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“Thank you so much for coming, Detective.” Gentle hands clasp his own and whisk him further down the hallway. “I’ve been so terribly frightened…. Poor, poor Bella. We didn’t get along most of the time, but I had no idea there was someone out there who hated her that badly.”
“Yes, well,” Inference tries and fails to extract himself from Kroto’s surprisingly iron grip, left to stumble along behind her in an undignified way. His knee aches with every jolt of every step. She’s far too eager about this. “I haven’t confirmed the presence of any foul play yet.”
It’s a mechanical answer, one that he’s recited a thousand times and not necessarily one he ever agrees with. Years of looking over his shoulder, of preparing for the worst possible outcome, of knowing that hundreds of lives depend on his every decision, of knowing how much blood is on his hands (what a joke, really; to pose as a defender of the people when he’s killed far more than he will ever save?) have turned him into the most cynical version of himself. He does his best to maintain an objective mindset, but nine times out of ten, when he gets a call begging him to look into a potential murder case, it turns out to be a murder case. And besides, as unprofessional as it is to admit it to himself, Lady Bella’s demise is not currently the first thing on his mind.
But he doesn’t have the time to unravel that train of thought any further.
“Well- there’s a possibility of it, isn’t there?” Kroto looks at him with big black eyes that seem even bigger from behind the frame of her heavy makeup, more suited to the ‘20s than current times. Sweeping eyeshadow, heart-shaped lips, it’s like talking to a living doll. “Oh, forgive me, I don’t mean to speak on things I haven’t a clue about. I just worry, you know? And, poor Bella…”
“Poor Bella indeed . Here you are, acting like you weren’t praying on her downfall.” A hand comes to rest on Kroto’s arm; the person who steps up behind her seems to materialize out of the shadows of the next dressing room.
It’s thanks to years of practice suppressing his external reactions that Inference’s stoic expression doesn’t change a mite. Norton- or, what is he called now, Ronald of Ness- looks back at him just as evenly, nothing given away in the slight curl of his lips. It’s a plastic grin, taken with him from the stage. Years later and Inference still remembers how it felt to see his real smile, shy and self-conscious under the cover of the night sky. To be faced with this counterfeit feels rather like taking a blade to the chest.
What can they say to each other, though, especially here? What is there to be said? For a brief moment, Inference entertains the impossible possibility that Norton has forgotten him, but even as it crosses his mind, he knows it isn’t so. There was a moment- fleeting, yes, but present nonetheless- the very first moment that Ronald noticed him from the stage and stumbled over his lines. It was gone after that, barely noticeable with how well Ronald recovered, but the swiftness of it only served as greater confirmation. He knows.
Now, Kroto’s jaw goes slack, scandalized by Ronald’s accusation, though by his tone, it was more of a tease than anything. “That’s an absolutely inappropriate claim, Ness. I may not have liked Bella very much, but I would never wish her dead. And in front of the detective, of all the…” She clasps her hands, turns back to Inference, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Inference, my co-worker is incorrigible.”
“I’m sure,” Inference manages. “Ronald of Ness, isn’t it? I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“I’m sure,” Ronald echoes. “But the pleasure is all mine, detective.” He drops his hand from Kroto’s arm and moves forward to stand beside her, extending the other hand.
For a moment, a burst of anger sparks through Inference’s chest that takes him by surprise. After how long he spent in tormented suspense, searching and failing for this man, he always assumed that their reunion, if ever it came to pass, would be… well, incredibly different from this. Ronald has the nerve to stand before him, challenging him with the intensity of a single eye. And it is a challenge. Inference knows him, even now, well enough to recognize the way he is deliberately pushing both of them with this simple gesture.
But then his gaze roams over to the other eye, glassy and useless, and the maze of scorched flesh around it that never healed right, and he remembers how it felt to see it, fresh and bloody and terrible; and the anger dies down to a little contained ember before fading away entirely.
Inference takes the extended hand and shakes it firmly. To his great surprise- because he wouldn’t have guessed just by looking at him, composed even after hours of rehearsal on stage- Ronald’s palm is slippery with sweat and trembles almost imperceptibly in his grasp. He thinks that it might be the nerve damage from the burns, but no, it’s the wrong hand for that.
“I’m glad to have encountered you here, actually,” Inference tells him once they both step back. “I understand you worked very closely with Bella, so I had a few questions I wanted to ask you.”
“Yes, I didn’t particularly know her outside of the theatre, but we often played lovers, so our chemistry on stage had to be flawless. Ask away.” Ronald’s tongue pushes delicately at his lower lip and runs over his teeth. He’s nervous. But what about, precisely? Inference cannot allow his personal feelings to get in the way of the investigation and has to factor in the possibility that it’s about Bella, not him- not them.
“Did you have any more questions for me, Mr. Inference, or may I go? I thought you wanted to see Bella’s dressing room.” Kroto looks between them, eyes narrowed slightly. She, too, is hiding something, Inference is sure of it; there’s something sharp about her that doesn’t fit the ditzy personality she’s so carefully crafted. It would fool anyone else, but Inference has made a living off of reading people and their situations.
“Go for now,” Inference tells her. “I’ll have more questions for you later, maybe tomorrow.”
With a lingering glance over her shoulder, she slips past him into the dressing room across from the one that Ronald emerged from.
Then it’s just the two of them again. It always comes back to this.
They look at each other for a long moment. Ronald opens his mouth as if to say something, but Inference, with a quick breath, beats him to it. “Walk with me.” He takes another step down the hallway, slower and at his own pace now that he isn’t being dragged along by an overly eager actress.
And, despite how different everything is, despite how much both of them have changed, Ronald falls into line with him instantly, the same as when they were a mere private and sergeant in the army.
For the first few steps, there is a continued silence between them, broken only by the beat of Inference’s cane against the ground. He doesn’t know what it would be appropriate to say. He wonders if he should say anything at all. He has never been good at the simple act of talking.
