He stared at the surface of the clear water sleeping in the glass. It was a fine sight and the water even more so. His calloused hands kneaded under the base of his chin. His eyebrows knitted as he stared down at the brown documents.
Two beautiful women's photographs pinned to the vintage paper. Their identities and location of the crime scene stood like bold bricks in his eyes. He shook his head with a sigh. No matter where you are, life always draws you to the white gates of heaven. He didn't have sorrow for his absence of empathy. How could he? It was his job to protect the citizens of Seattle, not grieve at their stones.
He didn't grieve at his father's burial. The man infuriated him. Brought him to want to hold a gun in his hand and pull the trigger at his head. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to carry out such an act. He wouldn't be a police detective if he'd considered the deed. His father's death was nothing but joy to him. "Good riddance" he'd said, grasping his frail mother's hand while they dropped the casket six feet under.
His mother trembled from that day onward. Cried on his shoulder and mourned her late husband like the loss of a morning star. But, she knew he wasn't. He'd beaten her to every primary color until charcoal. His mama used to tell him not to hit. To swallow the anger and press it out in the form of gas. At twelve, he'd been smart to suppress his aggression. At sixteen, he'd become a member of the Raptures Fight Club and would rush every afternoon to pull on a pair of gloves and beat the shit out of the grained bag.
He'd grown tougher. Faster Smarter. His knuckles would turn white from clenching his fist too hard and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent when his father ranted with demands. His face was red with suppressed rage, even when Patrick would even set a finger on his shoulder. It was a disgrace to call the seed that gave him life a "father." His mother would often pat his shoulder after a lecture about mixing with the wrong group. And when she'd comfort her only son, Patrick's fist would scramble up her insides and lead her to cough up her life.
Every word, every memory fueled the fire that burned inside of him. It's been years and still; his anger boiled like a lit flame. A light tap on his leg erupted into a heavy boom, making his leg shift. The water jumped out of the glass. Another boom, and another jump. The next time the water jumped, the glass tipped and spilled across the floor and onto his lap. Hi nostrils flared and his mind targeted his suspect.
Looking down, he spotted a dark dot on the floor. Only to discover that the dot was a head full of black hair and pale skin. Then it looked up. Blackhawk nearly gasped at the sight of those big indigo darts - sharp yet still full of emotion. His eyes were the ocean, so full of life yet so uncertain. His lips glistened with a coil round and protruded as he pouted. His cheeks puffed as he smiled with the display of his bunny teeth.
The little boy giggled up at the man. His eyes shone with curiosity as he flopped the toy truck against the man's legs. Hit and laugh. And then another. Until Blackhawk shook him away. Children's cries were a piercing siren as two knives grazed against the other. Their laughs, mischievous. Their smells. God! They smelled terrible.
Ignoring his fuss, the baby crawled towards his leg and rode the truck up the rough material. His giggles filled Blackhawk's ears with the sound of applauds following in tow. He focused on the mess on his lap. Wet and sticky. The cool water seeped through the material and coated thin layers on his briefs. He then glanced down at the bundle with a silent curse.
Just then, the doorbell rang, and the child screamed with delight. He clutched his chubby fingers around a portion of Blackhawk's jeans and clumsily stood up. Blackhawk watched the child attempt to climb his leg, which appeared to be as humping instead. The bell rang and he stood up with the angel gripping his thigh for dear life. His feet were inches from the ground and if one slip, he could knock his head against the edge of the coffee table with a brain injury.
He shook his leg to rid him. Instead, he rocked against his leg with hysterical laughter. Reaching down, he picked the child up at a distance, arms held straight away from his chest. In excitement, the baby kicked his short legs in the air. He then settled the boy on the couch. With demanding eyes, he warned him to remain on the spot before stepping backward. One step backward, the baby cried. Tears spilled down his crimson cheeks and eyes wet with sadness.
"What now?" he asked.
The boy extended his arms and signaled with his chubby fingers to inch closer. “No."
His cry got louder and face redder. Blackhawk found it painful to witness such a tantrum and, fascinating. The boy scooted closer and in one grab he made his way into Blackhawk's arms, clutching to his chest. Instinctively, Blackhawk wrapped his arms around the baby before sending him a glare.
The boy laughs.
"We'll discuss this later."
A pound on the door echoed throughout the complex followed by the chirping of a bell. The baby giggled and pointed north. Blackhawk walked up to the door, on the way he noticed his hands were wet and his bottom was soaked. His clothes dirty and face heated. His hands tacky and his mouth dripping with saliva. Those tacky hands gripped onto his navy blue flannel as if it had no value.
"One day, you will pay for this."
The bell rang like a hellhound barking into his ears. Annoyed and infuriated, he opened the door to face the man behind it. Martin stood with his hand's mid-air when the door forcefully opened and displayed his neutral partner.
"What took yo–"
"What do you want?" His hand gripped the edge of the threshold, whilst the other balanced the curious baby.
Glancing down at the boy, Martin greeted him with a small smile with the boy staring up curiously. "Who's this?"
"I forgot." Blackhawk rumbled.
"I didn't know you had a baby?"
Blackhawk glanced down at the bundle. He cringed at the sight of his saliva running down his jaw before colliding with his shirt in big wet damp. "He's not mine."
Martin shut his mouth. Confused and amused. "Kate wants us to rum down on the case."
"It's not our job."
Martin rocked on his heels.
"They may have a suspect."
"Take him for questioning."
Martin sighed. "She wants you."
The child giggled, pressing his clenched fist into his mouth; he pulled it out before extending it to Martin. Martin smiled and collected the tiny hand into his larger one. He wasn't a father and biologically couldn't be one. Sadness filled him as he thought about the many times he and his wife had endless sessions of lovemaking. Until at fifty, he'd stopped to accept and move on with life.
"Watch him for me."
"Wh-I know nothing about babies."
He pulled his partner into his home and shoved the boy into his arms. "You'll do well."