Work Text:
The Queer Creeper associates Cindershore at night with a stiff breeze off the ocean. Even when it is still, on nights like tonight, he hears wind in his ears as he leaps across rooftops, pausing to glance appreciatively at the sprawl of electric lights below.
The Atria, brightly lit and loud with crooning music, stands out like a navigational star. He pauses to listen, but he just can’t appreciate Diamond’s discography the same way anymore. He checks the Atria’s distance to the brightest spot on the horizon, as the last red sunrays slip away, and leaps to the next ledge.
The Queer Creeper has never liked breaking into residences, it just doesn’t seem polite, but he’s been doing a lot of it lately to help out the Chrysalis case lawyers. He’s willing to sacrifice some nights at home for that, even if it means being shunned by several cats and nipped at by a series of small yet vicious dogs, which is really his worst complaint. A little hint can take a warrant a long way, and the cases mean a lot to Jakub and his sword-wielding friend.
He snakes his way between rows of windows in the alley between two condominiums, looking for any vacant, closet-adjacent rooms. A kitchen on the third floor is empty of anyone taking an evening meal, and the window is open just wide enough for The Queer Creeper to wriggle through. He tucks himself into the small pantry, snuggling up close to the spice rack. While it isn’t the ideal sort of closet, it works.
Two more stories up and several rooms over, The Queer Creeper takes a moment to judge the clothing choices of this particular terrorist.
They are sub par.
He tsks, then cracks the door, scanning the depressing, windowless bedroom for life, but there’s only an extravagant lamp (The Queer Creeper reminds himself that stealing is wrong) in an otherwise tasteless room.
After the past few weeks, the search is routine. He saves under the bed for last, (because it holds the most surprises), and starts at the dresser. Nothing but socks. In the desk drawer are bills confirming he’s got the right room, between the mattress and box spring is a measly stack of bills and a note with an address (which The Queer Creeper copies onto a piece of admittedly impressive stationary, which he pockets, returning the note to its place). He yawns, rifling through the contents of the bedside table’s secret compartment for anything particularly juicy, turning up his nose at the details of an affair (then taking a second look, before deciding it actually isn’t interesting) and carefully sorting anything mentioning a name on his growing his of conspirators from the rest.
The Queer Creeper’s eyes glaze over as he scans, his hand coming down heavily against the table. He shakes his head, ridding his eyes of dampness, before finishing his work and nestling the documents comfortably in a neatly labeled folder, and replacing it in his briefcase. Then he checks under the bed.
Two bright yellow eyes blink at him from a blob of soft-looking grey fur. He gasps, softly.
“Why, hello there,” He says.
The cat’s ears twitch, before it turns it’s back on him and lays its head down.
The Queer Creeper very bravely suppresses his disappointment. The faster he gets over it, the faster he can get to bed.
There’s no issue leaving the condo through the front door — the owner is spending a rather lovely night at the Atria with someone she apparently promised not to see again — but the hallway presents trouble in the form of a scowling, well-dressed halfling, who gives him a critical once-over.
"You're that Queer Creeper," The halfling says, as QC forces out some comment about the weather.
"You're very…observant," he replies.
The man pushes his glasses farther up his nose, and takes a step closer. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, nothing at all."
"Really? Cause my neighbor's never had anyone over while she's out."
"Yes, well, I'll be seeing you—"
"You wait just a moment, Mr.Creeper," and the halfling pulls a badge from his pocket.
In his exhaustion, it takes QC a moment to realize what it is. Then his shoulders sink.
"You're under arrest for suspected breaking and entering."
Ipswitch just nods.
The halfling chats the whole car ride to the station. First you then Chrysalis this, Vigilantism that, Ipswitch barely listens. He hides his face behind the passenger seat, and peels off his mask for just enough time to rub the crease between his eyebrows, before he replaces it, and straightens his spine.
At the station, he’s passed into the care of a human woman who's just as friendly, and who takes QC's briefcase and jacket.
"The mask stays on," He says.
She rolls her eyes.
His cell, at least, is quiet, with a slit of a window open to the air. It reeks of cheap, gaudy perfume, and the bench creaks when The Queer Creeper sways in the slightest. He waits, trying not to nod off, and grips the edge of the bench for something uncomfortable enough to keep himself awake. The jagged edge slices his palm.
