Who Jen and Daryl What A perfectly normal home visit When Tuesday night (backdated) Where Jen's wistful dreamstate Warning Every conflicting emotion ever, creepy dead spouses, references to domestic situations.
Jennifer woke up on the sofa with a surprising lack of tension. She became aware of the solid, tiny weight against her chest, one of Emily's books dutifully keeping company around her terrible sleep patterns. A familiar scene. It was morning now, meaning everyone had already left for the day, leaving Jennifer alone at home to doze near one of the many book-piles scattered across the living room. Or at least, what should've been the downstairs living room but was quickly becoming a second library.
Flipping closed the book, she set it against the pile on the floor and slowly moved to sit up. Still in her nightclothes, a tank-top and a loose pair of sweat pants that hung low on her hips, Jennifer ran her hand through her hair and wondered what it was she was meant to do today. Not work, not yet--a meeting with friends perhaps? She couldn't quite recall. But if so, their home was in no way fit to receive any guests, she sighed. The boys had left their things around again, and of course Emily was too enamored with them for any stern discipline. But she finally agreed to take them out for the day, at least, for an errand that Jennifer couldn't quite recall--the means to the truce seemed far more pleasant in memory than the result, as she recalled.
Stretching out, Jennifer thought on this for a moment before deciding to stand up and wander to the kitchen. Her bare feet padded steadily against the wood floor, poking at toys and objects along the way as she went. It was a big, expansive house, the sort that a pair of upper class New Yorkers could afford with ease, where every nook and corridor seemed filled with living. Down the hall and past the office, the dining room, so many memories that nudged sleepily around her mind--had it been so many years already? Something about the idea made Jennifer smile, and it smoldered and grew brighter as she entered the kitchen, her mind too occupied with her good fortunes to notice another’s presence in the room. This wasn’t right. Looking around the large, lived-in house, Daryl felt an encroaching sense of dread fill her chest. She hadn’t slept the night before, spending the evening hours obsessing over the samples she had collected with Detective Slater. By noon, she was no longer feeling the effects of sleep deprivation, and was prepared to go another round. But she had finally collapsed at her desk, weariness and hunger consuming her.
And now she was somewhere strange. Daryl’s dreams were usually one of two types: investigative or terrifying. Investigative dreams took her places she had seen before, walked her through them in her mind. Terrifying dreams were foreign and confusing, and ended with her waking up in a cold sweat. Looking about the foyer, she drew her limbs close to herself, eyes wide as she moved forward. It was only a matter of time before a monster appeared, and she wasn’t happy about this. This was why she tried not to sleep.
Entering the kitchen, she expected to see some hulking monstrosity that was prepared to eat her organs. Instead, she saw the last person she expected. “Detective Warda!” she all but shouted, eyes widening as she rushed over to the other woman. This was an investigative dream after all. She was going to find the pieces of the puzzle she had missed, she knew it. Face attentive and sharp, Daryl looked up at the other woman expectantly. “Where did they take you?” The sudden yelp of surprise drew Jennifer from her revelry. Looking up, she noticed someone had been let into the kitchen on their own--not the housekeeper, it was the middle of the weekend, she remembered--and watched with curiosity as the tiny woman rushed over to greet her. It took Jennifer a moment to remember her name. It was someone important to her of course, that much was clear by the way her smile stayed firmly in place despite the surprise. The way she called her a detective was curious, as if she needed to bother with a profession like that. But the way in which she said it hit Jennifer in a way she didn’t expect.
Daryl Hockney, that was right. They planned to meet for something important. “Hey, pipsqueak,” Jennifer replied, her voice light and tinged with the tiniest hint of laughter. “Was wondering if you’d manage to find this place on your own.” Without a reason to hold herself back--why should she, after all--Jennifer closed the gap between them. It was a loose, casual hug, one arm wrapping itself around the much smaller woman and pulling her in close. Jennifer simply rolled her eyes at the other question, her voice tickling against Hockney’s ear as she said, “Last place I was dragged to was Barney’s, but even I don’t consider that much of a crime.”
