Work Text:
❈❈❈
Wato lies awake in bed.
The wall clock to his side ticks ever-on, mocking the boy’s fruitless attempts at sleep. Staring up at the low ceiling, he traces the lines of the smooth metal planes, unnerved. If he didn’t know any better, he could be fooled into thinking he was back underground.
The young detective closes his eyes in defiance of the thought. That place was far away now—the nightmare labyrinth at the underground research facility. The faces of friends lost come to him from the shadows. Ghosts. He doesn’t blame them for being restless—their mortal bodies weren’t laid to rest.
Wato takes a deep breath. The sway of the ship—a rhythmic bumping up, down, up down—functioned less as a gentle rock to sleep and more like an annoying jostling; as if someone was shaking him awake every time he nearly drifted off.
Absently, he drums his fingers across his stomach. Sleep continues to elude him for the first time in his memory. Tomorrow seems both impossibly far and close enough to touch, pulling Wato in all directions. In the thick of the night, time stretches thin enough to overthink everything. To comb through doubts and regrets until his soul felt flattened.
Regrets...
Peeking up from under the covers, Wato spies the small mound in the dark that is Techie, sleeping soundly. That’s a relief. Techie deserves a long rest after everything he’s seen. Rolling over, he checks the empty cot next to his. Armor’s cot. Wato frowns. For all his strength, Armor proved quite weak to the sea. Last he checked, Armor was camping out in the restrooms, fighting his own stomach. But that was nearly an hour ago…
Wato is on his feet before he has time to think about standing. The floor of the ship is cold. He wants to go home.
In the restrooms, it’s obvious which stall Armor is in from the pair of legs sticking out from under door. Poor guy.
“Armor?” Wato calls.
“Ah, Sir Incompetent, prithee forgive me my poor constitution…” He interrupts himself to gag. “Alas, I have caused you yet again to worry.”
“Don’t apologize, it’s okay. Are you… Feeling any better?” Wato ventures, stretching his optimism.
“Fear not, my friend! I shan’t be bested upon the watery plain.” Even seasick, his voice booms through the small room, practically shaking the stalls.
“Um, alright… I’ll go check if they’ve got any medicine on board.” He would like to help more than that, but he isn't a doctor, there's not much else he can contribute.
Armor makes an affirmative sound that becomes groaning, and Wato takes that as his cue to leave.
He’s stopped in the hallway.
“Oh! Incompetent.” A high voice calls to him. He turns and spots Gourmet at the end of the hall, waving him over.
“Gourmet? What are you doing up?” Asks Wato, taking note of an uncharacteristic slouch in Gourmet’s shoulders and the weariness around her eyes. Minute and almost imperceptible details to anyone else, but to Wato, they came to his attention at once.
“Still trying to squeeze a statement out of Doleful.” She replies, then lets out a small sigh.
“Still?” He furrows his brows. “You’ve been with him since we boarded the ship.”
“That’s right.” Gourmet says breezily.
Wato’s jaw drops. “You’ve been interrogating him for ten hours?”
She nods, thoughtfully resting her chin in hand, as if to solve the newspaper crossword puzzle.
“We are in a bit of a pickle, Incompetent, I will be honest. He hasn’t said a word since he stepped foot on board.”
Stunned, Wato found himself amazed at Doleful’s resolve.
“The silent treatment. He really is a child.” Gourmet continues, shaking her head. Wato flushes with embarrassment; his initial reaction to Doleful’s ‘resolve’ seems silly now. They were meant to be getting a confession out of Doleful—any scrap of evidence that would implicate his crimes. He shouldn’t be admiring him.
“Has… Anyone else spoken to him?” He follows up.
“Posh. But she crumbled like a cookie after an hour.”
A pickle indeed. Out of the remaining group that departed from Morgue, Gourmet and Posh were the only qualified adults within their ranks. To have Bookworm or Techie attempt a statement collection like this would be out of the question, even for kids of their talent.
Not only that, they were working with a time limit. This boat would reach the mainland just after dawn, where Doleful would be carted off and questioned by other detectives at the DA.
They’re running out of time to get a confession out of Doleful. Feeling time’s boot pressing on his neck, Wato considers facing what’s really been keeping him awake.
“Why don’t I go talk to him?”
“Incompetent…” Her mouth quirks to the side, unsure. But Wato is quick to make his case.
