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Whenever you're working your beat and you don't have to get down to brass tacks and fast fists, your aim is to be congenial. You like meeting people, connecting with them—like, for real—and you're practiced at chatting them up in ways that weave in and out of what gets your job done. This can be nice, even uplifting, beyond the practical applications.
Chatting up wealthy, entitled vendors at their wit's end? Not so nice, it turns out.
"Do you know," Felicity Pitchroot—the vendor—is asking, as you pay her stand in the Goldcliff Marketplace a visit, "what galls me about the current state of affairs, lieutenant?"
Your eyes slide askance of your case notes to look at... the victim? Your client?? She's technically one of several affected by this case, but she's The Raven's latest mark, and ergo the source of your current lead. Right now Ms. Pitchroot's brows are drawn and her mouth is pinched thin, her frown a vaguely punchable sort of brittle as she leans over her spread of wares.
Thinking it polite, you remove the pen clamped between your teeth before answering. "I can take a wild guess, but shoot."
"Absolutely none of this is normal!" She thumps a fist next to a basket of grapes. They're a rare breed; imported, hoity-toity, the kind you'd have to sacrifice three of your paychecks for the simple privilege of breathing on them, much less buying some. "I mean, the stealing, that's a common enough vice I suppose, but this Raven could at least have the decency to—god. She could be stealing something worth a damn if she really must. But no! She's bleeding us dry, slowly, pittance by pittance."
"Guess that's why we call it 'petty theft'." You snort, letting the chuckle dribble out to see if it gets a smile out of Ms. Pitchroot. It does no such thing. Yeesh. Tough crowd, this one. "For real though, ma'am, I'm this close to tying this whole shebang up in a neat little bow." You flash her a practiced grin; you hope it comes across as reassuring as it does for everyone else. "The Raven's been in my crosshairs for the past three months and, ha, let me tell ya! Buck wild as these patterns of hers are, she's—"
"Pardon, ah, if I may interject: What?"
"... Er. Ma'am?"
"You have been on this case for ninety days and you still haven't caught her?"
You blink. The practiced grin twitches, teeth sliding into a clench.
Somewhere, in the less orderly recesses of your head, you want to be... some sort of uncharitable. Or maybe the most charitable?? You, after all, aren't the one who trashes perfectly good food for the unspeakable crime of not selling fast enough. Instead of—heaven forfend—donating or giving it away! The Captain Captain Bain who is also in your head rudely "ahem"s his way into this (frankly GREAT) train of thought, reminding you that her insufferability notwithstanding, Ms. Pitchroot is not breaking any laws so for pity's sake lieutenant stay on task.
You grump a well maybe it OUGHTA be illegal at the fake Captain Captain Bain before sighing, aloud. "Ma'am, I'm—mm." You frown, tapping the bottom of your pen between your brows, thrice. "I understand your frustration. I've had my share of it on this case, believe you me. I don't, uh, exactly relish feeling like I've been strung along when this should be—you know, bing-bang-BOOM, case closed. BUT"—you snap back into a smile here—"but! But. I've got some good news on that front."
"I am on tenterhooks here, lieutenant."
Her sarcasm is practically lethal, so you give yourself a pat on the back for not dropping the smile as you look away. After a quick check for busybodies in the vicinity, you urge Ms. Pitchroot to come closer with a conspiratorial flick of your wrist. She does so, in increments.
"The good news," you whisper, hand cupped around your mouth, "is that I've got a plan. And you're an important part of it, if you want a go."
She leans back a few inches, brows raised. You smirk.
"'Course," you continue, "we can't exactly flap our gums about this in a public setting, so! If you think you're up to it, I could arrange a—"
Ms. Pitchroot's hand shoots out, into the space below your chins, and you flinch before realizing why she did it. She's caught hold of another hand by the wrist: thin, gloved, bony, clenched into a fist. It's not yours.
"You," Ms. Pitchroot snarls.
"Me!" the stranger says. Their voice is low but cheerful. Cheeky, too, with a hint of husk, like a,
Oh.
