a filthy bishop to thank, shaking hands into a fatal stalemate. Who: Bishop Coldiron & Cal Davidson Where: An interrogation room at La Quinta What: Sneaking an off-the-books meeting with his oldest friend. When: Backdated to December 1, later after the officers’ questioning.
Cal had been antsy for five days, pacing up and down the halls of the Capitol, aware of the locked doors and barred windows in a way he hadn’t been before. La Quinta had never looked so foreboding as it did now: a hulking tan-orange monster squatting at the edge of the Capitol complex. He found himself constantly glancing out of windows in the government building, catching stray glimpses of its corners whenever it loomed into view, as if the next time he might look back and it’d be gone.
Every time he thought he’d reached some sort of equilibrium, something else happened to throw him askew. This time, it was the arrests.
He’d asked and asked and asked about seeing one of the Hellhounds in particular, like some annoying peddler on their doorstep pestering the DoJ: Are they even still alive? he’d demanded.
The guards who’d looked after him during his quarantine could only give him an apologetic look in return. Sorry, man, we’re not at liberty to say anything.
Bode. That was where all his thoughts circled and drifted, ceaselessly. He knew Demi loved the rest of the officers, but Cal wasn’t a big enough man to extend that sympathy—his loyalties ran in one direction and had one recipient only. The muscle in his leg sometimes still twinged if the air was wet and he stood on it wrong, an involuntary spasm. His old injuries and scars reminded him each day of his reasons to hate the Hounds.
Hands knotting and unknotting, he paced his room in the Capitol. There was tension under his skin again and no real way to release it, not like before.
He pestered the guards again.
Each day like clockwork, he wandered back towards the Department of Justice after each work day, until finally: Visitation rights granted.
He’d pulled strings at the department—apparently it did well to be friendly and charismatic, and well-liked amongst the grunts. The pair of guards he’d ingratiated himself with long ago had quietly ushered Cal into a sparse interview room, all steel and grey and windowless, where Cal settled himself down at a table to wait. The last time he’d been in a room like this, it had been a minor disciplinary infraction back in Harlan. Being a pain in the sheriff’s ass. With Bode, again.
Time was a flat circle, and it kept devouring its own tail.
The first few days in La Quinta had been nothing like the last time Bishop had been imprisoned. Though he supposed that was to be expected, after all the last time he had been in prison had been for moonshining...and now, well, now he was here because of violent acts and a war they had been waging against the Capitol for far too long. The last time he had been locked up, he had been peaceful, civil, a model prisoner. This time, well, he was a man trying to escape his own damn thoughts. Any fight he could start, he did. Which wasn’t hard when you were penned up with men who wanted to see you dead, who would rejoice if they were the ones to bring that fate down upon you.
The last week had been a blur, a flurry of fights and chaos. All that it seemed was changing with the coming month. Suddenly and without notice a guard pulled him from gen pop, no word as to why and Bishop knew well enough not to ask. He was marched down a maze of hallways until finally he stood in front of a door. Without a word spoken it was opened and he was ushered inside. Whatever his mind had been concocting, whoever he had begun to assume had requested to see him -- Cal Davidson was not in fact the face he expected to see greeting him from the other side of the table.
Every line in Bishop’s face seemed to have grown deeper in the last five days, dark circles under his eyes gave away the fact he hadn't been sleeping, and a few bruises and a split lip was evidence that the Hellhounds Chaplain hadn't had a peaceful stay in La Quinta this far. In truth he was simply grateful to still be breathing air.
There was nothing warm about the way he smiled as he sunk into the chair across from Cal, handcuffs still on his wrists. Cal stared at them; they were like a visual scar, gouged into his friend’s arms. “You know I ain't going to try anything stupid, mind taking these off?” Bishop held his cuffed wrists up to the guard still standing in the corner.
The guard glanced towards Cal for confirmation as to whether he should or not. The man had been told that the DoR agent got to call the shots here. Cal seemed to consider the question for a moment.
In the end, he nodded. “Go ahead.”
Cal trusted it for this one plain and simple reason: if Bode pulled some shit now, it’d land Cal in more hot water than he’d already be in, if they found out about this visit and its circumstances. (The security camera’s all-seeing eye in the corner was temporarily deactivated, its red light no longer blinking.) He’d just have to hope it was enough.