“I know I’m not much of a detective yet, but I can try.”
“I know you can. Do not mistake my hesitation for lack of belief in your skills." Her words are firm enough to halt any protest from Wato immediately. "You’re a talented detective, Incompetent. For better or worse, you have an empathetic heart… Which is what worries me. If I let you see Doleful now, you will feel his pain and anger and you will lose your bite, which is just what he wants.”
Wato is taken aback. She could see right through him. This, he reminds himself, is the power of an elite detective.
Balling up his fists at his sides, he steels himself, determined regardless. “That may be, but even still, I want to talk to him.”
Crossing her arms, the tall woman looks down at Wato with a critical eye, judging him plainly. Wato swallows back his nerves and tries to hold himself seriously, like Ideal would with her effortless poise. That said, he doesn’t blame Gourmet for her reticence. Being the FBI’s only special agent on this case (as far he knew), she must be under immense pressure.
“Alright.” She says finally. “Just remember who you’re dealing with.”
❈❈❈
Gourmet escorts him down the narrow hall. Wato can’t help but feel a bit claustrophobic here—like he’s been sealed in a tin can. As they reach the door to Doleful’s cell, Gourmet stretches her arms above her head and all of her vertebrae pop in quick succession. She trades a look with Wato, who nods, although he can’t be prepared for the sight that awaits him.
Inside, Doleful is sitting on the floor.
His back is to the wall. Head down. Barefoot. Knees folded to his chest. His silvery hair, loose from its usual style, hangs limp to brush the floor. He’s so small, Wato is reminded. And he wants to remain neutral of this fact, but the multiple chains bolted to the wall are chilling. His eyes follow those daunting silver links to where they meet at Doleful’s neck. Those chains catch the moonlight coming in from a circular window on the other side of the room—slanted and striped from the bars of the cell. The effect sees long, jagged shadows and shapes bobbing eerily with the movement of the ship.
“You have a guest.” Gourmet says icily.
Doleful lifts his head. His eyes are dull and lightless until he blinks, and all at once appears to recognize Wato. A clarity coming to his features, he briefly sparkles with life. But Wato can see him cover it up. He’s pushing down whatever emotion he’s feeling—likely the exact tactic he’s been using to keep Gourmet at bay.
Doleful exhales and turns his head away from them.
An incredible amount of communication can be had with no words at all. Not discouraged by the dismissal, Wato pulls up a chair directly in front of the bars. He feels a little awkward at this angle, looking over Doleful as they both sit down. For safety, he probably wasn’t allowed a chair. Or perhaps Gourmet took away his chair privileges. Either way, Wato finds himself feeling suddenly nervous and underprepared—as if he was the one being interrogated.
The feeling is compounded when Doleful deigns to look at him.
Golden, swirling pools of ichor and venom greet him.
It comes as great shock to Wato when he recollects never having conducted an interrogation before. He kicks himself mentally. His brain is flushed out, and in the wake of panic, Wato falls back on trusty learned politeness.
“Have you— Have you eaten anything?” He stammers.
Doleful cocks his head to the side and the corner of his lip quirks up in a barely contained smirk. With some delay, Wato counts this as a win, although any reaction would have sufficed.
Continuing, he leans all the way forward in his chair, trying again. “Has anyone offered you food?” Doleful’s gaze flicks from Wato to Gourmet, who stands against the door. Wato turns around, addressing her. “You did offer him food, right?”
Drumming her fingers along her arm, Gourmet seems irritated. “He hardly deserves it… And it’s not as if he can die of starvation.”
To hear something like that come from Gourmet of all people surprises him. She must really be at the end of her rope. But that's a given—the deaths of everyone on Morgue are still fresh in their minds, and now there exists someone to definitively blame.
“Gourmet, even prisoners of war are allowed food.” He says gently, not wanting to scold.
Sighing, Gourmet puts her head in her hand. “You’re right. Withholding food is a little harsh, isn’t it? I’ll see if there’s anything tasty in the galley.” She pushes off the door and promptly leaves, all too willing to go at the prospect of making a snack. Come to think of it, if Doleful hadn’t eaten in the last ten hours, Gourmet probably hadn’t either. She must be starving, too.