"Shit," The Queer Creeper says. He doesn't attempt to call someone for help, just presses hard enough to stop the bleeding and bites his lip, rocking — despite the bench's noise — to comfort himself.
He thinks about his briefcase. It's probably in a locker somewhere, feeling lonely. While he's not so foolish as to store personally identifying information with evidence of his extralegal activities, it still contains the work of the past three nights he just hasn't had the time to sort through. If anyone got the idea to search his belongings, all of that work would be lost, or, worse, in the hands of the police to investigate.
He thinks to the address in his jacket pocket, which could be anywhere, and shudders. In all likelihood, it's an office, or an empty safety house, but the chance that someone might live there, that it might be the home of a kind relative, estranged child, any of the wonderful people who might have their address written between the mattresses of someone so desperate for safety and justice that they'd join Chrysalis, nags at him.
Eventually, the human woman returns. The Queer Creeper straightens as she approaches, tucking his wounded hand into his lap. "Phone call," she says, unlocking the cell.
The station is mostly quiet as they walk between rooms. The one cop in uniform, who makes eye contact with QC, scoffs and looks away. An older human, leaning on the counter at the front desk, clutches their bag closer to their chest as he passes.
Maybe, if this were the station closer to the Bee by the Sea, he would've seen some recognition. But it isn't.
The benches in the phone room are slightly more comfortable. The Queer Creeper fiddles with the rotary dial a few times. Then he sucks in a breath. It's not quite possible to keep pressure on his cut while also holding the receiver, but he makes it work.
Jakub answers with a yawn. "Yes?" He says, in that soft, self-satisfied voice he gets when he's tired. It makes The Queer Creeper regret going out tonight at all, but work requires sacrifice. Usually he hates to mix work and his personal life, but it was his fault for getting caught, being so reckless as to not check the hallway.
"Uhm—"
"Ipswitch?" There's noise on the other end, porcelain being set down, furniture moving. "What time is it?"
His pocket watch was in his jacket. "I'm not sure, but—"
"What do you mean you're not sure ?" His voice drops into suspicion, and The Queer Creeper feels his throat go tight.
He opens his mouth to respond. No words escape him.
"You're in jail," Jakub says. It’s not a question. Jakub always was observant.
The Queer Creeper twirls the phone’s cord around his finger. "Yes."
"The constabulary?"
"I'm closer to the Atria."
"I'll be right there."
The Queer Creeper checks his hand, which is not looking pretty, and holds the receiver against his shoulder to try and stop the slow trickle of blood.
"While I very much appreciate your help, I only wanted to let you know why I wouldn't be coming back, tonight. I'm sure they'll release me in the morning, and it'll be alright. I'm holding onto some hope someone will recognize me from the constabulary fire and that will make things… Well, slightly easier." He pauses. "Jakub?"
A few seconds pass, then a distant, "oh shit! I didn't hang up!" There's fumbling of the receiver. "Hi!"
"Hello," The Queer Creeper says, feeling a faint smile start on his face.
"Look," says Jakub, "if you were saying something about how I don't have to or whatever, put it out of your mind. I'm on jail support at work. You called the right guy."
The Queer Creeper chuckles as a wave of admiration floods him. "How'd you know?"
"I have a type. I like my men valiant."
"Oh," says The Queer Creeper, blushing furiously.
"Hang tight. I'm on my way. Don't get sad! Kisses, bye."
The line clicks dead.
"Kisses," The Queer Creeper mutters to himself, with quiet glee. "Kisses."
He's careful to hide his palms on the way back to the cell, getting caught quite literally red-handed would only make his night worse. It's difficult, though. His hands are shaking.
Don't get sad , The Queer Creeper reminds himself, as the lights turn off in the bullpen. The front desk glows a soft yellow he refuses to love toward. Don't get sad.
Thirty minutes must go by. The mantra isn't helping. The Queer Creeper switches to kisses instead, and finds that much more effective.
Another half hour. The human woman approaches the bars. "You hungry?" She says, "We've got snacks." he shakes his head, even that motion making the bench groan.
