Chapter Text
The hotel door clicks open with the quaint metallic scratch of an actual key fitting in its lock. You could call it a hotel at a stretch, but it’s more of a bed and breakfast run by a diminutive Guatemalan woman sporting a perma scowl, on the third floor above the only noisy street in town. The sheets are clean though and there are six channels on the tiny TV in the corner so Xabi can’t complain much.
“You could have warned me your Sociedad club de fútbol were shit. Cost me 100 Euros just now… Who loses to Espanyol, for fuck’s sakes? … At home?!? That’s Barcelona’s poor, alkie cousin coming over to crash on your sofa after another sting in rehab. You don’t just hand them your fucking wallet!”
Xabi arches his back against the creaky headboard of his bed and stretches his good arm in an attempt to align himself with some passing geostationary orbit. It’s as far as it would go without disturbing the ailing shoulder hanging in its sling across his I heart Hondarribia t-shirt. The TV is old enough to have a green volume band across the screen, but the remote is obviously even older and Xabi gives up his struggle with the half-sunken + arrow.
Didi locks the door behind him and slides the key back into his pocket, balancing a plate covered with a plastic bag in his other hand. Hope starts to bloom inside Xabi’s chest, even though the smells creeping up from the street, along with drunk, despondent chants of Erreeee-a-laaaa and the swarm of a hundred voices gossiping all at once, are too much on the acidic side to make him hungry. Still, he’d rather not go through a third consecutive pizza night.
The bed across from his protests with a by now familiar groan once Didi settles in and uncovers his offering.
“Dinner is served!”
It beats frozen dough pizza every day, but Xabi still arches an eyebrow at the identical two dozen octopus slices arranged on chunks of boiled potato sprinkled with sweet pepper powder and sea salt.
“Let me guess, these were on the house,” Xabi says, inhaling his first serving as his eyes roll in the back of his head. He recovers in a hurry, ready to shovel more into his mouth.
“They’re all drinking my stake money down there right now, don’t think they’ll miss them,” Didi sets the plate on the small nightstand squeezed between their beds. “Not like they’re a rare perfect diamond or anything,” he says with a casual glance at the Basque language Match of the Day raking through the ashes of the Anoeta disaster on screen.
Xabi grins midway through clearing the plate.
“You know, if you didn’t insist on this Rapunzel scenario, I could take you to a place that’s not a tourist shithole. Best grilled doradas in Gipuzkoa are just around the corner if you know where to look,” he says, licking octopus juices off his thumb.
“Not like you couldn’t pick that lock with one arm tied… well, around your neck… then sneak out of this fine establishment and disappear while I’m brushing my teeth.”
“I suppose I could.”
“But you wouldn’t do that.”
“No.”
Well. It’s not like Didi has been all that forthcoming with information either. In fact, in all the time he’s spent watching Xabi gradually wake up from his heavily medicated daze, he’s gone no further than Amsterdam with his story and even then there hadn’t been much to it. He’d gotten a little derailed trying to explain to Xabi how he’d come to be friends with their mutual acquaintance in Amsterdam - Dirk Kuyt, a man who believed in Zlatan’s artistry and charged a moderately obscene agent’s fee for his faith. But there wasn’t much to it otherwise. Van Persie had sent a less fortunate associate to catch Didi…
“The dumbfuck actually thought Steven was working with you and I was a decoy, can you believe it?”
… said associate had ended up with some radical and unscheduled maxillofacial rearrangement and Stevie was in Paris and not picking up his damn phone by the time Didi had reached a number that was safe to use. Xabi hadn’t asked a single question about anything that’s not recent history though and it bugs Didi to no end, it really does.
“I’m not Michael Owen,” Xabi says with a casual glance back to the TV screen, like he hasn’t even noticed the vein starting to twitch in Didi’s temple. The man’s spent most of adult life finessing his trigger reflex, so it’s doubly satisfying. “I know he has very good reasons to mistrust people. To mistrust me…”
“Even worse for you, I have good reasons to mistrust you.”