It was different on the battlefield, wasn’t it? They had to talk, or else they would suffer alone with the images and the thoughts and the overwhelming regret. It was easy to talk, because the next day you might be dead, and everything that made you human will be buried with you because nobody else knows about it. But here, there are no such stakes. Life will go on.
“You’ve made quite a name for yourself.” Inference forces himself to speak first anyway, if only just because he has a funny feeling that Ronald never will.
“Mm…. yes. I suppose so.” Even when they’re alone, Ronald speaks in a strange, stilted way, as if he’s rehearsed this too. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, soberingly awkward, and yet Inference feels an odd rush of relief. The act is still just that, an act.
It’s this knowledge that makes him stop in the middle of the hallway. They’re out of earshot from Kroto’s dressing room. Ronald stops next to him, sending him a sideways glance.
“It’s good to see you,” says Inference, not caring if it was the appropriate thing to say, not even caring what kind of reaction it will garner.
But he knows it was the right thing to say with the way Ronald looks away, licking his lips again. “You too,” he answers, and now even the act is gone, and they can be Campbell and Subedar again.
***
Norton takes him to Bella’s dressing room and stays outside while Inference conducts a preliminary investigation. He checks the dresser first, but it’s empty, which, while suspicious, tells him nothing of substance. The closet is full of puffy dresses, mostly costumes but also some designer pieces that she must have worn while offstage. In general, the room is clean, a bit too clean. Apart from this, though, he finds nothing, just as he expected, and is forced to concede that he’ll have to return later to check far more thoroughly. Emerging from the heavily perfumed room, Inference sighs, shutting the door behind him.
“Nothing?” Norton is leaning against the wall, the image of nonchalance, but Inference, while not a gambling man, would bet a good deal of money that he’s going through the same internal struggle as himself.
“Nothing,” he confirms, tapping the wall with his cane and starting back down the hall. “I’m coming back later. Until then, I don’t want anybody coming in here. Nobody disturbs a single thing in this room.”
“Alright.” Norton studies him as they walk, and Naib, though he feels the urge to look away, meets his gaze. It’s odd. He’s recalled Norton’s face so many times, but always as he once was; never did he dare to imagine the aftermath of the injury. It wasn’t the disfigurement that he quailed from, but the tangibility of it. To speculate on such a thing would mean to fantasize of their reuniting, and despite the lengths he went to for that dream, he could never let it become too real of a possibility. He could never afford to be much of a dreamer.
Norton surprises him once again, then. He comes to a pause outside of his dressing room and nudges it open. “Would- you like to come in?” He falters, subtly.
Naib really ought to say no. It would be unprofessional, and a waste of time that he could use to make important advances in the case, and he has other witnesses he’d like to speak with before the night ends.
But by just acknowledging their connection, he’s made a fool of professionalism, and it’s growing late anyway. He doubts he’ll get straight responses from exhausted actors who just want to head home.
So he accepts the invitation with a step forward and pretends, graciously, that he can’t see how excited Norton is about that.
The dressing room is formatted similarly to Bella’s, but with a lighter scent, some kind of cologne that’s less flowery and more earthy. At one end is a vanity with a huge mirror, makeup and prosthetics and wigs stacked on the surface and, where they run out of space, hanging around the mirror. Next to the vanity is an elaborate claw-legged table with a record player on top of it, and perpendicular to that is a chaise of red satin, adorned with matching pillows. At the other end of the room is a closet full of expensive costumes- silk, velvet, furs- and hats and jewelry, and oh, that just might be real gold, though Inference has always had trouble making that kind of distinction. Set up against the last wall is an elaborate liquor cabinet that seems to be largely for show; although there are a good number of bottles lined up, only one or two are actually full.
Norton shuts the door behind them, and then it really is just them, without the danger of interruptions. “Please,” he says, tilting his head towards the chaise, and Inference, though he has always preferred to stand, particularly in new environments, is left with nothing else to do but accept once more. Slowly, taking his time, he moves across the room, staring at the plush carpet under his shoes, and if he were a more appearance-conscious man, he would feel terribly underdressed in his old tweed coat and hat, well worn around the seams. As it is, he finds himself running his sleeve across the brooch at his throat in a belated attempt to polish it up a bit. It’s not so much that the room makes him uncomfortable. It’s that he can’t help but feel that he’s the one bringing down the room, and while he usually holds little to no regard for such ideas, it suddenly becomes very different when the room belongs to Norton Campbell.
… Campbell, huh. He’s busy putting a disc into the record player– Sinatra starts to murmur about how anything can come true– and then shedding his jacket, hanging it on the coat-rack next to the door. Inference lowers himself onto the chaise with a grunt, leaning his cane against the arm, and finally has the chance to be the unobserved observer. Norton is tall, he’s always been tall, but when they were in the army, he was so malnourished and so accustomed to holding such bad posture that it was hardly noticeable. Now that he seems to be far healthier and he actually stands up straight, Inference is made starkly aware of the good number of inches between them. From here, he can just see the edges of the scar, twisting over Norton’s shoulder to disappear under his collar.
Inference wants nothing more than to bring it up. At the same time, he wants nothing more than to never speak of it. His own wounds never seem to stop aching, and none of them are even visible, apart from the leg, which could be chalked up to nearly anything, and the bad eye, which hardly anybody pays close enough attention to anyway. (They match, don’t they, he realizes with a dry touch of humor, thinking of how Norton’s blind eye is on the opposite side from his own.) Even in the privacy of his own knowledge, he is far too aware of them, burdened with phantom twinges; he’s loathe to imagine what it must be like to be stared at, to have them constantly on display, ogled not only by peers but by strangers on a spotlit stage.
But it doesn’t seem to bother Norton. He’s turning around now, hands clasped behind his back. He looks slightly crooked, which has Inference shifting slightly in his seat until he realizes it isn’t his vision that’s the problem. He really is leaning over to one side, left shoulder lodged a permanent centimeter higher than the right. Realizing he’s just become guilty of the behavior he was attributing to others a moment ago, Inference lifts his gaze politely to Norton’s face, which is excellent timing, as he’s just started to say something, turning towards the liquor cabinet.
