destroy me again
December 14th, 1992
Alicent stands outside the church and smokes a cigarette. It’s the middle of the day, but Rhaenyra doesn’t know she’s here. Alicent made a point not to tell her. They’ve made little progress, given the last three days have mainly been spent vaguely discussing the same case details over and over whilst Alicent watches Rhaenyra build furniture.
December 12th, 1992
“Did we ever revisit the florist idea? Maybe they went out of state,” Rhaenyra remarks, her once-ironed work shirt now tossed aside as she sits in just a wifepleaser and black slacks, connecting two pieces of a coffee table. Alicent just watches—sitting on the hardwood floor with her back against the wall, poring over crime scene photos—looking for anything that shows a sign of life, something left behind. She compares a photo taken from the blurry security footage, the blackened figure seems almost to have grown its own face, mocking Alicent as she struggles to make anything of it.
Alicent turns her attention to Rhaenyra instead—watching the thin sheen of sweat on her arms as she grips a screwdriver, her expression screwed up into one of concentration. Her eyes trace over the skin, skin that has yet to be available to her until now. “I think we can chase every florist in the country and it won’t tell us anything. My best guess is whoever this was made two separate purchases—probably in cash, and there won’t be any record of it. We need to attack this from a different angle. Who in our lists would be knowledgeable in 17th century art?”
Rhaenyra shrugs. “A priest?”
December 14th, 1992
Alicent stomps her cigarette beneath her boot. Rhaenyra doesn’t know why she’s here, but she doesn’t have to. Alicent isn’t really here on official business anyway—at least, that’s what she tells herself when she makes excuses as to why she didn’t tell Rhaenyra. She didn’t even tell the woman she wouldn’t be in the office today and her pager has gone off no less than three times. Alicent will find a payphone… eventually. Right now, though, she relishes in the crush of ash beneath her toe and steps into the church.
She told herself she wouldn’t come back here—Harrold very nearly forbade it after she found David here, but Alicent can’t stop thinking about it. Mentally, she thinks she never left this place. Alicent knows a thing or two about being trapped in rooms, but never so metaphorically.
There’s no active service, so the pews remain empty. In the daylight with no bodies hanging from the altar, it’s actually quite nice. Better than the stuffy chapel Alicent grew up going to. Catholicism was never particularly popular in England, but her father resented the protestants for reasons she never bothered to learn. Late afternoon sunlight streams in shades of pink, blue, and green through the stained glass creating a kaleidoscopic sheen amongst the first few rows of seating.
Alicent walks up the aisle timidly, each click of her heeled boots ricocheting against the cavernous walls. She’s about to knock when Father Lawrence comes out of the vestry, dressed for what Alicent can only assume is an upcoming evening service, looking surprised to see her there. “Special Agent Hightower. How peculiar of you to darken my doorstep.”
“I thought all were welcome in the kingdom of God?” is Alicent’s dry response, nerves clawing at every syllable.
“We are,” Father Lawrence says with a quaint smile before motioning to the first row of pews. “Something troubling you, agent? Or is this about the case?”
Alicent sits down, crossing one leg over the other and trying not to appear as outwardly uncomfortable as she feels. The last time she felt called to church it had been out of agony—an aching in her very flesh that involved her wanting to claw herself apart. This time, it was a quiet call. Something tugging at the base of her skull as if she were still a doll attached to her father’s string. Only the marionettist is dead, she should be free now. She should be free. But she’s here—sitting in a pew with a priest staring at her like he’s already figured her out.
“Both,” Alicent answers, trying to sort through the questions in her mind and figure out where to start. “I had a… dream. My partner… on the case, that is, she was in danger. A target. I think we both might be targets of this killer—at least, if my former partner’s death is anything to show for it. There’s a danger here, but at times, I worry I’m the only one who feels it.”
“An educated woman like yourself, I’m sure you know the tale of Cassandra.”
“Gifted to utter prophecies by Apollo, cursed to never be believed,” Alicent mutters with faint recollection, “I did not know a man of the clergy like yourself would dare to bother with Greek myth.”
Father Lawrence just hums, eyes seeking something in Alicent she cannot quite figure out. She remembers their first interaction—the fear he apparently saw in her. Alicent cannot help but wonder if he sees the same thing now. She doesn’t even know what she would see if she were to gaze upon her own reflection. Alicent avoids her own reflection more often than she should, barely looking when she ties up her hair in the morning. Sometimes, she contemplates covering up her mirrors as if she were already dead.
