Chapter Text
Sat 25 Jan, 21:42
To: John <3
[A.Ham] So, it turns out I don’t know to change the timer on the central heating in my apartment. I guess you always did it for me. Guess I'm wearing a hat to bed tonight...
Sun 16 Feb, 15:29
To: John <3
[A.Ham] It’s snowing in NYC! Peggy and I built a snowman in Central Park. I sacrificed one of my ties to the cause and we named him GWash. Stunning likeness. You would've approved
Mon 9 Mar, 10:08
To: John <3
[A.Ham] Sooo the week has barely started and Charles Lee is already making me wanna break his face. I swear, that douchebag is always looking for any excuse to fight me. I do love that I can still see a teeny tiny scar on his nose from that one time you punched him at Washington’s election party. You have to look closely, but honestly that just makes it easier to pretend I’m listening whenever he opens his big dumb mouth. If there is such a thing as manifestation of the spirit, you have my full support if you wanna haunt the shit out of that spider-fucker
Fri 20 Mar, 22:27
To: John <3
[A.Ham] Oh my fucking god, that was the WORST date EVER. This asshole shows up, gym socks paired with his Birkenstocks, ‘ironic’ Sesame Street t-shirt tucked into his shorts like he’s the dad from some shitty fucking 90s sitcom. He spends a fucking HOUR telling me about how he brews his own kombucha and describes IN EXPLICIT FUCKING DETAIL the exact consistency of the jelly formed by the fermentation process. I just. Could. Not. Escape. New Yorkers are the fucking worst, John. I miss you...
Sat 4 Apr, 13:19
To: John <3
[A.Ham] I saw a springer spaniel in Central Park today. It made me think of you. That’s all
Alex has had this little ritual for a while.
It’s not even a ritual, really. There’s no ceremony or procedure to it. Most of the time it’s not even anything that deep, just random messages whenever he wants to complain about something, or when everyday life throws a casual reminder of John his way.
Sometimes he goes a month without sending anything. Sometimes he sends a message every day for a week. The only consistent thing really is the comfort of knowing that it’s private; an empty digital ravine into which he can throw whatever words he needs to in order to partially quell the swirling tempest in his brain. Anything approaching actual calmness will probably always be too much of an ask for him, but this gets him at least part of the way there.
He can still remember when it started.
It was probably a few months after the accident, not long after he’d recovered just enough of his own humanity to start existing beyond the four walls of his apartment again.
He remembers allowing himself to be dragged out of bed just long enough to attend a party at the apartment of some distant acquaintance of Gilbert’s in Brooklyn. Remembers discovering that he was decidedly and painfully not ready to socialise and hiding himself in the bedroom for most of the evening, before a friendly German Shepherd had trotted up to him, demanding to be petted.
And he’d smiled for the first time in months.
He’d thought about how once upon a time he would’ve snapped a picture, shared it with John, tried to make him laugh. The thought had made him pull out his phone and stare at their message history for the thousandth time since the last message, all the shopping lists and private jokes and I love yous. And the overwhelming urge to just share something again had been so great that Alex hadn’t resisted it, just typed out This guy thinks you should stop this BS and come back, attached a photo and hit ‘send’.
And for the briefest, most satisfying of moments, Alex could wind back time in his head and pretend that there might be the slenderest chance of a reply.
So now, three years later, it’s become a habit. The daily stabbing pain of grief and guilt in his gut has long since dulled to a manageable ache, but the coping strategy remains a comfort.
Alex isn't desperately wedded to the concept of an afterlife, but he likes the idea that he’s taking on the responsibility of keeping John, wherever he is (or isn’t), updated on the trials and tribulations of their circle of friends. If nothing else but to feel like he’s keeping a window open between their two worlds.
And even after three years, John is still always the first person he wants to share new things with.
Fri 10 Apr, 14:52
To: John <3
[A.Ham] Just got asked to write a new opinion piece for the Wall Street Journal! It’s on protectionism and the effect of government intervention on business success. Obviously, I have Opinions. Psyyyyched!