Oohhh. You'd know that fucking voice anywhere.
"Oh my god." You follow the bony hand up its arm and shoulder, to The Raven's face. She's grinning, left cheek creased with a cute dimple. "You???"
The Raven tchs and rolls her eyes. "I don't know why you're acting so shocked, this conversation was literally about me." She tilts her head your way, rolling her fist against Ms. Pitchroot's grip until it faces palm-up. "Speaking of, nice to meetcha again, swell weather we're having, all that, and HEY, what timing! Looks like I stepped in the shit again, as it were. See?"
She uncurls the fist. There's four roe eggs, nestled wet and close and slightly crushed in the middle of her palm.
For all of three seconds, you're speechless. Then: "Seriously?????"
"Now," The Raven says, free hand lifted placatingly, "I know what you're thinking: 'Raven! There's a whole tin you could've filched, why lowball it?' The thing is, these are disgustingly expensive. Enough to make bank on a fraction of just one of these stupid fancy tins. So I figure, why take more than I need when—"
"I will see you hanged," Ms. Pitchroot spits. She's gone a little purple along the back of her neck and through her ears.
"If I may remind you, ma'am," you say, a bit stiffly, "that due process is the law of the land." Your feelings about Ms. Pitchroot and the cut of her jib aside, you are here to do your job right, damn it.
The Raven bobs her head in assent. "Righteous as ever, lieutenant."
"And you." You tug a pair of cuffs free from your belt, holding them up pointedly. "Y'know what this means, right?"
"I'm well aware of the routine, Hurl."
"Please don't call me that."
"Fair! Hurley it is, then."
"Hey—"
"Anyway, why do you think I'm back at it?" The Raven laughs, lightly, then has the nerve to shift into a rakish smile. "I was starting to miss you."
Your speechlessness count reaches "two". Wow.
"I"—you're already regretting whatever's about to come out of your mouth, but god—"gods alive, you don't have to commit more crimes to get my attention! It was my job to catch you before we even met!"
Slo—The Raven's eyes go wide and her mouth drops open, just a little, as she touches her free hand to her chest. "Why, Hurley. If it was that easy all along, you could've just given me your ess-oh-eff digits and saved us both the hassle back when this all started."
You can (and do) school away the sputter poised on your lips. You can't say the same for the heat rising to your face, crimson and damning. God. Why does she have to look so fucking good whenever she's doing this??
"... What is going on here, exactly." Ms. Pitchroot's eyes dart between the two of you, some measure of wary.
"An arrest." You bite off the words as you put the cuffs away and lift your hands, slipping into stance, focusing. The kid gloves are off. You'll be damned if you're not ending this cat-and-mouse nonsense here and now. "Raven, hear me. You'd best back down before things get ugly, alright?"
"Mmm. Word to the wise: with you around, there isn't a snowball's chance of 'ugly.'"
She winks. You blanch. Or, or blush, who even knows anymore. Alongside the wobbly thump of your pulse, the ki in you surges, then peaks. You clap.
A few things happen, so fast you barely register them. The Raven wrenches out of Ms. Pitchroot's grasp and smacks the roe in her face as she ducks. Ms. Pitchroot screeches, and suddenly there's a half-elf sliding between your legs like your low center of gravity is just nothing. "Too slow!" she's saying.
Then she's off, well behind you, threading into the scads of marketgoers milling up and down the thoroughfare.
"Hey!!" You bolt, because you don't have to be told twice on that count. Or... only once? Whatever Ms. Pitchroot is screaming after you is lost to the swell of startled shoppers, and you only glance back long enough to make sure she's just pitching a fit instead of, you know, dying. She'll be as fine as she'll ever be, you're sure.
Chasing after perps on foot is both rote and rife with surprises, so you're quick to notice that something's off: The Raven is beating a straight path down the street, more or less. You've both done this before—on this very road, heh—and she's not pulling the sorts of wily acrobatic zig-zags that leave you in her dust after a few minutes. If you didn't know better, you'd say she's being careless. Supremely hasty, at best.