She tried not to laugh at the thought of being taken hostage through the city, her lips pursed into a smirk as she briefly afforded Hockney a friendly kiss on the cheek. “You know Emily and her bizarre needs to buy unnecessary amounts of junk.” Jennifer gestured around the kitchen, which looked like it had been advanced upon by more than just four people. Books, schoolwork, pots and pans left out near the sink, a collection of photographs and pictures taped firmly to the refrigerator. If someone where to inspect them, they’d find Jennifer and another woman, starkly pale in comparison, with dark hair and red lips upturned into a cheeky smile. Boys also, twins, one just as fiery as Jennifer herself and the other holding himself back in thought, both hardly more than eleven. “Looks like I forgot you were coming. Best I can do now is make some breakfast.” The hug caused Daryl to tense, muscles stiffening with discomfort and apprehension. This wasn’t Detective Warda. This was someone wearing her skin. Looking up at the woman sharply, full of hesitation and disbelief, Daryl waited for the moment that this creature would shed its disguise. What she said didn’t make sense. Barney’s? She didn’t know what that was. But the way she said it didn’t convince her that it was the information she needed.
Daryl’s nose wrinkled instinctively at the kiss, making her look like a snotty preteen that wiped away her grandmother’s affection. “No I don’t,” she replied flatly at the assertion that she knew Emily. She didn’t bother hiding her suspicion and irritation at this scene. Peeling away from the not-Detective Warda, she began to roam the kitchen, inspecting its use. She could see that it was high-traffic, used and abused by a number of people. The pictures were telling in a bizarre way, depicting a happy family of four.
But it wasn’t real.
“No, we don’t need breakfast,” she said stubbornly. “I need you to tell me where the Joker took you. I saw the fire, I saw the whole thing. But there are holes, I can’t...I can’t track it, I just know the direction you went and it’s not good enough.” She didn’t care that she had given no explanation for this rant. She was inside her own mind, which meant that explanation wasn’t necessary. “Give me something,” she pressed, looking up at the other woman doggedly. Jennifer stood up straight again, watching as Hockney shirked the casual affection with all the dramatics of a put-out child. It didn’t stifle her amusement, not in the slightest, but for the sake of respect she stood with her arms crossed, carefully weighing in her expressions. “Of course you do, Hockney--if it wasn’t for her you wouldn’t roll your eyes every time I try to read you Plath,” Jennifer explained coolly, her expression one of patience and complete confidence in her words. “What was she doing when it blew in Over the seven hills, the red furrow, the blue mountain? Was she arranging cups? It is important. Was she at the window, listening?” Jennifer sighed. “You liked that one, I remember.”
She continued to watch patiently as Hockney circled about the kitchen, taking in the details and amused by none of it. So maybe she should’ve cleaned after all, made a good impression--if Jennifer hadn’t fallen asleep and forgot that she invited the other woman over. She leaned against the refrigerator, understanding none of what Hockney was trying to say. “Always pushing when I try and do something nice,” she mumbled, “good to know you’re still the same as ever. You know I can’t give you anything if you won’t take it, right?” It had been a long time since she had been this frustrated. Perhaps it had been when she knew Mr. Morgenstern had been guilty when she couldn’t gather any compelling evidence. It was the feeling of smashing her head into a brick wall endlessly, getting nowhere, when the end goal was so incredibly important that it dwarfed any other endeavor she could ever hope to undertake. Detective Warda had been missing for less than 48 hours, which meant that there was still hope of finding her alive - if they were to go by the general rules for finding missing persons - though with the Joker, even that was no guarantee.
“Stop!” she hissed at the short recitation, utterly blind to the poetry. “I don’t know this Emily person, those two boys don’t exist, and Plath won’t help!” Her voice was nearly a shout, the closest to visible anger she had likely come in the other woman’s presence. “I will take anything that you present. Any evidence that you can give me to ensure your rescue. I’ve been going over the available evidence endlessly and I must be missing something.” Her tone was as irritated with herself as it was the situation, and it showed. “There’s a missing link. Our tiktaalik. What is it?” Jennifer stepped forward at the outburst, surprised and more than a little concerned. She wanted to help but there wasn’t much she could do; none of these subjects were familiar at all. Running a hand through her hair, she took a deep breath and knelt down before the other woman. Whatever Hockney was so upset about must’ve been important. As much as she liked to go about the rest of her day and impress Hockney with her kitchen skills, this problem took precedence.
“You’re going about this the wrong way, pipsqueak,” Jennifer replied calmly. She kept a steady gaze as she spoke, watching Hockney with an unguarded measure of affection. “If you don’t have the right information, it’s only because you’ve been asking the wrong questions. Words are important and if you don’t stop ignoring them you’ll never get half the puzzle.”
Jennifer shifted her weight, resting anxiously on the balls of her feet. She took Hockney’s hand in her own--just enough for their fingers to meet. “Since you’ve made it all the way here, you might as well give it a shot.” Letting out a low huff as the other woman knelt before her - as if Daryl were a child - Daryl fixed her with an even stare, blank expression barely betraying the irritation within her. She was hardly a violent person - violence was appalling and ridiculous - but at this point, she had the sudden desire to put her foot through something. She wasn’t sure why. It disturbed her greatly.
