Chapter Text
Boston carries a slight chill in the autumn months.
October has faded out once again, and the frigid fingers of November clutch at one Edgar Allan Poe's shoulders to drag him down enough to be prepared for the winter. Or, of course, were he to drop the habit of consistent flowery words in his thoughts, he might say to himself that the weather is getting colder, and he's surrendering to the upcoming, inevitable winter cold.
However, this one Edgar Allan Poe is an author, and if there is one thing an author will do, it is think in flowery words and imagine themself in a movie scene, some coming-of-age or drama in which they are the main focus, and the biting wind prickling their cheeks is a metaphor for loneliness.
This one Edgar Allan Poe — who quite despises being called any of those names, but would most bearably go by Poe to strangers and some nickname to friends — is, however, not alone, and it is always when he considers himself to be that one chittering, disgruntled raccoon shoves his little face into Poe's (because, readers are still strangers in the beginning of a story) cheek and makes some sort of noise that Poe cannot be sure there is a proper word for. Really, which animals truly have actual words for their silly noises? Certainly not raccoons, not that he's ever heard of.
He supposes words don't invent themselves, but he doesn't know what to call it and doesn't trust himself to make a particularly profound word. Those who hand-make clothes do not often spin the thread and textiles themselves, after all, not in these present days, so he cannot expect himself very easily to be an author and create words at the same time. Why, he only knows how to connect them in pretty ways; he has no clue where to begin with inventing the things.
Well, he thinks, maybe there isn't meant to be such stress. But I would have to explain the etymology, and fathom the humiliation of saying that I just thought of something on a whim and called it that, how much prudence such a statement lacks, not to mention the--
And then he can think no more, because he's reminded that the noise he's trying to describe and stressing over the hypothetical problem of needing to develop a word for is much more pressing than this line of thought — at least, to Karl, the raccoon who is slapping his head indignantly, which kind of--
"Karl! That hurts," Poe cries, exasperatedly. This is a near daily occurrence.
Both Karl's slapping of him and his shouts being described as cries, that is.
The little creature seems very, very largely unconcerned, instead continuing to paw at him, albeit with less...violence. For the time being.
Poe sighs deeply, and retrieves an apple from his bag which makes him appear as more of a single father than just someone with a needy pet. Whether that is on account of the existence of the baby wipes or the yogurt drops is anyone's guess, but it's probably most prudent to assume it to be, or call it straightforwardly, both.
He thinks it must be a similar stress level, but then scolds himself, because what a silly comparison that is. Or, at least, he assumes it is. In any case, he feels the need to approach single parents and apologize for thinking his raccoon issues are comparable, and he almost falls into a guilt right there, but Karl is chewing so loudly on the apple and smacking his silly little lips so obnoxiously that he grows irritated instead, in a miniscule way, because, well, a raccoon doesn't very well know human manners.
The point is, in the end, that Boston is cold in November. So cold, in fact, that ten minutes later, Poe's forcing himself through a library door with all the urgency of someone of delicate constitution running from a garden snake that gave them a particularly severe fright.
Largely, the library is very quiet and dark, but very vast. This is ideal to Poe, immediately, because he's certain there will be a particular feature in such a big library and when he looks-- yes. A fireplace is crackling, embers floating from the hearth so sagely it almost causes him emotional distress.
Emotional distress of the authorly sentimental type, of course. Nothing about the scene is actually frightening or stressful, not in the least, and Karl chitters, kneading his little paws like he's practicing for what he'll do when there's a couch or chair in sight to nap on.
Nothing about the scene is actually frightening or stressful until Poe notices something too peculiar, even for him.
The hearth is lit, clearly having gone on long enough to be at full capacity, and yet..
And yet there doesn't appear to be a staff member about, or...or even another human being, actually. It's so dark because nobody is supposed to be there, Poe realizes with a start, but the door had been unlocked, so surely someone is there, or at least had been. The option of the closing worker forgetting to lock up is eliminated pretty fast, because, albeit possible, the fire is still there, and he has sincere doubt that anyone in charge of such a seasoned and large library would be — or hire — the type of person who would be so forgetful as to do something so severely dangerous as forgetting to lock the door and put out the fireplace.
The sensation of being a main character becomes very uncomfortable very quickly, and Poe has the distinct urge to crawl out of his own skin.
Don't panic, he thinks, you always panic and you're usually fine. It's alright. We'll just check the list of hours..
And then he and the disembodied "we" — because Karl hardly counts, because Karl hardly cares — scuttle over to the aforementioned laminated paper on the front desk. He scans it carefully, and..
His blood immediately runs cold, because it says all too clearly that the library is closed on Mondays. He really, really doubts there would ever be an exception to days something is closed, because he has seen that happen approximately zero times. Vice versa, sure, but not this.
So. The library is closed. The doors had been unlocked. The fireplace is lit. Karl is smacking my head again. I'm all alone besides my heinously cruel raccoon. It's cold in November — maybe someone else snuck in? No. That's preposterous. Why would someone with a key to the library happen to be walking by and suddenly feel the need to go inside away from a chill? They'd just stay home, right? And if not, they would definitely turn some lights on, or at least be by the fireplace, in sight. Probably would lock the door, too, to avoid wrong impressions, considering there is an hours list outside and, obviously, anyone could waltz in.
So there is definitely not a set of options that indicates anything very good, or innocent, or lacking suspicion. Technically, he's trespassing, but, but--
But he's a detective, he remembers, and an author on the side. Or...maybe the two jobs are side by side. He isn't sure anymore, actually. But it doesn't matter, because he's investigative personnel, damn it, and he has to get to the bottom of whatever this mess is, and he's not a coward, he's just not particularly crazy about the idea of being mysteriously murdered in the front room of an enormous library, as dejectedly ironic as it would be.