He wouldn't blame Jakub for forgetting, going to bed. It's late, he sounded tired, The Queer Creeper only wishes he knew one way or the other. He hears himself sniffle before he realizes there are tears on his face, and he wipes them away quickly. He hasn’t got the time to cry.
Instead, he resolves to trust Jakub. He thinks of kisses, and he waits.
It's not much longer before the station's doors burst open, and one very flustered Jakub rushes to the counter.
"I'm looking for my boyfriend," he says, eyes sweeping the room. Then he makes eye contact with The Queer Creeper and abandons the front desk entirely.
He stands, waving with his bad hand, and only realizes it when Jakub's face twists in horror.
"Are you okay?" Jakub, says, rushing forward to cup The Queer Creeper's face through the bars.
He opens his mouth.
"If you say yes, so help me goddex."
He shuts his mouth.
Jakub’s eyes search his face. "I'm sorry it took me so long, I was at another station, and you wouldn't believe how many flamboyant elves there are in Cindershore."
"Ah, yes. It's a cultural thing."
"Most of them were just in pink! Cops wouldn't know flamboyance if I threw glitter in their face,” Jakub runs a thumb under his eyes, then pulls his hand back. It comes away wet, and Jakub’s face falls.
“I’m really sorry. I should have been here sooner. You know you did nothing wrong, right?” Jakub says. “Right?”
The Queer Creeper nods, hesitantly.
Jakub tsks. “Can I see your hand?"
His wrists are just narrow enough to fit comfortably through the bars. Jakub wipes them clean with alcohol wipes from the first aid kit at his hip, then keeps The Queer Creeper’s hand in his own, comparing the size and shape of different stick on bandages.
“This is just like The Duke’s best man,” The Queer Creeper mutters, which is a thought he intended to keep inside his brain.
“What was that?”
“Do you have any bandages with cat patterns?”
“They're all cat-patterned, who do you think I am?” Jakub says, meeting The Queer Creeper’s eyes and sticking out his tongue, before focusing on ripping a stick-on out of its package. “That’s not what you said, though.”
“Oh, it was nothing.”
“I’ll keep bothering you until you spill the beans.”
The Queer Creeper sighs. “I said this was just like my book.”
“That feudal romance one?”
“Indeed.”
Jakub is grinning. “Does that make me your knight in shining armour?”
“Actually, it would make me your knight in shining armour, and you my doting liege, who never accepts the idea he could care too much.”
Jakub’s cheeks go pink, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the bandage as he presses it on.
"Anyway, I can't help everyone, but Ms.Wittlesby Esquire will find herself with a few more clients in the morning. Come here?"
The Queer Creeper leans towards the bars, a bit dazed, both from his relief and the romantic success of making Jakub blush, and gets a kiss on the forehead for his trouble.
"You sit tight. I'm going to make rounds and see if there's anything I can do for the other folks here, then we'll worry about bail, okay?"
Jakub disappears down somewhere beyond the wall, but The Queer Creeper is comforted by the sound of his voice, soft and reassuring, as he retakes his set on the terrible bench. Then Jakub goes to the front desk, making a show of reaching past the camera and press badge on his hip for his wallet. He makes no small talk with the human woman at the desk, just slides across a stack of bills and nods curtly at her reply, before returning to The Queer Creeper's cell.
"Bail is processing," Jakub says, making himself comfortable on the ground near the corner. He pats the floor in front of him. "Come, sit with me. The floor is more comfortable than those benches, I promise."
“You know what the benches in jail are like?”
Jakub tilts his head to and fro, dismissively.
The Queer Creeper goes to him. "Once we get home, I'll be sure to pay you back."
"No worries. If I get a story out of this, I can charge the paper. What so you think about 'Local Hero Arrested for Fighting Terror' or maybe 'Local Hero on Third Sleepless Night to Keep City Cafe, Unjustly Arrested.'"
“That last one is too long for anything but front page formatting,” The Queer Creeper critiques.
“In my book, you’re always front page news,” Jakub says, and winks.
Things are quiet between them. The air conditioning hums softly, and in the silence near the bars, they can hear concerned whispering between two people in an adjacent cell. Jakub slides his hand closer, and The Queer Creeper covers it with his own.
Jakub takes a long breath. "I'm worried about you."
"There's nothing to worry about. You're here."
