I bit back my original question, going for a far more neutral "What?" instead.
His lips pursed, and he gave a snort that even a bull would have respected as he tossed his head to glare over his shoulder. "But that's not what I should have done. It was deserved, and someone should have done it and worse to him and those women a long time ago. But it's not what I'm supposed to do, not as a cop."
"Hmm, how much good would it do to point out that you're, uh...human and that was a very human reaction?"
"Wouldn't do any good, cops are human, but we're still cops. We're supposed to do better than that, even if people behind the badge forget that."
"Would it help to point out that you've been connecting with a son you didn't know you had and probably priming your paternal instincts in the process so you were more likely to lose your shit at the sight of a helpless, hurt child?"
"I...no. Sort of, but no. If I wanna be a part of Micah's life, then I should be someone he can look up to, and that means doing my job right...the duty I agreed to do."
Again, I thought about pointing out that his son would also benefit from knowing that his father was the sort of person who stood up for the downtrodden, helpless, and abused. But I had the feeling that wasn't going to matter much in this conversation. He was stubborn, but stubbornness could be pierced, even for someone as hard-headed as him. The real problem came from how emotionally, rather than egotistically, he was invested in the criticism. He wasn't trying to make up for a failing that pricked at his pride, but one that hurt him at a much deeper, more fundamental level.
"Okay," I said slowly. "Then maybe being a cop isn't for you."
His head jerked up, eyes wider. "What?"
"I mean, if you find you can't do the job anymore...what else should I say?"
"I don't know, something fucking encouraging!” he snapped, and I almost laughed at how indignant he sounded, as if I was somehow offending him by leaning into his negative attitude.
"What is it you want from me?" I asked with a familiar weariness. I wouldn't admit it to most people, but deep down, under all the sarcasm, the playful and not-so-playful snarkiness, under the laissez-faire attitude, there was a weariness inside me that sat alongside the grief and sorrow. Buried deep and usually sleeping, but waking often enough for me to recognize it for what it was.
Worst of all, it often showed itself when I was dealing with Jace. It was, if I were finally honest with myself, the fundamental reason I’d found myself at odds with him so often. It wasn't that he exhausted me, it was that he somehow found those specific parts of me, the ones weary and exhausted from life and living, and woke them up. I didn't want those things to be awake; I wanted them to sleep peacefully and leave me to live my life in the way I chose, the way that made me happy. It had been happening less and less over the past few months, but now it was waking up again, and I could feel the ache in my chest and tiredness that was far deeper than any muscle or bone. It stirred from a place that couldn't be pointed to on a diagram, but it was a place felt, a place known but hard to explain, but I knew what it was every time I felt it.
"No, really," I said, finding I didn't even have the strength for anger. "Because it just sounds like you want to fight...again."
"Why do you always think I'm trying to fight you?"
"Because that's all you seem to want to do, all you've ever wanted from me. You're so damned pissed about everything, you just come off as pissed at me for...I don't know. Because it's not like I'm trying to piss you off, it's not like I’m trying to get underyour skin and drive you crazy, but you're still trying to fight me, still getting pissed off at me. I try to tease you? You're pissed off. I try to have some fun with you? You're pissed off. I try to have a conversation with you? Pissed. Try to help in whatever way I can? You're pissed. Just...pissed, pissed, pissed, pissed, on and on. So tell me, Jace, what am I supposed to think?"
"Now, all of a sudden, you're upset because you piss me off?"
"In case you haven't been paying attention," I said with a sigh. The rich smoke from the cigar wasn't quite tasteless, but it no longer had depth, and it wasn't pleasant, but cloying. I ground it out, no longer enjoying it, so there was no point in trying to force it. "I've stopped trying to piss you off."
"You're always trying to piss me off."
"See, that's the funny thing, because I just said I'm not. It's the mere fact of my existence that seems to piss you off. Or maybe it's just that I don't have to be serious all the time."
"Oh, fuck off. Don't start pulling that holier-than-thou crap," he growled. "Yeah, you can take stuff seriously whenyouwant to. But the rest of it? What the fuck do you care? It's not your problem, right? Just blow things off, don't take most shit seriously, why? Because then you don't have to deal with shit. Then you can keep living the fun life and let people like me or your sister deal with shit."
I turned to him, ignoring the comment about my sister because that would open doors inside me to rooms containing a lot of ugly things. "Really? You're dealing with shit?"
"A lot more than you are."
"You're not dealing with shit."
"Like hell I'm not!"
"Really? Brooding all the time, snapping and growling every time you get pissed off, which is all the time? Looking at any and everything through a lens that puts everything in its worst light? That's dealing? That's not dealing. That's obsessing over everylittle thing in the vain and futile hope that you can somehow control life. You've lived a life where shit just kept happening to you, completely outside your control, and you decided you were going to dig your heels in and burn all your energy on being a control freak."
"I amnota?—"
"Oh, please. Everything has to be on your terms, everything has to go your way, and in your time frame. You've convinced yourself that your way is the best, actually, no, you've convinced yourself that your way is the only way. And seeing other people get through their lives without doing things your way pisses you off. You look at someone like me and it freaks you the fuck out."
"You don't fucking scare me," he snarled, and I could hear the danger in his voice, but I was done. I was over the constant back and forth, the accusations that came from a place inside him I hadn't created and wasn’t obligated to control, of hearing things about myself and my life that were false or worse, condescending and dismissive.
"Everything scares you," I said with a wave at the sky. "You're scared that how you're dealing or not dealing with things is wrong. You're scared that you're fucking up your life without realizing it until it's too late. You're scared that you're going to be alone, but you're scared of being around people because you might actually have to ease your choke hold on control, because not everyone will put up with your bullshit like Kayden does. You're terrified of everything, but especially what's going on in your own head. You've turned that fear into anger, and you want to blame everyone and everything else. Well, grow the fuck up, Jace. The world is a rough and ugly place a lot of the time, but you don't have to sit around and add to it because you're scared, because we're all scared!"
