Work Text:
Wilhelmina Pang’s apartment is bright and cheerful. There’s a red tablecloth on the dining room table on top of which sits a mahjong set, currently in use by a retired doctor, an off-duty cop, an ex-car thief recovering from drug addiction, and a dancer.
“Pong,” says Marcus. He shows his pair of bamboo stick threes, before leisurely taking the tile that Vivian has just discarded, and adding it to his face-up tiles.
Joan looks at her own hand and inwardly sighs. Waiting for that three was a long-shot anyway. And if Marcus’ expression is anything to go by, he’s content with the way the game was shaping up. He discards a 中.
“Bold move,” says Alfredo. He’s Wil and Vivian’s neighbour, Joan finds out, though they call him Jay for reasons no one explains to her.
Marcus’ luck holds; no one pongs from him. He shrugs and grins.
“You have the worst poker face,” says Joan, moving some tiles around, not that doing so improves her hand any.
“Hey, I’m off-duty,” he says, relaxed in a faded blue shirt and jeans. It might be the first time Joan has seen him in anything but a suit.
“Are you going to sit there all night?” Vivian demands, because it’s taking Alfredo an extra second or two to decide if he wants to keep the tile he picked up.
He looks at her for another half-second, then adds his newest tile to a set of three and turns them all face down on the board. “Kong.”
“Oh, ffff...” Vivian trails off.
Alfredo discards the 四 wàn he picks up as a replacement piece.
“They’re always like that,” says Marcus. “Vivian gets competitive.”
“Yes, I do,” she says, and looks at Joan. “Now, play.”
They play with 13 tiles, because it’s how Vivian learned, and how Marcus and Alfredo have been playing, since this group started having mahjong marathons. Joan is used to playing with 16 tiles, but she doesn’t find it too difficult to adapt, though her luck seems to be off tonight.
“How is Wil?” she asks, conversationally. She looks at the tile she’s drawn, 北. Just like the other two she had and discarded, early on. She shakes her head and tosses it out, too.
“Should’ve kept the first two,” says Marcus, helpfully. Joan resists the urge to kick him under the table.
“She’s good,” says Vivian. “Busy. She and Randi are working tonight.” She evidently likes the tile she picked up because she incorporates into her hand and discards a seven circles. Joan needs that card, but can’t chow it unless Alfredo throws it out. “Have you met Randi? She can play.”
“And she’s nicer than Vivian,” says Alfredo, grinning at her.
“Just for that, the next time Hwei-Lan needs a babysitter, I’m going to tell her you volunteered.”
“Hey, I’m cool with it. Babies love me.” Alfredo points to a picture on Wil’s refrigerator of the baby gnawing on his knuckle and everyone makes the requisite “aw” noises.
“Doesn’t Wil play?” Joan asks, wondering whose seat she’s temporarily taken over.
Vivian shakes her head. “She’s terrible. She never learned properly and has no desire to learn. Her mom plays, but she won’t play with us because we’re way below her skill level.”
“She’d trounce us without even trying,” agrees Alfredo. “I think it’s why Wil never learned. It’s her mom’s game.”
Joan nods. She can understand not pursuing the same interests and activities as one’s parents. Her own grandmother taught her how to play, over Mary’s protests that the game was a waste of time and there were so many other, more productive things Joan could be doing with her time. After 外婆 passed away, Joan’s interest in the game dwindled; she was too busy with med school to have mahjong marathons, anyway.
The game continues all the way around again, until Alfredo picks up a tile, clears his throat and, when everyone looks at him, he displays all his tiles.
“Again?” complains Marcus.
Joan flips over her tiles, face down. “I have nothing,” she says, prepared yet again to dole out her tokens, which are rapidly dwindling.
“He’s got a kong and two flowers,” grumbles Vivian, as she tallies up the points.
“Must have the lucky seat tonight,” says Alfredo. He gracefully accepts his winnings and they shuffle the tiles, loudly and, Joan hopes, for a lengthy enough time to knock some of his luck away and onto her.
Part way into the third hand, the second pot of tea, and making a sizable dent in the spring rolls Wil’s mother dropped off earlier, Joan asks how everyone met.
“I’ve known Wil for years,” Alfredo says. “And now that Wil and Vivian live together--”
“He doesn’t really have a choice about getting to know me, too!” Vivian grins. Then scowls at him. “Is taking that tile really the right decision?”
Alfredo is not deterred. “Yes, it is.” He shows a run of 5-6-7 bamboo sticks, which doesn’t really mean anything by itself, except that he’s one combination closer to completing his hand.
“Oh, my god,” Vivian despairs. “You’re going to win again.”
“Maybe.”
Joan’s given up on being lucky tonight, but then, she’s here more for the company than winning. Besides, she’s rusty at the game, she tells herself. “How’d you meet Marcus?”
Marcus shifts in his chair. “Ah, well...” He glances at Vivian. “A very long time ago, I asked her out once and she very nicely let me down.”
“Was it after you saw her dance?” Alfredo leans forward, quietly laughing at Marcus. “I bet it was after one of her performances.” Vivian rolls her eyes at him. “What? I think they’re great.”
“You also think Chinese soap operas are great.”
“They are,” Alfredo says, very seriously.
“You understand Chinese?” Joan asks. She breaks up a pair to form a run and hopes it’s the right move.
Alfredo shakes his head. “Subtitles. But I think I’m picking up a word or two.”
“I need them too,” says Vivian, a little ruefully. “Wil’s Mandarin is better than mine.”
“And mine,” deadpans Marcus, and they all laugh.
“What about you?” asks Vivian.
Joan shrugs. “My mother says I was fluent as a kid, but now...”
“Use it or lose it, huh?” Vivian taps two tiles together, brow furrowed in concentration, and flicks the bottom one forward into the discard pile.
“I guess so,” says Joan, thinking about the last time she even attempted to speak Mandarin to her mother. “Oh, pong!” she adds, belatedly, as Marcus reaches for a new tile.
He points a spring roll at her. “Any slower and you would’ve missed your chance.”
“Now, now, be nice,” admonishes Vivian.
“Oh, so she can take her time?” Alfredo points out, folding his arms across his chest.
Vivian smiles. “Of course. We want her to come back, don’t we?”
“You only say that because I’m losing.” Joan discards a six-circles, which Vivian instantly snaps up. “See?”
“You do feed me well,” says Vivian, laughing, which cracks Alfredo’s grumpy facade.
“Fine,” he says. “We’ll play nice.”
“But only until you get better,” Marcus chimes in.
“Okay, okay,” says Joan, consenting to both the easy treatment and to coming back. She’d forgotten how much fun it could be just to hang out like this.
At the end of the night, she lost $17 and gained, she thinks, a few new friends.
Marcus sees her to the brownstone, despite Joan’s assurances that she’d be fine. “Humour me?” he asks. He looks at her imploringly and Joan relents.
“That was fun,” says Joan. “Thank you for inviting me.”
He smiles, dark eyes gleaming under the street lamps. “It was my pleasure.”
The front door of the brownstone swings open and Sherlock emerges. He hurries down the steps, his robe flapping behind him. “Watson,” he says in a hasty greeting. “Detective Bell, just the man I wanted to see. Do come inside.”
“But I--” Marcus stops himself and shakes his head. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got. But make it fast. I’m off the clock.”
“Excellent,” says Sherlock. “This won’t take long.”
Joan knows that means it can take anywhere from an hour to three days. She follows them inside and makes plans to call Carrie after they’ve put this case to rest.