Tue 14 Apr, 18:52
To: John <3
[A.Ham] I miss those chocolate chip cookies you used to bake. If you could just come back for a day and give me the recipe that would be just awesome, thanks
“I swear to God, Alex, this woman looked exactly like Mila Kunis and gave head like it’s a fucking art form. Pass me that police report.”
Peggy is the best paralegal in the Manhattan DA’s office, although you might not guess that from the way she’s casually draped sideways across Alex’s spare office chair with her legs dangling over the arm, the usual strong vibe of no fucks given emanating off her in waves. Alongside being a pint-sized bundle of tenacity and lesbian energy, she’s been one of Alex’s favourite people in the entire world ever since they started working together. She’s not exactly polished in the same way as her sisters, but she’s honest and big-hearted and fiercely loyal to her friends. When she’d graduated from college, floating and rudderless, Angelica (who’s a lawyer in the cybercrimes bureau) had pulled some strings to get her this job, and Peggy had begrudgingly accepted the help, loudly proclaiming that it would just be a temporary stopgap until she found her true calling.
That was four years ago, and Alex privately suspects that she is actually quite fond of this building and (most of) the people in it, loves having a job that she’s damn good at and where she’s actually appreciated for her skills, but she would never admit that. She still spends a lot of time adamantly telling anyone who will listen how much she hates lawyers.
“Sounds like you won the lesbian lottery. You gonna see her again?” Alex asks absently as he hands the requested document over with one hand, studying an accident scene photograph held in the other.
“Uh, maybe. Not really that kind of arrangement. Ugh, this case is horrible.”
She’s not wrong about that. It’s kind of a requirement of the work that they do to maintain a certain level of detachment, no matter how upsetting a case is, but it doesn’t make being party to all of the unpleasant details any easier. The photograph Alex has in his hand of a pickup truck half on top of a mostly crushed old Mini Cooper is already more information than he really wants.
Alex adores his job, but sometimes-
When he’d started at Columbia Law as a bright-eyed, idealistic young upstart, he’d had a vision in his head of spending his days pacing courtrooms, making impassioned speeches in support of the underrepresented, oppressed classes, gesticulating at juries, that kind of thing. Then, after graduation, he’d secured himself his dream position as a prosecutor at the DA’s office, which felt like the ideal platform for the aforementioned impassioned speeches and just generally being an advocate for social change.
And sure, there is a fair bit of that sort of thing. Alex makes it happen if nothing else. He loves the adrenaline-pumping environment of the courtroom. The unique thrill of every win he clocks up in his favour. It’s the perfect match for his hungry personality and his urgency for justice.
But a lot of the time it feels like everything he does here is a means to an end rather than a result, an endless series of calling-points on the road to success, which he doesn’t really have the patience to travel. When he’d first started, Washington’s advice was to get a range of experience in different departments, because a broad understanding of the various challenges the DA’s office faces will stand you in good stead when you move up to the next level. And, ok, he’s not one to ignore career advice from the District Attorney himself, so Alex has done stints in Cybercrime, Major Economic Crimes and Immigrant Affairs, all of which were interesting and rewarding in their own right. But right now, he’s stuck in Vehicular Crimes and…
It’s not his favourite. For a whole host of reasons but mostly because it’s just fucking dull. Every case is the same; it’s 90% DUIs, most of which he could prosecute with his eyes closed and so there’s no mental challenge for him at all. There’s very little fundamental structural social change to be made when all of the defendants are just assholes who drive too fast, and so there isn’t really anywhere for Alex to put his restless idealistic energy.
He sighs and leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes to distract himself for a moment with the colourful splotches that burst up behind his eyelids. It’s the end of the day, he’s tired and he hates dealing with vehicular homicides. The phrases ‘death by dangerous driving’ and ‘above the legal blood-alcohol limit’ still bring out a flicker of panic in him that sets his breathing going a little too fast and his fingers itching.
One of the other reasons why he doesn’t like working in Vehicular Crimes.
