Archive of Our Own ^beta

Inference has begun to suspect that something is wrong.

It starts with the small things. Ronald leaves home earlier and comes back later. He doesn't seem as interested in holding conversations with Inference at the day's end, instead holing himself up in the detective's own study to look through god knows what types of books and manuscripts. He doesn't look Inference in the eye as much anymore, spacing out at odd times when they converse and staring at a point somewhere behind his head.

Inference knows how busy Ronald has been with the theatre. If it were anyone else, he might have shrugged his shoulders, reasoned that it's entirely understandable, and continued on with his day.

But this is Ronald of Ness he's talking about. The actor is usually only too glad to spend time with Inference, one of the few people he can truly be himself around without having to worry about maintaining his image. Perhaps he's had a change of heart, but he is not such a fickle being, despite what his mood swings and quick tongue may suggest. Inference knows him too well to believe such an idea.

So that is what ultimately leads him to sit Ronald down across from him at the dinner table one Sunday afternoon, eyeing him with that steely detective's stare.

Ronald looks back at him curiously, as if oblivious. "Is everything alright?"

"That's what I should be asking you." Inference sighs, folding his hands neatly on top of the table and observing Ronald. "What's been going on with you?"

Ronald's brow furrows and he sits up a bit straighter. "What do you mean?"

His tone is entirely confused; it fools Inference for something akin to half a second, until he remembers how this man earns his living.

"You know what I mean. You obviously haven't been yourself these past few weeks." Inference scowls, though the intimidation tactic doesn't work particularly well on someone who's seen him at his lowest points. "I wish you would tell me when things are wrong."

"I should be the one saying that to you, honestly." Ronald has the gall to chuckle as if it's a joke as he shakes his head, lips curling up at the edges. "Don't think I haven't noticed you constantly working, even some... what, three to four hours after I've gone to bed."

He's diverting the conversation to a different topic and cleverly avoiding the question; a very Ronald technique that he has nearly perfected over the years. Inference is tempted to give a snarky response to the absolutely correct accusation, but catches himself at the last moment. "This is about you, not me. Norton, I'm not joking with you. If it's something I've done, you can tell me."

Ronald pauses, as if he's just now realizing how serious Inference is, and he frowns too. "Something you've done? That isn't- no, you haven't done anything at all. Unless you count being perfect and handsome, which I will admit, you shouldn't be permitted to do as often as you do. But! But, just-" he hurries on, catching the look Inference is sending him. "Hey, look at me," he finally sighs as he reaches across the table, placing his hand over Inference's where it rests on the pine surface. "The theatre has been preparing for a big show. I've been... busy recently. I didn't mean to act oddly, and I'm sorry if I... concerned you. But you haven't done anything at all, I promise."

Inference huffs a sigh. Ronald has a habit of understating his own problems; it's led to a few scenes that weren't at all pretty, where everything culminated and exploded at once. But he knows how stubborn the actor is. This is as good of an answer as he's going to get for now; he can tell that if there's something else, Ronald doesn't plan on telling him. "... Fine. But don't overwork yourself."

"I won't if you won't." Ronald moves his hand up and down Inference's knuckles. "You wanna pinky promise on that?"

He's obviously joking, grinning in the almost shy way that Inference had first become charmed with, but Inference still slides his hand out from under Ronald's to connect their fingers in the childish gesture. He pulls back instantly after, feeling embarrassed for giving into the urge. "You'd better stick to your word now, Campbell."

Ronald stares at where their fingers had been locked for a moment before he laughs, shaking his head. "I love you."

"Hmm." Inference coughs, standing up and making a show of fixing his monocle so that he doesn't have to answer outright.

Ronald leans over to kiss him obnoxiously on the cheek, surely leaving behind a lipstick mark and causing his hand to slip on the gold chain. "I really am sorry, you know," he starts, finally sitting back to give the detective space once more. "Anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"..." Inference looks back at him once his monocle is settled into the hollow above his cheekbone once more, eyeing him with a tilt of his head as if he hadn't been too flustered to speak mere moments before. "You're forgiven. And.. perhaps. I'll think on it."

They end up going out to the town square, window shopping (and eventually actually shopping in Ronald's case, as he insisted on buying far too many things for Inference to make up for neglecting him); then they visit a café that had opened in the neighborhood recently. They finish the day tangled in the bedsheets- before midnight, just imagine!- and it seems that everything will return to normal once more.

It does, for nearly a month. Then August comes around the corner, and Inference begins to notice odd occurences again. Ronald seems to be talking to himself sometimes, when Inference is in the hallway outside and he thinks he's alone. He mutters in a language that Inference isn't even sure is English, and whenever Inference enters the room, he sees Ronald make some sort of hasty movement before turning to face him with a nearly wan smile.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks on one such day as he picks up Ronald from the theatre.

"Splendid. Exhausted. Why do you ask?" Ronald wipes sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt, blinking remnants of mascara from his eyes with a mumbled curse.

"... No reason." Inference drives them home in silence after that, but he swears he sees something in the backseat next to Ronald through the rear-view mirror. When he turns around and looks back, however, there's nothing there; he is forced to account it to sleep deprivation once more.

That night, Inference wakes up with an awful chill, as if he'd had some sort of nightmare that slipped away as soon as he woke. For a heavy moment, he can't feel any warmth next to him, and begins to panic, pushing himself up to his elbows with a harsh exhale.