“Bourbon? Or…” He squints a little, as if it isn’t his own cabinet with his own alcohol in it. “Champagne?”
“I don’t drink on the job. But if you have a light…” Naib has a matchbook in his pocket, of course, but he can tell that Norton is making a large effort to be hospitable, so it’s really the least he can let him do.
“Yeah, sure.” Norton comes over to the chaise and sits next to him, fishing a lighter out of his vest pocket. It’s a pretty thing with embossed patterns, glittering under the light of the electric chandelier swinging from the ceiling. He holds it out, hesitates for a moment, then clicks it to life and holds it to the bowl of the pipe.
The contents flare under the gentle spark and Naib puffs out a small cloud of smoke to the side. “Again,” he mumbles around the wood. Norton sweeps the lighter a second time, lingering a bit more, and that does the trick. Naib nods his thanks, and as Norton tucks the lighter back away, he exhales more smoke, feels the familiar burn in his mouth from taking in too much. “Is that real gold?”
“No.” A little bit of a smirk pulls at Norton’s lips as he leans heavier against the chaise, getting more comfortable. He looks like he belongs. “Brass and pyrite. Fool’s gold. Hell of a lot cheaper. But most people assume it’s real, so I don’t correct them.”
Naib hums in answer, still staring at the pocket in Norton’s vest that the lighter disappeared into. “How long have you been working here?” He has so many questions, and although he’s patient enough to parse through and take them one at a time, this is the one that’s most burning.
“You asking as the detective, or just because you want to know?” Norton’s eyes drift from the pipe to his face and then somewhere around his shoulder.
Naib frowns slightly, detective’s senses keen on the one hand and a feeling dangerously close to exasperated fondness, or perhaps the better term would be fond exasperation , on the other. “Would the answer be different?”
Norton looks to the side again, something almost coy playing along his expression. “Probably not. I just like to know who I’m talking to.”
Wouldn’t they both, though. “If it helps at all, I don’t typically sit down with my clients to smoke and ask about their lighters.”
“I’m not the one paying you, so I’m not your client anyway.” But Norton is done ribbing him. “It’s been four years now.” He pauses, and then as if reading Inference’s mind to derive the next important question, “It took about three or four years for me to land it.”
That, then, makes it much easier to envision the ten years it’s been since they were last face to face. Presumably two years in recovery, four years at the theatre, but then, the murkier gap between them doesn’t quite add up…
“Three or four years doesn’t seem like a very long time for someone without prior experience. This is one of the most esteemed theatres in the country, isn’t it?”
Frankly, he finds it difficult to imagine. Within four years, is it really possible for a young man of color with horrific scars who’s only known poverty and war to become the leading actor in a famous troupe? As much as he’d like to believe it, Inference has a very strong feeling that there’s something Norton isn’t telling him.
“I thought I wasn’t talking to the detective.” Norton rolls his eye, and yes, although he tries to play it off as a joke, something has definitely shifted between them. It could simply be that he’s taken offense to Naib’s skepticism. It could also be that he, the same as many of the people here, is withholding information. “It was difficult, yes, but not impossible. After the war, I finally had the chance to start over and become a new person. I started working on making connections. You’d think this-” he gestures to himself- “would be something of a handicap in that regard, but in fact, there were a lot of people who felt sorry for me. In a lot of ways, it helped me out.”
“And that didn’t bother you?” Naib may not know much about Ronald of Ness, but their interactions so far have convinced him that Norton is much the same as ever; and he knows for a fact that Norton isn’t one to reap pleasure from other people’s sympathy.
Abruptly, Norton rises from his seat, facing- deliberately, Naib is very sure- away from him. “As good as it’s been to see you, you’re right, I’ve made an excellent name for myself. And unless you plan to actually question me, the business I’ve been conducting over the last decade is mine and mine alone. If the best actors gave up their secrets, there wouldn’t be any roles left open for them.”
“But perhaps not everybody is cut out to be an actor in the first place.” Resigned, knowing he chose the wrong thread to follow, and yet forced now to stick with it, Naib stands as well. The bulb of his cane presses into his glove and indents the cracking leather. He would like to think that parting ways like this is almost worse than if they’d never spoken at all, but that’s far from the truth. Besides, it’s late, and they’re both tired.
He draws on the pipe again. “Thanks for the light.”
“Yeah… yeah, I’ll see you out.” Norton turns back around, avoiding his gaze, but Inference raises a hand.
“No need. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Until then, remember what I said about Bella’s dressing room. I’ve already given one of these to everyone else, but if you need to contact me, here’s my card. Emergencies only.” He tries not to make a big deal out of it as he passes over the little rectangle of cardstock, ORPHEUS DETECTIVE AGENCY printed in Palatino with a phone number underneath.
“Right,” he thinks he hears Norton mumble as he steps out, closing the door behind him. Inference sighs, breath stained with the mild sweetness of pipe tobacco, and, though he ought to go, lingers for a minute more. He hears nothing from inside the dressing room, and after sixty seconds exactly, departs with more troubles than when he arrived.
***
He fucked it up.
Norton sits at his vanity, scrubbing off stage makeup with an unsteady hand. Seeing Naib has completely thrown him for a loop and he feels more helpless than a fish out of water. The way Inference looked at him is still projected into the back of his mind, sending a bad itch through his chest that he can’t clear away no matter how much he coughs.
When he caught his first glimpse of the detective, it was in the middle of his rehearsal monologue. Norton recognized him instantly. Even in the odd getup, the monocle and cane, hair longer and step hindered by a limp, there was no question about it. Then came his first stumble, a missed word in the line he’s never screwed up. He recovered, of course, but for a moment, there was a stark silence in the theatre, all eyes on him.
Afterwards, he’d come to terms with his emotions enough to put a name to a few of them. Dread; he knew it would be the notorious Mr. Inference on this case, but he never saw a picture of him. Caution; did he know? Was he even recognizable like this? Excitement; yes, undeniable, inevitable. There was no point in lying to himself when the same face has been returning to his dreams again and again for years. And, most prevalent, anxiety, a surge of nerves so powerful that he almost couldn’t bring himself to face the one man who had kept him sane when he needed it most.