Because you do know better, what you smell is... you want to say "a trap", but. Some part of you stops short of that. Or at least short of the worst possible interpretation thereof. Sloane is not one to end people, you're certain of that much.
She—she plays games, though. The Raven, you mean. Right now, your job is to figure out which one.
Wise or not, you choose to play along with her. Your limbs itch as you continue to weave around pedestrians, old energy simmering undispersed and jumpy and impatient down to your bones. Normally this would annoy you, but it's a decent reserve for your stamina to draw on when you can't afford to lag behind. And whatever her other designs, The Raven shows no sign of politely slowing down for your sake. It's a brisk pursuit through streets and shopfronts and at least two tidily opulent neighborhoods, ticking the minutes away.
What ends up slowing you to a jog isn't fatigue, or the latest change in scenery (you've just burst headlong into the ragged fringes of Little West End of Huntington), but the fact that suddenly she's just... gone. Slipped away between blinks, even though you'd been so careful about keeping her in your sights. Last time you checked she's no magic user, so it doesn't track that—
What stops you dead are the people around you, frozen in turn, staring back.
... Well, not all of them. Some of the adults do little more than spare a glance your way before moving along, like they're making a point of it. Others scatter, some more conspicuous about it than others. The children have less pretense about both staring and leaving, with a lot of the older kids bodily tugging the little ones away; a lot of makeshift playthings get left behind. It adds up to the same thing, eventually: everyone ends up shrinking back or putting more of a distance between themselves and you.
You rub your nose and inhale, sharp-like, then rest your fist against your mouth. Is there, just... anything you can say, to reassure them? No one in the militia is a sight for sore eyes to the people living in this part of town. It's hard to blame them.
You cough, then get as far as "Um" before fingers clamp you by the forearm and drag you through the nearest doorway like a hooked fish, into the dark. You're pretty sure you heard a "Yoink!" along the way in.
You definitely hear her—it's The Raven, c'mon—say, "Didn't know you got distracted so easily, hun."
Then she's got you in an armlock, body smushed up against the nearest wall. Jeez.
A very small, distant part of your brain says that you should, uh, be alarmed. Probably. In all logic. The rest of you blows it off as you huff a sigh. "I didn't know you were raring for a fight this go 'round," you tell her.
You take the shift of movement against your back as a shrug. "Gotta change things up on occasion." There's a short pause, where you notice how cool and stiff and rust-prickly the wall is, and how warm the parts of her touching you are before she continues. "But seriously, I don't want one? I'm just... I guess you could say I'm tired of this ending the same way every time."
With effort, you turn your head marginally. It's so dark in here that even with a little time for your eyes to adjust, it's still hard to tell just where she's landed you. You know it's not a closet, at least. "Turning yourself in would be a nice change too. Just saying."
"Mmmmmmm. Mm. Mmm."
"Shockingly noncommittal about that, I see."
She snorts. You think her nose clips the top of your ear. "You're not wrong," she says. "But that'd be a shame. Such a letdown after I went through the trouble of escalating things, don't you think?"
Something about this makes your chest prickle with... annoyance. You think. Exasperation?? Either way, you grunt and realize you have just enough wiggle room to (gently, sort of) smack your forehead against the wall. The latter reverberates a little.
"Hey, hun, that's no good for you. Take it from me."
"I'm not sure how I feel about you calling me 'hun', either." You sound irritated—because you are, of course you are—which you hope is good enough to mask how literal the "not sure" part was.
"Aww." Oh damn it, she actually sounds disappointed. Fuck.
You upgrade the grunt to a groan. "Just... one question, before I take the 'pause' off of this fight neither of us apparently wants," you manage.
"Shoot! It can be more than one actually, I've got all day."
"Great." You almost start into it, but a thought knocks against the shape of what you were going to ask and sways you... elsewhere. You swallow, thinking, mouth snapping shut.
This is either going to be the best or absolute worst ploy you've ever pulled. Only one way to find out.
