Chapter Text
Morning crept into the agency with a pale, reluctant light, the kind that seeped into every corner without ever truly brightening the room. Inference awoke with a start, eyes snapping open, momentarily disoriented. His cheek still rested against the cool wood of his desk, a faint imprint of papers visible on his skin.
He straightened abruptly, brushing at his coat as if the act could erase the evidence of his exhaustion. A low groan left his throat.
“…How long was I out?”
His monocle was slightly askew. His pipe had gone cold. And right in front of him, still where he left it, was Ronald’s letter.
Of course.
The very thing he wanted to forget greeted him first.
Inference exhaled sharply, snatching the letter from the desk and stuffing it into a drawer with more force than necessary. The wood clattered in protest.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure whether he meant the letter, Ronald, or himself.
The soft fragrance of the flowers still lingered in the room, faint but unmistakable. He gave them a single withering glance, as if glaring at them might make them disappear.
It didn’t.
Before he could work himself into another spiral of irritation, a confident knock rapped against his door—three taps that were evenly spaced, unmistakably intentional.
Inference tensed immediately.
He knew that knock.
Against his better judgment, he called out, “Enter.”
And just as he feared—the door swung open, and Ronald stepped in with the same casual arrogance he wore like a second skin. Coat collar popped stylishly, hair perfectly in place, expression unbearably smug.
“Good morning, Detective,” Ronald drawled, shutting the door behind him. “You look well-rested.”
Inference stared at him. “What are you doing here.”
“Oh, you wound me. No ‘hello’? No ‘thank you for the lovely flowers’?” Ronald placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “An ungrateful man is a tragic thing.”
“My gratitude is not yours to demand,” Inference snapped. “And those flowers were unnecessary.”
Ronald’s lips curled into a grin. “Unnecessary, maybe. Effective? Quite.”
Inference’s jaw tightened. “If your intention was distraction, it didn’t work.”
“That’s strange,” Ronald said, stepping closer. “Your coworkers seemed to think otherwise. Something about you working yourself into a stupor last night?”
Inference froze.
Ronald’s eyes gleamed. “Ah. They haven’t told you.”
He circled the desk slowly, like a predator enjoying the hunt. “Imagine my delight when I passed them in the hall and overheard a conversation about you… falling asleep at your desk. How dramatic, Detective. Very noir of you.”
“Ronald,” Inference warned, voice low, “leave.”
“But I just arrived,” Ronald pouted, pulling up a chair without asking. “And besides, I came with a purpose.”
“That alone concerns me.”
Ronald laughed—a warm, soft sound that only irritated Inference further. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, chin resting on his interlaced fingers.
“I wanted to give you something.”
“No—”
Ronald reached into his coat.
“Absolutely no.”
Out came a small box, neatly wrapped in deep red paper with a black ribbon to match the bouquet.
Inference stared at it like it was a bomb.
“…What is that.”
“A gift,” Ronald said sweetly.
“I don’t want it.”
“You haven’t even opened it.”
“I don’t have to open it to know it’s unnecessary.”
Ronald’s grin widened. “So you *are* thinking about what might be inside.”
Inference glared. Ronald only pushed the box closer.
“Open it, Detective.”
“No.”
“Open it.”
“No.”
Ronald leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you want me to open it for you?”
Inference flinched internally at the closeness of his voice—warm, playful, infuriating. He snatched the box solely to stop Ronald from pressing the issue.
“Fine,” Inference hissed. “But only so you will leave.”
“I’ll take it.”
He opened the box with caution.
Inside, nestled in velvet, was a small, ornate pen—silver, engraved with a subtle floral motif. Elegant. Understated. But.. Beautifully crafted.
Inference blinked.
He hated that he liked it.
“…Why,” he murmured, unable to hide his confusion.
Ronald shrugged lightly. “Consider it a… symbol of good faith.” His smirk softened into something gentler, but still mischievous. “Don’t look so nervous. It’s just a pen, not a proposal.”
Inference snapped the box shut. “Your sense of humor is deplorable.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
Ronald stood, smoothing out his coat. “Well, Detective, as much as I’d love to bask in your radiant annoyance all morning, I have a rehearsal to attend.”
“Then leave.”
Ronald paused at the door, glancing back. “Oh, by the way.”
Inference stiffened.
“The flowers aren’t the last gift you’ll be receiving.” His smile deepened, eyes narrowing playfully. “Affection is a hobby of mine. And I’m rather good at hobbies.”
“Ronald.”
“Yes, Detective?”
“Go.”
Ronald winked, delighted. “Gladly.”
The moment the door shut, Inference dropped into his chair, letting out a deep, frustrated sigh.
The pen sat on his desk like a beacon—mocking him, reminding him, tempting him to think of Ronald.
He ran a hand down his face.
“This is getting out of hand.”
He placed the pen in his drawer but paused before closing it fully. For reasons he chose not to analyze, he left it slightly open, the glint of silver still visible.
He told himself it was so he wouldn’t forget to return it later.
He didn’t believe himself.
And as the quiet settled back into his office, Inference realized, with dreadful clarity, that whatever Ronald was trying to do…
*…was working.*
The quiet in the office felt different now—too warm, too aware of itself. As though the walls had witnessed everything and were now waiting for what would happen next.
Inference leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Ronald’s presence always left a trace. Not a physical one, but something harder to sweep away—an unorderly intrusion that lingered longer than it should.
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
“A nuisance,” he muttered. “A persistent, aggravating nuisance.”
His eyes drifted—inevitably—toward the drawer he'd left open. The silver pen glinted softly beneath the desk lamp, quiet and elegant. Mocking him.
He shut the drawer fully, as if that simple act could shut away the thoughts spiraling in his head.
It did not.
