Paragon

⊰❉⊱ 1 ⊰❉⊱

I could smell the coffee even from outside the police vehicle.

My partner was shuffling through files in the passenger seat whilst punching in numbers on the touch screen of the BMW.

He was already talking when I opened the door, adjusting my long winter trench coat before sitting.

"You know I think they get more reckless every year. These lads aren't even trying to hide the action in Seven Sisters anymore–that one is yours–" he pointed a thin finger at the decaffeinated coffee despite it being incorrectly his drink.

None the less I still picked it up and took a sip with a faux wince.

"Your decaf." I stated, placing it back down and picking up the other drink that I would have to throw back up at a later time.

"You never finish it anyway." He snorted as a strand of his black hair fell between his grey eyes and sharp nose. I noticed the bags under his eyes.

"Trouble in paradise last night?" I probed with a smile in my voice. No skills of perception were needed to tell that his relationship was at strain lately. William would commit fully to our work and not to his mortal counterpart's needs. Of course I had no judgement, I regarded him as the efficient and robust partner I needed for my guise.

He tore his eyes off his papers and scowled. "Keep that detective work out on the field, Fletcher. I had enough of a lecture last night." He grumbled. I smirked.

Tara Fletcher. Another name, another passport, another birth certificate I'd discard in a few years time.

"Back on point." I said over the rim of my cup, casting my eyes out to the station parking lot. "They are not only getting more reckless, they are getting younger. This explains the former." I murmured.

He nodded in the corner of my eye, his heart rate increasing slightly. The dull ache of thirst in my throat was barely a thought anymore. My control was absolute and my last quenching was mere days ago.

"Makes me so mad... these kids don't even get a chance. Thrown into drug rings and gangs for a few weeks of cash before they wind up–" He sighed not finishing and instead going for his decaf.

I turned to him and raised my coffee cup.

"Well if my informant is right–" I told him, setting down the cup and pulling the keys out of my inner coat pocket. "–the ring in the north east could cave in a matter of days. Money trails talk louder than people."

He nodded solemnly and adjusted his shirt collar with more resolve.

"Ready when you are." He told me flicking his eyes over my torso briefly. "You have your stab proof?"

Not that I would ever need a vest to stop a knife or bullet for that matter–

"Of course I do." I told him with a chuckle. "How would you get any cases solved if I took the wrong side of a knife." I drawled as the ignition of the unmarked, black BMW fired to life. Another trait of detective work I appreciated. We did not need those hideous yellow and blue ultra-vis monstrosities to get to our destination. A few conspicuous lights and a siren when traffic was a problem but otherwise we could tail a suspect easily in these busy streets.

"I'd probably have the G17 boys on their knees by sundown." He scoffed at me as he pulled his seatbelt over his shoulder.

"How long is sundown by your definition, Will? A month? Maybe a year–"

"Drive the car, detective." He cut in with good humour in those grey eyes that threatened a smile on his clean shaven jaw.

I smiled as I checked my shoulder and pulled out. It was an hour after rush hour so the traffic was manageable. Our station was in the heart of the City of London–otherwise known as the business district but within easy reach of the East end gangs we were hunting.

We pulled up at the lights and silently scanned the civilians. A common trait any officer would tell you. Not that we actively looked for something amiss, I think we just did it to watch regular life in action around us. I was immortal so I knew the feeling of difference but mortal service men and women knew difference from the line they stood behind. The line that protected and assisted and made them responsible.

I watched as a couple in trademark tourist gear stared doe-eyed at the ancient Tower of London walls. Americans. I smirked as the blonde woman rushed through the satchel on her hip and her male counterpart made shamelessly embarrassing poses before it.

"Imagine being that guy." Will grinned, as he caught where my eyes were.

"The girl is no better with that fanny satchel." I scoffed.

"It's a fanny pack, Fletcher." Will corrected with a loud laugh. "Lights are green." He added through a chuckle.

"It's atrocious." I answered, shaking my head as I put the vehicle in gear.

"Hey. I say let them come in force. They help our salaries." He said nonchalantly as he read through a background file of one of the G17 boys. I knew money did not mean much to him anyway.

"There is a reason they called it Oxford Circus." I said with no small irony thinking of the hordes that packed the shopping district with their Canon cameras and fanny packs. God I missed the 1920s...

He snorted without taking his eyes off the profile. "Not everyone shops on Savile Row."

"I do not get my clothes from Savile Row." I countered, playing defensive as a well respected civil servant would. Never having the funds for such extravagance. Of course I damn well did equip myself with the finest tailors Paragon had which exceeded any mortal weave in Mayfair. But I liked to upkeep my smart appearance. My midnight hair would run past my shoulders if I did not keep it tied up securely. Loose hair was for the night...

"The Queen then." He offered with a lazy smile.

"I do not need to identify my brand just because you rescued yours from a charity shop." I uttered with a sidelong look at his brown overcoat that looked like it had seen the inside of a pub for ten years. But I jested with Will in good nature. I had deducted years ago that he was, by all accounts, a good person.

He looked indignantly at me. "Now you're just salty. Besides there is nothing wrong with reused clothing for a good cause."

"You are a hopeless cause. As is your colour coordination." I retorted as we turned off into the streets closer to our target. It was quiet during the working week as it always was when you escaped the inner workings of the business sectors.

"Game faces." He said ignoring that last jab and swigging one last sip of decaf.

"Indeed." I answered him as I secured my ID and badge inside my jacket and stepped into the cold London air.