Facilis Descensus Averno [REWRITING]

7. Foundation

"Is that a chicken salad?"

Bishop hadn't meant to use such a condescending tone, but couldn't help it; she kept her mouth shut as soon as she noticed Gilliam's knitted eyebrows the second she arrived back at their table—one out of the two tables in the station's break room, really—with her microwaved ham sandwich in hand.

"I went for a medical check-up last week," the agent said as he pierced a white plastic fork through several layers of lettuce leaves drenched in what she could assume was ranch dressing. "The doctor said I need to watch my calories, hence the salad."

The detective pulled a chair out beside him and sat down. "Then cut the chicken."

"I've already cut back on eggs," he replied with faux offense, before shoving the forkful into his mouth. "I still need my energy, you know. The job is tough enough as it is—I don't need to pass out in the middle of the day while I'm at it."

Bishop took a deep breath just as she began unwrapping her sandwich, unintentionally breathing in the mixed scents of processed ham and lukewarm American cheese. "Speaking of the job."

"Right." Gilliam chuckled at her words. "On to the matters at hand, then. 'Good cop' in front of the suspects, 'bad cop' in front of the shady government agent, I see."

Her fingers fell still on the top of her sandwich. "That's not how I—"

"I was kidding, Detective Bishop," Gilliam interrupted her, waving a feeble hand at her. "I was just trying to lighten the mood before we proceed with our business."

"I was thinking I should have at least have a nice meal," the detective sighed, staring at the sandwich and finding herself struggling even more so to find her appetite, "before you pull out some device that will erase my memories of the past two days or something—telling me it was all just a dream, and that the so-called FBI will take over the investigation, for real and for good, this time."

When she looked up, he gave her another pointed look of mock offense. She didn't know what to make of it—didn't know what to make of him, with all that happened. "We are not the Men in Black, detective," he said, turning his attention from her as he used his fork to stir the salad contents with the dressing. "And I assure you, for I hope the last time: I will not take your case away from you, detective. And besides, I did plan on coming clean to you about it, sooner or later. I suppose it will have to be sooner, than later."

"Oh, you did, huh?" She flipped the upper slice of bread open, double-checking the contents—idle action. "When would that have been? After we solve the case? Maybe after we confirm that Nichols and Woods were behind it?"

"Bishop—"

"What would happen if we find that neither of them were responsible for the murders? Will you ever going to tell me then?"

"Bishop."

She stopped then, taking a long, deep breath as she stared hard at the agent. Instead of answering her, however, he began gathering another small stack of leaves and bits of shredded chicken with his fork. Then he paused, his eyes darting towards her sandwich and nodding at it.

"You should eat," he said as he brought the fork to his mouth. "Before it gets cold."

"I can't eat," she stated, narrowing his eyes before sighing as she turned back to the sandwich.

"You were the one who offered a lunch break."

"It's past noon," she said, but he had a point. She just didn't have any idea how or where to discuss the elephant in the room. It wasn't like she could pull him into another interrogation room and grill him herself—after all, the station only had three interrogation rooms, and they already had two of them booked.