Work Text:
“Deductive Logico.”
Logico was holding the receiver up to his ear. The temptation to set the phone down and walk away, taking this Sunday off work to properly relax, for once, was incredibly strong. He had the willpower to walk away from that well known voice. Only, the consequences for doing so had the potential to ruin quite a few good things, and he was not one to let his anger dictate the course of his future. Where would be the rationality in doing that?
“Speaking.”
“…”
The silence on the other end irked at him. Logico considered the pros and cons of filling it himself with the words he knew were coming. It was a weekly spiel, at this point, and he’d had it memorised since long ago.
There’s been a murder at a luxury high-end international rich people prison, and only I, Deductive Logico, can solve it, because the suspects are the murderers I've caught all week. Give me 25 minutes to get there.
Logico inhaled, and, sensing no reaction from the other end of the line, made to speak.
“Yo—”
“There’s been a murder at a luxury high-end international rich people prison,” came the voice in a rush, “and only you, Deductive Logico, can solve it!”
Logico’s eyes flicked over to the hook by the door, where his trench coat was hanging. It had gotten damp in last night’s drizzle, and he’d hoped to let it dry for a full day before bringing it out to work again.
“… Will you come?”
Logico sighed, defeated.
“Give me 25 minutes.”
When Logico walked up to the side entrance of Primhouse Prison — he was such a frequent guest, the security guard let him in on sight — not a single officer was anywhere to be found.
It figured that the usual shenanigans were at play today. It was a nice, sunny Sunday after all. Who’d want to give up their weekend for this? Certainly not him. Logico couldn’t recall the last Sunday he hadn’t been called in to solve a murder at a luxury high-end prison. How fair was that?
Such was his ire that he didn’t even bat an eyelash upon encountering Irratino’s body in the theatre, lying curled up underneath the cushions of a high-backed, red velvet movie seat. The sight irked him more than he was willing to admit, and so he turned his back on it, instead focusing his attentions on interrogating Captain Slate over what she’d seen that morning.
He wouldn’t play right into the inspector’s hands, he thought to himself whilst scribbling in his grid. The leather flexed underneath his fists. Let him sit- no, lie there, holding his breath, for as long as it took Logico to puzzle out who exactly was playing murderer this Sunday. They took turns, he’d noticed, or perhaps they drew straws, the lucky winner landing their own luxurious private quarters for a night before they were all released back into the world come early Monday morning. Only Logico, out of all of his colleagues, was doomed to put up with this charade, week after week. It came to him, as he was denouncing Signor Emerald for having the inspector beat by his lawyer, that he ought to inform said inspector tonight — or even tomorrow back at the office, if he could manage it — that he was putting a stop to this farce at last, and would no longer be taking summons on Sundays. Yes, that was how best to proceed.
He waved away the guards dragging a yelling Signor Emerald off to the north wing, making sure to keep his back turned to the corpse on his way out. If someone was waving at him as he left the parking lot, there was no way he’d see.
As no one could have possibly guessed, Irratino himself strode into Logico’s Deductive Office a scant few hours later. Logico kept his eyes on his report. It would’ve been nice to get home before sunset, but here he was, stuck writing this damned report when the victim himself was alive and well, standing before Logico as he penned his investigative notes detailing the state of the corpse.
Bathed in moonlight coming from the window behind his desk, Irratino was most definitely wearing a smug smile. Were Logico to see it with his own two eyes, he was sure he’d find himself smacking it off in frustration.
“You’ve solved it again,” Irratino began, in a jovial tone. "And yet you did not notice that I was not dead at all!" He laughed. Logico could imagine him playing with his long hair as he spoke. He pushed his hand to write faster, scowling as his fountain pen slipped and left a prominent ink blot in the centre of the page. He’d keep going. Starting over meant a late dinner and a late night, and Mondays were already hard enough without the added lack of sleep.
“And I have no intentions of a repeat performance next week,” Logico said stiffly.
His hand was cramping. Would the account of Emerald’s confession be legible to his boss once he was done? He found he didn’t care. These reports were probably getting stuffed into the archives once they left his desk anyhow.
“You’re going somewhere?” Irratino wondered. Of course he’d find a way to turn up wherever Logico was vacationing, and wherever Irratino showed his face, a case was sure to follow.
“No,” Logico denied curtly. He wrapped up his report and dropped his pen onto the desk, shaking out the tension in his hand.
“You’re awfully cranky tonight,” Irratino observed. “Hungry, are you? Not to worry — I’ve made a reservation for two at the Italian place down the street—”
“I’m not going.”
Logico rose from his chair, carrying his report over to the drop box. He felt Irratino’s eyes on him as he moved, watching as he rid himself of the tale of today's encounter, and with it, any intention to write a follow-up in seven day's time.
As he made his way back to his desk, Logico's shoulder inadvertently brushed against Irratino’s. It was one thing to ignore the man, but to feel the proof of his survival in the warmth of his arm set off something inside of Logico that had his rationality warring against a rare burst of emotion.
It was why they were having this one-sided fight in the first place.
“’ve got leftovers,” Logico mumbled despite himself. The instinct to humour his rival, antagonist, and friend was unavoidable, no matter how angry he felt.
“… Right.”
Irratino sounded oddly hurt.
“I suppose I’ll be eating leftovers of my own all week,” Irratino sniffed. “Shall I drop some off for you before they go bad?”
“There’s no need to.”
“…”
Irratino’s eyes were boring holes into his skull. Logico refused to look at him. If he let Irratino wear him down now, if they were to call a truce before it was even Monday, he knew he’d find himself folding the instant the phone rang next Sunday morning.
“Alright then,” came Irratino’s soft reply, and at last, the man left his office.
It was only once the door shut behind him that Logico allowed himself to look up, and take in the inspector through the rippled window glass.
“… If you weren’t so insistent on faking your death every week, maybe things could be different…”
With that, Logico began to pack his bag, reaching for whatever supplies he’d need that night and at tomorrow’s crime scene.
But before he could close the clasp —
“Say that to my face, you coward!”
Irratino came charging back in, the door banging against the wall behind him as his long legs rapidly closed the distance between them.
“What did you say?!” Logico shot up, enraged.
“I said, say that to my face you cow—MMPH!”
Logico had meant to deck him, he really had, but instead of his fist connecting with Irratino’s jaw, he found himself grabbing his rival by the collar and yanking him close. With the way he was raging, Irratino continued to lean in, his tirade unending until his lips inadvertently made contact with Logico’s bare cheek.
Logico shoved him away as soon as he'd processed what had happened. Irratino went flying, all the way across the office, until his back hit the far wall. He stared at Logico, his hands braced by his hips as he panted.
“Dinner,” Irratino reminded him once he’d caught his breath, eyes ablaze with something irrational that Logico couldn’t put a name to.
“Fine,” Logico growled. He swiped his packed bag from the desk. “But you’re paying.”