Ronald rolls over to look at him, brow instantly setting with concern as he sits up next to Inference to tug him closer by the shoulders. Inference tries his best to remember his breathing exercises as he huddles against Ronald's chest, barely hearing the actor's murmurs of comfort in his ears. He isn't sure if it's a blessing or a curse that he's forgotten whatever dream brought him to this state.

"I'm- fine," he manages, realizing Ronald has asked him if he's okay. He is fine; now that he's recovered from the initial panic, he feels safe in Ronald's arms, though there's still something clinging to the edges of his mind, as if he's forgotten something important. Apart from that, one of his scars is burning, the long one that goes from his shoulder blade to the opposite hip bone. It's one of his oldest, from before even the war; he can't think of anything that would have irritated it. Perhaps the nightmare had brought on some sort of odd version of phantom pain.

"Was it...?"

Inference knows what Ronald means without him having to complete the sentence. He shakes his head, breathing in. He can smell Ronald's shampoo, layered over his natural scent, and it helps to calm his nerves further. "Can't remember."

Ronald drops a kiss to Inference's forehead. "You want the meds?"

Inference looks towards the doorway of their bedroom, as if he can see the kitchen cabinet with the pills all the way from here. He hasn't needed to take those for a long time, and he doesn't want to break the streak over a ridiculous dream that he can't even remember. "No. Just stay here."

Inference knows it sounds silly as soon as it's out of his mouth. Of course Ronald will stay; where else would he go?

But Ronald seems to understand the unspoken meaning of the words as well. He holds Inference closer, rocking him slightly as he mumbles into his tangled hair. "I'm here."

As Inference falls back to sleep enveloped in the warmth, he can't help but feel that something is crawling up his back, across his scar: something cold and wet, unpleasant to the touch. Oddly enough, it doesn't startle him back awake; instead, it feels as if the sensation is lulling him to sleep, inviting him closer to the darkness.

***

RONALD OF NESS, KROTO, AND "HAMLET" TO PERFORM IN THE GOLDEN ROSE THEATRE'S PRODUCTION OF 'THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA.'

Inference looks up from the paper that Ronald had thrust in his face, puffing at his pipe. "This evening? Why didn't you tell me earlier?? I thought it was tomorrow."

Ronald shrugs, looking almost bashful as he struggles to pull his jacket on while he also stuff his keys into his pants pocket, balances a canteen of coffee in the crook of his arm, and attempts to step into his boots. "It was tomorrow until they rescheduled it at the last moment. There didn't seem to be a good time! I kept wanting to tell you, and then you were busy with something or we were talking abour something else, or I just forgot-"

"Alright! Go, go, I'll... see you tonight then." Inference waves him off, unable to eat his breakfast with the stress of Ronald running to and fro like a headless chicken. He'd planned to work more on these papers tonight, but... he knows how much Ronald has been preparing for this show, and even he knows he would be a pretty shit boyfriend to miss opening night. The papers will be able to wait for just a few hours. Unless he crams earlier and finishes them all in record time...

"Love you," Ronald calls back, finally managing to get his boots on and breaking Inference's train of thought. He blows a kiss to the detective as he hurries out the door, nearly getting his expensive jacket caught on a splinter in the doorframe as he goes. Inference can hear him cursing even for several seconds after that, and it makes him smile around his pipe despite himself as he folds the newspaper and sets it aside. For all his intimidating appearances to others, Ronald often acts like an overgrown puppy around him; he can practically see his metaphorical tail wagging at cerain times. It makes him feel more lucky than ever, knowing that the one he loves trusts him enough to open up that much.

He sets his pipe down, reaching for his fork. The papers can wait indeed.

***

The play goes spectacularly. Kroto makes a wonderful Christine Daae, and the newest actor- dubbed "Hamlet" by the people, due to his magnificent debut as the character of the same name- is equally captivating as Raoul de Chagny. But Ronald, despite playing the antagonist, is the true star of the show. He plays his part with a perfect blend of rage and anguish; Inference sees several members of the audience reaching up to hastily wipe their eyes during the final scenes in the lair. At the end, there is a standing ovation, and the crowd whoops in a deafeaning symphony once Ronald appears to take his bows. The actor is grinning despite the sweat clearly visible on his skin, smudging some of his makeup; for a split second his eyes catch Inference's, and his brow furrows as if searching for a sort of reassurance. In answer, Inference stands from his seat as well, clapping vigorously.

Afterwards, Inference meets Ronald outside of the hallway where the actors' dressing-rooms are located and exchanges a few hurried words with him about his remarkable performance before they're forced to push their way through throngs of overzealous fans, some of whom Inference nudges away with his cane when they get too close. Ronald shoots him a grateful glance, sticking close to his side as they battle their way out into the main part of the lobby.

As Inference steps through the doorway that leads out of the corridor, there's a sudden burst of pain towards the base of his skull that grows rapidly downwards, through his spine. The room spins, and for a wild moment, he thinks that the world is caving on itself; he only realizes that he's simply become dizzy when Ronald catches him mid-collapse, resting him against a broad shoulder and helping him out of the theatre into the evening air.

As soon as they're out of the building, Inference can breathe again, and the pain is gone as suddenly as it had appeared. He reaches up to rub the back of his head, half expecting to feel something wet, but when he draws his hand back before his eyes, it's dry, the same shade of brown as it had been before.

