Work Text:
When the smog is a shroud which covers the night, blanketing street lamps and buildings alike; a heinous figure decides to prowl.
They are the source of nightmares, obsessions. The silhouette burnt into the back of one’s eyes.
They are the shadows, wisps of smoke. There and gone with prize to hand.
“How terribly poetic,” Zandik drawled, slapping the newspaper upon his cluttered desk. It joined the tabloids stained by coffee and age—a library of repeat police failures—and whatever else lay forgotten amidst the heap. “We’ve reached a point where incompetency is celebrated. Dressed all pretty for the press to feast.”
“I think it’s the press doing the dressing,” said Ajax, his bakerboy cap just visible over Zandik’s chaos. “I see ‘em lurking about in the evening. Vultures hoping the thief will strike nearby. Kinda’ sad, if you ask me.”
“Indeed.”
Ajax reclined in his creaky old chair, grubby boots set atop a small side table, and angled his chin to the window just behind. From there he could see the tall chimneys, the smoke. The things hailed as progress by well-to-do-folks.
To a common bit of muck once scraped off the stones, Ajax saw things in a different light. He’d once been lured into a place of said ‘progress’, a factory across the city, and nothing inside those walls resembled hope. From people caught in machines—unfortunate 'accidents'—to others vanishing after making complaints, those bricks stank of death, decay and deceit, and Ajax decided he’d much rather starve on the streets.
That was a time before Zandik arrived. Before a hand emerged through the fog, took him in, and gave him a new lease of life.
“Ajax?”
He returned to the room. Blue eyes lacked a light, perhaps never had one. Ajax didn’t care either way. What he did care about, however, was the case of this thief haunting the city. The scourge of galleries and museums. He cared for the drama, the thrill of the chase.
Perhaps he was just as bad as the press, in that respect. The perfect audience for their tales.
“I think you could get them,” Ajax said aloud. “The great Il Dottore isn’t like the police. You have a hunch who it might be. I can tell.”
“Of course, thanks to your help.”
Zandik referred to the cabinet beside his desk; his trove of swiped evidence. There was the small corner of burnt parchment, which still bore a faint, pleasant floral scent, and expensive black cloth he’d found snagged on a nail. He’d come across a footprint, made a rushed sketch, and last (but by no means least) there was the ring abandoned on the steps of a crime scene, not unlike the glass slipper from a childhood tale.
In the hours where sleep refused to visit, and looming payments ached his head, Zandik would sit at his desk and take out that ring. He’d hold it by candlelight, turn silver to gold, and study deep purple veins weaving through the metal.
Lovely it was, but proof? Maybe not. Like his map on the wall with its network of string, a frantic attempt to connect past events, it might be nothing more than a link in his head. A fantasy derived from wishful thinking.
Zandik reached for a bottle beneath his chair. To his dismay, it was old. Empty. “Dear boy,” he said shortly after, “I appreciate your faith in my work, but we haven’t had a case in weeks. We used most of this month's coin to patch that hole in the roof, and I hate to announce: we’re incredibly poor.”
“Never been rich.” Ajax deflected. “And who cares? I like our attic home.”
‘Home’ was a kind way to put it. Zandik scanned the pit of papers, his makeshift office, and the door to the side leading off to their beds. The low, slanted roof passed off as ‘character’ (or a curse when Zandik bumped his head), and the overall size could be considered cosy.
It was a far cry from the future Zandik had imagined as a scholar turned freelance detective, but it was a roof and a couple of walls. Ajax even made for some good company.
“Do you need me to go out?” Ajax asked, flexing hands in fingerless wool gloves.
Did he want him to steal, to pilfer and raid. To scrape the city for food and leftover coins.
“No.” Zandik shook his head. “One day you will be caught, and the papers won’t praise you like other thieves. You’ll be strung by the neck in a cold prison courtyard, and I should like to see you grow to a ripe old age.”
Touched by closing statement, Ajax promptly gave up on that plan. “I guess we’re rationing then. I might have a coin or two under my-”
Ding ding.