“I don’t want the diamond.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
“If I wanted the diamond, I had about half a dozen opportunities to grab it and dump Steven in the Seine that night. And he knows that…”
“Steven is a good man. I’m talking about the kind of inborn decency the likes of you and me have never deluded ourselves about possessing,” Didi says, letting his palms fall on top of his knees before he gets up. He heads for the bathroom, stops, turns with a new sort of determination infusing his rumpled weariness. “So do not fuck with him if you don’t intend to cuddle him in the morning.”
“Or else…?
“Or else I’ll shoot your dick off.”
There’s weight behind that promise, a boulder hanging its bulk somewhere past its humorous edge, confirming Xabi’s suspicion that this isn’t a man given to making empty threats.
“Fair enough,” he says and Didi holds his gaze for an extra second before they’re both satisfied with the parts of themselves they recognize in each other.
“Get some sleep, we’re going on a little field trip early tomorrow.”
~
Xabi can see him from the corner of his eye; it’s just a smudge of Steven’s form leaning against the arched doorway of the library, but he’s there alright. He turns away towards the book shelf, eyes trained on the fourteenth century bestiary he’s been leafing through for the last twenty minutes. It’s heavy and every time he struggles out of the sling holding up his left arm he gets a sharp reminder of why it’s a terrible idea to be ambidextrous at the moment.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home in the convent. Could do with a beard trimmer though…”
And just like that, Steven is half a step behind him. Xabi blames the pinpricks dancing up and down his spine on the Baroque draft haunting the convent library.
“Sister Magdalena has promised to let me borrow hers,” he says, rubbing his fingers ever so slowly through the thicket of his overgrown beard.
Steven shoves his hands deep in his jeans pockets.
Xabi places the book back on its ancient shelf, turns back to Steven, makes no effort to hide that he appreciates his grey vneck sweater ensemble and cradles his injured arm closer in its sling.
“How’s the shoulder?” Steven asks.
“Spectacular. A few weeks of monastic peace and quiet and I’ll be ready to be consecrated as a full time nun. Was it you who picked my retirement home or did you leave it to Mr. Hamann?” Xabi starts pacing along the neat rows of bookshelves, following the beams of sunshine mingling with florid sculpted archways on the library’s ceiling.
“Sounds like you two’ve hit it off,” Steven grins and keeps up with Xabi on his way to the window that’s flanked on the outside by deep purple clematis sagging under the weight of their bloom.
“Oh he’s very good at offering… consultancy services, but I was hoping he would throw in a cell phone when he dropped me off here. I may not have much of a legal leg to stand on otherwise, but technically I was held against my will...”
Xabi hops onto the stone niche of the window sill, keeping his balance despite his wounded arm and arching his back against the invading warmth of the midday sun.
“He mentioned something about you being high-maintenance even while three quarter unconscious…,” Steven says as if he hadn’t hoped for rather than just expected a touch of petulance. “I thought you’d be proud of me for figuring out your final destination.”
“It was supposed to be the final destination of El Estanque, I wasn’t planning to get myself to a nunnery,” Xabi grumbles, squinting against the overwhelming spring light and leaning on his good arm to whisper to Steven, looking up at him with big, frightened eyes. “This place is full of virgins, Steven! I’m scared…”
“No wi-fi either.”
“I know you need me to ask, but you could just tell me how you figured it out, you know…”
“I don’t need you to…” Oh, no, he’s not falling for that one. “I googled your brother,” Steven says, a bit distracted by the way the sunshine brings out flecks of auburn in Xabi’s hair. “Turns out you actually do have a brother and his name is Mikel afterall, so I flew in and paid him a visit.”
Xabi squints harder but lets it go because he’d rather not argue over whether he deserves the skepticism or not.
“Had a nice time with Professor Alonso?”
“There was no talking him out of that whole John as the greatest Beatle nonsense, but otherwise… he’s obviously the smarter, better looking brother,” Steven says all matter of fact and chewed up lower lip. “Better beard too…”
He knows, too late, that he’s pushed it just a bit too far there and has to restrain himself from wincing under Xabi’s merciless grin.