Odd. He's had migraines before due to the head trauma he suffered during the war, of course, but never as sudden as this. Inference decides to attribute it to the stuffy air inside of the theatre, though that doesn't quite make sense either; he was perfectly fine until they entered the lobby.

"Naib?" He dimly hears Ronald muttering his real name, close to his ear so that nobody will be able to overhear. Inference blinks, pushing away from Ronald gently to stand on his own two feet.

"I'm fine," he says distractedly. "It... must have been all the crowds, that's all."

Ronald exhales. Inference looks up to him and realizes how worried he looks, lips pressed thin and jaw tight; he feels guilt overtake him instantly. This is supposed to be a nice night, a calm night. "I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" Ronald half-cocks an incredulous brow. "It's not like you chose for it to happen. As long as you're sure you're alright, it's not a problem."

"... Right." Inference still can't shake the feeling that something is wrong, as if eyes are boring into the back of his head. He turns around despite his better judgment, and yet he sees nothing there at all except the lights of the theatre. "It's nothing, I think. Let's just go home."

Ronald shoots him a dubious glance but doesn't pry any further, only slipping his hand into Inference's as they walk across the parking lot. Inference resists the urge to look back a second time, though he can feel cold breaths on the back of his neck. Old wartime terrors, back to haunt him again. Nothing more and nothing less. If he doesn't look, they won't get to him.

His hand tightens around Ronald's.

***

November is when everything begins to go wrong.

"He's late?" Inference cradles the phone between his ear and his head as he glances towards the clock. 12 in the afternoon. Ronald had left the house early that morning while Inference was still groggily sprawled across the sheets, saying he had rehearsals to attend, but...

"Yes." Kroto exhales on the other side of the line. "Nobody here has seen him all day. I thought he might have come down with something."

"He isn't here." Inference swallows down his sudden spike of nerves, holding his pen so tight that he's dimly aware it's close to cracking in half. "You're sure he didn't call in?"

"He didn't." Kroto falls silent, though Inference knows she hasn't hung up by the way he can still hear her breathing. His senses feel hyper-aware, the way they were on the field. The last time Ronald had disappeared so suddenly, without even a word to him in advance, had been when he was dispatched from the front lines on death's door.

"I... see. Please call me if you get any information," he says at last, monitoring his tone carefully.

"Of course, and likewise." Kroto hesitates. "I'm sure he's alright. Maybe he just needed a break."

"Maybe," Inference echoes, although each of them knows the other doesn't believe it for a second. Norton Campbell does not abandon his responsibilities, especially without so much as a syllable.

Kroto is the first to hang up, and Inference removes the phone from his shoulder as the dialtone blares in his ear, setting his pen down with a clunk against the wood that sounds too loud in the sudden silence. He reaches for his pipe on instinct, but pauses, already knowing he needs something a lot stronger than this. He stands and steps over to the cubby over the sink instead, rummaging through the various utensils and bowls piled within until he finds the treasure buried at the back.

Ronald's old cigarettes, the ones he used to smoke before forcing himself to quit in order to preserve his voice and lungs. It had been a long and arduous process that involved many relapses and frustrated episodes, but Inference remembers being so proud of him when he'd gone one month clean. They had still kept the cigarettes, in case of what Ronald claimed could be a potential "emergency." Inference had doubted the idea at the time, unsure that Ronald would be able to resist the temptation, but he's never been more glad that he didn't fight harder for them to be removed.

Inference slides one out of the package and lights it quickly, bringing it up to his lips. He coughs almost immediately, eyes tearing up as he chokes on the smoke, stronger and cruder than what he's used to. Taking a breath and a sip of the water glass sitting on the nearby table, he tries again. It's easier this time, and the cigarette provides the easy escape he had needed. Inference lets himself savor the nicotine, lets himself forget the stress and the worry.

Forget...?

Inference scowls. It isn't as if he's trying to forget Ronald himself.

Then why are you running?

"I'm not," he says out loud, dragging his free hand down his forehead as he slumps back against the counter. "I'm just..."

Anxious. Paranoid. Inference knows that Ronald is a grown man who should be able to handle himself, but at the end of the day, he's a famous actor, involved with a famous detective- who, incidentally, happens to have a lot of enemies that he knows of and likely even more that he doesn't. If something has happened to Ronald because of him, Inference will never forgive himself.

That's right. Wallow in it, the voice seems to say. Inference turns his head away from the direction it seems to be coming from, reminding himself that it isn't real, it's just a projection of his subconscious mind.

Not real, you say? Curious. If only your dearly beloved had stayed so adamant.

"What?" he says out loud before he can help himself, turning quickly. But the silence is back, just as deafening as before. Inference takes a sharp drag, cursing himself internally for allowing the voice to drag him in. The only way he'd managed to get rid of them in the first place was by learning to ignore them.

It had felt real, though. Realer than any of the hallucinations or even delusions stemming from the years-old trauma. And it had spoken about Ronald. They had never done that before.

Inference doesn't realize he's shaking until he nearly drops the cigarette onto the wooden floor, catching himself just in time. He pushes it back between his lips, grimacing at the ashy taste on his tongue.

Ronald is fine. He will be back that evening, back in the chair at the head of the table for Inference to lecture him and fuss over him.

Inference tells himself this over and over, until the cigarette is a stub on the ash-tray.