Neither man moved while the door bell tolled. Even after that, muscles were set. Zandik let out a breath he’d forgotten ever holding, and surrendered to fate with a sigh.
“The landlord isn’t due for another two weeks.”
Ajax perked up. He left his seat. “It must be a client, then. I’ll go see!”
“No lad, wait!”
Papers tumbled, feet slipped. Zandik couldn’t afford to leave his desk and give chase, save he risk hurling more of his possessions to the floor. When Ajax ran he rivalled the winds; off and back again brimming with zeal.
“I was right!” he called from the door.
Zandik grabbed what he could from the desk, craned his body, and dumped it in an open chest just behind. He’d go through it later, never, most likely.
“Right this way, sir. Come on- oh. That’s an interesting friend you got there.”
Silks and jade caught Zandik’s eye; a bloom welcomed into their lowly pit. Ajax dragged his chair over, in front of the desk, and the rest was a hazy affair. Zandik was alone, and then he was not. Golden eyes pinned him down in his seat. The curious white scarf their guest wore was alive, exposing forked tongue and surveying the room.
“Are you the one they call Il Dottore?”
Back into action. Upright. Alert. “I am,” Zandik responded. “And you are?”
“Baizhu.” A finger rose, trailing over shimmering scales. “And Changsheng. We’d like your help.”
“I see you enjoy the theatre. How nice.”
Zandik followed Baizhu’s stare to a wall of masks. He would only consider selling those if necessary; if month-old newspapers replaced real food. “Oh, those. You recognise them?”
“I can’t tell you who’s who just by looking,” Baizhu confessed. “But your... business title, shall we say, was a hint. I know that theatre and its characters, somewhat.”
Well, colour Zandik impressed. A customer of culture graced their abode. He’d have to thank Baizhu later for a decent conversation, and for improving the aesthetics for a while.
“I wanted to be Capitano,” said Ajax, whom the group at the desk had since forgotten. “Somebody said no.”
Baizhu laughed. “Is that so?”
“He’s not that great,” Zandik complained. “Il Dottore, on the other hand...”
“Likes to talk way too much.” Ajax finished. “Suits you just fine, I think.”
“Tartaglia, please. Cease your tongue and accept your title.”
“Play nicely,” Baizhu intervened, holding neither man in higher regard. “Or perhaps I should take my business elsewhere...?”
“No!”
“I thought as much.” Baizhu slipped into power as he did his silks. He pulled the unseen reins tight, commanding respect, and from his robes came a folded piece of paper. When unveiled, no reaction came. It contained nothing more than the drawing of a snake. Or rather, something shaped like a snake.
“Judging by the newspapers on your desk, and those shoved unceremoniously in the chest just behind you-” Baizhu began, causing Zandik to jump in his seat “-I presume you’re up-to-date on events pertaining to a certain shadowy thief?”
“It’s hard not to be.” Zandik played down what could only be considered his obsession. His desire to unmask the aforementioned night terror. “I’m aware of their past heists, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. Then I’ll keep things brief. I need you to detect, and protect. I reckon the thief will be after it soon.”
“Protect whatever this is?” Zandik gestured to the drawing.
Baizhu hummed. A finger curled in green hair. “It’s a jade ornament, not cheap. Its value to me, however, far surpasses any heap of coin.”
“Sentimental, hm?”
“You could say that.”
Zandik understood. “Where is it now?”
“The B&A. It’s currently there on loan as part of a larger exhibition.”
Scratch that notion. He didn’t understand. That museum was huge, to say the least, and undoubtedly stocked to the rafters with guards. What use could they possibly be?
“I don’t trust that place.” Baizhu coiled hair tight. “It’s bad enough the police can’t do their job right, and the museum guards are equally to blame.” He nodded to the newspapers still sat on the desk. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s something beneath the surface. A collaboration with the press for extra money.”
“Now that’s a great theory.” Ajax chipped in. “Those rats are always hungry for a headline.”
“Which is why I want you there too,” Baizhu explained. “Just for tonight, for my own sake.”
A solid case, Zandik decided. He inspected the drawing one last time. “We’ll do everything we can.”