“I was wondering if they’d let you see me.” Doleful’s scratchy voice slips through the bars, and Wato jumps out of his seat in surprise. The boy in the cage continues, speaking slowly as that half-crazed look swirled in his eyes. “You sure are jumpy… Do you think I’m going to attempt an escape? Do you think I want to hurt you, is that what Gourmet told you?”
He decides to speak truthfully, because he doesn’t know any other way to speak.
“I think you would hurt me.” He says plainly. “I think you would hurt anybody as long as you could justify it. But I don’t think you want to, necessarily.”
“…You’re so earnest it’s literally making me sick.” Doleful says, but there’s no bite to the words. He sits up straight and folds his legs in front of him for a more casual sitting position. The chains that connect to his neck are fully visible now, and the image stops up the air in Wato’s throat.
Doleful wears a modified collar. Earlier in the day, Techie fiddled with the components of the collars used on themselves and outfitted one specially for Doleful’s abilities: a shock collar. Nothing with enough voltage to be lethal, because that would only work in favor of Doleful’s uncanny invincibility. But it would certainly hurt.
Unlike Doleful, Wato becomes uncomfortable quite quickly in the silence. He fidgets. Restless.
Several minutes pass. He eventually comes up with something. “Gourmet said you wouldn’t talk.”
“Gourmet is a scary woman… You wouldn’t want to talk to her either if you were the one sitting here.”
“I take it that means I’m not scary.”
“Ah, does that hurt your pride?” Doleful’s tone is cold. “At least you’re not suffering a shock collar.” They way Doleful says suffering causes Wato to think the worst.
Wato’s stomach clenches. “Did Gourmet really…?”
Nonchalant, Doleful shrugs. “Techie needed to test it. He's thorough like that, but he didn't have the stomach to test it on any of you or the crew on board. And I’m pretty sure Gourmet wanted me to have a taste of it. She’s got it out for me.”
In his lifetime, Doleful must have endured an enormous amount of physical pain. Wato remembers talking to him in the dining hall at the manor about the cut on his leg, about how he had a hard time distinguishing pain after so many injuries.
Sitting dumb, Wato can only stare at the collar, wondering if the device left marks on the pale column of Doleful’s neck. He knows from examining Workaholic how electricity doesn't necessarily mark the skin, but it can cause burns.
Too caught up thinking about the collar, Wato can't reply. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Doleful keeps talking, “If you have nothing important to say to me, have some mercy and just go.”
Stumped, Wato realizes this may be harder than he thought. He inwardly chastises himself for not coming up with a plan. Too late now. Time for a different approach, he decides.
Now, he allows himself to ask what’s on his mind.
“What do you hope will happen to you, Doleful?” Asks Wato. The response from Doleful is immediate.
"Oh, well," Doleful clasps his hands together, his tone turning up sweetly. "Of course, I hope to be exonerated and go visit my comatose family members in the hospital. I've been so worried about them since I came to Morgue..."
Wato doesn't entertain this. "I'm not recording you or anything... You don't have to lie."
"I'm not lying." He lies.
"Okay," Refusing to be discouraged, Wato steamrolls on. "What else?"
Excitement gleams in Doleful's eyes, practically beaming from his skin.
“I hope I get turned over to the FBI and they give me the electric chair. It wouldn’t work, but the look on their faces would be hilarious.”
His voice could get so quiet, so reserved; one feels the urge to lean in closer. It doesn't matter if the words are alarming or nonsensical, Doleful’s draw is that powerful, and Wato indeed finds himself pressed against the bars of the cage trying to listen.
The confession feels just as false as the bit about his family-- too bombastic and showy for someone who orchestrated murder-suicides from the shadows in the name of charity and salvation. Wato wracks his brain to understand, but maybe the reason is as simple as Doleful doesn't have anything now that the Quartering Duke was retired.
The door opens behind him. It’s Gourmet, in much higher spirits, effortlessly carrying a steaming tray.
“That was quick.” Wato sniffs the spicy air and his stomach growls. “Curry?” He asks.
“Of the boxed variety, but I dressed it up.” Her mood takes a hit as she spots Doleful. “He’ll have to be either uncuffed or spoon-fed…” She taps her chin in thought, quickly making her own decision. “Spoon-feeding seems safest.”
“Actually, Gourmet,” Wato stops her before she can finish rolling up her sleeves. He glances at Doleful, who turned away the moment Gourmet returned.
