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It’s a cold autumn night and you are in a bit of trouble.
Not “ran into some criminals and got beat up” trouble, although maybe that’s less shameful. Not even “car broke down” trouble, because your car broke down a year ago and you haven’t bothered driving anywhere since then. No, it’s more like “drank too much and can’t walk home” trouble.
This happens way too often these days. Normally you have Sleuth or Ace to drag you home afterwards, but right now you’re completely alone, lying in an alley next to the bar. It’s starting to snow.
You fish your cell phone out of your pocket—it’s a couple of years out of date, a tiny flip phone they were giving out free if you signed a phone contract—and type out a message.
hlep
dnrk 2 mcuh
cnt wkl hm
Later, when you’re sober, you wonder how he even understood any of that.
A reply comes a moment later: Where are you?
You have to look around, because you can’t for the life of you actually remember where this place is. You catch sight of a street sign and type the name of the street very carefully. Once the message is sent you just kind of go limp, figuring you can take a nap while you’re waiting for rescue.
You’re pretty sure you only closed your eyes for a second, but when you open them again you’re freezing cold, there’s snow on the ground beside you and a foot is kicking you awake. You latch onto the leg the foot is attached to, because it’s warm and you feel like you’re made of ice.
“Jesus Christ, Inspector,” Diamonds Droog says as he shakes you off. “Get ahold of yourself.”
“’m c-cold,” you mumble.
“Passing out in the snow will do that,” he says.
“I t-tried t’ pass out ‘nside but ah, th-they kicked me out,” you explain. “R-rude.”
He looks over at the bar’s entrance, then back at you. “They’re closed. You’re the rude one for trying to stay.”
He kneels down and looks you over, his stern gaze making you nervous even through the fog the alcohol has cast upon your brain.
“How much did you drink?” It’s a valid question. He knows your tolerance.
“C-couple a’… um… bottles.”
“Bottles of what? Absinthe?”
You smile stupidly at the thought of absinthe. Now that, that is what you could use right now. You start thinking about where you might be able to find some, then start to wonder what time it is, whether any liquor stores are open, do the seedy ones stay open all night? They would have to, right?
He slaps you, and it knocks you back to reality. You put a hand over the sore spot on your cheek and pout at him.
“What happened?” He asks.
“N-nothin’,” you mumble, looking downwards. You have a stain on your tie. “I jus’, ah, l-los’ track a’… a’ how much I was d-drinkin’…”
“Inspector.” He grabs your chin and forces you to look him in the eye. “You never lose track of anything. What happened?”
You whine and try to pull away from his grip, but that only makes him hold on tighter. Your face is going to be covered in bruises by the morning.
“B-Broad,” you say finally.
He isn’t satisfied with your answer. “What about her?”
“Ssh’ won’ r-return m’ calls,” you say.
“Why should she?” he asks, pulling you to your feet. “The two of you broke up months ago.”
You try to stand on your own, but you stumble and pitch forward. Droog catches you, and then reluctantly allows you to lean on his shoulder. He starts walking you in the direction of your apartment.
“We, we w’re s’posed t’ stay friends,” you say, your voice pathetic. You hug his arm. “Sh—she’s m’ other half, m’ beaut—beautiful dream girl.”
You start crying.
“An’ now, now sh’ doesn’t want anythin’ t’ do with me.” You cover your mouth with your free hand and sob loudly. “Wh—why does, does everyone al—always leave me, Droog?”
“Probably because you’re a sloppy, alcoholic idiot,” Droog replies.
That response doesn’t help. You just cry louder and stop walking. Droog sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Why couldn’t you have called your stupid sleuth friends to drag your ass home?”
“Th—they w’re busy,” you say between sobs. “D—didn’ wanna stay w’th, with p’thetic old Pickle. N—nobody ever, ever w-wants to, to to help me…”
He lets you cry for a moment before he says, calmly and firmly, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
You look up and stare at him. That’s right, he is here. Now that you think of it, it was stupid of you to expect him to show up. He’s not your friend. He’s a business contact, someone you collaborate with when you have a mutual interest. Outside of that he’s just a rival you happen to be civil with.
You wanted to text Sleuth, but you already knew he was off chasing Slick and wouldn’t answer his phone. Ace would have been your next choice, but he’s busy tending to Sonhearst, who has the flu. Droog was your only option.
And he actually showed up.
“Y—yes,” you say at last. “You are. Th—thank you.”
He doesn’t care about you, not the way a friend would. But you do help him with things sometimes. You help him take down rival gangs through lawful means—means that don’t leave him having to worry about cleanup. You save him time and effort. You’re valuable to him in that respect.
When was the last time anyone ever thought of you as valuable?
“I should have just left you in the gutter,” he says, pulling you forward since you won’t walk on your own.
You stumble a little, but stay upright as you walk along with him. “M-maybe so.”
“And if you throw up on me I will do far worse than just leave you here,” he adds.
“I, I w-won’t,” you reply.
He gives you a skeptical look, but says nothing more. You wipe your eyes, making sure there’s nothing to ruin his suit when you lean your face into his shoulder. You mumble something about your nose being cold, which it is, and he’s so warm.
About three buildings down from your apartment you stop him, telling him you can walk alone from here. That’s part of how things work. Your relationship is strictly business, neither of you needs to know where the other lives.
“Can you even walk?” he asks.
You lean against a wall for support, and smile at him.
He shrugs. “Fine. Remember we have an appointment tomorrow. Try not to be late this time, will you?”
“O—of course,” you say.
He gives you a polite nod in place of a goodbye, and turns and leaves. It takes you a while of walking very carefully against the wall, but you make it into your building and the doorman helps you get to your apartment.
You’re an hour late for your appointment the next day. Droog isn’t surprised.