“What did you make of that Baizhu fellow?”
The cogs whirred loud beneath hair and cap. Ajax entertained a whimsical smile, proceeding to fidget with the cuffs of his jacket. “I wouldn’t say no if he offered. The snake would need to go away for a bit, however.”
“Ajax.” Zandik deadpanned. “I meant in a professional capacity.”
“Oh.” A freckled nose wrinkled. “Well, in that case I dunno’. As far as customers go he was nicer than most. Kinda’ mysterious with it too.”
“I agree.”
Zandik scanned the nearest newspaper. Looking without truly reading. Ink became noise upon yellowing sheets, a flurry of scratches to send readers astray. Cultured brain aside, Baizhu resembled that level of distraction. He chose words with care, their delivery too. Never stumbling along the way.
“I think he knows something.”
Ajax blinked. “Pardon?”
“I think he knows about the thief,” Zandik clarified. “And I dare say he wants us to reach this conclusion.”
“I think you’re thinkin’ too much.”
“Really? You think?”
“I think I do think.” Ajax approached, patting the desk to a musical beat. “Let’s grab some food and prepare for tonight.”
Zandik’s chest was a harp; neglected, out of tune. A churning instinct tried to play it nonetheless. Curiosity pulled and plucked the strings, coaxing breaths to fall out of line. The sight of the museum only worsened the matter.
Actually, to be more specific, it was the guard who made it worse. Zandik and Ajax—Dottore and Tartaglia whilst on the job—ascended the grand entrance steps. They predicted some kind of welcome from the guard at the door.
All they got, sadly, was rejection. The imposing wall of muscle simply stared down his nose, making no effort to hide his displeasure.
“What business have you got here, Il Dottore?”
“Business business.”
Tartaglia inhaled, improved his posture. He could only dream of achieving the guard’s build. “We’ve been hired to assist, since you’re not enough.”
“Excuse me?”
“Gentlemen,” Dottore brandished a letter Baizhu penned before leaving. A just-in-case measure which proved necessary. “You’ve got something of our client’s in there.” Dottore nodded to the grand building behind—all columns and tall windows. The glass alone would be worth a pretty penny, let alone the treasures which lurked inside. “We’re here to watch it for the night.”
Perplexed, the guard said nothing. He couldn’t very well refute Baizhu’s letter, nor could he allow the men inside. Dottore had a reputation, to put it nicely. A penchant for drama and showing up uninvited, resulting in countless warnings from the police. Tartaglia would distract the officers through disguises, leaving Dottore free to enter scenes and gather clues.
Lucky for them then, Dottore often wondered, that the police didn’t insist on paying a home visit. They wouldn’t take kindly to the spoils of his private investigations, or the notion that he might be ahead of the game.
“Is there a problem over here?”
Old. Waist height. Walking stick. Dottore placed his bets before addressing the newcomer, and took immense pride in finding he was right. An elderly man approached the small gathering, his intricate cane announcing his stop, and moustache twitching beneath his beak nose.
Security, said his clothes of the same royal blue, with silver trim and ornate buttons. Higher level said his dignified stance, the tall feathers upon his taller hat, and the guard’s abrupt inability to speak.
“S-Sir, I-!”
“What are you doing interrupting these men?” Beady eyes peered from behind round frames. The cane hit the stones with a resounding clack. “Did you not receive the message?”
“Message, sir?”
The cane went down again. The tyrant of short stature didn’t like that response.
“These are our guests.” A gloved hand waved to Dottore and Tartaglia. “Il Dottore, plus one assistant. Did your ears happen to fail you on the day you were informed?”
The guard’s throat bobbed. “I-I can’t recall. I mean, yes. It must be so. A thousand apologies.”
“I’ll be needing more than that.”
“Sir.” A deep bow. “Pulcinella, sir.”
Pulcinella...?
Well, well. Dottore bared teeth. He liked this man even more. The return of a smile implied mutual respect, the cane clacked again to make the guard leap.
“That will be all,” Pulcinella announced. “Dottore. Young lad. This way please.”