***

Ronald does not come back that evening, or the next. Inference files a missing persons report and stations himself at the head of the investigation, despite the dubious glances from his colleagues. An emotional attachment to the case is a dangerous thing to hold, but Inference refuses to hear of anyone else spearheading the search.

One of their neighbors, an elderly woman well into her 80s, states that she saw Ronald the morning of his disappearance, crossing the street and turning the corner. He had seemed in a great hurry, clutching a large black case under his arm and checking his watch.

Inference checks the closet, and indeed, Ronald's old suitcase is gone, though all of his clothes are still there. Had the actor really just left of his own volition without intending to return? That can't be correct. Inference knows Ronald too well to believe it for a second. And besides, he wouldn't have left without his wardrobe changes unless he was either in a hurry, or he had filled the case with something else. Something more important.

Inference is forced to broaden the search past the borders of the town. His first lead is finally from a tall, slender woman with braided hair who simply introduces herself as "Teleoperator." She tells him that she had seen a man who resembled the actor from the back, crossing the bridge across the river towards the center of the city.

Inference follows the lead, but the trail goes cold; nobody in the nearby neighborhood has seen Ronald at all. He falls asleep that night at his desk, forehead furrowed into a near-permanent scowl. When he wakes, his coat has been drapes over his shoulders like a blanket, with a note in familiar handwriting attached: found a new lead! please try to get some rest for today. eli and i will look into it.

Inference purses his lips. Truth may seem like a scatterbrain at times, but in reality, she's far too clever, not even having added any details about the "lead" so that Inference is forced to follow the instructions. He folds his coat over the back of the chair, balls the note in his hand, and tosses it towards the trashbin. It falls short, but he can't be bothered to pick it up again.

Emma and Eli arrive back at the agency late that night, drenched from head to toe in foul smelling water. Inference stands as soon as the door opens, and then immediately regrets it as pain lances up his knee all the way through his spine. "Did you-"

"Dead end." Recluse slings his coat off of his shoulders, wringing it out in the doorway and making a displeased face. "I'm sorry."

Inference looks down. He'd expected as much, but it still makes him feel even more hopeless than he had before. But it isn't as if he can say that out loud. "What happened to you?" he asks instead.

"You wouldn't believe it," Truth huffs, tossing her soggy cap down on her desk and running a hand through her wet hair. "As we were coming back down the smaller bridge near the east end of the city, we met the most odd group of people. They were all wearing hoods and speaking in a foreign language. When we passed by, they suddenly began to hurry off. Naturally, we found this suspicious, but when we went after them to investigate, the biggest ones in the back pushed us right off the side of the bridge! I'm glad it isn't too long of a fall, but still, when we made it out, they were long gone." She sighs in aggravation. "We're too busy right now to look into that, but we'll certainly have to keep it in mind."

"They pushed you into the river?" Inference squints at them.

"It wasn't as if we could do anything. It was so unexpected that we didn't have time to react." Recluse looks more miffed than Inference has ever seen him as he throws his blindfold down to join Truth's cap.

"I see." Something about the story doesn't sound right to Inference, but he attributes it to lack of sleep once more. "Perhaps I'll call Nidhogg and ask her people to keep an eye out."

"That would be good." Truth hurries past him, carrying the foul smell with her. "Now I'm going to take a shower. I feel disgusting."

Inference wrinkles his nose, turning away until she's gone. Recluse clears his throat, hanging his coat up on the rack to finish drying. "We'll find him, you know."

"I know," Inference agrees, but his voice sounds as hollow as if he's already given up.

***

"You're shutting down?" Inference raises a brow at Kroto's words.

She sighs, stirring through her tea aimlessly. "I... think it's for the best, yes. At least until Ronald comes back."

The way she says it makes Inference want to snort bitterly. As if he's simply on vacation and he'll be back once the winter snows arrive.

"He's our director and our lead actor, after all, you know?" Kroto continues. "And it's just... a lot for me to handle alone."

"No, I understand." Inference can relate to that part, at least. With Ronald, he had felt that he could get through anything, fight whatever was in his way and know he could still return to those arms at night. Now, alone, there is a hole in his heart; unmendable, irreparable. "I'm sorry to hear that, though. I know the theatre's been successful for so long."

"It was... all thanks to Ronald." Kroto bites down on the tip of her spoon without tasting the tea at all. "He worked so hard and really gave it his all. The performances feel lackluster without him around. Even I can't fill his shoes."

A gloomy silence falls over their table. Inference resists the urge to shred his napkin into bits. "Do you think we'll see him again?" he asks, despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to stay quiet.

Kroto's eyes flash as she looks to him. "Why should you ask me? You're the detective. If you doubt yourself, so will everyone else."

"... Right. You're right." Inference feels his insides heat up with shame at his momentary slip-up. "I'll... find him, and bring him back."

"You'd better." Kroto's mouth pulls up into a faint smile, and Inference suddenly realizes how tired she looks, foundation barely covering up the dark circles under her eyes. She's really been overworking herself, trying to take on the duties of two people at once.

She stands, cold tea forgotten now as she pulls her coat tighter around herself. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me. Reznik told me she would help me pack up some of our props today. I'd better get back quickly."

"That's fine. Hurry and go; I wouldn't leave that one waiting for too long if I were you." Inference stands as well, nodding to Kroto as she hurries past him and out of the small café. He tucks the napkin into his jacket pocket instinctively, leaving a few bills behind on the table to pay for their untouched drinks.