“To think every mythology is not intrinsically connected with one another is to be a fool, Agent.” His response catches her a bit off guard, but she tries not to let it show on her face. “Not that I think you to be a prophet. I remember when your first partner was found in this very place… I believe you said something had called you here.”
“How did you know that?” She straightens up, brow furrowed. That had only been said in her statement to Harrold for the records, at least, that’s what she believed. Doubt seeps through her now as she tries to recall that night, tries to remember where her head was, the things she said. Memory, it seems, fails her now.
“I was there when they took your statement right out there on the curb,” Father Lawrence tells her and a small, barely there part of her relaxes. Tension still seeps into every bit of her form, uncomfortable in this place, uncomfortable with this man’s eyes on her. “Do you not remember, Alicent?”
She clears her throat, asserting, “Of course, I remember. My apologies. Yes—I felt called here, but not because I thought he was in danger. Truthfully, I hadn’t thought of him at all when I made the drive, but Rhaenyra—I mean, Special Agent Targaryen, it was… fear. I fear for her. I fear for myself. This case is darker than I thought it would be, twisting and winding in ways I didn’t know were possible and I still feel as if we know nothing at all. And I—and we were lovers.”
The last word is said in a breathless gasp, sweat beading across her forehead as her breaths come shorter and faster. Her shirt feels like it’s sticking to her skin, buttons digging into her chest. She rubs her hands against her thighs, trying to ground herself in the smoothness of her fabric. “I don’t want to bear this burden, I don’t want this, father. I was—I was never good, I was never good in the way I should have been and now the burden is too heavy.”
She can feel Father Lawrence’s eyes on her as she hyperventilates, making vain attempts to calm herself. She continues her nonsensical rambling before she can help herself, “I cannot, I can’t do this—all I see when I close my eyes are the lifeless bodies of those I have failed, those I am going to fail, she’s going to get hurt and it’s going to be my fault, there’s no other explanation.”
“Special Agent Hightower, I think you have forgotten yourself.” His hand finds her back and Alicent reaches for his wrist before she can help herself, thumb digging into the fabric of his shirt as she struggles to catch her breath.
“Please, do not touch my back,” Alicent chokes out, feeling the scratchiness of her throat capture the words and claw at them as they go. Her skin burns where her shirt clings to her back and the force of her grip brings her back to reality. Even so, she does not let go. She doesn’t trust him not to try again. The look on his face is not promising. There is something unreadable in his eyes—like Alicent is a puzzle he is trying to solve, an experimental mouse to poke. Her pager goes off again and Alicent doesn’t have to check it to know that Rhaenyra’s number will flash on the screen. “Father, need I remind you that I am the lead detective on a case in which every single body that has fallen has stepped through these doors. I implore you, if you have any knowledge about this case, anything that could be of any help, let it be known.”
“I implore you to let go of me, Special Agent Hightower,” Father Lawrence threatens, his demeanor shifting. His brow furrows, his gaze more intense than it was before. “It is to my understanding you passed a psychological evaluation by the skin of your teeth to get back on this case, I would hate for your superior to find out about your… struggles.”
Alicent glares at him but eventually relents, dropping his wrist and rising to her feet so he does not have the opportunity to touch her again. She forces a polite smile onto her face—despite the tightening suffocation of her clothes and the sheen of sweat on her skin. “My apologies, Father. As you can see, this case is a stressful one. If you… happen to remember anything that might be useful to us, you know the proper channels to go through. Have a good rest of your evening.”
“You as well, Agent.” He’s looking at her like he’s won something, like Alicent has played something exactly as he planned. She has a nagging feeling that he knows something, that he is keeping something from her. When the case first opened, Alicent almost believed him to be the man responsible for it all. Now, though, Alicent knows a marionettist when she sees one—she is well-versed in men who control others. She just needs to know who exactly he is protecting. She begins to back up, one hand on where her pager rests on her waistband—right next to the holster that holds her service revolver. Just in case. Something prickles at the back of her neck, a sense of unease that is growing more and more familiar to her in recent weeks.
