Who We Were, What We Became

Keep Your Enemies Close

A/N- Surely the effects of having lost so many partners would have left lasting impressions on the detective.

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Abe tipped the whiskey bottle back, ignoring the burning sensation at the back of his throat as the spirit went down. Letting out a quiet 'ahh,' he set the nearly empty bottle onto his disaster of a desk. Not for the first time, he noticed it had fallen into such disarray, but the private detective could never work up the motivation or care to do something about it.

Only the single desk lamp in the corner and the moonlight streaming in through the window behind him illuminated the room. A cold draft chilled the back of his neck, and he shivered.

His bloodshot eyes swept the cluttered surface, skimming over stray leafs of paper, napkins with circular coffee stains, sticky notes attached to books and files and reports of all kinds. A medical examiner's note that a family believed to be falsified sat neglected in the corner of the desk, not having been touched for a few days at least. Henry had promised to take a look at it to help with this case.

Henry...Feeling the stab of pain in his gut return, Abe reached for the whiskey again and took a larger swig. The lukewarm alcohol could help him forget the funeral just that morning.

Yet another partner, gone. It was getting harder to remember where the number stood at now. 17? Or 18? He thought it was 18, but this drunk, it was hard to tell for sure. Far too many, regardless. He'd buried too many partners. Too many friends. Another picture he'd have to add to the growing collection.

Some would think each time it would get a little easier to cope with, each death affecting him a little less, but you never really got used to seeing someone you knew with the life gone from their eyes. Sometimes he could still see the dead stare, the unblinking lids as they looked at him accusingly.

With the amount of times someone close to him lost their life, it was also becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself it wasn't his fault. Abe could only pretend for so long that he knew what he was doing, that he felt sure of every decision he made.

People who lived around here wouldn't work with him, all too familiar with the string of dead partners he left in his wake and the unconventional methods he used to get the job done. Only those investigators who weren't from around here took jobs with him anymore, those who didn't know his reputation. And as the whispered gossip continued to spread, the radius in which people avoided him was getting bigger.

He was a lonely man, nothing but a half-empty whiskey bottle to keep him company. He wasn't sure if he'd even take another job, wondering how quickly he could starve to death should he just decide to lock himself in his apartment and waste away. At this point Abe couldn't quite tell if it was his own conscious or just the alcohol talking.

Letting out a single, humorless laugh, Abe raised the bottle by the neck in a mock toast. Here's to me, he thought morosely, letting more of the alcohol flow down his gullet.

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Mark's letter that came the following morning was exactly the thing he needed. Even the raging hangover lingering in his head couldn't prevent the wide smile from spreading across his lips. The contents were fairly to the point, but then again, whenever the guy felt he couldn't trust someone in his own home, he'd called Abe. Short and to the point was all that was required.

Overhanging the excitement at having another assignment he felt confident we couldn't botch, looking into the backgrounds of a chef and a butler, was the relief at hearing from his old friend again. The man had practically disappeared off the map for awhile, ignoring Abe's letters and never leaving the house. It was so unlike his usual character, remembering the outgoing and slightly overbearing fellow as he'd been in college. What had happened? And why wait so long before contacting him?