She's right; he has already known that this whole time. If he isn't confident in himself, who will be?

***

It's been nearly a month since Ronald vanished without a trace. Inference has still been working nearly nonstop. However, it seems that even his colleagues are beginning to lose faith.

"Naib...?" Emma starts, voice small as she glances up from her papers.

"What?" Inference is too busy looking through files of his own and marking notes down to pay her much mind.

"What if..." She pauses and swallows. Eli sends her a warning glance over Inference's head, but she pushes on bravely anyway. "What if we don't find him?"

Inference stops writing. "What do you mean?"

"Just..." Truth coughs into her fist. "Nothing. Sorry."

"No. No, don't be sorry." Inference puts his pen down slowly, dropping his head into his hands. He's been forcing himself to work, work, work, so that he wouldn't have to think too much, wouldn't have to face these possibilities, but now they're being tossed back into his face anyhow. His mouth is running on its own, all the words spilling out from behind the gate in his mind. "We aren't going to fucking find him, Emma. Either he's dead in a fucking alleyway, or he got sick of me and doesn't want to see me anyhow. You might as well put those papers down right now. Here, give them to me." He stands roughly, reaching for Emma's papers. She looks afraid as she snatches them to her chest, scampering back a few paces, and Inference feels a flare of guilt in his stomach. He'd promised her so long ago that they would be safe as long as they stuck together, and yet he's the one causing the fear on her face now.

The moment of hesitation is enough for Recluse to intervene. His hand comes down heavy on Inference's shoulder. "Naib. Sit down."

Inference sits with a shuddering exhale, burying his face in his palms again. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm just..."

Just what? Just finally losing it? Finally breaking down and showing his true colors?

Truth sits back down next to him, reaching out to him to place her hand on his other shoulder. Inference feels himself shake under their combined touches, but he only realizes why when he feels wetness against his fingers.

He hasn't cried in... a long time, he realizes dimly. So long that he can barely even recognize the sensation.

Truth gathers him closer and tucks his head against her shoulder as he fights back a pathetic sniffle, running her cool fingers through his tousled hair. He can vaguely hear her speaking to Recluse in hushed tones, but he doesn't know what they're saying, can't hear it over the rush of blood in his clogged-up ears.

When he finally calms down enough to take in a shaky breath, Truth presses smooth lips to his forehead, gentle as a mother's touch. Recluse is gone from the room, and Inference is grateful for that, at least; while Truth has already seen him suffering from breakdowns before, he doesn't know if he could handle someone else witnessing it.

"Eli's making tea," Truth says.

Inference makes a noncommittal hum in the back of his throat.

"Take the day off again," she suggests, though it's really not as much of a suggestion as it is an order.

"Okay," he agrees, too tired to argue.

Truth and Recluse drink tea with him in the kitchen, and he can almost imagine they're back in the old days when they had first decided to start the agency. Recluse hadn't been there at first, of course; he had only joined later, but the familial atmosphere is the same. Truth talks about an amusing conversation she'd had the day before with an old man while shopping for groceries, and Inference half-smiles for the first time since this had all started. None of them comment on the way his nose is still red, or the way his eyes are still puffy, and he appreciates it more than any words of comfort they could have offered.

Once they've finished, Truth and Recluse offer to stay with him the rest of the day, but Inference waves them off. If he's taking the day off, so should they; he suggests that Truth take Recluse to the Italian resturant a few blocks down that she'd been raving about a couple of months earlier. They look a bit disappointed when he adds that he won't be coming with them, but they understand.

The only thing is that Inference isn't exactly intending to stay home, either.

As soon as Truth and Recluse disappear around the corner of the street, Inference slips out of the door, starting up the car. He drives the route that's practically become muscle memory to him at this point, even though it's been over a month since he last visited.

The Golden Rose theatre looks the most gloomy he's ever seen it. Apart from a single light that seems to be coming from the upstairs lobby, it's entirely dark. Inference approaches the building cautiously, feeling slightly uneasy. Kroto had finished clearing out the theatre nearly a week before, so why is there still a light on at all?

The front door is locked, of course, but that isn't an issue. Inference reaches into his pocket and withdraws the ring of keys that Ronald had given him so long ago. The biggest one, copper with an initial engraved on it, slots perfectly into the keyhole, and the doors swing back with a creaking sound.

Inference... really doesn't know what he hopes to achieve by coming here. To stumble upon some last revelation? Reminesce on better times, as if he's already given up?

No. He thinks about Truth's words again, and his own defensive reaction, fashioned to hide his true fears. He really has given up.

Inference wanders through the entrance hall, eyes scanning the sculpted pillars that line the walls. The fading evening light casts a reddish glow over them, like an omen. He hopes that Ronald is happy and safe, at least. There are so many questions unanswered, but that is the least he can ask for.

A noise from upstairs cuts through Inference's contemplation like a knife. He freezes, hand automatically going to where he usually stores his gun under his coat... until he remembers that he'd left the agency without it. Cursing under his breath, Inference looks back towards the door, considering a hasty retreat, but the idea barely lingers in his mind for three seconds before dissipating. Detective Inference has never fled in his life, and he isn't about to start now.

"Hello?" he calls out, staging a bluff as he carefully approaches the staircase.