And while the guard was carefully twisting the key in the chaplain’s cuffs, Cal cleared his throat and decided to press his luck one more time. “I don’t have my firearm on me, so he can’t get a hold of any leverage. Think you could stand out in the hall? Just for a few. Give us ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Davidson, you know I can’t do that.” This was going too far. The guard’s extremely reluctant expression said it all, and the way his face hardened into stoniness, prepared to rebuff any and all further requests. But desperation was starting to thrum through the soldier now, heightened by the sight of his oldest friend turned hollow and vanquished. “Look,” Cal said, “you’ll be fully-armed out there. If anything starts up in here, you’ll damn well hear it ‘cause I’ll scream bloody murder. Also probably throw some chairs around. It’ll be noticeable, I swear. But the point’s moot ‘cause he won’t do anything.”
He might not be the best at thinking things through carefully, but Cal was talkative, mouthy, and persuasive. In the end, the guard relented and stepped outside, the door shutting and locking behind them. For better or worse, Cal was—at least for now—trapped just as much as Bode was.
Which left them alone together, surveying each other across that table.
“How you doing, Bode?” His voice tripped over his friend’s name; he’d been about to call him something else, but buddy felt thin and insincere. The word was too small to cover all the years and complications between them.
A ghost of a smirk has been resting on Bishop’s face throughout this whole exchange. Even at odds, even sitting on two separate sides of this fight, it’s a real damn comforting thing to watch Cal work his persuasive magic. In another life it seemed like now, they’d been teenagers and Cal had sweet-talked their way out of the sheriff's office. While it wasn’t the sheriff's office this time, Bishop was real damn happy to have those cuffs off his wrists -- as short lived as it may be.
“How do you think I’m doing, Cal?” Was volleyed back at his oldest friend. The heavy bags under his eyes, the bruises coloring his skin and the wariness in his voice told a story Bishop knew he didn’t need to detail out for Cal. Life behind the walls of La Quinta had thus far not been kind to him, but he was still kicking, still breathing, both things he hadn’t been certain would happen back on that street when the patrolmen had snapped the metal of the handcuffs around his wrists. “Want to tell me how you got this meeting with me?” Bishop asked, curiosity coursing through him. “And don’t tell me you slept with the guards, from what I’ve heard you’re not their type.”
“Hey, I’m everybody’s type.” It was an instinctive sort of playfulness, but it sounded like a thin shade of Cal’s usual. Instead, his fingers curled in on themselves, hands interlocked on that table as if he really were interviewing his oldest friend.
Bishop laughs, though it's thin and a little hollow. “Just keep telling yourself that, Cal.” This is a shadow of the mind of barbs they used to send back and forth at each other. The corner of Cal’s mouth tugged.
When the soldier spoke, it came with a slight reluctance. He hated this reminder that they stood at a crossroads, their feet planted squarely in separate camps: “Most of ‘em are former military. Birds of a feather, you know? So I’ve got a couple buddies in here, and favours they owe me. I was in quarantine here not too long ago either, so I had most of a week to get chummy with the guards working the wing. Didn’t really know it’d come in handy like this until now.”
Cal was staring at the bruises. He’d heard about the treatment in La Quinta, but seeing it firsthand was another thing entirely. He’d wanted the Hellhounds locked up, and always known it’d likely include Bode as well, but it didn’t mean he felt exultant about it. Victory came with ashes in their mouth. “So. How fucked up is it in there?”
Whatever humor had been found moments before is gone now, chased away by the reality of the situation. “Think Guantanamo,” Bishop answered, expression grim. “Your buddies make us look like kittens in comparison. Things they do, fuck, they cross lines we ain't willing to.” Not so much when it came to men, the Hellhounds were as brutal as they come. But all Bishop can think about is the things he's heard about in relation to what they'll do to women. It's one reason he's real happy Teagan isn't here, though it's overshadowed by his continued questioning of her having been marked as the rat. A train of thought he doesn't want to venture down in this moment, not when Cal’s across the table and clearly here for a reason.
“So, I'm guessing this ain't just a friendly visit is it?” Cutting straight to the point. There was one thing to be said about their friendship, they didn't bullshit each other.
The other man’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “Not just, although mostly I am glad for the opportunity to see you. Just fucking sucks that it had to be under these circumstances.” Cal was nervous tension crammed into a chair; part of him wanted to drag it around the table and situate himself by Bode’s side, just to make this feel less like an interrogation. He didn’t make a move yet, though.