You give your upper lip a good, long lick before saying, "Is it even possible for you to be straight with me?"
Silence, apart from the rasp of you and her breathing. The anticipation is so slow and palpable in how it's building that you nearly forget to lift your free hand and halt it at a hover, inches above The Raven's grip on your trapped arm.
Finally, she speaks, and the grin you can't see permeates her words like fizz in ale: "Never."
Ah.
You... you breathe in, then out. Then again. Hurley, you tell yourself, she took the exact bait you laid out, don't you DARE act surprised.
"Holy shit," is what you squeak anyway.
She eases her weight against you, just the tiniest bit. "Too forward?" she asks, and seems to mean it.
Shit. This makes you feel kind of bad about what'll happen next. "I'd rather try 'back' for the moment," you say, then ignore the guilty crimp in your gut as you bring your free hand down.
You only discharge a little ki on contact—a caculated burst to make her yelp and back off. But you don't let go of her entirely; you can't let her (or yourself, for that matter) draw this out any further, so you tug and swing her towards the wall. Her back hits it, metal gonging out thinly, your body flung against her in a pin. And. And—
Logically, you can't stop at this. You have her arms held fast to the wall, but there's so many ways she could still counter you. Your legs are vulnerable. Your head and stomach too, theoretically. She needs to be closer to the ground or twisted into an armlock herself, at the very least.
The Raven, halfway neutralized—or maybe a bit more, it's hard to say—is looking at you. Which you can finally tell, even as most of the room stays cloaked and indefinite under the low, low light. She's breathing hard; you realize with a squirmy inner flutter that she's flush enough against you to feel her heart going a mile a minute. That aside, her face is... pretty much neutral. In that way people can get when they're waiting for your next move.
What will you do? a thought chimes in. From a odd distance, like a thing that isn't entirely yours. It feels curious. Anticipatory.
Hell, you too. What are you going to do?
In lieu of something definitive, you... drop your forehead. Again. Onto Sloane's collarbone this time.
Her chest stills for a moment. When you feel her ribs shift, your face goes stupidly warm. "Uh. You okay there?" she asks.
You bark a laugh. Then two, and three and four. God. Who are you kidding? You can't make this end how the you of three months ago wanted it to. Whatever was in you back then is just... gone. Slightly Younger And More Litigious Hurley would be sorely tempted to fire your ass, probably.
Well. Might as well not do this halfway, then.
"It's just... it's funny," you say. You chuckle some more, a little breathily, as you look up at Sloane. "I'm no good at math, but I still know"—you wink, shoving self-consciousness into a locker—"acute angle when I see one."
She stares. You waggle your brows, chin settling onto the crown of her sternum.
Then she laughs. Loud and unbridled, face alight. It's easily the best thing you've heard and seen all day (month, year), even as she's sinking to the floor and effectively dragging you down with her. You don't care, you don't care, because you're laughing too.
When you calm down enough to think about literally anything else, you realize that you've collapsed into Sloane's lap, more or less. Well. If she's in no hurry to push you off, neither are you to scooch away. So there.
"Okay," she says, shoving past the laughter, "alright. Alright. Fair is fair, lieutenant! You've got me beat, so here's me, nonresistant and humbled."
You chuckle some more. "What in Faerûn are you going on about?"
"Exactly what I said." She holds out her hands, wrists bumping against each other. She's still smiling, but it's dialed down, in an I'm-trying-to-be-at-least-slightly-serious-about-this sort of way. "I'm all yours for the taking. You win."
You give her hands a long, hard look before sighing. Your head's shaking as you push them away. "I wouldn't cuff you from the front, dummy."
Her mouth presses flat, going lopsided. "So. That's it? Was that too anticlimatic, or—"
"Oh my god." You just about double over, dropping a hand onto one of Sloane's knobby knees. You give it a soft squeeze. "Tell me that was on purpose. Please. So I can report you for being a huge fucking dork instead."
"See, now I'm mad because I wish."