“This must be the archive,” Dottore murmured, admiring the dimly lit hall. A surplus of cabinets formed great long lines, and whatever didn’t fit was covered by thick cloth.
Tartaglia had been tempted, like a small child with sweets, to an extensive collection of weapons. He swung a ball and chain with frightening ease (Dottore made a mental note: boy is stronger than he looks) then proceeded to examine various arrowheads. He grinned at his reflection in breastplates, merrily engrossed in the shrine to warfare.
“Please excuse the fellow at the door.”
Pulcinella appeared by Dottore’s side. For a man dedicated to protecting the museum, he harboured a disarming, grandfatherly pride. He never called for Tartaglia’s actions to cease, nor did the infamous cane come down.
“He’s a spirited lad.”
“That he is.” Dottore replied. “And thank you, by the way, for what you did.”
“Hoho, not at all. This place tends to hire the best or the worst, and nothing in between. I’m either telling those obsessed with their work to go home, or dragging lazier folks to their post.”
Dottore suspected that cane did more of the dragging, but that was neither here nor there.
“You’d best be off, hadn’t you?” said Pulcinella.
“Indeed, I-”
“Leave him to me,” Pulcinella nodded ahead. Tartaglia remained in his own little world, and on this occasion, it did no harm. “You’ll be wanting the fourth floor. Western hall.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Dottore didn’t like stairs at the best of times, or the constant chill passing through his bones. He first put it down to exposed, arched windows. A curtain or two would’ve kept in the heat.
Failing that, he blamed the building itself. A temple of marble and elaborate cast iron.
When he reached the fourth floor, breaths laboured, his gut pinned the cold to something else. The size of the hall, like the jaws of a beast, loomed and threatened to swallow him whole. An unspeakable pressure filtered through the air, pressed down on his shoulders and gripped his calves.
“Don’t be a fool, Zandik.” He pushed onwards. He was hardly alone, there were guards downstairs, and yet...
And yet, he hesitated. The fourth floor struck a different, harrowing chord. Plinths and statues cast long shadows in the moonlight. Porcelain beheld an ethereal sheen. He read through some plaques, took their wisdom for the road, but alas he found no jade.
Talk about a case of misdirection (he’d have a word with Pulcinella later on) and damn him for keeping Tartaglia behind. The lad would’ve been useful, he’d run off ahead. He’d save Dottore’s eyes and legs and-
Shoes squeaked, coming to a halt. Amidst the tomb of past lives, the homage to foreign lands, Dottore's nose caught wind of something strange. One step forward whisked him right back; off to his tired, messy desk, holding burnt parchment to his nose. It carried him to the latest crime scene across the city, where officers stumbled upon the same scent, and remarked that their culprit must be a fair sort.
It dumped him, finally, in the present. Senses flared. A fist clenched tight. The faintest floral hint was a breadcrumb trail, the only warning he’d receive before it lashed out from the dark. The sing of metal flew by his ear. A heeled boot came next when the weapon failed. Combat formed the tempo to an unexpected dance; a barrage of fists, another threat from a knife, and at last, the desired opening.
Dottore swung his leg blind—careless, really—and through sheer luck it found its mark. Whilst he stumbled back his assailant went sidewards, hurtling across the floor. Ornate knives skittered. Dottore recovered. Hands clasped his knees and he hunched, rasping.
He’d wring the bastard for that. He’d drive their own daggers through their chest and then he’d-...
“Oh.”
He’d do none of that. In fact he’d take the final blow back if he could, and launch it into his own stomach. His opponent was as sore, if not worse off, a smattering of black exposed by the light. A waist length cloak draped to one side and folded, resembling crumpled wings. Dottore witnessed a crow in a gilded cage, head hung forward and clutching their gut.
Moonlight kissed a crown to obsidian waves. Silver glasses swung redundant, attached by a chain. Shoulders heaved, the fight snuffed out, and at last the face appeared. Blurred violets found Dottore, and he found them. The crescendo of a breath lodged tight in his throat.
Against his better judgement, guilt prevailed. Feet betrayed the nagging call of an eye for an eye, he attacked you first. Throwing knives were collected from the floor, and much like a cat presenting a gift, he returned them to their rightful owner.