“You promised, once, to tell me the supposed truth about the people I’m workin’ for.” Cal’s shoulderblades itched, but he resisted the urge to look up at the camera. It was off. He knew it was off. “I saw Nate’s interview with—”
Hawkins, James Hawkins. The name Calvin gave to the mayor. Rodeo, the name his friends chose for him.
“The Dog King,” he finished instead. “I’m not gonna sit here and argue terminology with you about what he said. I’m not gonna bother sayin’ that his stand might not have been a stand worth takin’. But I’m listening, Bode. Is there anything else? Something he didn’t mention? And have they said anything about a trial, or what their plans are for y’all in here?” Because Cal couldn’t help that curiosity, even now, especially with Nate and Demi and Willa chewing up his door wanting to know more about the situation.
Cal’s words are taken in, and while Bishop doesn’t carry the same kind of nervous tension about this meeting, it was clear as day that neither was he relaxed in his friend’s company. There was a time that the two of them were closer to being brothers than they are now, but their loyalties and allegiances had changed that. A wedge has sadly been driven between them, and try as either one of them might it’s a hard one to ignore. “We both knew I’d end up in this place sooner or later,” the circumstances aren’t ideal, but they were what they were. “I appreciate you being here, though. Even if it ain’t how we’d like it to be.”
One eyebrow is lifted up at the mention of the interview Nate did. They’ve been behind bars long enough that Bishop wasn’t aware it had seen the light of day, nor was he entirely sure what had and hadn’t made it into the final cut. So while he would have loved to fill in the blanks for Cal, first he needed to know what those blanks might be.
“Considering I ain’t got a clear idea of exactly what Rodeo did and didn’t say in that thing, care to enlighten me a bit so I don’t go repeating myself?” There’s a sigh that follows this, because as of right now Bishop’s real certain the ‘plan’ is to kill them. “Olinger and his lackeys ain’t being real forthcoming with information. They’ve talked about cutting deals, least that’s the line they tried feeding us in our interrogations earlier. But you know as well as I do that Olinger ain’t about to let us walk.” Or maybe Cal didn’t know that, after all Olinger put on a good public face.
“I thought maybe he’d have—” Cal starts, but then doesn’t finish his train of thought. “Well. In a nutshell, there was a whole load of bullshit justifyin’ why he’s been hitting resource trucks and killing in the name of his war with Olinger. Why the Hounds have been taking it out on the people on the ground and killing Capitol employees just for being a part of this administration.” It’s obvious from the tight, angry flicker in Cal’s face that he isn’t buying that particular piece. “And he said that he’s not dealing anymore.”
Then, the most significant part: “And that the Prax was found in a Department of Resources warehouse. With a datestamp from after the gas dropped. That there was a map with a route up to Virginia, and that Olinger’s got more of their own now. You know about this?”
His expression remains neutral while Cal gives him a brief rundown of what was in Nate’s interview. Of course the officers knew what it was Rodeo was going to talk about, it was the way it was edited that Bishop wasn’t familiar with. He lets the first few remarks slide, not up for starting some kind of fight over what is and isn’t right. He knows that look in Cal’s eyes and he knows his friend’s temper. Nothing under the sun will ever get him to understand why it was the Hellhounds did what they did, and in some ways Bishop couldn’t blame him. Cal likely had friends he had lost in those attacks, people he had worked side by side with. Nevermind the times that he himself had been injured, not at Bishop’s hand, but injured all the same.
Instead he focuses on the latter part of what Cal says, on the things he can confirm. “We ain’t dealing anymore, that part is true,” Bishop confirms with a nod. “And I do know about it. That part, whether you want to believe it or not, Cal. It’s all true, we got our Prax from a Department of Resources warehouse and the datestamp thing is true, I’ve seen ‘em with my own eyes,” he pauses, looking across the table at his friend. “I ain’t asking you to believe Rodeo. But believe me, Olinger ain’t as good as he wants Austin to think he is. This whole fight with us, with Rodeo, it’s a power struggle. It ain’t because he has the good of Austin in mind.”
Once upon a time, he could have found some justification for the incongruous stamps: maybe a printer gone haywire, the wrong dates being stamped on the packaging. It must have happened before.