There are no more noises, and for a secon, Inference wonders if he's really finally going insane.

Then he hears a faint voice. It's too far away for him to make out the words, but it's confirmation that he hadn't imagined the first sound.

"I know you're there! Come out and show yourself. I'm armed." Inference's only line of defense is his cane, although it's made of such dense wood, he's hardly even lying.

When he doesn't receive a response, Inference advances slowly up the staircase. Clearly, whoever is here doesn't want to be discovered; that can only mean that they've broken and entered, for whatever reason. Although... strange. Inference hadn't noticed anything wrong with the lock when he'd first stepped into the theatre.

As he reaches the top of the staircase, he hears a creak of wood behind him, as if someone is trying to quickly escape before he notices. He turns quickly, holding out his cane, but freezes as soon as he sees who it is.

For a moment, Inference thinks he's dreaming. "... Norton?"

The person in front of him is wearing an odd suit, along with a black mask on one half of his face and a hat with a sort of metal horn attached, but the exposed half of his face is unmistakable. And as if that wasn't enough, his stricken expression just as much as confirms it.

Inference is caught off guard long enough for Norton(?) to stumble back a few paces, turning as if to make a break for it down the stairs. But Inference recovers and lurches after him, catching his arm with an iron grip.

"Naib, wait-" Norton begins to say, seeming afraid as he begins to edge away, but Inference is already tugging him closer. Norton's body tenses... until arms encircle his shoulders tightly, pulling him flush against the detective.

Inference buries his face in the other's shoulder, feeling a wave of emotions crash through him. He doesn't know what to say, what to feel, but he had thought he would never see Norton again. To have him here, in front of him... it's enough to break him down completely.

Norton hugs him back for only a quarter of a second; then he forcefully disconnects himself from Inference, stepping back as he tilts his helmet forwards over his eyes. "Don't call me that."

"What?" Inference blinks, confused by his coldness.

"They call me Patchwork now. Norton is gone." Patchwork looks to the side as if ashamed.

"Who..? What even happened to you?" Now that the initial relief at seeing him has begun to wear away, Inference feels anger start to churn at his gut. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you? I thought you died, or worse. I haven't taken one break for the last month, and yet here you are, sauntering into the theatre like it's still your property. Kroto struggled without you, you know. How could you abandon her?" Inference, too, looks away as he feels the corners of his eyes begin to tingle again. "How could you abandon me?"

He doesn't care that he's being selfish. He deserves it, just this once.

"I..." Patchwork bit his lip, canine digging into the peeling skin. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't cut it, but... I can at least explain."

"Explain, then." Inference refuses to meet his gaze.

"About a year ago," Patchwork begins with a sigh, "I was approached by a woman who told me that she could make me great. I asked her what she meant, and she invited me to a meeting.

"I thought it would be some sort of business deal, but when I arrived at the location, there was a group of people in cloaks. I was afraid, but the woman who I had met introduced me to everyone. She told me that they were part of a group who were working to raise up one of their old gods again from a place called the Abyss, and that if I helped them, he would grant me anything I wished for.

"I thought it was ridiculous, of course. I left and told myself to forget about it. But... I just couldn't stop thinking. If it was true, I could have even more success and riches than I did already.

"So the next week, I went back, hoping to find them again. And there they were. They didn't seem surprised to see me, despite how I'd rushed out on them the time before. The woman thanked me for giving myself to their god and told me they were all grateful for my sacrifice.

"I hadn't given up anything, so I thought it was some sort of figure of speech or customary phrase. They told me I couldn't tell anyone else about their group, not until the god was re-awakened, or else the ritual wouldn't work and I wouldn't be recompensed. It sounded reasonable to me, and that's why I never spoke of it, not even to you.

"This went on for several months without anything happening. I began to grow doubtful again, but I was told over and over to have patience. Then, odd things began to happen. I would find myself reciting phrases from their obscure texts, even though I could never remember what the words meant. Sometimes, I would wake up at night and see shadows in the corners of the rooms, different than the ones from the war.

"The group told me that this was... normal. That this was a good sign and meant the god was accepting me as one of them. That was when I really started to believe this idea of a god might have been true, farfetched as it seemed. I devoted myself to the group and their meetings, hoping to gain his favor even more.

"Then, a few days before I left, the woman pulled me aside. She told me I would have to leave for one full day to complete the ritual, and after that, I would be rewarded. By this point, I believed in nearly everything that she said, so I agreed. That day, we didn't have any particularly important rehearsals, so I thought it would be alright, as long as I explained everything afterwards."

Patchwork shudders. His eyes are fixed on a spot somewhere behind Inference's head.

"When I arrived, we held the ritual, chanting from those books and using herbs and spells to bind ourselves to the god, who they called Hastur. Afterwards, nothing happened for a little while. Then, the room grew dark, and the candles went out. I felt pain, sharp through my entire body, the kind I haven't felt since... you know. I think I blacked out for a bit. When I woke up, the other members of the group had formed a circle around me and were praying to me. Bewildered, I asked what had happened. They told me that I had received the greatest reward of all: I was Hastur's chosen messenger."

Patchwork slowly opens his suit jacket. Something uncurls from his back, winding around his waist; Inference takes a step back once he realizes it's a tentacle, thick and long and oozing black. He wonders if he's hallucinating; perhaps Eli put something in the tea.