Jakub lowers his voice, learning in to whisper harshly. "And what if I wasn't—What happens when I'm not. I know this is important to you, but three days? You look exhausted. You need to rest."
"Does justice ever rest?"
"Yes." Jakub says, with complete and utter conviction. "Often."
The Queer Creeper looks away.
The human woman passed them by, unlocking the cell beside theirs. Two pixies flit out, hand in hand, before one breaks off to hover over Jakub's shoulder.
"Thank you," they say. "I hope you and your boyfriend have a nice night. Thank you, really."
Jakub smiles graciously, and nods, but exhaustion is visible too, in the creases around his eyes. The pixies leave through the front, and Jakub watches them go. Then he stares at The Queer Creeper, who shifts under the scrutiny.
Jakub reaches through the bars for the edge of The Queer Creeper's mask. "Let's talk about it later. Can I take this off you?"
"What if someone discovers my identity?"
Jakub's face goes carefully blank for a moment. Before he cranes his neck to look around. "Cop’s gone. Nobody else is here. And as handsome as you are, Mr.Creeper, I'm not sure my boyfriend would approve of me smooching strangers."
The Queer Creeper considers this. "For a smooch, you say?"
Jakub wiggles his eyebrows.
"Well, in that case." He presses his cheek into Jakub's hand, letting the mask lift away from his eyes, which fall shut as Jakub gently pulls him forward by the chin.
The kiss is firm, as are Jakub's hands, and Ipswitch feels the tension flow out of his body. He breaks the kiss on accident, as he droops toward the floor, and Jakub's laughs before following him down.
He replaces the mask on Ipswitch's face, and tweaks his nose.
"You're cute," Jakub says.
"I am?"
Jakub looks at him with an expression Ipswitch has grown very familiar with, somewhere between endeared and exasperated.
He straightens up. Trying to look assured. "I am cute."
Jakub snorts, shaking his head, before he claps his hands on his knees. "Alright, cutie. Let me go see what's taking so long."
Jakub leaves, and returns and with briefcase in hand, Ipswitch's jacket thrown around his shoulders. The moment the cell is unlocked, Jakub laces their fingers together, and lets himself get tugged into the alley beside the constabulary, keeping watch without being asked while Ipswitch dons his civilian clothes over the gecko suit.
The walk home is long, but Jakub doesn’t complain when Ipswitch leans his head on his shoulder. The streets blur together as Jakub guides him. Every few moments, in a constant rhythm, his tail brushes Ipswitch's arm. The small reassurance is more than welcome.
When they reach Ipswitch's apartment, Jakub let's go of his hand, going to check the windows are locked. Ipswitch lingers at the door to kick off his shoes and, while he's at it, strips off the rest of his clothes too. When he peels off the top of his gecko suit, he looks up to Jakub leaning against the banister, staring appreciatively.
Ipswitch freezes. "Hello," he says, shrugging his shirt lazily over his chest, not bothering to button it.
"Hi," Jakub replies. He stalks toward Ipswitch, running his hands up the parted sides of his shirt before throwing his arms around Ipswitch’s neck. They fall back against the door with a soft thud. They stay there a while.
When Jakub pulls back, it's with a yawn, showing of rows of adorably sharp teeth. He rubs his eyes, checks his watch, and pats Ipswitch's chest with finality.
Together, they finish drawing the curtains, half-assing a conversation about breakfast neither of them will actually remember come morning, before flopping into bed, spending their last surge of strength to climb into each other's arms.
Ipswitch lays, listening at first to Jakub's heartbeat, and then the low rumbling of his purr, feeling deft comb through his hair, loosely braiding it for bed. Jakub lifts Ipswitch's bandaged hand towards his lips and presses a kiss into it, before resting his cheek against the palm.
"You're mine for the next three days," Jakub murmurs, "In return for getting yourself arrested."
"I'm not so certain I can—"
"Where are you going on a wounded hand, anyway?" Jakub’s voice is terse, angry and tired. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
And he’s right. Ipswitches bones feel heavy. "You make a very good point."
"Exactly," Jakub says, holding him a little tighter. "So you're mine."
"Let no one disparage your skills of negotiation," Ipswitch says. “I’m all yours.”
The sound of purring flares in his ears.