Doleful is walling himself off to her, obviously. Which means he may not speak again with her presence in the room. “I’ll talk to him alone. If that’s alright. You should really get some rest, I think.”
“You’re going to feed him, then?” Gourmet queries, skeptical.
“W-Well…” Embarrassed by not catching the implication of his volunteering, Wato soldiers on, “Sure. Whatever it takes. I don’t need a long time.”
Gourmet seems wary, but her trust in Wato appears to outweigh her doubt. Or perhaps it was just a matter of fatigue. “You have 7,200 seconds. That’s two hours. I will be counting down starting the moment I leave this room.”
Wato awkwardly agrees to this, Gourmet hands him a key, and with a resounding metal ka-thunk of the door, he is all too suddenly standing alone in the small room with Doleful.
What do you do, then, sitting across from a person you knew and trusted? Wato is split down the middle.
“Uh,” Wato faces an unamused Doleful. He freezes up, caught for a moment in the strangeness, before going to unlock the cell. “I know what Gourmet said, but I’m not feeding you.”
Doleful says nothing, and a fact dawns on Wato: he never actually knew the boy. That would be the logical, simplest, and easiest thing to assume, but his memories charge ahead of him, telling him the opposite. They felt real. They still do. His time spent with Doleful, especially in their moments alone, were to him as genuine as any truth. Could grief be confusing him?
The sound of steel scraping against steel is too loud. It sets his teeth on edge. How much of Doleful’s personality was an act? The not knowing eats away at him.
He sets the tray before Doleful and unlocks the heavy handcuffs. They clatter to the side and Doleful rubs his thin wrists. Wato can hear Doleful’s stomach rumble.
That seems to be Doleful’s limit. He doesn’t bother with the chopsticks—just takes the spoon and dives in. Wato would admit, it looks appetizing. Roasted beef, carrots, and golden potatoes in a savory brown sauce over fluffy rice; Wato's mouth waters.
Apparently noticing his want, Doleful pauses, and carefully spoons up a mountainous bite. “Eat some. I couldn't possibly finish such a large portion.”
Wato is unsure. He doesn't know what Doleful gets out of sharing food-- perhaps the last good food he would have for a while, at that.
What Wato wants to tell him is that he wishes they could have met outside of Morgue and the DA. He imagines them going to the same high school, eating lunch together and hanging out on the weekends. They would’ve made an excellent team of rookie detectives at Mr. Gunjoji’s agency. Doleful would sense the danger and Wato would keep the other boy’s clumsiness in check and they would find all of the missing neighborhood cats in no time. And they would have a happy, carefree life discussing video games and dates instead of murder and betrayal.
But Wato wipes away that alternate reality. He didn’t meet Doleful in high school, and life wouldn’t be happy for… Well, he couldn’t estimate how long.
Rather, in the depths of his reverie, Wato lets a single thought float to the surface, “I would’ve liked to be friends with you.”
Gourmet was right; Wato lost his edge the moment he saw Doleful in this state. He takes the chopsticks.
Sneering, the chains around Doleful’s neck rattle and mumble to themselves as he speaks like a sinister chorus. “You say that, but all I hear is pity. I can see it written all over your face, Incompetent: you’re the type of person who promises to be there for someone, but when real problems come up and it’s not fun anymore, you’ll call that person toxic and crazy and leave without a shred of remorse. But if it’s me, I wouldn’t blame you. Nobody should be close with monsters.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand with a sense of finality, like the subject was settled and he wouldn't hear another word. And he's right, in a way. Wato does feel pity for him. That part stings. But Doleful's mistake is assuming pity is the sole emotion Wato feels for him, which is far from the truth. Speaking of...
“Doleful,” Wato pivots, finally touching on something he’d seen with the Denouement that bothered him. “Why did you tell Downtown to make sure I was spared as a living witness?”
Doleful’s eyes flash with anger. “She told you something like that? And you actually believed her?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” He states. Not a satisfying answer in the least, but Wato wouldn’t want to reveal too much.
“Then my answer doesn't matter either." Doleful turns away from him.
The dark, low-ceilinged grows more claustrophobic by the moment, helped in no part by the wishy-washy behavior from Doleful. He thinks for a moment, trying to put himself in Doleful's shoes, as they say. What would he want if he were the one wearing chains?
