Chapter Text
It starts like this:
Agent Goodman stands on the stoop of the large manor house, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat and trying to avoid both the rain and the dogs. He eyes the clouds above, the phrase ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ absently flitting through his mind with a faintly ominous pang, before he shakes his head. Focus. He’s here on a mission.
Blackmailer, blackmail targets, accomplices; all set up like neat little dominoes ready to fall into the hands of the FBI in a precisely planned sting operation. Goodman himself is a plant, posing as one of the guests, and he’s been informed that another agent is heading the whole thing from the inside. Which is preferable, really, he’s sure it’ll run smoother with another operative there, so everything should be fine. He’s read the files, been over the plan (and over and over and over it), he’s ready. He rings the doorbell.
The door opens and reveals a man dressed as a butler, and Goodman freezes on the spot. Part of him wants to swear, but a larger part wants to find the Chief right that minute and demand to know why in the hell he wasn’t told that the other agent on the case was his goddamn partner, Agent Lockwood.
From the way the other man’s eyes widen despite his facade, Goodman can tell he had no idea either. He’s not sure if that makes it worse or better, but there’s no time for questions or clarification, the situation too precarious to risk breaking character even on their own like this. Goodman inhales sharply, shifts his face into something mildly anxious.
“Is this the right address to meet Mr. Boddy?”
Carefully enunciated, higher than his usual voice, with just a thread of nervousness precisely woven in. His partner straightens in the face of it, expression clearing.
“You must be Mr. Green.”
Politely distant but hospitable, with no trace of recognition. He glances away for a second, snaps out a “Sit!” and Mr. Green knows full well he’s talking to the dogs, but he stepped into his false identity the moment the door opened. He sits his ass down on the stone bench, all neurotic energy and hunched shoulders, and his partner- no. No – the butler does a slight double take, hides a smile.
“No, not you sir.”
Mr. Green lets out a flustered ‘oh’ as he rises and steps hesitantly through the front door. Let the game begin.
*
Drinks are served in the library, and Green observes each of the guests as they’re introduced, taking advantage of the large frames of his glasses to soften the intensity of his gaze. When people have a secret to hide, they don’t realize just how much they’re giving away, and Green takes note of everything he sees. Wadsworth confirms that they’re all using pseudonyms, and there’s an uneasy little shift among them.
The sudden ring of the gong cuts through the air with a jarring enough clang that it's easy for Green to flail his glass, spilling the drink over Mrs. Peacock. Accident-prone, he tells her apologetically, and she rolls her eyes, already dismissing him. Good.
They adjourn to the dining room. Some small talk, details revealed – almost all of them living in D.C., among other things – and then, the final guest arrives. Green goes tense as Wadsworth leaves the room, and they all listen in silence.
Wadsworth’s faint ‘over my dead body’ sends a shiver of apprehension down Green’s spine, and he’s not sure why, but he goes even more on alert.
Then Mr. Boddy appears in the doorway, and something in Green wants to snarl. Oh, he knew he didn’t like the man, just on paper, but seeing him standing there eyeing the group only reinforces that he does not like this man, and his instincts in that regard have never been wrong.
Mrs. Peacock demands to know why they’re there, and Wadsworth pulls out a letter, reading it aloud and confirming they all received the mysterious invitation to this dinner party, alluding to a financial liability connected to Mr. Boddy. There’s an awkward tense pause, before Wadsworth speaks, pleasant tone a distinct contrast.
“Can I interest anyone in fruit or dessert?”
Green is honestly tempted to say yes, just to see what Wadsworth does, but the seriousness of the situation keeps him quiet.
“In that case, may I suggest we adjourn to the study for coffee and brandy? At which point I believe our unknown host will reveal his intentions.”
There’s no mysterious host, but what does end up revealed is the secrets the guests have been zealously guarding. Green stands and gives his own away, and it may be the real Mr. Green’s secret, but it's the truth for him as well, and he means every word. There is no shame in who he is, and he feels no guilt about his homosexuality.
Blackmail is dirty business, greed and corruption and desperation – all things that twist people into ugly shapes. Green has seen the awful things people are capable of, plenty of times in plenty of ways and it never tastes less bitter on his tongue. Boddy is no exception, and Green watches warily as he leaves the room and returns with a case, full of neatly wrapped boxes.
The boxes are passed around, the room tense and quiet, and Boddy smirks, an oil spill of a man.
“Open ‘em.”
One by one, the ribbons are removed, the lids pulled off, and all the guests stare in confusion at the objects they’ve been given. Green feels the weight of the lead pipe he’s unwrapped, jaw clenching as he glances around. This can’t be anything good.
“In your hands, each of you has a lethal weapon.”
Green stares at him, feeling his incredulity grow by the second. Boddy just handed a lethal weapon to each of them. After they learned he was the blackmailer. While they’re all locked in a house with no one else around. A subtle glance at Wadsworth and they share a brief look, silently shouting the same thing: ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’
Naturally, things quickly go to shit.
=
Wadsworth tenses, eyes widening as Boddy reveals his plan, tries to turn the guests on the butler instead. He glances around the group to assess the likelihood of them actually trying, and they all look equally shocked at the suggestion, so there’s that at least.
Boddy strolls towards the door, confident in his gamble, but Wadsworth eyes him sharply. He knows people, has seen how they can act in desperation and fear. This, he suspects, will not end well for the blackmailer.
The lights go out. A thump, a bang, a scream. The lights turn on again.
There’s a body on the floor, and that’s definitely concerning, because now they have a potential murder case on their hands, and Wadsworth moves forward in alarm with the rest of them, but half his focus remains beside him. He purses his lips. He’s not…mad, per se. Not even really annoyed, but, well. Green was standing half in front of him when the lights came back.