They were both different, but Norton had no doubt that of the two of them, he had changed far more drastically. Physical transformations notwithstanding, he knew he was far from the naive, frightened soldier. Would they have anything to say to each other?
That question’s been answered now, hasn’t it. Norton scowls at his reflection and draws the velvet cover over the mirror. It seems they had far too much to say to each other, and with neither of them being particularly adept at conversation, that couldn’t have been bound to end very well.
Dressed now in his street clothes (which, to be entirely fair, aren’t much less elaborate than his costumes), Norton scrawls out a hasty note reading DON’T ENTER, DETECTIVE’S ORDERS and pins it up outside of Bella’s room, which, he’s certain, is not going to dissuade anyone who actually wants to enter. Back in his own room, he’s nearly about to lock it up for the night when the little card that Inference left him catches his eye.
It’s sitting on the very corner of the vanity, nearly ready to fall off, as if daring him to take it. With a sigh, he snags it and tucks it into his pocket.
Nearly everyone else has gone home by now, and the theatre is empty apart from a few backstage workers scuttling around. Outside, the air is humid, and there are puddles in the streets, water running from the gutters; it must have rained. Luckily, his apartment is only a few blocks away, which means he makes it inside a few minutes before it starts raining again. Droplets are pattering against the windows by the time he’s sitting next to the hearth and dialing the number on the card before his courage can fail him.
“ Orpheus Detective Agency, how can I help you! ” someone chirps, who is decidedly not Inference.
“Uh,” Ronald recovers swiftly. “Good evening, I was given this card by Detective Inference. I’m one of his clients.”
“ Ohh… okay, are you from the theatre? ” Before he can even answer, the voice continues. “ He’ll be on the line in a few minutes, if that’s okay. Sorry, he’s going through a bunch of files. ”
“Files, huh? Related to this case?”
“ I think so. I’m on a different case right now, so he won’t tell me a lot about it. But I couldn’t tell you anyway, it’s confidential and all. ”
“Right.” Ronald swallows down a thin layer of disappointment. “I’ll hold.”
He spends the next few minutes debating with himself on whether to hang up early or not.
Two minutes and a crackle of the phone line later, a far more familiar voice grunts, “ This is Inference. ”
“Is your assistant still there?” Norton ventures.
A pause that stretches for a bit too long. “ She’s not my assistant. She’s my partner. ”
It’s a good thing for both of them that Norton has no way to misinterpret that, considering Inference’s confession from years ago about where his interests lie. “Sorry,” he mutters, knowing this already isn’t off to a very good start. “Is she still there?”
“ No. ”
“Oh, okay.”
Another very long pause. Norton scrounges desperately for the etiquette tips his coach drilled into his head, but it’s as if everything has surged out of his mind all at once, leaving him with nothing but the base sentiments that he actually wants to convey but can’t .
“ Did something happen at the theater? ” Naib asks at last, despite the fact that both of them know damn well it isn’t about that.
“No. I let everyone know not to go into Bella’s room.” Technically. “Everything should be as you left it when you come by tomorrow.”
There is no further response to that.
Norton, staring into the flicker of the hearth, has never felt so alone, despite the bustle of the city outside his apartment and the gentle puffs of breath that buzz from the other side of the telephone. The lights are on, all around him; he’s never been able to relax in the dark after the war. Maybe it was all the time spent waiting in those damp pits, maybe it was the gunfire that would spontaneously cut through the nights, or maybe it’s the fact that in the dark, there is nothing to distract him from the memory of how it felt to burn alive. Nothing to help him remember the faces of the men he killed, all blurring together into a monster that nothing can help him forget.
“I need to apologize,” he says. “It was inexcusable of me to treat you like that when you were a guest.”
“ Hardly a guest. I don’t think anyone wanted me there. For some people, it only ever becomes real when the investigation starts. ”
“I didn’t mind it so much.” Norton plays with the phone cord, winding it around his fingers and pulling it taut. “It was good to have a real person there. For once.”
“ Real person? ” The smallest of scoffs. Norton lets himself smile into the receiver.
“It’s hard to explain, especially after being there for so long. But everyone at the theatre, it’s like they never stop acting, even after leaving the stage. And the only thing that everyone else can do is follow along so as not to be singled out. It gets draining.”
“ No, I think I know what you mean. ”
“Then I hope you don’t hold this evening’s conversation too much against me.”
“ I don’t have space to hold grudges, Campbell, especially for something so insignificant. ”
Campbell, Campbell, the growl of it on his tongue. Norton finds himself savoring it long after it’s been drowned by the other words.
“Good. I wouldn’t want something small like that to impact our working relationship.”
“ We don’t have a working relationship. According to you, you aren’t even my client, remember? ”
“Then, our friendship.” He dares to say it, but not to go any further. Over the phone, it’s much easier to be brave. Perhaps he hasn’t changed so much after all. He’s still a coward to the bone.
Another audible exhale. If Norton closes his eyes, he can smell the smoke. He wonders when Inference started using pipes.
“ You’re still ridiculous, I hope you’re aware of that. ”
“I’ve never been ridiculous. ”
“ When you were discharged, they told me you pushed someone out of the way. That was why you took the brunt of the explosion. ”
The change in topic is sobering, but at the same time, it’s a welcome return to their roots, what Norton has really wanted to dig into this whole time.
“They told you that?”
“ Why, going to say it isn’t true? ”
Norton doesn’t have the heart to tell Naib that he doesn’t remember a single thing about that day after going onto the field. “No, I just didn’t think they would tell you. Or anyone, really.”
“ They only told me because I asked. ”
A stab of guilt, then; something he’s grown used to, but amplified tenfold with the object of it finally confronting him. He may not remember what happened after, but he remembers before, the tenderness and then the anger and finally a promise. It was one of the only things he had to hold onto through it all.