"I asked what that meant," Patchwork continues, closing his jacket again. "And they told me that I had to stay there forever, doing the god's bidding. This was my new life now, and I needed to show my appreciation to Hastur for choosing me." He spits out the words like they're acid, sizzling holes through the wooden floor.

"I tried to leave, beginning to panic, but the group blocked my way. The woman warned me that if I attempted to leave, Hastur would wreak his vengeance on all of them and their loved ones. I had to accept the burden, or bear the guilt of destroying lives.

"So I was forced to stay. For three weeks, I was confined to that miserable little building, performing rituals as directed by members of the group. They treated me like a prisoner, an animal in a cage. Until one day, when they finally allowed me to step outside again.

"One of them told me that Hastur had sent down his first task for me to complete. I needed to... to take a life, to prove that I would be willing to do whatever it took to serve him. I asked them if they were crazy, but they were dead serious. And then they told me-"

Patchwork trails off, clamping his mouth shut over the last words of the sentence. "I... anyway, that's... what happened." he finishes lamely. "This is my life now. I can't go back."

"Did you?" Inference asks, hardly believing any of what's even going on right now. But then he remembers the group of hooded people his colleagues had discovered near the bridge, and a haunting suspicion planted itself in his mind.

"Did I what?" Patchwork's fingers twist into the fabric of his pants.

"Don't play coy with me." Inference steadies himself on his cane. "Did you kill someone?"

"No!" Patchwork's eyes flash. "If I did, do you think I'd be telling you about it? I'm not an idiot, detective."

Inference remembers a time when Norton had used that word towards him as a term of affection, and his heart aches. "Then what are you doing here?"

Patchwork barks a laugh. It's a humorless sound, hollow and empty. "Don't you get it?" he says, combating the question with a question. "The Abyss knows no mercy, and it will tear you to shreds until it breaks you."

Inference studies him carefully, diligently, with a practiced air of detachment as he finally realizes this is as real as possible, despite how unbelievable the story is. Even with his best efforts, he feels his fingers tighten around the handle of his cane until he's sure that his knuckles are white. His years of experience do him no good in a situation like this, where emotions tangle too closely with duty, and he feels like he's a young man on the battlefield again. "Is that what happened to you?" He congratulates himself on keeping his voice steady.

Patchwork's eye glints, but he says nothing. Inference steps forwards, and he backs away. Again, again, until Patchwork's shoulders are up against the wall at the top of the staircase and Inference has him cornered. Their gazes meet for a second, dark brown locking with steel blue. Then Patchwork looks away with a sort of half-shudder. This close, Inference can finally see how tense the other's body is. He's like a frightened animal, trapped and desperate. Inference feels a wave of nausea roll through his chest at the sight, the kind he hasn't felt for years now, but he forces it down. He can't afford to feel anything right now.

"Nothing happened to me," Patchwork bites out at last. Even his plastic smile is gone now, thrown to the floor with the rest of the mask. "This is what I wanted, isn't it? It's what I asked for, and what I received. Just in a different way than I expected."

Patchwork says it as if it's something he's recited many times, cold and structured. Still ever the actor at heart, except now he's playing the titular role in a real-life tragedy. Inference knows when Patchwork is lying, and he steps closer still until there's not an inch left between them. The closeness of their bodies, once a treasured intimacy, is now utilized as a weapon. Inference can feel the rapid rise and fall of Patchwork's chest, and it hurts more than any true damage to himself could have.

"I can help you, Norton," he says quietly, into the barely-there gap between them.

Patchwork's lips curl up in a scoff- too fast, too hasty. "There's nothing you can do. And I don't need your help." The words are harsh, but Inference knows they're only for show. Patchwork is setting up a careful wall around himself, the way he always has. Not with Inference, though; never with Inference after the first few months when they'd met. He's trying to close off the last link between them, and Inference grasps for the remaining threads before Patchwork can snap them.

"Do you really believe that?" he presses. "That you don't need my help?"

Inference knows Patchwork has always despised asking for help or even admitting he needs it. As Norton Campbell, Ronald of Ness, or Patchwork, that hasn't changed at all. Inference knows he's entering even more dangerous territory, but all he can do is keep pushing forwards.

Patchwork's gaze flashes, both hot and cold at the same time. He draws himself back up, pushing against Inference, but the detective refuses to budge.

"Just get out of my way. We can pretend this never happened," Patchwork says, voice hard as steel. His last, desperate stand.

"Make me." Inference knows Patchwork- Norton- has never been one to back down, but then, neither is he. They could stand here at a stalemate for hours, until-

Click.

Ah.

Patchwork moves so fast that Inference doesn't have time to react. Cold metal knocks against his forehead, right at his temple. Inference lets go of his cane, and it clatters to the floor with a sound that's too loud in the silence that fills the room.

Is this how the finale plays out, then?

Perhaps it's fitting. His life will end at the hands of the person who he once held dearest; the candle will burn away with the last of its light.

"Shoot me, then," Inference says. "I'm the last thing standing in your way, aren't I? Go ahead." He reaches up, closes his hand around the muzzle of the gun, and presses it firmly to his skin.

Patchwork's hands are shaking, and his face is paler than Inference has ever seen it. "You act like you want to die. Why aren't you even trying to stop me?"