“Are you alright?”
“What do you think, Il Dottore?”
Silence. A vacant stare. Dottore dove through his mental records of interesting encounters, and no. He came up short. He’d remember a man as striking as this, the glare which sent a hot wave over his face, and caused heat to pool within his lower body. Dottore would’ve laid on charm, not blows, and he... he forgot the rest. Mesmerised by the pleasant surprise.
“How do you know me?” He reached out a hand. A peace offering to help the other up.
“It’s my business to know.” Slim legs extended prettily, a brilliant contrast against marble. “Fortunately for you,” verbal velvet went on, luring Dottore into a fond stupor, “I do believe in fair exchange. You can call me Pantalone.”
“Pantalone?”
“The comic foil. Ironic, I know.” Pantalone deadpanned, taking Dottore’s hand to sit upright. “To think we would finally meet like this.”
Dottore inhaled, let the words soak in, absently running a thumb across that hand. Calloused pad caught on metal, attention flew down. A number of lovely rings greeted him in full—silver and purple, each one unique—save for the lonely last finger. The odd one out devoid of a band.
“Oh.” Pantalone wiggled the finger. “Lost that ring a while back. A pity, truly.”
Sleepless nights. Candlelight. Vain hopes.
Crimson swelled. Mouth formed an ‘o’.
“Are you alright?” Pantalone tipped his head. “Dottore, you seem-”
“Yes. That’s right.”
He’d blame the fight for his bout of amnesia. From scent to clothing, to lost jewellery, everything fell into place. Dottore reached into his coat pocket. Produced the ring. Pantalone achieved a new shade of pale.
"Where did you find that...?"
“I know you very well, don’t I?” Dottore slipped the ring upon the last finger, unsurprised by the perfect fit. “The whole city does, in some shape or form.”
“That's-”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Dottore adopted grace and care unknown even to him, bringing the hand towards his lips. For months he'd yearned for that blessed confirmation, the joy of knowing-
“Do you mind!?”
The hand escaped. Dottore wound up kissing his own clammy palm.
“I was being polite,” he huffed.
“I’d call that being forward, myself.” A fetching colour seeped into Pantalone’s cheeks. He cradled his own hand, tenderly, to his chest, bearing all the manners of an untouched maid. “You also owe me for that kick. It’s bound to bruise.”
“Well, shame on me.” Dottore climbed to his feet. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Pantalone, but wasn’t the fight initiated by you?”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you.”
“No.” Pantalone raised a finger. “You shouldn’t be here. Not yet. You’ve never turned up so soon, and you couldn’t have known about this job.” He slipped and scrambled to his feet, grabbing at the air for purchase. “You shouldn’t have-!”
“Wait!”
“What’s going on here!?”
Bread, meat, and cheese were a luxury meal, something he’d normally savour. Pity for Tartaglia, however, his mind was drawn elsewhere. He grazed and he gawked from atop his crate, only half-following the scene before him.
“More tea?”
“Yes. That would be lovely.”
White scales. Green hair. The old man. Baizhu and Pulcinella shared a laugh, whilst Changsheng relaxed about Baizhu’s neck.
So peaceful was the scene, it betrayed their location. So at ease was their talk, it betrayed the night. Tartaglia forced down a mouthful, mustered his resolve, and asked: “Baizhu. Why are you here...?”
Baizhu emerged from the pleasant lull. Changsheng reared her head, pressed her nose to his cheek, rewarded with a finger along her scales.
“Is my presence an issue?”
“No. Just odd, is all. We’ve got this- Dottore has, anyway. You don’t need to spend your night here too.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“How come?”
“You haven’t told them?” Pulcinella intervened, pinning Baizhu with his stare. “I gave Dottore directions, you know. To help out. What the blazes have you done?”
A wrist turned lazily. “All is well, I promise. I merely omitted some details here and there. Harmless really.”
“Baizhu.”
“I beg you good sirs, have patience.” Baizhu relaxed in his confidence, proceeding to examine the length of his hair. “Il Dottore has everything in hand.”
