Deviant Behavior (Connor x Reader)

Night of the Soul

November 11th, 2038
AM 03:40:41

A few hours of sleep, even if forced, did you some good.  You'd managed to get a few minutes on the way to the "safehouse," but if your intuition was correct, the only thing "safe" about this place was that it was located in an abandoned district – surrounded by condemned houses and demolished apartment complexes, all stashed under a freeway.

Ghosts kept you company as you honored the dead rather than glorify the living.  There were dozens of graves walled off with iron fencing, the snow-kissed street resting to your left.  Your breath escaped your nose as you sighed, kneeling in front of one in particular.  One you'd carried the burden for making.

You could have practically dug it yourself.

You brushed the snow away with the back of your knuckles, excavating the cold flakes from the engraving with your finger.

"In Loving Memory of Police Officer

ANTHONY RAY MICHAEL DECKART

For his Heroic Actions

End of Watch: August 15th, 2038

'Speramus Meliora; Resurget Cineribus.'"

The official motto of the Detroit Police Department, the same words stitched on every city flag.

"We hope for better things; It will rise from the ashes."

The last time you'd brought them into focus was after you'd lost yourself, facing Elijah.  Hank had knocked some sense into you.

You wondered if Anthony had done the same, in whatever fashion of afterlife he'd found himself in.  Wondered what he'd have to say all this, or if he'd tell you to "be brave," like he had so many times before.  And you'd respond with...

"I'm sorry."

He told you this would happen, that you'd find yourself being burned at the stake for all of Elijah's shortcomings.  That this would all catch up with you, one way or another, and what you were doing was dangerous.  You should've listened to him.  Because you hadn't, he was dead.

When he'd fallen asleep, you'd woken up.

And when you woke up this morning, you hadn't realized it would be your final judgement day...your demons put to sleep on this night of the soul.

The corners of your mouth pulled back as you cried, hand resting on the stone imprint of his badge –tears melting holes in the white blanket below when they fell.

"Saint Michael the Archangel,

Defend us in battle,

Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,

And do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,

By the power of God, cast into Hell,

Satan and all the evil spirits,

Who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls...

Amen."

The Prayer to Saint Michael, the Saint who's name Anthony had taken when he'd graduated from his Catholic school as a child.  Being buried here, at this Catholic church, was his will.  When you'd recited this prayer, that was improv.  You'd done it because you knew he'd want you to.

Now it was for both of you.

You wiped your tears away, looking up at where you'd repeated vows at a different sort of funeral...where you became "Mrs. Kamski" in both church and state.