Come talk to me after the battle.
Yes, sir.
“I always wondered what you were doing. After the war.”
“ I spent a lot of time wondering that myself. Bounced around a lot. It was hard to get off the battlefield. ”
“I didn’t think I could see you as anything but a soldier, but… detective, it makes sense.”
“ It’s not so different, or- maybe it just feels that way to me. But I’m grateful that I at least have a bed to sleep on. ”
The rain is dying down outside.
“I thought of you. Often. Maybe I am ridiculous after all. We spent far more time apart than together.”
Naib says nothing. Norton takes a breath and goes on. It’s easier uninterrupted, like a soliloquy on stage. It’s been a long time since he bared himself like this and played the part of Norton Campbell.
“You told me that I wouldn’t be able to leave it behind. You were right. I thought of you, constantly. I also thought of everything else. Sometimes it didn’t feel real, but all it took was a look in the mirror and I knew that none of it could have been a dream. I wished that I could forget, but I didn’t want to forget you. It seemed so senseless at times, but I couldn’t help myself. I made myself relive those days in as much detail as I could muster just so I wouldn’t lose the memory of how you spoke to me. Of how you–”
Embarrassed, chagrined, he comes to a halt. “Of you.” His words hang over the balance, not tipping it one way nor the other.
“ .... That may be more than I’ve ever heard you say at once, you know. ”
Norton scoffs. As much as he wants to fire a retort back, he holds himself at bay, waiting.
“ You should know that I looked you up as soon as the war was over. I traced you to the hospital but they told me you were on the mend and you’d been transferred out of there. Wouldn’t tell me where, so I tried to track you down myself. I guess a lot of the guys I’ve helped put behind bars have you to thank, in a way. ”
Something thrilling bites into Norton’s neck. He brings a hand up, rubbing at the base of his skull, and his fingers trace over the crooked line where scars merge into flesh. It doesn’t really hurt anymore; if anything, it’s always numb. “So… you’re saying Inference was born because of me? I’m flattered.”
“ Don’t get too ahead of yourself. ” But Norton can hear the twinge of amusement in his voice. “ Inference isn’t a stage persona. At the end of the day, he’s still me. The name is just a more efficient way to stay impersonal. Focused. ”
Not a stage persona, eh? That may be true, but Norton can’t help but think of the pseudonyms this man has held. Dax, Inference; even Naib may not be his real name. They really, really aren’t so different, but he doesn’t bring it up. He’ll let Naib have this; he owes it to him.
Speaking of…
He licks his lips, finding them chapped. Hours of wearing lipstick doesn’t do him any favors. “What are you doing right now?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“ What do you- I’m working. I have a lot of files to go through before tomorrow. ”
“I have something to tell you,” he pauses, gripping the coiled line tighter, knuckles whitening, “but not over the phone.”
“ You’ve already told me quite a bit over the phone. ”
“This is different.” Norton prays he isn’t making a mistake. He’s gone nearly his whole life without putting his trust in anyone; Naib was the first and the last. He was already toying with this idea, and after the heart-to-heart they’ve had, he thinks it’s in both of their best interests to go through with it.
“ ... It really can’t wait? ” The gentle stirring of paper. A chair creaking. Naib senses his urgency; even over the phone, they can still read each other well.
“You need to know before tomorrow. Believe me, it’ll be worth your while.”
“ Fine. Where? ”
***
They meet at an indiscreet place in the city, an unimportant speck in the maze of streets. Ronald explains, then, the stories of not one but two murders that have come to haunt the theatre. Naib files it away in his mind, grisly detail after detail: another lead actress who met a mysterious end; an estranged uncle who got Ronald the job; a director blinded by greed, using Ronald’s relative, then Ronald himself as a potential scapegoat for his own crimes, the threat of blackmail. More than anything, secrets. Norton does not have fresh blood on his hands, but the knowledge of the perpetrator, the director himself, has been weighing heavy on him.
“So you withheld information in an attempt to preserve your career.” Naib isn’t sure how to feel about the information he’s getting regaled with. He reaches for his notepad and pen, but, after a moment, thinks better of it.
He looks at Norton and thinks, vaguely, that he should be disappointed, scornful, something, but all he can really think is, how wrong is this? To cover up a death that’s already happened, that he didn’t even have a hand in, in order to keep himself safe? How often did the two of them actually kill, just to keep themselves safe? It’s different during war, yes; an entirely separate world, incomparable to the bustling streets of civilian life, but they’re both horrifically desensitized to it. Sometimes, Inference has found that, while he cares deeply about fulfilling the justice of his job, it’s difficult to feel one way or another about the rest of it, the things people do to each other or to the world around them. And then he thinks that he, too, belongs behind bars, and that no matter what he does, it won’t make enough of a difference to count.
Norton passes a hand over his sweat-slick forehead, seeming exhausted from simply recounting the tale, and does not answer. “I don’t know if you’re going to arrest me or not, but I… I thought that you should know. I wasn’t going to tell you anything at first; I was going to let you investigate by yourself and hope you uncovered it alone. But then I found out it was you , and I just.”
Finally, he looks back at Naib, expression twisting. “I believe that you’re a good man. I believed it back then and I still do now. I know, ” and as Naib starts to protest, Norton lifts a hand, cutting him off, “that you won’t agree with me, and I’m not trying to force you to believe it as well. But it’s what I think, and you have to accept that you aren’t going to change that. You’re better than I am, at any rate. You need to know all of this, far more than I need to keep harboring it.”
Naib lowers his pipe. Even through the cloying scent of tobacco, he catches a whiff of Norton’s cologne. Norton’s good eye flicks down to the pipe, up a little more, then back to his eyes. The tension radiating off of him is real , the blink of his eyes, lashes slightly clumped with mascara, is real, and the heavy weight of the confession is real. He is no longer the phantom that has occupied Naib’s thoughts for ten years, and he is so different, but he is also exactly the same.