Alicent finally turns around, her steps a quickened contrast to when she first entered the church. She finally takes her first deep breath when she passes through the doors, letting them slam shut behind her with a resounding thud. The last thing Alicent expects to see when she looks up is Rhaenyra standing outside her car with her hands shoved in her pockets, parked right behind Alicent.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Alicent spits, barely looking as she crosses the street. Rhaenyra is just looking at her with a brow furrowed, teeth gnawing the inside of her cheek as she looks Alicent up and down—taking her in. Wind whips at Alicent’s hair as she approaches Rhaenyra, pounding against her chest. “I said, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Rhaenyra says, her voice eerily calm which only serves to piss Alicent off more. Every single nerve in her body is on edge and Rhaenyra is standing here—knowing exactly where Alicent would be, and she is calm. She doesn’t even budge when Alicent hits her chest again. “What were you doing here, Alicent? You know you aren’t supposed to come back here.”
“I—” Alicent struggles to think of an answer, feeling wet tears well in the bottoms of her eyes, threatening to spill over. She wants to smack the curious look off of Rhaenyra’s face, she wants to grab her, she wants to do anything to get her to stop feeling this way. “Something feels wrong, Rhaenyra. You don’t feel it? Don’t tell me you don’t feel it? Something is wrong here—”
“We’re investigating a murder, Alicent, of course, it’s—”
“I know we are investigating murders, I know what my fucking job is, Rhaenyra, but there’s—” Alicent whips around to look up and down the empty street. “How did you know I would be here? What do you know? Why do you want to work with me? I’m—something is wrong with me, Rhaenyra.”
“Alicent, Alicent,” Rhaenyra’s voice is too steady—a port in a storm as tears begin to spill down Alicent’s cheeks, right there in the middle of the road. She steps back, very nearly slipping on the icy road, but catching herself at the last moment. “Alicent, you’re having a panic attack.”
Alicent heaves, images flashing through her mind—fingernails ripped from their beds, white hot pain against her skin, against her back, hands gripping wrists, false prayers uttered from her own lips. Desperate pleas to a lord she doesn’t believe in. Anything to make it stop.
“Alicent—” Rhaenyra’s voice, louder now, more firm, “You’re having a panic attack, I’m going to touch you, okay?”
Alicent can’t think, she can’t breathe. All she can process is Rhaenyra reaching out for her. Before Alicent knows what’s happening, she meets her there halfway—falling against Rhaenyra’s chest—not to harm, but to ground herself. Rhaenyra’s arms wrap hesitantly around her as if scared Alicent is going to fight back, but she doesn’t. Alicent just buries her face against Rhaenyra’s shirt, fingers clinging to the fabric. It seems to be the encouragement Rhaenyra needs, wrapping her arms fully around Alicent—one hand coming to caress the back of her head as she brings Alicent closer.
“What did he say to you?” Rhaenyra whispers against the crown of her head. Alicent can feel the cold seeping into her bones, but she can’t move. She just clings to the warmth of Rhaenyra.
“Nothing, nothing, that’s the problem,” Alicent whimpers against her chest, fully aware of how pathetic she’s being right now. “I’m sorry for hitting you.”
“It was hot,” Rhaenyra whispers and the comment earns a small, wet chuckle from Alicent. “Why don’t we get a coffee or something? I can drive you.”
Alicent nods, forcing herself to pull away from Rhaenyra and wipe her eyes, now embarrassed by her little outburst. She worries she shows the worst of herself to Rhaenyra more often. “Yeah, yeah, coffee’s good.”
Slowly, Alicent makes her way to the passenger side of Rhaenyra’s car, clearing the lump from her throat with a cough and sliding in. She lets out a shuddering breath as Rhaenyra settles in beside her, shooting a nervous glance over at Alicent as if the woman is going to break down again at any given moment. At this point, Alicent isn’t sure she won’t.
“The priest knows something,” Alicent explains, finally managing to find her words. “He called me… Cassandra. Doomed to be an unbelieved prophet. What a freak.”
“That’s not a very nice way to speak about a man of the church,” Rhaenyra teases as they drive a little bit down the road where a small, family-owned coffee shop remains open relatively late. Alicent had found it her first week in Litchfield, grateful for a late night caffeine fix when she was still fighting exhaustion. Now, months into this case, the only thing she really needs to keep herself awake is the knowledge that more people are going to die because she is so fucking useless. “What do you think he knows?”
Alicent shrugs. “He hears everything. A church this small only has one priest, which means he hears everyone’s confessions. He has to know something. I think… I don’t know. I think this was his way of telling me that no one will believe me. No one will believe me. God—where are we at with the warrant that’ll let us speak to the twins?”