Minutes ticked by. The agency outside his door buzzed faintly—Truth’s light footsteps passing by, White’s careful, steady ones following behind. Papers rustled, pens scratched, doors opened and closed.
Life carried on.
But Inference could not shake the strange heaviness in his chest.
Ronald’s words lingered.
*Affection is a hobby of mine.*
*And I’m rather good at hobbies.*
He clenched his jaw, pushing himself to his feet. Movement might calm him. Work might consume him, no? Logic could drown emotion if applied with enough force—at least, that was what he’d always believed.
He crossed to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The city below sprawled out in muted colors, bathed in the cold morning light. People moved, lives continued, utterly unaware of the storm swirling inside one detective’s head.
It irritated him, the way Ronald seemed to orchestrate his emotions like strings. Irritated him more that he allowed it.
“This must stop,” he whispered to himself.
But even he didn’t believe that.
A soft knock pulled him from his thoughts.
“Enter.”
Lady Truth stepped in, her poise immaculate even in the early hours. She held another stack of documents, though her attention was fixed solely on Inference’s face.
“You look troubled,” she observed gently.
“Do I?” he answered, tone clipped.
“You always do,” she countered with a faint smile. “But today it is especially apparent.”
She approached the desk, setting the files down carefully. Her eyes drifted—subtle yet purposeful—toward the drawer where the pen now rested unseen.
Then back to him.
“I saw Ronald leaving your office earlier.”
Inference stiffened. “And?”
“And,” she said lightly, “I assumed it was not a social call. Or perhaps… not entirely one.”
“That man does not understand boundaries,” Inference muttered.
“Or,” Truth mused, “perhaps he understands them too well, and simply enjoys crossing them.”
Inference shot her a look. She only smiled.
“He left you something, didn’t he?”
Inference paused. The denial tangled in his throat, then withered.
“…A pen.”
“A gift,” Truth corrected.
“A manipulation,” Inference snapped back.
Truth tilted her head. “Is it? Or is it merely a gesture?”
He frowned. “You are far too interested in a matter irrelevant to our work.”
“But it is relevant,” she said softly. “You are our lead detective. If a certain… individual… is affecting your mind, your focus, or your emotional stability, it concerns all of us.”
He turned away, more sharply than intended. “My stability is not in question.”
“Isn’t it?”
The silence was suffocating.
Truth stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“I worry for you, Inference. You build walls so high that sometimes you forget you are inside them alone. And then someone comes along who climbs them—not to invade, but to see you—and you panic.”
“I am not panicking.”
“Then why,” she asked gently, “are your hands shaking?”
He looked down.
They were.
Barely. But enough.
He curled them into fists.
Truth placed a hand on his shoulder—a rare gesture of comfort from someone so composed.
“Whatever Ronald’s intentions may be,” she said, “I trust that you will handle them with the same diligence you show in your work. But do not ignore what you feel in the name of professionalism.”
“I am not feeling anything,” he insisted, too quickly.
Truth’s knowing smile was almost painful to look at.
“Of course not,” she said quietly. “Good day, Detective.”
She left him alone with his thoughts once more.
Hours passed.
Cases were reviewed. Reports were written. Evidence was catalogued. He forced his mind to focus, to retreat into structure, numbers, logic—anything stable.
Anything untouched by Ronald.
But it never lasted long.
Every lull in his work conjured the sound of Ronald’s voice. Every idle moment, the ghost of his teasing smile. Every faint whiff of the remaining floral scent pulled him back to that bouquet and the man who sent it.
By late afternoon, he could no longer pretend the distraction was insignificant.
He stood, paced, sat, stood again—uncharacteristic restlessness gnawing at him.
Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he yanked open the drawer and lifted the pen.
It was lighter than he expected. Cold at first touch, then warming quickly in his hand.
He stared at it.
The engraving—*subtle, elegant*—formed a swirling pattern he couldn’t decipher but found strangely captivating.
A thought slipped through before he could stop it:
*Ronald must have had this made.*
He hated the way his stomach tightened at the idea.
Setting the pen down on his desk, he braced his hands against the wood and breathed deeply, as though trying to steady the tremor of something he refused to name.
Another knock.
He froze.
“…Detective?”
White’s gentle voice drifted through the door.
Inference exhaled. “Enter.”
White stepped inside, quiet and composed as always. His eyes swept the room, lingering on Inference’s tense posture.
“Lady Truth informed me you were… under strain.”
“Did she?”
White nodded softly. “She worries for you. We all do.”
“There is no need.”
White paused. “You say that, yet your aura is… unsettled.”
“My aura is fine, White.”
Unfazed, White stepped closer and spoke with unusual seriousness.
“This Ronald of Ness… He affects you.”
Inference stiffened. “I won’t entertain—”
“You are not yourself around him.”
White folded his hands behind his back. “Whether that is good or bad… it is not for us to decide. But it is also undeniable.”
Inference felt something twist in his chest.
Was it annoyance? Embarrassment? Fear?
He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.
White bowed his head slightly. “If he becomes a danger to your work, or to you, we will intervene.”
“He is not a danger,” Inference muttered. “He is simply—”
“Persistent,” White finished. “Yes. That is the word Truth used as well.”
Inference sat back down, shoulders slumping despite his best posture.
“…You may go, White.”
“Very well.” White hesitated. “And Detective… please remember to breathe.”
The door closed softly behind him.
Inference let out a long, weary breath.
He stared at the pen again.
Stared too long.
“This is absurd,” he whispered.
Yet he didn’t put it away.
He turned it in his fingers once, twice. The craftsmanship was truly exquisite.
The man is infuriating, he thought.
But the gift was… considerate.
Painfully so.
He placed the pen down with a sigh that felt like defeat.
He couldn’t avoid Ronald forever.