisely what one wished they would not.

Water raced across the windows in silver ribbons, swallowing buildings whole before giving them back again. The streets blurred into headlights, umbrellas, and reflected signs trembling across the flooded pavement.

Morrighan loosened her grip on the coat.

Then, without thinking, pulled it closed again.

The wool still held his warmth.

Ridiculous.

It was only a coat.

She had borrowed coats before.

She had stolen them once or twice.

She had set one on fire entirely by accident in Bucharest.

This was merely another coat.

It simply happened to belong to the most aggravating federal agent she had encountered in years.

The driver cleared his throat.

"Good coat," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" Morrighan asked, looking up. 

He nodded toward her reflection in the mirror. "Looks expensive."

She glanced down at the dark wool pooled across her lap. It was, infuriatingly, very well made. "It will be returned."

The driver's mouth twitched. "I didn't say it wouldn't."

Morrighan frowned out at the rain.

Returned.

Of course, it would be returned.

People did not simply accumulate federal agents' clothing.

That would be absurd.

Her thumb found the edge of one lapel and smoothed away a crease.

"Eventually," she muttered.

The driver smiled to himself but possessed the survival instincts not to comment.

Outside, Manhattan disappeared behind another curtain of rain.

Inside the cab, Morrighan drew the coat a fraction closer around herself before she realised she was doing it.

She closed her eyes.

"Oh, this is going to be annoying."