Really, he at least wants to be murdered cleverly, if he must be at all.
If he reviews the facts--
"Hey, are you gonna stand there and make funny faces all day until you figure it out?"
That's rude, he thinks, I can figure it out just f--?!
Who was that??
Poe whips around way too fast, and nearly makes a really embarrassing shriek-like noise when Karl's nails dig into his shoulder, because it's very unpleasant, but he bites it back, probably helped by the sheer shock icing his veins.
"..Pfffffhahaha! I guess you really are gonna just make funny faces! You should see yourself. You look like you just found a frog in your potted plant and need a chaise to faint on like a Victorian lady or something. You look like you--"
"I don't make funny faces!" Poe exclaims, vehemently, and it's so desperate-sounding that it makes it seem like he definitely does make funny faces on the regular.
Speaking of faces, the one he's looking at right now is not familiar in the slightest. This mystery person's face is somewhat...baby-face-syndrome-ridden (though that is just to say their face is soft, because they are quite clearly an adult), but their jaw is a tiny bit defined, if he looks closely. They have long eyelashes framing strikingly brown eyes that look bruised underneath, like they rub them often. Freckles sparingly dot their face, along with some acne on their forehead (probably due to their bangs laying on the skin) and a few scratch marks that look consistent with dermatillomania, something he himself isn't unfamiliar with. They're fairly tan, too. Their hair looks choppy, like they cut it without a mirror, and it's black and unruly, but charmingly so, he supposes, in a just-fell-out-of-bed kind of way. And, most of all, the most dastardly Cheshire grin is twisted on their lips.
They're beautiful.
"You sooooo do."
Actually, there's one more detail that stands out.
They look transparent. Which is really not normal or reasonable. Poe suddenly feels the urge to embody the chaise fainter comment.
Then, they speak again, and Poe thinks they say plenty all of a sudden for someone who clearly had been hiding until now. Probably for fun, the way they're acting, if they are, in fact, not an evil figment of his imagination.
"Awh," they groan, "you're better than most people, though. A lot of them don't even notice I'm here. But it's obvious this time that stuff isn't normal or whatever so I'm not going to give you all that much credit. But I like your funny faces. I like your face, emo guy."
Emo guy?
Poe thinks he must have visibly taken offense to that, because the...transparent individual cackles.
"Do you prefer goth? I never understood the difference. Silly."
"I prefer neither. I actually would prefer to know what you are. A ghost? A spectre? I never understood the difference. Silly."
Clearly, the mystery presence had not, before now, expected snark, because they frown. Poe takes it as his turn to look smug, because looking unassuming and shy works every time.
"It's dumb to ask questions you know the answer to, goth guy. Emo guy. Funny face guy."
"I don't know the answer," says Mr. Author-Detective-Etcetera, "You're a strange apparition in an otherwise empty library and I have no reason to believe I'm confident in what you are."
"I'm not strange. You can't be calling anyone weird when you carry around a raccoon! Hey, what's that all about, anyway? Who has a raccoon they carry around? Especially with a toddler care tote bag."
Poe clutches the shitty cheesy Etsy bag in his hands and almost retorts before he remembers how stupid it is to be having a playground fight with...some guy. Some ghost, which they'd admitted in a very vague and indirect way in order to...jab at his intelligence? Something.
"Not your business at all. Who are you?"
"You're an awfully double standard loving guy."
Three beats of silence pass before a groan that flashes Poe back to substitute teaching a second grade English class in his second year of college breaks it.
"Ranpo! Edogawa Ranpo-- well, Ranpo Edogawa in your stupid language that makes a billion rules and breaks them all."
Yeah, Poe is sure he can't deny that one. It is true and he has agonized over it so many times, regardless of the fact that it is his native tongue.
More importantly, he recognizes that name. It's the name of a detective that had come from overseas — Japan, he's sure it was — to Boston to assist with a particularly hard case, and had, ultimately, ended up subject to what the people of the city as a whole are still speculating to have been murder, a year later. A sour taste forms in his mouth.
Ranpo Edogawa, the genius detective with a success rate that so frustratingly justified his ego, who had still fallen victim to murder, was sitting in front of him in spirit form, in a dark library with nothing but the light of the fireplace and dim afternoon sun through the windows, bantering with him, and how could this just be his imagination, as much as he wants to dismiss it, and--
And Ranpo's face is falling very subtly, the longer he stares at him and ponders the sheer unbelievable aspects of the whole situation at hand.
"Why are you looking at me like that? Stop," Ranpo says, suddenly firm, suddenly lacking humor in his face, suddenly not laughing, suddenly not possessing a smirk.
He doesn't know why this happens, but Poe feels a piece of him ache, something numb and distant, but nonetheless present. He doesn't know Ranpo personally — for what reason should he feel hurt for him? What is it for?
Maybe it's sheer pity for a murder victim. Maybe it's the understanding of how humiliating it might be to fall prey to what one had so aptly destroyed and bested so many times before — a shattering of pride.
"Stop, I said," Ranpo says again, and Poe knows quickly that he doesn't like to repeat himself. It's obvious, and he feels the compulsion to make a funny face again, just to reverse the unfunny one that's clearly startled the other so profoundly, like he doesn't want to be known anymore, not like this.
"Say...say something absurd."
Ranpo's irritated expression flashes immediately to something like surprise, like he's been caught off guard by such a clearly pointed demand with such an obvious purpose, so unabashedly and shamelessly deliberate. Poe chuckles, very lightly, very softly.
"Why, I told you to say something absurd, not make an absurd face. It would appear the shoe is on the other foot, now."
The room is brightened by the sunshine light of the apparition's — Ranpo's — smile, and the thank you carries itself on the wind.