“I-I asked you a question.” A guard approached. His revolver trembled, much like his voice, too clunky and awkward for his spindly arms. “Who are you!?”
“Now, now. It’s alright.” Dottore’s palm raised. He held Pantalone by the waist, their torsos flush, aware of the thundering pulse pressed tight to his chest. “I’m a detective.”
“I know who you are, so-... stay right there!”
Dottore didn’t move, save to place the same hand on Pantalone’s arm. He supposed it was a first, to be caught mid-theft. Pantalone’s racing nerves were a natural response. Couple that with the slim likelihood of escape, and the odds that Pantalone’s identity might be exposed... then yes, Dottore understood.
Pantalone appeared to be the issue at hand, where the muzzle took its mark and wild eyes stared.
“I don’t know you,” the guard blurted.
“Put the weapon down,” Dottore advised. “No one’s a threat, I promise. Il Dottore plus one assistant - you received that message did you not?”
“Your assistant is younger. Ginger.” The guard forced down spit. “I know that ain’t him.”
“I have more than one, and this-” Dottore trailed off, admiring the man in his arms. “This is...”
“Tell me the truth, or I’ll have to...!”
Dottore scoured his brain for inspiration. The whites of the guard’s eyes were akin to a flare. Further shouts would condemn them, attract more staff, and suffice to say their time was short. There had to be a way to avoid the worst: be it the bullet or a ticket to jail. What they needed was a reason, a cover. An excuse which might-
“Pantalone,” Dottore peered down, managing a gentle smile for his companion's sake. “Would you mind my being forward, just one more time?”
“One more...? Oh.” Pantalone swallowed. A dusting of pink worked across his cheeks. He searched parted lips angled to his own, deciding to bridge that gap himself. Fingers worked into waves and tongue into mouth, painting a vivid picture for the guard.
Somewhere in the haze an apology called out. Footsteps scurried, slapping on stone. Dottore continued in spite of it all. Pride thrived, buried deep in the kiss, coaxing moans that he prayed to recall for years. From that throat he pried honey and dizzying wine, the sweetest of mewls to sate his need.
“Pantalone.” Fingertips traced a jaw, committing every inch to memory. “I must say, you’re-”
“Idiot.” Pantalone reared his head, smacking a palm to Dottore’s chest. “Why did you do that!?”
“Do what? The kiss?”
“No!” Another hit came. Dottore laughed it off. “You know who I am,” Pantalone hissed, “you could’ve told the truth. You held the perfect chance to best the police, those guards, the press! So why...?”
Dottore pulled back to grin. A charming man, when he wished to be. “Throughout my detective career, I’ve only ever wanted two things: the truth, and to know I was right. Bold headlines and riches mean nothing to me.”
“I should’ve known.” Pantalone grasped the point. He broke off their embrace and pat down his clothes. “I suppose congratulations is in order, then. Cheers to you and your well-fed ego.”
“Come now, you’ve reaped the benefits. Meanwhile I’m still looking for that blasted jade trinket.” Dottore rubbed and pulled at his chin. “I fear Baizhu won’t be too impressed.”
“What was that?”
Pantalone rounded. Flexed fingers primed to strike, a greater threat than his fancy knives.
“My client,” Dottore replied. “Snake fellow. Glasses. Kind of... ah.”
Kind of like Pantalone, actually, if he were drawn to colour and scales.
So much for being a detective, Dottore mused, when that glaring link slipped under his nose.
“My, my!” Pulcinella hoho’d, hands clasped together, observing the curious huddle within the archive. “What a thrilling night, indeed.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Pantalone. “You, me, these two-” he pointed to Dottore wedged between him and Baizhu, and Tartaglia beside Pulcinella “-we’ve been played by a conniving piece of lettuce.”
“How unkind,” Baizhu said, smiling. “I merely saved our great detective a bit of work, and besides-” lidded eyes darkened “-you’ve wanted to meet the man chasing your heels.”