“I’m not going to arrest or report you,” is the first thing that Naib tells him. “You didn’t actively assist in the murders, nor did you actively lie during questioning. From a technical standpoint, considering the legalities of this jurisdiction, you haven’t done anything that would be considered a crime.”
“ Oh. ” It’s like a stormcloud lifts from above Norton’s head. “Okay. That’s… good.” He seems faintly abashed, trying to brush it off.
They lapse into silence for a moment.
“It’s going to be fine.” Naib takes a pull from his pipe. “I know the sheriff here. We worked together on some cases before he transferred to this city. He has some connections of his own, and he’s a good man, too. He’s only been here for about a year, I think, but he’s been trying to clean things up wherever he can.” Better man than me, he thinks to say, though he doesn’t. “By tomorrow, or maybe the next day, the truth is going to be out. But it’s going to be bad for the theatre.”
“The theatre will be fine.” Under the moon, Norton’s hair glows silver. It looks good dyed the coppery color that Ronald of Ness is known for, but Naib misses the black. He raises a brow.
“You sound very confident about that.”
“It’ll be rough at first,” he concedes, “but I’m going to help put it back together. If I can.”
“You want to be the next Director?” Naib should be put off by how quickly Norton is moving forwards to take advantage of the situation, but if anything, it fascinates him. The trembling boy in the foxholes of Belgium had thought his own dreams futile. Would he recognize himself now?
“I didn’t say that.” But Norton’s eyes gleam. Another secret shared between them, then. “I’m just going to do whatever I can. ”
“You’ve already done a lot. I don’t doubt it.” They stop walking. It’s not a special place, and nothing special has happened. They just stop, as if by a silent agreement, under one of the only lamp-posts that isn’t threatening to give out. It burns bright above them and illuminates their faces in exquisite detail.
“You’re such a bastard ,” says Norton, suddenly, “a goddamn bastard.”
And Naib has to act surprised, has to work hard to threaten the smile that wants to break free. “Mind telling me how that is?”
“You should already know, sir. ” They’re standing extremely close.
“You’ll have to remind me, sergeant.” And Naib feels silly for this, but there’s something cathartic in it that, though it doesn’t bring him to tears or anything similar, serves as a relief nonetheless, pouring out of him faster and faster the longer they linger here.
Norton scoffs. Reluctantly:
“I missed you.”
It’s spoken quieter than the true confession, barely a whisper, as if he’s been holding it for far longer– far closer to his heart. Maybe he has.
I looked for you, Naib aches to repeat, but there would be no point in it. Norton worked, devoted himself, and found himself; Naib searched, floundered, perpetually lost. That’s how they are. He can’t begrudge the man that, nor does he want to.
“I missed you as well.” He’s more embarrassed to say it than he thought he would be, feeling horribly on display, bare, under the divulging brightness above them. Norton is used to the spotlight; he is not.
But Norton doesn’t seem much better off than he is, if the red tint to his face is any indication. Grown men, chewed up and spit out by the war, and yet they are even more incapable of speaking about their feelings than they were back then. Any innocence has left them both. In the aftermath, they hesitate to articulate whatever remains between them.
“I… wasn’t lying when I said we have a lot to catch up on,” Norton admits. “I’d like to talk with you. Normally. ” If you want to, that is, goes unsaid, but it’s not even necessary in the first place.
“That’ll be a first.” Even during the calmest nights, they never had a normal conversation. Never have they spoken the simple way that people speak, without the fear that it will be the last time they see each other, without the burden of a murky future.
Naib is earnest when he reaches out to place a gloved hand on Norton’s shoulder, and he hopes it shows on his face. He isn’t one to typically initiate any kind of physical contact, but he doesn’t even have to think about it when it’s him. “I’ll be busy wrapping up this case, and I’m certain you’ll have a lot to deal with. But afterwards, I wouldn’t be opposed.”
Norton looks at the hand on his shoulder and lifts his own to cover it, bare skin on leather. He seems like he wants to say something, and his mouth opens, but then he closes it again, considering. “Alright,” he says at last, softly.
***
Norton walks Naib back to his office and lingers just outside as Naib steps past the threshold. Did he always look so small? His shoulders are broad, strength obvious even under the padding of his clothes, but he’s short and slightly hunched to support himself against the cane, and exhaustion pulls at the lines of his face.
Impulsively, before either of them can say anything, Norton leans forward and kisses him on the cheek, chaste. He meant to go for the lips, but shyness seized him at the very last moment, and when he straightens back up, he feels awfully silly for it, clearing his throat.
Naib lifts a hand and brushes it over his cheek. Then he beckons Norton closer.
Breath high in his throat, Norton obeys and Naib kisses him for real, sliding his hand to the back of his neck and tangling in his hair and holding him in place. It’s far less desperate than their last and only previous encounter, almost gentle, and with a poorly disguised shiver, Norton finally processes that this isn’t the last time they’re going to meet.
They part. Norton almost says it– it shouldn’t be that hard, he’s said it before, three times; but that was in the heat of the moment, and it seemed more appropriate then, somehow, and he isn’t ready to say it again. So instead, he says, “Good night, detective. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And again, and again, and again if they want to.
“Good night.” Naib brushes his thumb over Norton’s marred cheek. The detective is not a tender man, but there is a reverence in the way he touches him.
***
They do meet the next day under rather exhilarating circumstances. Amidst the bustle of reporters flooding the theatre, the director frantically trying to cover up behind the scenes, and the officers making arrests, Norton sidles up to Naib where he leans against the wall, smoking. “We haven’t had this kind of excitement in a long time.”
“It’s hardly exciting, Campbell.” But Naib is far too used to these sorts of scenes to bat much of an eye.
A reporter perks up in their direction, followed by a slew of his coworkers, and Naib inconspicuously moves away from them, Norton at his heels. They only relax once they find themselves back in Ronald’s dressing room, securely locked against any potential invaders (Naib checks the closet just in case, pushing aside the clothes with his cane, but there are no prying newsmen hiding in the depths). “See,” he says pointedly, “not so exciting as it is excruciating.”