“I’m not ignoring words,” she hissed, bristling like an angry porcupine. “I just don’t have the right ones.” She needed tangible evidence, she needed a clue, she needed something. The more time she wasted, the closer the real Jennifer Warda came to being killed by that depraved clown. She was risking her life just by talking to this fabrication of her subconscious.
The very subtle way in which their fingers brushed was more calming than she’d have liked to admit, causing her shoulders to slope just slightly. She curled her pinky around the other woman’s, linking it subtly as a stubborn pout formed on her lips. “Fine,” she conceded. “When one method fails, it’s best to adapt.” She sounded quite put out by that. “What words can you offer me that will help me find you?” Jennifer waited patiently, riding out the stubborn, bristling argument from the other woman and watching her as she spoke. “That’s what partners are for, right?” So intent on Hockney’s expressions, Jennifer almost didn’t notice the response of her touch--her gaze flicked down momentarily to note the difference. Barely more than entwined fingers, and hardly even that, but it was enough of a surprise to drain away her immediate thoughts. She wondered why.
“It’s simple,” Jennifer replied after a moment, her voice hitched with the hint of distraction, “if you keep something important close enough, it won’t be as easily lost.” Jennifer straightened a little as she continued to kneel, careful to keep their hands connected. “You’ve already--”
A voice cut off the rest of her admission, a sharp, masculine tone emanating from the hallway behind them. “I’m surprised you’ve allowed her this far,” the man said skeptically, pulling Jennifer’s attention from Hockney entirely. She stood up then, as if she’d been caught doing something improper. Arms pulled to her chest and her entire body shocked rigid, Jennifer watched the man leaning against the entryway. He was tall, dark-skinned and immaculately dressed, both his hair and beard neatly trimmed. His suit was stark black and white, well-tailored and void of frivolity, and as he brought up a hand to reach for the cigarette at his lips, the platinum band on his finger was impossible to miss. Against the atmosphere of the room, he was a dark, violent stain of contrasts.
“My dear believes that I’m not allowed in this place,” the man continued as he walked closer, entirely ignoring Hockney’s presence as he moved to stand in front of Jennifer, his mouth turned into a smirk against the cigarette. With each word the embers lit a blistering, angry red, its ashes falling carelessly to the floor. The man lifted his hand to run across Jennifer’s jawline, and with her attentions now turned on him, all she could do was watch and listen. “However, the truth of the matter is that I go wherever she goes--and I’ll not indulge her desires too long, you see. Whatever lovely Jennifer wants to tell you is inconsequential.” For the first time in what was likely an eternity, Daryl was literally hanging on another person’s words. Her breath stilled in her chest, eyes wide, as she merely stared at Detective Warda, waiting for her to finish. She was holding on to her information though, she knew it. What else was there? What else was she missing? Just as the words nearly left the other woman’s lips, they were rudely interrupted.
Were she less focused on on her one answer, her quick fix, Daryl would have noted all the ways in which Detective Warda changed when their intruder arrived. As it stood, she wasn’t interested in that. She didn’t care. He was interrupting their very important conversation, and she didn’t like it. This was her means of figuring out the case, her way of finding the answer. Why the hell was it throwing a monkey wrench into her process?
The way he controlled the detective, acting as if he owned everything around him, made her bristle. “Excuse me,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height of 5’1” with an arrogant tilt of her chin. “But we were having a conversation. You are interrupting it in the most unimaginative way possible. I suggest that you remove yourself from this room immediately so that we may continue.” The man was unmoved by the outrage of his appearance, and as Jennifer began to protest he merely adjusted his grip, running a thumb along her lower lip and pressing harder against her jaw. “No arguments,” the gesture meant to say, and for a moment the two seemed to have a conversation entirely in silence.
“Interrupting?” The man replied finally, taking the whittled down snub of the cigarette with his other hand and tossing it to the floor. As he ground it against the floor with his shoe, the harsh sound of crushing glass filled the room, enough for Jennifer to release a quiet, strangled protest. “You’ve everything turned around,” he continued blithely, “when it’s you in fact who’ve trespassed too far. She’s failed to correct you once again on your errors, on me--” he nodded over to the photographs on the refrigerator that at once seem to wilt and yellow “these children, and this place.” The man released the words in a patronizing fashion, his free hand sliding across Jennifer’s chest to rest against her heart. “You’ll not find the answers you desire here.”