“Did Mikel take out the album with the baby pictures for you?”
“Oh, he had an even more interesting picture to paint himself. According to him, you don’t show up back home for years and years… at least half a decade… and then about a year and a half ago you started to pester him about the subject of his undergraduate thesis: Napoleon’s brother and his retreat from Spain via the Basque Country. You said it was for inspiration for an ad campaign… Mikel’s still laughing his arse off at that, by the way…” Xabi nods with a smile, admitting defeat. “He pointed you to a few of the more… unconventional books on the subject. Some of the authors seemed convinced that old Joseph traded Crown jewels in exchange for safe passage along the way and buried the rest close enough to the French border hoping to send his army to dig them up one day. One professor even claimed El Estanque was in this very convent all along… “
Xabi is busy studying the medieval paving stones under their feet- gray, massive, their corners tamed by centuries and footsteps, and Steven takes advantage of his apparent daydreaming to shuffle onto the other end of their improvised stone bench.
“So… I have this crazy theory about why you went through all that trouble to camouflage the diamond into a dagger. I think you were planning all along to make a speculative and turns out false academic theory work for you by bringing El Estanque to the convent and keeping it hidden… Sanctuary.”
Xabi considers it for a while then raises a cynical eyebrow.
“That would make me an honest thief.”
“That’s exactly what Van den Broek said.”
“You gave it back to him,” Xabi turns to look at Steven with a quiet smile. He’d never intended it as a question anyway. “I can see it now… You going down on one knee, the old man touching your shoulder: Rise, Sir Gerrard…”
Steven shrugs.
“He bought it; he’s its rightful owner so… I did my job.” Steven decides to savor these fifteen seconds. Then… “He was impressed with you though…”
“Oh.”
It somehow doesn’t sound like much of a consolation.
“Van den Broek had a good laugh knowing he wasn’t the only one paying for one of Zlatan’s very special glass trinkets. Had tears in his eyes and everything… Apparently Arkadyevich wasn’t just using it for a vendetta on us; he’s courting fiancée number three, old enough to be his granddaughter, naturally… She’d never be able to wear it in public, for obvious reasons, but she’s getting a nicely polished blob of blue glass for her troubles, as an engagement gift. Unlike Van den Broek, they’ll never be able to tell the difference. So… the old man would like to meet you. Not in London, obviously, it’s probably best if you stay away for a while, but he’s got a whole fleet of private jets…”
“He… Meet me?… Are you sure you got the right verb?"”
“He’ll hide the silverware first, but… yeah. He likes what he’s heard about you,” Steven says, increasingly unable to contain his fidgeting. You can thank Zlatan, by the way. I borrowed his whole tormented artist crap about you and I… um… I asked for a bonus in exchange for El Estanque,” Steven adds, realizing that the look on Xabi’s face right now would also qualify as one. “A little guarantee that neither of us will keel over with a case of polonium poisoning... or have a flower pot dropped on our heads any time soon, that kind of thing.”
“I had a brief but fairly peaceful criminal career before I met you, you know,” Xabi says with a quick bite to the freshly closed cut on his lip, “I almost broke a sweat a couple of times, but it was all bloodless. Since you came along, I’ve been shoved, punched, shot at…”
“You poor lamb!”
“…and forcibly babysat by a cranky Bavarian…”
“You don’t have to take Van den Broek’s protection if it’s not good enough for you,” Steven starts, the lines in his forehead starting to curve in cantankerous little arches, “but you’d better have some free miles on your card because…”
Xabi’s wounded lower lip is warmer and saltier than the rest of his mouth and his thick beard rasps hot prickly trails against Steven’s chin.
“… I think I can live with it,” Xabi says when they eventually break apart and he opens his eyes.
There’s suddenly too much blood under Steven’s skin and his head simply won’t move, so he blurts out in one long breath over Xabi’s mouth:
“He wants to donate El Estanque to the Santa Clara convent and he’s hired Gerrard Investigations to set up a decent security system around the place before the historians and fetishists and gawkers with cameras start pouring in. He’d also like you on board as an um… security expert.” He stops for an inhale then quickly drops a glance to Xabi’s hand splayed on the inside of his thigh.