“Let’s get some air.”
Doleful observes him from the corner of his eye. “You’ll actually take me outside?”
“If you promise not to do anything, sure.”
❈❈❈
Doleful promises, and they sneak out together down the hall and out to the main deck. The night is a clear one. Stars litter the black sky like a spread of spilled salt. The full moon looks down on the boys and the dark waters around them with its watchful, guiding light. They are alone.
“What would you do if I jumped?” Doleful asks, finding Wato’s face with a plaintive expression. As if he expected a certain answer. Wato knew he had to answer carefully.
“I’d stop you, obviously. You know that. Your luck wouldn’t let you do anything fatal.”
Doleful’s face falls. A factual answer wasn’t what he wanted.
“But,” He tries again, “I would catch you regardless.” Placing a hand atop Doleful’s shoulder for added emphasis. Thin skin on sinewy muscle. Such a frail body; he seemed made of glass. One could imagine him breaking to pieces at the smallest injury, and so it pained Wato to remember the many injuries Doleful endured in his life— even on Morgue. His eyes can’t help but trail down Doleful’s arm to the thick bandage around his wrist, the bloom of red just underneath making Wato's stomach churn.
Even self-inflicted, it still had to hurt, right?
“Why? There’s no use saving scum from returning to scum. You’re only saying that to bolster your image of a morally-upright detective.” He says, and rolls his shoulder to shrug off Wato’s hand.
Wato sighs. “There’s no arguing with you, is there?” Of course, he didn’t like Doleful twisting his words and intentions, but instead of making him angry, all he felt was sadness.
He thinks back for a moment, remembering the Doleful at Gorgemghast; Remembering the gentle, cowering boy who was the first to acknowledge him as a detective amidst of all the elite detectives. His was the first real name Wato received.
“Hey, Doleful…” Wato murmurs, and then raises his voice to barely above a whisper. “You told me your name back at the manor. Was that…?”
“Was that really my name and not a fake?” Doleful finishes for him. He settles his elbows on the polished wooden railing. In the stark moonlight, half of his face is hidden in shadow. “What do you think?”
It sounds like a challenge. Wato slides in next to him along the rail, bristling with an emotion he can’t place. He places the name on his tongue and lets it dissolve like a sugar cube.
“Reo…” He starts, but before he can finish his thought, Wato watches Doleful’s eyes go big and his mouth screw up in embarrassment. He plants his face in his hands with an accompanying wail.
“What kind of sadist are you…” Doleful squeaks, his voice pitched high. “Don’t say my name like that!”
“Like what?” Wato speaks, breathless. That answered his question, only for further questions to spring up beside it. Chief among them: Why? What does it mean that Doleful freely gave his real name? He doesn't know, and he doesn't have time to think.
Doleful removes his hands from his face, blinking up at Wato from his hunched position. Beautiful golden eyes bear down on Wato and root him to the spot. “Don’t say my name like you actually care about me!”
The dam bursts; whatever cocktail of emotions was bubbling beneath his skin pours out and there is nothing Wato can do to stop it.
“I do care!”
Frustration inside of grief inside of hopelessness inside of hope; at some point, the simple boy named Wato Hojo had transformed into a veritable nesting doll of emotions. Is that the penance paid for being a detective? For someone like him, shy and reserved in front of most people until very recently, it was mortification to show his feelings so plainly and intimately. So, he pulls back. He shuts up. His mouth snaps shut with an audible click of his teeth.
Doleful folds in on himself. There is a glimmer in his eye present for just a moment that morphs into something cold and sharp.
“You’re cruel, Incompetent.” He snaps, “Of all the base gutter trash I’ve encountered, you are the worst by far.” His eyes grow misty. “I thought you were kind. What kindness is speaking to me as if I have any business being cared for?”
Wato swallows back the venom in Doleful’s words. He’s compelled to keep speaking despite his internal protestations. “It’s not kindness. If anything, it’s selfishness. I would selfishly like you to keep living in this world.”
Doleful flinches as if struck, backing away from Wato with the wild eyes of a cornered animal. It burns Wato to be on the receiving end of that gaze. Bumping into the railing, Doleful takes a last glance at Wato before scrambling up the bars of the rail and swinging his legs over to the other side. His silvery-blond hair whips around behind him in the wind, and he tips his chin up as he balances, gazing at the stars overhead as if suspended by an invisible thread. Delicate, painted in moonlight. Otherworldly.