“I’m surprised you’re waiting for the warrant,” Rhaenyra hums, pulling into a parking spot. “Alicent—respectfully, can we talk about what it was that made you freak out like that instead of the case?”
Alicent stares at Rhaenyra, unmoving even as she shuts off the car. The tension between them is thick, leaving Alicent to wonder which one of them will break first. After a moment—she relents. “Buy me a coffee first.”
True to her word, Rhaenyra pays and the two of them settle down on a couch in a corner of an empty coffee shop with a drink that’ll serve to warm Alicent’s freezing palms more than fill her stomach. Rhaenyra looks at her expectantly, taking a sip of her coffee. Alicent just stares at her.
“Alicent.”
“Rhaenyra.” Rhaenyra just glares at her. Alicent rolls her eyes, knowing this is a battle she’s going to lose. “The dream I had about you. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. And yours… me dreaming of you dying horribly and you dreaming of purgatory. I’m… scared. For the both of us, but mainly you. I worry about you.”
“I know I joke, but you do know dreams aren’t actually prophetic, right?” Rhaenyra offers—her words earnest. Alicent waits for Rhaenyra to laugh at her, to tell her she’s being crazy, but she does neither of these things. “This is a high stress case and we have reason to believe that we are being watched by whoever is responsible for this, it’s understandable to be afraid. I… I don’t like that you went there without me. I know Harrold more or less forbade you from going there, but I wouldn’t have stopped you. I just wish you’d have told me.”
Alicent sighs, untying her ponytail and running a hand through her hair, relishing in the relief of the slight tug of her scalp. “I know dreams aren’t prophetic and I know it’s probably just stress, but I’ve always had these… feelings. Like a sixth sense. I know it sounds stupid, but this case… it’s wigging me out. More than others. It’s too… it feels personal. Like this killer knows things about us.”
“Alicent, you grew up close to religion and from what I’ve learned about you in the last two weeks, it doesn’t seem like you grew up close to the healthy kind. Of course, some weird, bible-thumping killer is going to feel personal,” Rhaenyra levels with her. “I know I poke and prod at you, but I still know… nothing. Why you don’t let people in your house, why no one can touch you, why—”
“I let you touch me,” Alicent whispers, hiding the words with a sip of her coffee as if she can swallow them back down. “I don’t remember the last time someone gave me a hug. I don’t know if anyone ever… has. No, that can’t be right. My mother… she used to. That was the last time.” At the almost prideful look on her face, Alicent rolls her eyes and adds. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“My father used to lock me in my room,” Alicent adds at Rhaenyra’s silence. “If I had been bad, if I hadn’t been saying my prayers, he would lock me in my room. I lost count of how many times I pried off my fingernails trying to dig my way through the wood. That’s why I am… protective of my space. My home. Growing up, my space was never my own. Now it is my own, so long as no one can… touch it. That’s why.”
She finishes her spiel and Rhaenyra just looks at her. Alicent feels the strange urge to cry again, keeping her eyes focused on the dark chasm of her coffee so she doesn’t have to reckon with the gaze piercing into the side of her face. She’s starting to think Rhaenyra won’t ever speak, that she’ll get up and decide Alicent is too much of a freak after all.
“That is… horrible, Alicent,” Rhaenyra says finally. For some reason, it’s not what Alicent expects to hear—not in the slightest. “Have you told… anyone?”
“No.”
“Alicent.”
“He’s dead, it doesn’t matter,” Alicent hums, taking another sip of her coffee. “Sometimes, he’d be gone so long I thought he’d died. And no one would ever find me. It’s—I’m fine, really. I just don’t like people in my house. That’s all. It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry.” The surprises continue. Alicent finally allows herself to drag her gaze to meet Rhaenyra’s. “I’m sorry he did that to you, Alicent. No child, no one deserves that.”
Alicent opens her mouth to say something before closing it again. No one has ever apologized to her. Not for that. Then again, she’s never had anyone to tell. Before she knows what she’s doing, she reaches out for where Rhaenyra’s arm rests against the back of the couch, her touch resting lightly on Rhaenyra’s wrist—the cuff of her sleeve having risen slightly so Alicent’s palm rests against bare skin.
“Thank you,” Alicent breathes out, the words like a weight lifted from her shoulders. “He did—there was more, but that… I hope that answers at least one of your questions. As to why I freaked out—Father Lawrence, he put his hand on my back. I couldn’t breathe, I just acted. I don’t like to be touched.”
