Ben likes to think he’s a patient person–except, no, that’s a lie, he knows he’s easily excitable and tends to rush ahead with only minimal thoughts to the consequences–but he’s pretty sure anyone on as little sleep as he got, with as much shitty coffee as he’s drunk, would be impatient too after an hour of being stonewalled by the one of the perpetrators of probably the only interesting case to happen in Auradon in years.
Any other day, this would be the kind of thing Ben would be grateful for, a break in monotony from the usual Knight’s duties. Just figures this would happen when Ben’s not at his best.
He’s fidgety–Ben, that is–and if it didn’t seem to at least sort of unnerve the suspect he’d feel weird about acting so vulnerable in front of a stranger, much less a criminal. But as it is, just because the guy isn’t saying anything doesn’t mean he’s not giving them information.
The guy has been verbally uncooperative, but he was pliant enough when it came to booking. Obediently standing and turning for pictures, even if he had a pout the entire time, and letting himself be fingerprinted. Not that that helped at all; no match in the system. Even now there are still smudges of ink on his fingertips, the blackened lines and whorls standing out darkly against pink skin. Ben let’s go of his paper coffee cup, the fourth of the night, to slide his own hands across to where the suspect’s are resting against the table.
The perp doesn’t quite flinch away from the movement, but it startles Ben out of that course of action before he makes contact.
Whoa, Ben thinks, shaking his head, I am really tired. He clears his throat, hands going back to his coffee cup, the liquid inside lukewarm and sludgy, but at least it gives him something to do. Something like not touching the prisoner which is very clearly against the rules of conduct inside an interrogation room.
The camera in the corner of the ceiling has been constantly recording, steady red light like a judgmental eye. He hopes Lonnie doesn’t bring that up.
A knock on the door jolts both of them, but the perp does not look away from Ben, and Ben finds it hard to look away too, even despite the heaviness of his eyelids, but then the door opens and one of the precinct’s uniforms calls out, “Uh, sir?” Even though Ben is clearly younger than the police officer. But that’s what he gets for being a Knight, so Ben turns.
“Yeah?” Ben says, voice low and scratchy, before he clears his throat again and tries again, “Yes, what is it?”
“Lab results for the DNA test are back,” the uniform says, holding out a folder but not stepping inside.
Ben tries not to let the irritation or the skepticism show on his face. The former because that means Ben has to heave himself out of this surprisingly comfortable chair just to walk three steps over to get the folder. The latter because it’s not like the prisoner looks all that intimidating–he’s probably a few years younger than Ben, several inches shorter, and a good twenty pounds lighter–what could be so scary about that?
“Let’s see it then,” he mutters, flipping open the folder and paging through the information. Like his fingerprints, there’s no exact match for the perp in the system, but there is a partial match.
Ben can feel his eyebrows raise in surprise as he looks between the lab results and the perpetrator still sitting silently at the table, a smirk slowly edging onto his face as he realizes what it is that Ben must have just found out.
Partial DNA match found–their prisoner is related to Cruella de Vil.
A/N: I DO REALLY WANT TO DO THIS STORY, BUT IT’S SO DIFFICULT, ARGH. I think the problem is that I’m being too perfectionistic with it so it’s not flowing like A Tale of Two Kingdoms or Only Fools Rush In did. And I figure, I might as well write Ben’s POV while I’m tired since he’s tired, too, right?
Come on mystical muses, hit me with some inspiration.