He knows it’s wrong, but Wato thinks Doleful really is beautiful.
And then he jumps.
Bright lights flash before Wato’s vision. His hands fly to his head and he doubles over in pain. He watches himself, as a ghost over his own shoulder, race to the edge of the rail. Frantically, his eyes search the endless black water for a sign of the boy, but there is nothing. Not a single trace. From this height, he must’ve been pulled under immediately. Wato grips the railings, white-knuckled, straining his eyes.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The roar of the waves fills his ears. There is nothing until there isn’t—and what is there is far worse than nothing. He spots the white of Doleful’s overshirt briefly surface, his body mangled and lifeless. Just for a second he sees it before the waves drag him back under. A fraction of second, even. But it’s enough for something vital to snap in Wato, and he sinks to his knees on the deck of the ship, uselessly shaking; unable to do so little as cry out.
The world lurches, and Wato sees colorful pins of lights again. He comes out of the Denouement vision mixed-up and startled— like the unexpected panic of missing the last step on a familiar set of stairs.
Doleful is still climbing the railing. Wato’s adrenaline spikes; he can’t waste a second.
Taking off, Wato rushes toward the bow of the ship and tackles Doleful, winding his arms tight around his middle and dragging them both back to the floor of the deck and relative safety. He’s feather-light. Doleful’s jabs and kicks fall lightly on his body. Neither of them are particularly strong, but Wato doesn’t have much trouble pinning Doleful down by the shoulders and hips. The impact rips a gasp out of Doleful, who splays his hands across Wato’s chest in an attempt to push him away.
“Get off of me!” He cries.
“No!” Panic ebbs away to be replaced with anger. “You said you wouldn’t try anything.” He tries and fails to keep his voice level, the distress and upset making him shaky.
He stops struggling. Doleful is very close now. Closer than he’s ever been. Calculating. Doleful almost looks like he's calculating something, though Wato can't place it.
Doleful is searching his face for something—a reaction, maybe. “Have you ever wanted to die?”
Wato blinks. “No.” He lets his grip on Doleful’s slender shoulders loosen.
“I knew it.” Doleful lets his head loll to the side, his cheek pressing into the deck. “You don’t have the look. People who have really, truly wanted to die all have a look. The people who have made plans. They’ve got a deeper shadow than everyone else, a different way they move around others. They’re haunted. It’s plain to see if you know what to look for. That’s how the Quartering Duke selected only the most serious candidates.”
Wato sees red. He considers himself a patient and calm person by nature, but watching someone try to jump to their death and say something like that was too much even for him. “Do you think you can never relate to people who haven’t been there?" He lets his frustration boil over. "Wanting to die isn’t a social club, Doleful.”
Doleful doesn’t move. There is no indication he was listening to Wato at all. He keeps his eyes downcast, watching his fingers twitch where they lay.
“That’s strange…” Doleful speaks lowly, as if entranced. “I can feel your heart. It's like an engine.”
Wato sees his opportunity and takes it, crossing a hand over Doleful’s and pressing firmly. “Good. If you can feel my heart, you can feel my intentions.” He raises his voice, half-hysterical.
“Wh-What?” Doleful yelps.
“This doesn’t have to be the end. You’re a good detective— there’s so much good you could do. I still believe detective work suits you. Doleful, you were made for this line of work.”
Doleful shudders. He shuts his eyes tight. “Stop talking.”
“It made you happy, didn’t it?” Wato ignores his request. “And it made the people you helped happy, too.”
Doleful cracks open his eyes like someone afraid of being hit. “…You think I’m a useful detective? To what end?” He smiles a little, but it’s a cold smile. “Doing good… That’s a terrible idea. I’m a danger-magnet.”
“And I can prevent the danger. Like how I stopped you from jumping overboard.” Wato is quick to answer, but stops himself short. Perhaps hinting at the power of the Denouement wasn’t the wisest strategy, but he didn’t know how else to properly convince him.
Doleful rolls his eyes. “Anyone could’ve predicted what I was doing.”
“Still. If you’re worried about accidentally hurting people, I can intercept.”