Norton sighs, looking into the vanity mirror as he dabs at the corner of his eye to fix wilting liner. “I never said that it was exciting, just that it was excitement... Trouble you with something from here, or are you still on the job?” Straightening up, he raps gently on the glass of the liquor cabinet.
Technically, Naib is still very much on the job. However, he’s never held much fondness for this part of the investigation, where he invariably gets hounded and forced to improvise bland explanations to questions that actually have classified answers. And his pipe is running down. He sighs. “Bourbon, did you say?”
“And champagne,” mutters Norton, but, already knowing, he pours the whiskey out into two glasses and hands one of them over.
They nurse the drinks on the chaise, Norton sprawled half across it in a recline that manages to simultaneously be ungainly and elegant. Naib can’t help but wonder at how easily he seems to fit in here when he wants to. “So,” he says, and then stops, realizing he has nothing to add to that. There is so much he wants to say that he can’t find where to begin.
“So,” Norton echoes, swallowing several times after a sip of the liquor. He’s clearly trying his best not to cough.
Naib gives him a sharp look but can’t stay irritated at him for long. “How… how have you been? Generally, I mean?” It’s a lame attempt, very much delayed, and he thinks they’ve pretty much been over the answer to this in a roundabout way.
But Norton perks up, eager to take any rope that’s extended to him. “I don’t know. Good, I think, for the most part. Sometimes it doesn’t feel real.”
He runs a hand over the satin of the chaise, really curling his fingers into it like he has to check that it isn’t going to dissolve under him. “This was my dream, I told you that. But I didn’t think I’d ever actually get here, or anywhere close.”
“Then you always wanted this?” Norton has always seemed to wear some layer of an act. Here, it’s only a little thicker, more foolproof, more professional. Naib often wondered how deliberate it was, or… how unintentional.
Norton is first nodding, then shrugging, as if unsure of his own initial conviction. “I mean… well, I don’t know. When I was a kid, I didn’t want anything at all except to get out of there and do something with myself. When I was a teenager, I still wanted that, but I knew I also had to attach myself to something concrete. I tried to tell myself that was going to be the army, but really, it was the stage. We couldn’t afford to go to any fancy productions, of course, but sometimes there were amateur shows put on, local, and I’d watch them… thinking to myself that more than acting, they seemed to become the characters and forget about all the troubles of our town.”
He grins and laughs a little, but it’s melancholy. “I know that’s stupid. It’s the point of acting. But back then, I needed to find a way to remind myself there was something better out there.”
Naib doesn’t laugh in response. “You needed to survive.”
Norton ponders that, looking down, maybe studying his reflection in the dark bourbon. “I needed to live,” he corrects.
“Is there really that much of a difference?” Naib has thought about it himself but couldn’t come up with an answer. To him, living is surviving, and vice versa.
“You’ve always been too pragmatic.” Norton slumps down further in his seat. “To me, there is. Surviving is just- just scraping along, one day to the next. But living is about doing something with yourself. Getting rich, or becoming famous, or whatever your ambitions are.”
Naib tries to empathize, but no matter the amount of effort he extends, it’s pointless. “My ambitions are to survive. Anything else that happens is only a byproduct of that.” He feels awfully like a broken record. Once, maybe, his dream was less selfish, but his mother, the only other person he wanted to save, is gone now. What else remains?
Well.
The reporters have found them, clamoring outside the locked door, and although they won’t go so far as to break in, they also aren’t going to leave unless they get their answers. With a grimace, Naib rises to stick his head out and entertain them, but before he can reach the door, Norton’s hand is at his sleeve, holding him in place.
He glances back.
Norton looks very much as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. His hand is tight around the glass of bourbon. Finally, he says, “I think you’re more than succeeding. You could get more, if you wanted.”
Somehow, Naib can’t help but doubt that. There are days where he barely feels patchworked together, forgetting to even eat or drink unless Emma reminds him. He has pondered often whether he left himself in Germany or in Nepal. Is he even surviving at all?
Norton looks at him with such conviction that he wants to believe it.
Then the reporters are shouting louder, insistent, and he has to go to the door and give stiff, rehearsed answers to the press, but he doesn’t stop thinking about that for a good long while. If you wanted.
***
The Orpheus Detective Agency is small, cramped, but cozy. It feels like a home. Norton has never been inside a detective agency before and it’s nothing like what he expected, at least until he knocks on the door to Naib’s office and it swings open to reveal papers, manila folders, actual photographs and notes pinned up to a board… that’s more like it.
He sits down at the chair in front of the desk, Inference at the one behind, and he feels like he’s going to get interrogated, or examined, or something, but there is nothing professional in the way Inference ignores him for nearly three minutes, scrawling something on his papers, before finally looking up at him.
“Another new case?” Norton tries and fails to crane his neck far enough to look at the papers.
Naib covers them with his arm. “ Classified. ”
“Of course.” Norton doesn’t push it, pleased enough with the way Naib just lets him sit there, trusting him enough to work in his presence. It feels disgustingly domestic, but he pushes that idea away; neither of them can afford to humor that idea, can they? They’re both incredibly busy. The Golden Rose case made Inference even more well-known than he already was, bringing on an influx of clients, and Ronald has been occupied with organizing the theatre in a way far better suited to his own preferences.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” He means it, even includes the cluttered office in the sentiment.
“Emma handled most of the decorating,” Naib admits.
“I guessed as much.” Something was whispering into his ear that Naib wouldn’t be the type to carefully arrange flower-patterned curtains over the windows. “Am I ever going to meet the mysterious Miss Woods?”
“If you really want to,” Inference grunts. “Look, if you think you can get her out of my hair for more than an hour, then I’ll introduce you.” Despite his exasperated tone, he can’t hide the flicker of affection that passes his face, and Norton, in turn, feels fond of him.
“I think we could manage,” he lies; he’s a little intimidated by Miss Truth, although he hasn’t spoken to her outside of the few words they exchanged over the phone that night. “Next time you’re both available, give me a ring.”