“Have you?” Dottore perked up. “Pantalone, please. Elaborate. I should like to know how-”
“I should like you to be quiet,” Pantalone interrupted. “Unless you want to find yourself sunk at the bottom of the river.” He glanced to Baizhu next. “You’ll be joining him too, so wipe off that smile.”
Point made, packaged and received. Dottore pocketed the notion, giddy on the thrill. Baizhu likewise sat content. Unafraid.
“I must agree with Pulcinella,” Dottore announced, “this has all been quite fascinating. And I reckon we ought to be grateful. Though this entire affair was orchestrated—and by our supposed client, nonetheless—I'd say we’ve come out of it fairly unscathed. I’d raise a drink to that.”
“Technically you failed me,” Baizhu remarked, then to Pantalone he asked: “I hope you did not?”
“What do you take me for?” Pantalone shoved a hand inside his cloak, and tossed carved jade to Baizhu’s lap. “Your precious snake, as you requested. I’ve set a cheap replica in its place.”
Tartaglia dove forward, Dottore’s head whirred in turn. Baizhu took the liberty of laughing once more, holding the item for all to see.
“I might’ve told a tiny lie, so sorry. The ornament was never mine to begin with.”
“Then we just-!” Tartaglia exclaimed, looking to Dottore for help. “Tonight we’ve-!”
“Assisted a crime.” Pulcinella summarised. “And a jolly good one at that. I dare say I had fun, even if certain details were kept from me too, and I suppose what happens next is down to you.”
The statement settled upon their heads. Dottore weighed up his thoughts with folded arms.
“You have something to say?”
Pulcinella nodded. His trusty cane turned in his hands. “You four are now accomplices, whilst I... I’m somewhat different. I might have known Pantalone was coming, and sent Dottore along his way, but nowhere in that journey did I consent to theft. Were I to raise an alarm, draw attention to this group, who here would remain ‘unscathed’?”
“Brilliant,” Pantalone spat, gearing that comment towards Baizhu. “Was the risk of blackmail part of your plan?”
Needless to say, it wasn’t. Baizhu hummed, chin propped to hand. “It sounds more like a proposition to me.”
“Correct,” Pulcinella went on. “Rather than make Dottore and Tartaglia your rivals, consider becoming a team. Carry on stealing, make your money. I'll take a small cut and for that-” he raised a finger when Pantalone went to speak “-I’ll ensure the loose ends are tidied away, sparing you from a one-way trip to the cells.”
Tartaglia consulted Dottore; a momentary glance conveying his thoughts. The prospect of life as they knew it, yearning for cases and avoiding the landlord, lacked significant appeal for them both.
“I’d say we’re in,” Dottore confirmed. “We could do with the money.”
“I have no objections,” Baizhu concurred. “But what say you, Pantalone? Your business acumen far surpasses that of mine.”
The flattery softened bunched shoulders. Pantalone surrendered without a fight. “I suppose I can see the merits.”
“Fear not,” Dottore boasted. “The police think I’m insane. I’ll keep them off your trail with my madman theories.”
“I’m doing just fine on my own, thank you.”
Not really, in Dottore’s opinion, but that was a belief best hurled to the fire. A hand extended, a courteous gesture. “Do we have an accord, partner?”
“Partner?”
“You need me, and I need you.” Dottore’s sing-song tone hauled them up high, back to the events upon the fourth floor. The fight and intimacy (the better 'fight') came to mind, causing long lashes to dance behind lenses. Pantalone cleared his throat, put it down to the dust. No excuse came for the obvious blush.
“I’ll behave,” Dottore promised. “You dictate my every word, and I swear—lest my corpse be dumped in the river—that I’ll live and breath every thought as if they were my own. You and me. We’ll do it together.”
“I didn’t pin you as a poet.”
Dottore laughed. A light, airy sound. “I didn’t either, actually, until now.”
At last, that stubborn mouth curled. The gloved hand felt right, a perfect fit in his own.
“Partners.” Pantalone agreed, bringing the night—and their case—to a close. There was much to be done; contracts, accommodation (Pantalone refused to move in with Dottore, having heard Baizhu’s account of the flat) and after that, the real work would commence.