[center][h1][color=8882be]Ashley Gallagher[/color][/h1][/center]
[center][h2][color=8882be]7:00 AM - Gilded Heights Apartment Complex, Room #67[/color][/h2][/center]


	Ashley Gallagher started the new day with a spring in his step and a weight in his chest. He didn’t bother trying to discern whether said weight was an emotional one or a heart attack— With his health habits and daily activities it was probably both. He helped himself to a portion of cold eggs and bitter coffee, letting the morning sun filter in through the open window and illuminate the headline of the fresh newspaper in his hands.

	He considered a lot of things. First and foremost the pile of week old dirty dishes in his sink, and then the thick line of gunk in his current coffee mug that he was trying desperately to ignore. He also considered Emerald. He fancied he might pay her a visit today, get some actual leads to follow instead of the bullshit he’d been toying around with all week. Smith would be happy with him, that was for sure. He also considered the fact that she might be playing him like a fiddle— and that when he got there it wouldn’t be red lips, and secrets, but Townley himself and the entire fucking brigade there to riddle him with bullet holes and turn him to swiss cheese.

	Ashley took a contemplative bite of his eggs and came to the conclusion that he didn’t much like eggs. They were too rubbery, too yellow. And regardless, he needed to make his way down to the Station.

[center][h2][color=8882be]8:00 AM - Police Station[/color][/h2][/center]

	
	“Gallagher! Hey pal, where’ve you been all night? Did you decide to go home and actually get some sleep for a change?”

	Ashley spoke around his unlit cigarette, wearing his usual grin for Smith and putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Shoot me, I was tired.”

	“Nah, pal, you look great! Your hair is combed, the bags under your eyes are gone, you’re a completely new person, Gallagher.— Is it a woman?” Smith tucked his thumbs into his suspenders, his eyes following the early-morning influx of people entering the station.

	Ashley explored this idea for a moment, but eventually came up in the negative. The tart was not to blame for his newfound care— what was wrong with a man just being god damned tired? “Maybe the reason I don’t get no fuckin’ sleep is because you pester me when I do?”

	Smith smirked, snapping the suspenders and making a move towards the stairs. “That wasn’t a no.”

	Ashley followed him, running a hand through his hair. “Wasn’t a damned yes either.” He made a last-ditch effort to change the subject. “How’s the Missus?”

	“Oh, you know, ‘Richard you work too hard and too late, you have to be there for us, you put yourself in danger every day why can’t you just put us first for once?’” His voice climbed an octave in mockery, but a shadow passed over his face.

	“Ouch, that already?”

	“Can’t hate her for caring I guess.” Smith gave a noncommittal shrug that in no way summed up what Ashley suspected were his actual feelings about the issue. 

	Ashley swung the door to their shared office open, holding it out for Smith to enter. The last thing he expected was the Chief Detective's hand catching the door before he could shut it. "Gallagher, Smith. I've got a case for you."