“Fine.” Naib hesitates, then reaches for something on his desk, flipping it around for Norton to see. It’s a framed picture of him and a younger girl; her arm is around his shoulders, despite the clear reluctance in his sideways glance, and she’s smiling brightly. “This was taken right after I accepted her as a partner in the agency about a year ago.”
“She looks… lively,” Norton decides to say, although what he’s really thinking is, she looks like a good foil to you.
“She’s out of control.” Naib handles the photograph gently, like it contains the entirety of his relationship with Truth and he’s afraid to let it even slip. “She’s been through a lot, too. But she… I owe a lot to her.”
Norton is not jealous of Inference’s affection for the girl, knowing it’s an entirely different kind from the one he craves, but he feels a twinge of envy for her simple closeness to him, the fact that she has been by his side, been the one to support him. Maybe that makes him a bad person, but he’s never claimed to be a good one, either.
“I’m glad,” he says, though, and again he means it, “that you’ve had someone to help.”
“I don’t need help, Campbell.” Tone mild to contain the firmness of the statement, but bristling just under the surface.
“Well, I didn’t say that, either.” Norton runs a finger over the bottom of the photograph frame, coiling and decorative, brass, then lets Naib take it back. “Can’t you just let me be glad for you anyway?”
“If you really want.” Naib looks at him, suspicious, and Norton, staring at him, can’t bite back a faint chuckle.
“I can’t believe you wear a monocle. ” It’s been on his mind since he first saw this whole getup, and he’s been trying to hold it back, really, but it finally makes its way out.
“I can’t see without it.” Naib is not amused.
“Wear glasses, then,” Norton counters, although secretly, he doesn’t ever want Naib to get rid of the monocle. There’s a charm to it that can’t be ignored. “There are types now that can account for differences between eyes.”
“I’ll consider it,” Naib says, in a voice that indicates he doesn’t plan to look very far into the matter at all.
***
Naib has horrible sheets and an even worse mattress. It bends oddly under any kind of weight, and sometimes it creaks, and although Norton tries to make himself worry about how his posture will be come morning, he’s had so much worse that it doesn’t faze him past the initial discomfort.
They didn’t plan this, but it sort of happened by itself; a glance over their table at the bistro turned into lingering stares, fleeting, reticent touches, and then escalated into something more until they were back at Naib’s apartment directly above the agency, locked together in something that was brewing for a long time. Norton kissed him, rough, seeking, desperate to hold and be held. He might have said I love you between hasty breaths or maybe that was only in his head.
He doesn’t usually smoke, the doctors told him to avoid it as much as possible, but lying here in Naib’s bed, he feels adventurous enough to snag the pipe from the detective’s hand and take a pull. The smoke is a lot more fragrant than he expected and he coughs, spluttering. Hands the pipe back because he decides it isn’t worth it.
Naib’s chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm next to him. His body is bare, uncovered by the sheets, but any carnal needs have already been sated and Norton is left to run curious eyes over his worn frame. There are a lot of scars, some that he remembers and others that he doesn’t. White, faded; long lines and stars left by bullets, constellations mapping out his flesh. He runs a hand over some of them. They’re nearly smooth to the touch, mostly healed over by now.
Naib watches him and lets him explore without interruption. Eventually, his eyes close, even though Norton can tell he isn’t asleep because of how he’s still clutching the pipe. Very carefully, he draws the sheets up around both of them, pausing when he sees his own arm, far more disfigured, against the off-cream of the fabric. He doesn’t feel regret, he doesn’t think he could regret this, but it is a kind of shame that makes him abandon the effort and roll over onto his back, looking up at the ceiling.
Naib’s eyes are open again. His fingers are tracing over Norton’s palm, up his forearm. It’s rare to see them uncovered by gloves. Norton shudders despite the fact that he can hardly feel it. “Y’don’t have to,” he slurs.
“I don’t have to do anything.” But he still does, tracing his fingers further up to his shoulder, then cupping the side of his face. Norton really wishes he could feel it.
He turns back over onto his side so they’re facing each other. It’s such a foreign sensation, to share a bed like this, to have this at all and to be able to keep it.
“Did I tell you,” he starts, and then stops, hesitant to continue even with Naib looking right at him, into him, through him.
“Mm?” There is an indent from the monocle, faint under Naib’s eye and more prominent right next to the strong bridge of his nose. Norton wants to run his hand over it, but he feels frozen from the calming way that Naib is sliding fingers into his hair, fluffing it up, pushing it back, idly inspecting.
“Did I say,” he starts again, wanting to look away, but this close, there isn’t anywhere else to look, “that I love you?”
“Several times.” Blunt as ever, Naib spares him no mortification. Norton’s face burns and he thinks that maybe he wouldn’t mind if the bed chose this moment to cave in and dump them both onto the floor.
A thought occurs to him, a memory, and he pounces on it, looking for something to save him, but at the same time he really does want an answer to it. “Are you going to tell me again that I shouldn’t?”
Naib’s fingers still. “I’m not in a position to tell you to do anything. Besides, I know it wouldn’t change anything.”
It’s a start. Not full acceptance, but a start. Norton laughs, startling a vaguely offended look out of Naib, but that just makes him wheeze more, probably an ugly sound but for once he doesn’t give a shit. “Alright,” he says once he’s calmed down, and, knowing how much power the words give him, he repeats them. “I love you. Always have.”
He doesn’t really expect to get a verbal response, and he’s fine with that, at least for now. Besides, exhaustion is claiming him quickly, and he’s almost more enthralled by sleeping next to the detective, in his bed, in his apartment, than anything else they’ve done. For once, he’s out like a light. And if it’s also because he was a little afraid of actually hearing any possible answer, it isn’t like anyone would know.
***
Naib stares at the man in his bed, so still in sleep that he barely even seems to breathe. He draws the covers up over them and carefully settles down next to him, barely touching him, basking nonetheless in the warmth that he emanates.
“I love you, too,” he says. The words are completely foreign on his tongue, but he says them one more time, and it feels a little bit more right.