“Yeah," he sighs. "Apparently this guy, Eacker, is being a real difficult asshole too. At least it should be a pretty straightforward one though. We just need to produce the breathalyser results, and that one witness statement as evidence of erratic driving. Simple case of criminal negligence. Job done.”
“Um, Alex.” Peggy is frowning at the police report in such a way that Alex just knows that whatever she’s about to say is going to completely ruin his day.
“What?”
“There’s no breathalyser results.”
“There’s no what the fuck now.”
She passes the police report back to him and points out the offending section. Sure enough, under the heading ‘Blood-alcohol:’ is just the word ‘absent’, like that’s in any way a fucking reasonable excuse for an entry anywhere on this form.
Without proof of intoxication, criminal negligence suddenly becomes exponentially harder to stick, and any criminal defence lawyer is going to be all over that like maggots on a three-day-old carcass. Suddenly Alex’s simple conviction becomes anything but, instead morphing into months of back-and-forth between lawyers, witnesses and victims, and generally just a giant fucking migraine for everyone involved.
“Motherfucking incompetent assholes.”
Alex is already reaching for the phone, ready to call up the offending police precinct and personally massacre whatever lackadaisical, amateurish, thumb-up-his-ass, useless prick of a traffic cop is responsible for this oversight.
Verbally slaughtering the idiots of the NYPD seems to be a daily feature of Alex’s life in this department, and Peggy usually enjoys being an audience to it, but this time she checks her watch, swings her legs to the floor and gets to her feet, waggling her fingers at him as she heads for his office door.
“It’s beer o’clock, bitch. Meet us at The Craftsman when you’re done terrorizing local law enforcement.”
Alex is still fuming when he reunites with Peggy in the bar an hour later, where she’s already three drinks down with Gilbert and Herc, the three of them giggling like teenagers, rather than grown adults getting drunk at 8pm on a Wednesday. Alex throws himself down into the last empty chair and opens his mouth to regale the tale of the latest example of the NYPD’s raging incompetence, but Peggy cuts him off before he even starts speaking. Somehow, she’s the only person who can do that now.
“Nope. This is a no lawyer-talk zone. If you start mouthing off about your legal bullshit, Gil and Herc will leave, and then I’ll leave too because I already spent all goddamn day with you, and then you’ll be sitting here drinking alone, and that’s just the saddest thing the world. So, smile, have a drink and shut the fuck up for once in your life.”
Gilbert and Herc both nod their agreement, and Alex glares, but with a begrudging fondness. It’s as much for his own sake as for everyone else’s that Peggy frequently bans work talk at social events, and he’s grateful, even if he’d never admit that out loud.
“Fine,” he concedes, as Herc pushes a beer towards him, “What did I miss?”
“Well,” Peggy’s expression brightens, “Herc’s gonna make me a new suit, so I am going to look spectacular next to all of you fashion-challenged cave-dwellers at the office fundraiser.”
“Aw man, we have to dress up for that thing? It’s bad enough that Washington’s making me go at all, now I have to make an effort too?”
Herc snorts. “I’m sure you’ll survive looking nice for an evening, Alex. Just wear the suit I made you for Angelica’s wedding. No one will think you’ve betrayed your lifelong commitment to being a walking advertisement for the Walmart clothing line.”
“Hey, that’s a highly cultivated look that I’ve been perfecting for many years. I like to call it too busy and important to care.”
“Oh, Alex,” Gilbert sighs, with way more dramatic flair than is really called for. “You really are a, what do they say? A lost cause.”
“That’s how I like it, thanks.”
Gilbert hums and speaks his next words with an affected lightness that betrays a hidden agenda. “Will you be bringing a date to the fundraiser?”
“You can be my date, Gil. Open bar – you’ll love it.”
“Ah, Alex. But then Adrienne could not come.”
“I’ll bring both of you. We’ll go as a threesome,” Alex winks.