But it requires too many narrative gymnastics, and so Cal just nods instead. He’d promised to listen, and listen he does. “Noted,” he says. There’s a world-weariness lurking behind that one single word, a bone-deep exhaustion. “And I’m keeping it in mind. I ain’t exactly trusting him with my firstborn. I’ve also seen some—”
There’s a knock at the door, the guard giving them a wrap it up warning. Cal jerks in his seat, his own admission dying. “Look, Bode, if there’s anything I can do for you to make it more… more comfortable…”
It’s a feeble offer, and Cal hates himself for it before it’s even out of his mouth, looking at his friend and mapping the contours of Bode’s once-boyish face. The swollen split in his lip, the dark discoloration around his eye. The Department of Resources doesn’t have a horse in this race. There’s little he can do about it.
That one word, it's all Bishop can expect from Cal. It's a damn comfort that the other man doesn't trust Olinger completely, it's a glimmer of hope to him that his friend hasn't been lost to the Mayor’s way of thinking. It confirms what Bishop has always known, Cal is with the Capitol for his own reasons and not because he drank the Mayor’s brand of kool aid. Whatever would have continued between them is interrupted by a knock, one that Bishop knows means soon enough he’ll be tossed back out into gen pop and Cal will make his way out of the prison entirely.
He shakes his head, grim expression still gracing his features. “Appreciate the sentiment, but you know well as I do that there ain't a thing you can do to make this more comfortable,” Bishop offers his friend an understanding look. “Look, you've done enough just coming here and hearing me out.” No doubt it took a lot for his friend to come here and be open minded enough to listen.
“Cal, I ain't asking you to change sides, all I'm asking is for you to start looking closer at the side you chose.” Bishop isn't giving an ultimatum, he wouldn't do that to his longtime friend. But, he wants to know, no, he needs to know Cal isn't blindly believing he's working for the good guys.
“Hey, in all the years you’ve known me, don’t I tend to leap before I look?” But it’s the wrong place and wrong time for that sort of joke, as evidenced Cal’s too-stiff expression. So he soon nods, instead. “I will. I promise. And I mean, if there’s anything Willa’s taught me, man, it’s to try to sniff out bullshit before I inevitably wind up stepping in it.”
Is that giving away too much? He didn’t mean to; it slipped out, thoughtlessly. That’s always been Cal’s problem.
Bishop attempts a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, when his friend assures him that he’ll look into things, that he won’t become a mindless automaton for the Capitol. He doesn’t comment on the mention of Willa, doesn’t ask what she might be sniffing out. He knows his ex, knows that she’s always been real good at figuring out what’s what with any given situation. Their time is drawing to a close, that much is obvious -- so even if he had wanted to dive into more personal topics, it would have to wait.
He considers it for a long moment, pressing their time on a little longer.
But then Cal’s out of his seat and stepping over to where Bode is rising out of his seat too, his hands free, though wrists chafed and raw from the cuffs. Cal catches Bode’s shoulder, his arm, and then drags him into the hug that Cal didn’t get to claim before. His oldest friend is tall and sturdy and so physically present: no longer just text on the networks, and yet still hopelessly out of reach.
Cal’s hands tighten on the other man’s back. “Good luck in there, brother,” he says into his ear, voice soft. He’s gonna fucking hate seeing him dragged back down that hallway.
Without hesitation Bishop was returning the hug, his hold on Cal fierce, this act a reminder that at the core of things, when you tore everything else away, they were friends. Cal is a solid presence, a reminder of a life before all of this. It’s a reminder that he clings to now, thankful of the last few moments with a friend he had kept at arm's length for far too long. Their politics were different, but that didn’t mean they were.
“Stay safe out there, brother.” Bishop pulls back to meet Cal’s gaze. “And be careful who you trust.” He releases his hold on the younger man then, stepping back from him. The room falls silent after that, Cal knocking on the door to let the guards know they can retrieve Bishop. The guard steps back into the room, motioning for him to hold out his hands -- which he does, and once the cuffs are back around his wrists he’s hauled up out of his chair and herded towards the door. Bishop casts one final look over his shoulder at Cal before he’s marched out of the room, the door quickly shut behind him, but not before he gets one final look at his oldest friend. Whatever happens to him, he hopes that Cal stays alert, that he finds out the truth before it’s too late for him.