Doleful shakes his head. “Even assuming you could, which you can’t, I’m already marked. There’s no way I’ll find detective work again. And that’s also assuming I don't go to trial and they don’t give me life in prison.” He sighs, and then adds as an afterthought, “Not that I did anything worth punishing.”
Wato considers this. He makes a good point—Doleful will have to pay in some capacity for the terror he caused. How much he would pay was still to be determined.
In a much calmer state now, Wato recognizes for the first time his prolonged and somewhat scandalous position. He releases Doleful’s hand and helps him up. They sway together a bit as Doleful comes to his feet, both completely exhausted.
“I can’t promise anything, but if you’re cooperative, you could still help the DA. There will be copycat killers, I’m sure you realize that. And I’m willing to bet plenty of people have allegiances to the Duke. Maybe your sentence will be lessened if you help bring them in. Maybe…” He hesitates, but it’s worth mentioning, “Your name never has to be made public.”
Doleful squints at him with a quizzical expression. “You love leaping to conclusions. You really are a rookie.”
“It’s not a leap. You can reverse your tragedy.” He is firm. “I’ll help you.” The calm confidence of someone resolved to walk their path emboldened him. “You can try again.”
There's a million other things he wants to say. He wants to tell Doleful the process will be daunting, that there are no easy truisms or mantras that will make life worth living. But Wato isn't much of a therapist and he doesn't want to push Doleful over the edge. And furthermore, he thinks Doleful has probably heard it all before.
Doleful does not have a quick reply for him. He doesn’t have any reply. Knowing Doleful—the Doleful he is now—Wato doesn’t expect him to. They look over the ocean together in a moment of serene quiet, much unlike the uncomfortable silence they endured in the holding cell.
Though he holds on tight to the railings, Doleful drapes himself across Wato’s side, leaning heavily, head resting on Wato’s shoulder. Automatically, Wato brings a hand up around his back to steady him.
“I’m tired.” Doleful says at last, the small sound cracking like glass.
Very late in the night, standing in the endless sob of open air and dark water, Wato gets the impression they could go on like this forever.
But his two hours are nearly up. The dawn will soon break over the waves and they will all have to pick up the pieces of themselves to continue tomorrow.
Chewing his thumbnail, Wato takes the long walk with Doleful back to his cell. He doesn’t make a fuss as Wato replaces the chains and handcuffs.
“Incompetent…” Wato is about to lock the door before Doleful’s shaky voice calls him back.
“Yeah?” It’s hard to look at him like this. His thin body is held down in a multitude of buckled straps and chains bolted firm to the wall. Talk about overkill… This setup was obviously meant for someone big and dangerous. And maybe Doleful is dangerous, but Wato can’t shake the absurdity of the gap when it’s right in front of his eyes.
“I just wanted to say…” His eyes, great big pools of gold, betray his immense disconcertion. “I think you’re making a huge mistake keeping me around you all. It can only end in tragedy. And I’ll be sad when you die, but I won’t cry.” He sniffles, despite his words. “I won’t. You did this to yourself.”
Doleful lifts his head and looks deep into Wato’s eyes. A single, shining tear tracks down Doleful’s cheek, and he gasps like he’s been stung, bringing his fingertips to his face. Utter confusion embeds itself in Doleful’s expression.
“Reo…” The name slips out unconsciously, and Wato moves closer, taking a knee before Doleful.
“I don’t understand you… I don’t understand you one bit, Incompetent.” He mutters, staring at the wet on his fingers in befuddlement. The cloying sorrow is not lost on Wato. But then Doleful says something unexpected, "I told Downtown to keep you alive... Because I didn't know what you were capable of. Senior wasn't supposed to bring any new people to the island, y'know." Doleful wipes his face, gathering himself, and Wato holds his breath. "Someone so trusting and sincere doesn't usually make for a good detective... I wanted to understand what he saw in you."
Wato would like to understand that himself, but he doesn't dare to speak, unwilling to break Doleful from this trance.
Shaking his head from side-to-side, Doleful appears resigned. "Maybe someday I'll find out."
❈❈❈
Just outside Doleful’s room, Wato takes a moment to breathe. He closes his eyes. Wato was never a meditative type, but at that moment, he only wanted to turn his dizzied brain off. He feels he might burst if he doesn't-- like a shook up can of soda.