He’s being deliberately obtuse; he knows what Gilbert is really asking, and the answer is an emphatic no. Alex does not bring dates to work events. His work is important to him, and introducing a romantic partner to that world would imply a whole deeper level of seriousness and intimacy than could be attributed to any of the casual hookups he entertains these days. Gilbert knows this, and yet never lets it go.
“Ah well. It’s a couple of months away, yes? So maybe you’ll meet someone else in that time who you want to take. If not, I’ll be your date.”
Alex makes a non-committal noise and the topic thankfully gets dropped for the time being. Although knowing Gilbert, it’s not the last he’s going to hear about it for the evening.
It’s much later, when they’re all several more drinks down, and Alex is feeling loose and happy and honest, that Gilbert launches his actual attack.
“Alex, mon cher, I have a friend from work who I would like you to meet.”
And it’s just not fair, really. Trying to catch Alex when he’s unguarded and tipsy, and get him to agree to go on a date with some earnest new prospect, someone with potential, who will make you really happy if you just give them a chance, Alex, please. And it’s not fair that his friends are so focused on him finding true love when he does date. A lot, actually. He meets hot people and he fucks them, and if they’re really special he’ll fuck them a few more times, always going home afterwards feeling satisfied and sated and, very importantly, not committed. Because he doesn’t have the time to entertain some needy puppy who definitely won’t be satisfied with the limited amount of attention he’ll be willing or able to give them.
It’s not fair, because he’s not the only one of their friends that operates this way. Peggy bounces around gay bars as she pleases, delighting in finding a fresh pair of boobs to fondle every other week. Herc usually can’t be bothered with the mess of dating much, but he still entertains the group often enough with tales of tuxedo models with tiny waists and loud voices. Gil, before he fell madly in love with Adrienne, spent a joyful few years working his way through all of the most beautiful men and women of New York.
It’s not fair, but he knows why they do it. They want him to find someone that will turn him back into the person he was when he was with John. Gilbert, in particular, is desperate for Alex to be ‘happy’ in a way that usually feels impossible to him. It’s not that he’s not happy now. He just doesn’t display joy anymore in the way Gilbert seems to need. Sometimes, when Alex is feeling particularly generous, he’ll play along for a while – he’ll go on the date, smile and nod in all the right places, engage in conversation, pay compliments, do everything that’s expected of him. And then when Gilbert hounds him for details the next day, he’ll say something like They were great, Gil. Honestly, thanks for setting it up. Something just didn’t click though. He plays along, because he doesn’t have the heart to say that the person his friends are looking for, the old Alex that’s buried under three years of work and stress and grief and exhaustion, probably doesn’t exist anymore.
But today is the wrong day to ask, because today Alex doesn’t feel like playing along. He drops his head back to glare at the ceiling and lets out a long-suffering groan.
“Nooo, Gil. I don’t have time to date more of your motherfucking pompous, up-their-own-ass colleagues. How are you even finding so many of these people anyway?”
“We have a high turnover of staff. And Alex, you’ll like this one. She’s French, like me, and she has beautiful breasts.”
Alex lifts his head slightly to raise one questioning eyebrow at his friend.
“What is it about me that makes you think I give a shit about her boobs? And you should definitely not be looking at them, if you work together. That’s a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen.”
Gilbert waves a dismissive hand. “She does not mind. And she’s French, Alex! I want to add another of my countrymen to the group. I feel I am forgetting my native tongue.”
“Tu peux parler français avec moi! And add her to the group anyway, I don’t care. It’s not like she needs to be dating one of us for you to do that.”
Alex looks around pleadingly at Herc and Peggy, but Gilbert is doing the exact same thing, and now it’s a competition for their support. Herc is clearly trying his best to stay out of it; has even edged his seat back a couple of inches to truly highlight his detachment from the situation. And Peggy must be feeling mischievous for some reason, because she shrugs at Alex with a glint in her eye and says “What’s the harm in giving it a try? Nice boobs are nice. Besides, it surely won’t be any worse than when you tried dating my sister.”