You both lose another two minutes of conversation to snickering. You fail to remove your hand from Sloane's knee once it tapers off.
"... Hey. So." She clears her throat, arms retreating to fold across her chest. "To clear the air: did any of this... did it bother you?" Her gaze flicks downward. "Apart from the law-breaking, I mean. It's, uh. Not like you solicited the brazen flirting. Ha."
You blink, leaning back on your haunches a little. The hand on Sloane's knee winds up moving, to tuck into one of her hands above. That gets a squeeze from you, too.
"Well," you say, with a laugh, "it was brazen. But on the matter of it bothering me... you know. Not really? At least, not for the reasons you're thinking."
"Ah. The ones related to doing your job, then?"
"You got it. Just those."
She whooshes out a sigh, arms swinging free. "That... sets me at ease. Really."
"I'm glad of it." You sigh too, running a hand over your scalp. You were telling the truth, but Sloane has just pulled the bigger reality of where you've landed yourself back into focus, and... man. Where to start? "Y'know, I've half a mind to say 'nuts to this case!' and move on to something that actually matters in the scheme of, you know, protecting the folks who need it 'round here. No more damn pittances to flag down." You laugh, the edge of it almost rueful. "Yeah. I think that'd be alright."
Sloane frowns at you. "I still broke the law, lieutenant."
"And you've never hurt anyone, far as I know. Bruised a few overblown egos, sure, but—"
She snorts, much louder than before. "Still—"
"I'm serious!" You shift in her lap, wiggling until you're facing her head-on. "Sloane, you're just—you're some goof running around cracking wise and stealing enough to keep your head above water. That's not the work of a fiend, you're just... getting by, as you can. I can't fault you for that in good conscience."
She doesn't say anything for a good while. "That's what I like about you, you know," is what comes out when she does.
You blink. "Huh?"
"You're a thinker, but it's more than that, you... you're fair, where it counts. And genuine. You're real. It's a good thing, Hurl."
You—
Jeez.
You lean back again, as far as you can without losing your balance. Warmth curls insidious and fuzzy in your chest anew.
"... I told you not to call me that," you end up saying. There's no heat to the words, though.
Sloane grins apologetically anyway. "You did, huh? My bad." She pauses, peering up at the ceiling only she can properly see. "Say. What if you had more cause to arrest me?"
You scoff, gently pushing her shoulders back. "You can't be serious."
"If you are, then I am."
Oh boy. You don't tamp down on your frown, or your brows pinching into a furrow. "You dope, if it's not me it'll be someone else swooping in to catch you red-handed—"
"I don't mean in the future! It's more like, 'I've done this, AM doing this, and will continue to do this until someone bodily forces me to stop.'"
The look you're giving her slides from admonishing to stone flat. "You realize that last part includes the future, right."
"True." She shrugs, too easily. "But it's different. Also, it's pretty juicy, in the sense of it not being even slightly legal."
"Mmmmm."
"Hurley. Huuuurley."
"Sloane."
"Don't tell me you're not intrigued. Even a little, teensy, itty bit?"
She hitches one shoulder up, mouth tweaking into a crooked, close-lipped smile, and you've just decided that you hate both of these very much because it's too fucking cute and how dare she, etc.
You gust out a lungful of air. "Well! I did say it, right? Better me than someone else."
Her smile splits wide. It's infectious, and almost enough to make you think you won't regret this. "My friend, if this ends up disappointing you in any way, I'll owe you big time."
You already do would be a good quip here, but it's a little too unkind to let slip. You just let her help you up and say, "I mean, I'm sure you could do worse, whatever it is. It's not like you dump bodies on the sly or, ha, god, imagine you racing battle wagons—"
She almost drops you then and there. You catch yourself, pulling an affronted face until you notice laughter ballooning against her cheeks, one hand pressed valiantly to her mouth to keep it in. Some of it's escaping anyway.
You're suddenly very, very certain of two things:
- Whatever she's about to show you, it's going to ruin your poor fool life, one way or another.
- You should care more that it will.
2a. You absolutely don't.