Inference feels his lips curl down into a rueful chuckle. "I've been working my whole life to serve others. As a soldier and a detective, it's all I've done. Thrown myself in face-first to protect other people. I used to like feeling needed, like feeling that I was protecting others. But after years of that, I'm tired. I'm tired, Norton, and I've finally lost everything that I was still fighting for."

Patchwork's throat bobs up and down. His grip on the gun loosens and goes slack, and Inference lets the muzzle of the weapon slip through his own fingers and clatter to the floor. Patchwork sinks to his knees in front of Inference, fingers clutching at the hem of Inference's coat. He is the picture of miserable desperation. But even now, Inference looks down at him and does not pity him, because it is impossible to pity Norton Campbell no matter what role he plays.

"I have to kill you," says Patchwork, voice so quiet that Inference has to strain his damaged ears to catch each word. "If I don't- he'll come after me, and I'll have to run, but he'll find me and they'll torture me and then kill us both." His grip on Inference's coat tightens.

"I know," says Inference, and even he is surprised at how stable his own voice sounds. "Stand up, Campbell."

Patchwork does; perhaps there's some of that old military instinct remaining him, the urge to follow his colonel's every order. He turns his face to the side so that his silver mask is facing Inference, but not before the detective catches a glimpse of wet streaks and clumped lashes.

"Pick up the gun," Inference says. Patchwork does, bending over and then standing like mechanical clockwork.

"Do you remember what you told me the day after the opening night of Macbeth?" It seems an oddly specific time to bring up, but Inference knows Patchwork remembers. After all, it would be difficult to forget; an evening of heated kisses, hands roaming across scarred flesh and whispers of passion amidst the roar of the hearth.

Patchwork says nothing, so Inference pushes onwards.

"You told me that you wanted to buy a house, closer to the coast. You said you wanted to-"

Patchwork's teeth are sinking into his lip so hard that Inference can see the blood trickling down his chin in a steady line of vermillion, and he laughs a horrible, quivering laugh, cutting Inference off mid-sentence. "I said that because of you, Naib, because you made me hope and believe and think that I could have something stable for the rest of my life, with you. It was foolish and childish of me and I shouldn't have let you trick me into saying it. I hate you, I hate you so much, you know that?"

"Do you?" Inference reaches out and wipes the blood away with the thumb of his glove. He's close enough to hear Patchwork's shuddering breaths, close enough to feel the way his body shakes with each inhale. As he steps back, Patchwork's hand flies up, seizing his own like a lifeline.

"Please," he says, voice ragged. "Please. Please. Please, help me, don't leave me."

"I can't help you, Norton. Not anymore." Inference pulls his hand free from Patchwork's weak grasp and steps back. "Hold the gun up. Steady."

Patchwork does.

"You can still have that life." Inference feels himself smile sadly. "You're still young. You'll find someone else, better for you than I could ever be, and you can get the ending that you deserve."

"No one would ever be better than you," Patchwork insists, tone breaking as he starts to lower the gun.

Inference stops him with a look as he sighs, shaking his head. "Anyone would be better than me. I've been selfish, Norton, terribly selfish. My whole life I have killed and I have destroyed. This?" He gestures towards himself with a scoff. "This is hardly enough to pay for that."

"I can't," is all that Patchwork can say, helplessly.

"You can, and you will." Inference fixes the cuffs of his gloves and adjusts his hat, looking down the muzzle of the gun with the fearlessness that first earned him fame. "Shoulder up and eye on the target, Campbell. You know what to-"

He never gets to finish his sentence.

Patchwork's trembling finger slips on the trigger too early, and he moves too late for it to deflect. He closes his eyes as soon as he realizes what he's done, but it's too late, because he already saw it, and nothing will ever erase that image from his mind.

For what feels like several minutes he stands there, in complete shock. Patchwork can vaguely feel himself dissociating, as he's done before when flashbacks have hit him too hard. Those times, calloused hands were there to hold him close and pet through his hair until he was soothed. This time, there is a terrifying emptiness.

He waits, stupidly, for Inference to stand up and tell him it's ok, that it's nothing they can't work through like they've always worked through everything together, but nothing happens. Nothing except for the faint drip-drip-drip against the polished tiles of the floor.

It's the sound that really makes it sink in.

"I love you," Patchwork says, too late.

He sinks to his knees, scooping his arms under the ribcage of the prone form and holding it close. The warmth, to his horror, is already fading, and he presses his face into the fabric of the coat desperately.

"I love you," he says again, and again, and again:

"I love you, I love you, I love you so much, please come back, please I'm sorry I didn't mean to I'm sorry please come back please come BACK," Patchwork sobs into the plaid shoulder, rocking back and forth as he holds the detective in his arms. He wants to throw up. He's going to throw up. This isn't real.

Patchwork consciously fights the urge to retch, swallowing down bile as he sits back on his thighs slowly. The gun is still in his hand, he notices with a flash of vague surprise as he slowly lets go of the body. He used... one bullet. Yes. One bullet is gone. Five are left.

He remembers laying in Inference's arms, surrounded by warmth with lips pressing gently down the length of his shoulder. He remembers being half-asleep, rambling about his plans for the future as Inference hugged him around the middle and tucked his head into the crook of his neck and drew circles with his fingers into his bare chest. He remembers everything about it as clear as day, and Inference had been right about all of it, save for one key detail.

"It wouldn't be the same without you, Naib." Norton Campbell tilts his head as he regards the revolver clutched tight within his fingers.

"It never will be."

BANG.