She’s joking, but there’s a daring spark in her eyes, and she’s digging the knife in a little deep, because Alex did not need to be reminded of that particular twelve car pile-up of a short-lived relationship. It had taken place, frankly, far too soon after John died, and Alex had been looking for a way to refill the gaping emptiness inside him that had yet to recede, so he’d asked Eliza out and she’d said yes. Mainly, he still suspects, so that she would have more leverage when forcing him to occasionally leave his shithole apartment and gradually re-join society. But the strain of being basically his sole caretaker had made her miserable, and after two shitty months she’d finally sat him down and said, gently and far more kindly than Alex was really deserving of, that, much as she loved him, she needed to step away for her own sake. Alex had agreed, and the whole disaster had barely been mentioned by anyone ever again.
Which is why Alex is thrown for a loop as they get dangerously close to discussing the one person that does not come up in their conversations. Ever. So he tries to deflect with a slightly forced laugh.
“Oh, wow. Uncalled for, Peggy. You want me to start analysing your relationship history?”
“Oh, bring it on, bitch.”
Still, it’s probably a good thing when Herc finally steps in, with his dad-friend level of authority.
“Guys, drop it.” His voice is edged with a warning tone that Gilbert and Peggy reluctantly respond to, and Alex gets let off the hook on the dating front, at least for the time being.
The jovial and animated atmosphere of the evening remains, but with a hint of tension now that no one can quite ignore. Gilbert is the first one to leave, kissing everyone on the cheek with a flourish as he sings something about deadlines. Alex follows not long after, suddenly irritatingly aware of the late hour and the mountain of paperwork and people-chasing that’s sitting on his desk waiting for him in the morning.
“Well, in the absence of any ass for the evening, it’s time to go home and jerk off to the shopping channel,” he jokes to the others with a wink as he stands to put on his jacket. Peggy rolls her eyes and blows him a kiss. “See you in the morning, loser.”
Alex can feel their eyes on his back as walks out. He tries not to think about what they’re going to start saying once he’s gone.
And it’s not until he stumbles into his apartment half an hour later, still a little drunk and the buzz of tension still running across his skin, that he really lets the frustrations of the day sink into his bones, and suddenly he’s dropping onto the crappy, sagging, second-hand couch, exhausted from the amiable façade he’s been putting on since Gilbert’s ambush. All he wants to do is sink into bed and forget about the world for a few hours until he has to face it again, but first he pulls out his phone and stares at it for a moment before he starts typing.
Wed 22 Apr, 23:52
To: John <3
[A.Ham] Gil is STILL trying to set me up with his weirdo succession of New York hipsters, like he didn’t learn from that kombucha fucker I agreed to meet last month. And now it seems I’M the one who feels like an asshole because I put my foot down this time and said no. I wish our friends would stop trying to pull this crap on me. Every time they do this it’s like they’re telling me they prefer the person I was back when you and I were together. That’s super unfair, right? Why does no one get that everyone they send my way will just compare unfavourably to you? Ugh, could you just come back already, please? This is total bullshit
It's something of a drunken ramble, but it helps a little. He feels the tightly-wound elastic ball in his intestines loosen just a little bit. He takes a breath.
This routine always helps him to sort through the weird emotional debris that clutters up his brain every time his love life gets dragged out and analysed.
He hits ‘send’ and drops the phone onto the cushions beside him with a cathartic groan.
It’s been his private routine for nearly three years now. No one else knows he still does this, and he’s certainly not going to fucking tell anyone. It took long enough to get his friends to stop trying handle him with kid gloves after the accident, and he really doesn’t need to go through that whole process again.
It doesn’t harm anyone. It’s not like anyone will ever even see the messages; Alex isn’t deluded enough to believe that there’s someone reading at the other end.
So, when his phone buzzes beside him and he glances down, what he sees on the screen makes his breathing stop and his heart jump into his ears. His whole body goes numb, like a freezing tidal wave of unpleasant reality has just dropped on top of him.
Wed 22 Apr, 23:55
From: John <3
[John <3] Sorry, wrong number.