“I know,” Rhaenyra breathes out, her voice barely audible. Alicent is looking at her, but Rhaenyra is just looking at the hand on her wrist. Alicent wonders what she’s thinking—what Rhaenyra thinks of her. “You asked why I wanted to work with you, you keep asking that. I don’t know how many more times I can tell you it’s because you’re brilliant. I don’t care that you don’t like to be touched or that you’re weird about your house, or any of it. Alicent, I bought a house so you wouldn’t have to invite me into yours if you didn’t want to again.”
“You’re crazy,” Alicent huffs, her thumb rubbing the inside of Rhaenyra’s wrist—a barely there movement that feels far too natural. “Two weeks we’ve been working together and we haven’t solved jack shit. All we have is another body and a dozen more dead ends than we did last month. And you think I’m brilliant.”
“We’ll get there,” Rhaenyra says it with so much confidence, Alicent doesn’t know what to do with it. “You say you get a sixth sense, I’ve got one, too. It’s about you. The moment you stepped foot into that office cursing about me being there, I knew. We were meant to meet, our paths destined. Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”
Alicent offers her a small smile, “It’s only fair when you’re being crazy.”
“I’m not,” Rhaenyra laughs, scooting a little bit closer on the couch to the point where her knee almost bumps into where Alicent’s is bent against the well-worn cushion. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel it. Like something slid into place—a partner who really understands me, understands the way my mind works. Like Thelma and Louise or whatever.”
“They both die at the end, Rhaenyra, that hardly bodes well,” she scoffs, still continuing the gentle rotations of her thumb against Rhaenyra’s inner wrist. Alicent sighs, staring at the movement, wishing she could do more. She doesn’t know what she would do, but she yearns for… something. “But I’m glad you think we have… synergy or whatever. I just wish it would reflect on this stupid case.”
“It will, in time,” Rhaenyra says with a shrug. “If this person is watching us, sooner or later they’ll open themselves up to error in their attempts to get to one of us. We just need to stick together and uh… not get murdered.”
“That’s not promising, Rhaenyra.”
“That’s like… a worst case scenario,” she reasons, moving her wrist. For a moment, Alicent thinks Rhaenyra is going to pull away and something in her heart aches at the thought. Surprisingly, though, Rhaenyra just shifts and interlocks her fingers with Alicent’s. She gasps a little bit, resisting the innate urge to pull away before allowing herself to relish in the strange feeling of Rhaenyra’s palm against hers. Alicent hums, more to herself than to Rhaenyra. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll talk to Leigh, we’ll get a warrant to speak to the Gould twins, and someone will crack eventually. And I’m with you, by the way, when you say the priest is in on it. There’s no way he doesn’t know anything.”
Alicent sighs, taking what feels like a risk when she squeezes Rhaenyra’s hand slightly. Her palm is rough, calloused. Alicent didn’t expect it. “I feel like we can only say we’ll figure it out so many times.”
Rhaenyra shrugs. “One of these times we’ll be right. Here, let me drive you back to your car. I think it’s time we call it a night.”
Part of Alicent wants to sit here on this couch all night—or at the very least, until the coffee shop closes. She wants to stay here with her fingers wrapped around Rhaenyra’s, feeling the warmth of her, another weight off her shoulders. Despite this, she lets go of Rhaenyra and stands up anyway, taking a quick glance at the snow falling outside.
The drive is silent—neither of them finding much else to talk about. Alicent is almost reluctant to get back into her own car, bidding Rhaenyra a goodnight and briefly promising that she won’t run off without Rhaenyra again, even if she thinks the woman will judge her or call her crazy (Alicent is not sure this promise won’t be broken, but she’s going to try).
Alicent makes the drive home on autopilot, feeling exhaustion tug at her bones. She’s sick of this case. Sick of what it’s doing to her. She isn’t sure how much longer she can survive not solving this. Every day feels like she’s running around in circles, driving herself crazy.
She sighs as she gets out of her car, snowflakes catching in her hair and her eyelashes, the warmth from the coffee in her stomach no longer present. She moves on autopilot, trudging through the snow up to her front stoop.
Alicent goes to unlock her door, but something on her stoop catches her eye—there, a shock of color against undisturbed white snow. Right there on her doorstep—a bright red poppy.