Jennifer’s expression contorted slowly into defiance, and as her hand moved up to grab the man’s collar, her eyes shifted to Hockney only briefly. “Wake up, Daryl,” she managed to plead, unconcerned with the blood that began to swell from her wrist, just underneath the thumb. Watching their silent conversation would normally have been fascinating for her. As it stood, it was merely an annoyance. She wanted her answers, and she wanted them now. This was stalling, and she would not stand for it. All this time wasted, all this nonsense, was just endangering Detective Warda more and more. She couldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t allow for this.
As the man pulled Detective Warda close and she responded, both of them turning her away, Daryl rolled her eyes. “This place is not yours,” she said, voice full of defiance native to a teenager. “And you have no reason to be here. We are solving a problem and you’re merely causing another.” Didn’t Detective Warda have a gun? She should have been armed, why didn’t she just shoot this man so that they could move on? “Of course I’ll find my answers, because they exist. If it exists, I’ll find it.” Her gaze shot to the detective, expression irritated. “I am not leaving.” “You need to get out of here,” Jennifer insisted, clearly distressed by Hockney’s lack of concern on the situation. “This wasn’t something you were meant to see--” Her grip on the man’s shirt tightened and they struggled for a moment, both of them nearly equal in strength before something in the man’s hand flashed against the light. Quickly, she moved to cover the action, her back now to the other woman. It was unclear what was occurring.
The man had a direct line of sight to her in that moment and his gaze shifted away from Jennifer even as they struggled. “She won’t allow me to say anything untoward to you, it’s nearly endearing,” he said, voice light. “But this isn’t your dream, and you’ve seen more than enough--none of this belongs to you, sweet child.” Jennifer coughed something in response but she didn’t attempt to turn around. There wasn’t anything else she could do here, and as the world began to shatter and fade around them, the other party could make out the indistinct image of the detective slumping into the man’s arms and something falling from his hands, a weapon in the shape of a shattered fragment of glass. Normal people might have reacted to this situation differently. They might have tried to help the other woman, or scorned the man for being a bully, or attempted to call for help. But not Daryl. Daryl watched this whole thing with detachment, as if two people struggling like this was a normal thing to observe. She wasn’t moved or particularly bothered by the display, just annoyed. She and Detective Warda had been talking, damnit, and this man was interrupting.
The suggestion that this wasn’t her dream confused her. “Excuse me?” she asked, tone imperious. “This is my dream. I haven’t the slightest idea how you have come to ruin it, but you should be disappearing soon enough.” Her smug tone accompanied folded arms, though the self-importance faded just slightly when the world began to fade. Colors leaked from vibrence to gray, and it seemed as if pieces of reality were peeling away. Eyes wide, Daryl took several steps back.
“Detective Warda!” she shouted as the room filled with a horrific noise that sounded as if reality itself were ripping apart. “Detective Warda!” The man gave Hockney a wide, satisfied smile, now holding the detective possessively in his arms--an embrace that two lovers might share, one of husband and wife. He didn’t seem to mind when the stark white of his cuffs began to stain as he moved his hands more securely around Jennifer’s waist. As the other woman began to cry out, Jennifer’s shoulders briefly tightened and she moved her head enough for a look back in Hockney’s direction, her cheek pressed tiredly against the man’s chest.
As they knelt together on the floor, the dream collapsing on itself at last--all of it nothing more than false memories, incomplete desires--Jennifer tried once more to reach out her hand. She was weakened, tired, and the blood running from her wrist left a thick, black trail against the fading wooden floor; her fingers met nothing, but even as the detective’s dream ended she never stopped trying. Daryl hurtled from the horror show into her own bed, waking up with startling speed. The lag between dream and waking world vanished as she went from laying still, eyes closed, to vaulting into a sitting position with wide and open eyes. She could feel cold sweat forming on her face and neck, a dreaded chill that lingered from what she had seen just seconds ago. Who was that man, and what did he mean? Dream analysis was often beyond Daryl despite her classic training in psychology. She could understand when her dreams told her, point blank, what was happening. Like the dream that had lead her to discovering the Alphabet Killer’s preferred method of dispatch, they guided her to something she had been on the verge of understanding without stepping over.
Throwing the covers off her legs, Daryl jumped to her feet and hurried to her computer. She had stored files there, information from the police reports even though they were useless. Conversations with Detective Slater were there as well, along with her own notes. Though it was late and she had only slept a bit, she was wide awake. She had to carve through the night once more - she couldn’t rest until Detective Warda was found.