“This is a job interview.”
“Ah.”
Also, Steven is expecting a bolt of lightning or a dour-faced elderly Benedictine Sister armed with a wooden ruler to strike him down any time now, but he’s never admitting to that so...
“Finnan would go absolutely mental if he knew,” Steven chuckles absently, watching Xabi’s hand retreat with a demure sort of resignation. The library remains blissfully quiet.
“Isn’t your reformed criminal consultant quota already filled with Mr. Hamann?”
“He’s the one who’s retiring, actually. Willingly,” Steven adds. “He found love in Amsterdam while hiding from Van Persie, believe it or not.”
“Did he?” Xabi almost startles, or maybe he’s just moving even closer to Steven on the window sill, he can’t quite tell.
“You’re lucky he didn’t feel the need to overshare to you too,” Steven makes a face and rattles on. “Amazingly wise lady named Leandra, owns her own um… homeopathic store somewhere in Amsterdam Noord, which Didi broke into to hide, and one thing led to another. Specializes in healing with magnetic stones… Dunno, I sort of tuned out at “homeopathic”, but he’s never been less of a grumpy bastard in all the time I’ve known him, so who knows. He’ll probably be back in three weeks, but… The job’s yours. If you’re interested…”
“This is very generous of your client,” Xabi’s voice is dripping with non-commitment, but he keeps his eyes level with Steven’s and it doesn’t look like he has any intention of looking at anything else for a while.
“Yeah, well… There might be some zinc mine concession he’d love to discuss with the local Basque government, I’m not too clear on the details, but… To be honest, I think he mostly wants to imagine Arkadyevich opening the paper one morning and seeing him hand over El Estanque to a bunch of nuns, surrounded by people who know it’s the real deal. It’s no longer my problem at that point, either way.”
“You blackmailed one of the world’s richest men then gave him a sale pitch for me?” Xabi backtracks, stuck about five minutes prior into the conversation.
Steven doesn’t say anything but looks back to where Xabi’s hand had been just a short while ago.
“I… think I need to talk to your legal expert. Mr. Finnan, is it?” Xabi asks, following Steven’s gaze and thus missing the lovely shade of egg carton gray Steven’s face starts to acquire. “I’d need to know what the agency’s policy on sleeping with the boss is…”
…
“We’re in a convent, for fuck’s sakes!”
“So stop kissing me…”
~
“Don’t worry about Finnan,” Steven says when he can finally bring himself to stop kissing him, some six hours later in a real hotel in an even smaller town back on the coast. “I don’t think I’m going back to the London office after this assignment is done. I never made sense in the city without a police badge… And it’s not like Agger needs me to run the place anyway.”
“OK…” Xabi chuckles because this would be towards the bottom of his Pillowtalk Topics list. He settles back into the one position where he can keep his mouth close to Steven’s pulse point without risking a shot of mind-numbing pain in his shoulder.
“Got any destination in mind?”
“Actually…”
~
The wind slams leftover droplets of the morning’s fourth shower in ninety minutes across Xabi’s face as he’s crossing the rain-soaked street with a foreign newspaper rolled up under his arm. He shakes the sea-scented rain drops from his hair onto his trenchcoat and sits down at what he’s starting to think of as his table in a tiny café across from The Beatles Museum. The waitress has seen him three times already this week but she’s just as flustered as on his first day in town, back when Xabi still needed a map of the museum.
He flashes her a not *too* cruel smile and savors his black coffee while smoothing wet creases out of page 5 of the Sunday paper. He skips the expert opinions and the general gushing over having a crown jewel returned to the nation after so many centuries and only casts the briefest of looks towards the sparkly HD portrait of El Estanque under the exalted headline. He finally finds a much smaller shot of Santa Clara’s rich benefactor boarding his private jet back to England alongside a tall man with messy hair and a broad back.
The picture is black and white, but Xabi has all the blue he needs imprinted in his memory every time he closes his eyes.
He plans to work from their bedroom home-office for the rest of the week.
FIN
