IV - Chapter 4

Halfway through sleep, Elliott woke up to mumbled sighs, but he was way too tired to hear what the other man was saying. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he belatedly registered that Cassian must be so tired and sad. His groggy brain could not process longer words.

They both woke up at around ten in the morning. Elliott woke first and accidentally stubbed his toe on the iron armature of the bed and swore under his breath. It was the shaking of the bed and not Elliott’s foul language that woke Cassian up, but he told the younger man that he was awake anyway. Then he recounted the events of the last night, voice still scratchy from sleep.

Cassian had been out and around to collect video evidence from local surveillance cameras with his USB and had processed it in the computer room of the office yesternight. He had managed to sift through all the cameras around the area (some of which were broken due to the neglect of the housing company, which was currently being fined) and found the perpetrator. In the surveillance camera, it was around seven o’clock that the masked, hooded, and duct-taped man appeared from the stairs of Cassian’s building and threw the yellow bag down before his doorsteps – Cassian swore that he had almost heard the sickening squishing thump of the bag as it plopped down even through the camera.

As he finished the story, Cassian coughed into his fist, a wheezing cough that made Elliott look at him in worry and sagged back into his seat. Elliott swore that his hair looked a slight shade whiter.

It was the first time since their meeting that Elliott had taken a good look at the man. His grey eyes were drooping at the corners, and his horizontal eyebrows, dipping at the ends, accentuated the look of prolonged internal suffering. The soft lines around his eyes, mouth, and forehead signified his age – perhaps around forty, already haggard and gaunt. Hale, of about the same age, looked curt and professional, while everything around Cassian spoke of quiet disdain and intemperance.

Not quite knowing what to do, Elliott handed the older man a tissue. Cassian took it, folded it in two, his hands still shaking, and wiped his mouth with it, while nodding at Elliott thankfully.

“Breakfast?” Cassian asked, then corrected himself as he looked at the clock, “More like brunch.”

“Sure,” Elliott replied, “Out or do we cook?”

Cassian smiled resignedly while spreading his arms slightly, “Do I look as if I could cook?”

One way or another, they wound up in R&K’s again. Cassian got himself a cup of iced double-shot mint latte while Elliott got an orange juice. They had toast, but he hardly registered if it was crispy or soft, buttered or jammed. He was too tired.

Cassian’s hand shook as he held his cup of coffee, coating the insides of the paper cup with a thin layer of watery green that faded, dropping back down to the liquid surface. Elliott looked at him, a little worried. The other man’s pupils were dilated, and he was breathing in and out fast, as if he was going to have a heart attack.

“Are you alright?” Elliott asked, and winced. It came out weaker than he meant, less a question than a reflex.

Cassian’s laugh was a harsh exhale, more of a cough. He looked away, at the neon sign flickering behind the bar, then back, his gaze skittering off Elliott’s shoulder. “Feels like Groundhog Day,” he said, voice thin. “Same air. Same weight.”

Elliott frowned. “What does?”

“Nothing.” Cassian waved a hand, but it trembled, sending a splash of mint latte over the cup’s edge. He swore under his breath, dabbing at it with a napkin, over and over, like he could erase the mistake. “Old… old ghosts. That’s all.”

“Ghosts?” Elliott pressed, softer.

Cassian’s jaw tightened. For a second, Elliott thought he’d snap—tell him to drop it. But then his shoulders sagged, just a little. “Ever have a moment you’d give anything to redo?” he asked, not looking up. “A second. A split-second. Just to… not fumble.”

Elliott nodded slowly. He hadn’t, not like that, but he could empathize very well.

“Feels like that,” Cassian said, finally. “Like I’m standing in it again. The… the stupidity of it. Thinking I had it handled.” He laughed again, bitter this time. “Foolish, right? Ancient history. Story for another time.” He waved it away shakily, and Elliott knew it was time to drop it.