“Incompetent.” A small voice behind him makes Wato jump. He spins around to find Bookworm standing in the hall; a glass of water held between her tiny hands.
“’I hope you enjoyed your conjugal visit.’ Said the girl, astutely surmising the relationship between Incompetent and Doleful detective.” Bookworm says, deadpan as usual.
“Huh? What do you mean by that?” Wato crosses the hall, whispering.
“I won’t judge you for having a soft spot… It’s hardly something within your ability to control. Or so I’ve read.’ The girl smiled reassuringly before continuing, ‘I’m just relieved you aren’t a kiddie-chaser after all.” Bookworm indeed casts a smile his way, but its comfort is misdirected.
“Aha…” Wato chuckles nervously. “That’s not what’s going on here.”
Bookworm raises an eyebrow at him. “’Sure, sure. But my memory doesn’t lie.’ The girl countered, masterfully implying Incompetent’s secret bias for androgynous men.”
“There’s no good way for me to respond to that…” Wato wants to ask what exactly she saw or heard, but he thinks better of it, like asking might incriminate him somehow.
The smile slips off Bookworm’s face. “Just make sure he doesn’t get away with this. He’s the Quartering Duke, in case you forgot.”
For the youngest among them, Bookworm possessed an air of authority like that of someone much older. Wato nods. However internally conflicted, he can’t let any of his companions think he would do less than serve justice.
“Let’s get back to bed already. It’s past both our bed times.”
Bookworm harrumphs at him, but agrees. Wato walks her back to the female bunks, the thick metal door groaning its protests as it opens. From where she lies, Gourmet soundlessly sits straight up in bed like something out of a horror movie, making both Wato and Bookwork yelp in surprise.
“Oh…” She sighs, putting a hand to her chest. “Just you two.”
“Just us…” Wato confirms while Bookworm crawls back into her cot straight away. He hovers at the entrance. Now might be his only time to ask.
“Gourmet,” He pads across the cool metal floor. “About Doleful…”
“Did you get a confession?”
“Uhh…” Wato stammers, a raised hand stalling in mid-air. He’d completely lost sight of his objective. “No. But I have another idea.”
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Wato explains to Gourmet his plan for Doleful, emphasizing his usefulness and also the application of security and rigorous therapy sessions. She watches him with a careful, steady gaze, and makes no comment while he speaks.
“Would you mind keeping it down? It is a crime to keep a young maiden from her beauty sleep.” Posh calls out from the opposite row of cots.
Bookworm chimes in, “’Yeah guys, Posh desperately needs that beauty sleep, you’re being soooo inconsiderate.’ She said, admiring her own youthful skin and lack of eyebags.”
“Sorry, Posh.” Wato sends an apology over his shoulder just in time to see her face go boiling red.
“I beg your pardon?” She puffs up like a bird, but Bookworm—already satisfied with her taunt—goes back to pretending to sleep so she can listen to Wato and Gourmet. “Well,” Posh throws off her blanket. “Seeing as how I won’t be getting back to sleep,” Posh stretches her arms over her head, silk sleep mask pushed up over her forehead. Where did she get that? “I might as well lend you ruffians my dependable aid.” She says, and promptly makes herself comfortable in Gourmet’s cot.
The canvas fabric dips nearly low enough to touch the floor under the weight of three people, but Wato enjoys this. Circumstances aside, closely collaborating with these detectives—with physical as well as emotional closeness—Wato could fancy himself a real detective.
A warmth in his chest, like a little sun, burns bright within him. He recognizes this warmth as potential. There’s a mountain of work to be done; decisions to be made. A hopeful part of him thinks the worst of this case is past. That’s not to say the rest will be easy. No way.
After a long talk, Gourmet agrees to try his plan to make Doleful work for the DA, and Wato begins his trudge back to the men’s sleeping quarters. Armor is there when he arrives, thankfully, peacefully snoring away. Wato is glad Techie is a heavy-sleeper.
Not for the noise, Wato doesn’t get a second of sleep that night; his body rings like a bell, heart thumping in chorus. No, the aftermath will not be easy. But Wato never wanted to be a detective because it was easy—he wanted to help people. And this included people like the boy in the cold cell down the hall.
Wielding his resolve like a blade, Wato cuts through the frantic, cluttered overgrowth in his mind, hoping to find a stronger version of himself among the weeds.
❈❈❈