Under the cover of the darkness, Green had gone and crossed the room, placing himself in harm’s way if anyone had followed Boddy’s suggestion. Wadsworth can’t scold him for it, can’t even cite blowing their cover, because if he had been injured, that would’ve ruined the operation right there, and it's not like anyone is paying attention to how they’re positioned, in all the panic of the moment. Maybe it's just the principle of it. Green, so easily willing to risk himself to protect his partner, even fully undercover. Noble sap.
Plum declares Boddy dead, and god, Wadsworth hates when he's right sometimes. There’s a flurry of activity; checking the bullet hole in the wall, other weapons thrown down (Green's yelp of "I didn't do it!" has him suppressing a snort), and Mrs. Peacock screaming over possible poisoned brandy. Wadsworth watches Green smack the hysterical woman across the face, then sheepishly explain himself, and has to take a moment to admire the act. Green pushes the glasses up his nose, and he looks like a completely different person.
More screaming comes from another room, and they all gasp, shooting up in alarm and running into the hall, only to find Yvette in the billiard room, screaming by herself and terrified. They all return to the study, and Wadsworth stops to grab the tapes off the recorder, exhaling heavily. The plan they had made is well and truly out the window already, and he has a feeling this is hardly the end of it.
=
Green leans against the side table, listening to Wadsworth’s tragic tale of his “wife” – the fake tears, the choked up voice – and he has to carefully keep his face blank and vaguely sympathetic. It's as good a cover as any, and the other guests clearly buy it, and that's all that matters, even if it makes Green want to laugh.
It's an explanation but not a resolution, and there's still a dead body on the floor. Professor Plum asks who else is in the house and Wadsworth and Yvette reply “Only the cook.” simultaneously.
“The cook!”
There's a rush out the door that slows once they reach the kitchen, and Green finds himself at the head of the pack. Warily, he looks around, feels someone nudge him forward, and slinks towards the freezer. After a moment of scanning the room, he frowns, shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Well,” he declares, “she's not here.”
Like some cosmic joke, the freezer door creaks open at that exact moment, depositing the body of the cook right into Green’s arms.
"I didn't do it."
He starts to slide down under the weight, and wheezes out a “Somebody help me, please.” so he doesn't scream like he wants to. He's taking a vacation after this.
The poor cook stabbed in the back, literally. He can narrow down who he thinks did it, based on the files he read, but at this point, who even knows. They haul the body back to the study and Green almost collides with Wadsworth when he and Plum suddenly stop in the doorway.
“The body's gone!”
Green chokes. Definitely a vacation, somewhere far away from New England, preferably with something strong and alcoholic in his hand.
They drop the cook’s body to search the room, and nothing. Mr. Boddy is nowhere to be found, and they all stand around helplessly for a moment as Mrs. Peacock excuses herself to the restroom. Miss Scarlet paws through the evidence on the desk like a curious cat, plucks Colonel Mustard's negatives up and dangles them around.
The other guests cluster together over the photos, but Green stays where he is. He's seen them already and he’s sure Wadsworth has too.
“Nobody can get into that position.” Mrs. White mutters.
Green briefly catches Wadsworth’s eye and resists the urge to smirk, though he's sure Wadsworth can tell what he's thinking from the way he turns away.
And then, more screaming.
Mr. Boddy dead again, corpse shoved into the bathroom and left to fall onto an unsuspecting Mrs. Peacock. They all stand around in disbelief and Green absently notes Mrs. Peacock fainting right through Wadsworth’s arms and onto the floor, which maybe he can laugh about later, whenever there isn't blood on his hands.
Green furiously wipes it off as Wadsworth steps into the bathroom, looking around for any hint of how Mr. Boddy ended up there. Clearly Wadsworth’s composure is fraying when his voice raises, and Green isn't the only one to give him a look when he shouts that he's not shouting.
Wadsworth glances around, huffs.
“Alright, I'm shouting! I'm shouting, I'm shouting, I'm shout-!”
The candlestick falls from the top of the bathroom door with a dramatic thump, clocking Wadsworth in the head and he drops to the floor. As much as Green wants to leap to his side, there's a game to be played still. He lets another guest help Wadsworth up, and grabs Mr. Boddy instead.
=
Wadsworth feels a headache forming and not just from the candlestick. Two murders. For fuck's sake.
He grabs up the remaining weapons, shoves them in the cupboard, and locks it. Green frowns at him, asks what he's doing with the key, and he blinks.
“Putting it in my pocket.”
Green's sharp “why?” is a firm reminder of the situation they're in, and he lets himself get defensive, but doesn't take it personally. None of them know (or are pretending they don’t) that he’s a federal agent, so he does get where the concern is coming from.
They all agree to throw away the key, and rush for the front door. Wadsworth flings it open, arm raised and ready, and of course there's someone at the door. A quick huddle and the consensus is to let him in, despite everything. The motorist is guided to the lounge, and Wadsworth smiles politely and closes and locks the door behind him.
With the rest of the group’s insistence, he continues where he was interrupted, opening the front door and heaving the key as far down the driveway as he can, then shutting the door behind him, sealing them all back into the house.
Colonel Mustard grumbles about needing a drink, several others agreeing, and he ducks his head into the study to check the room.
“Two corpses, everything’s fine.” He declares, like that's a reassurance.
Wadsworth really hates how it kind of is.
They stand in the library, and with the tension already high and plans gone down the drain, Wadsworth is not in the mood for games. Mustard’s line of questioning is disorienting, not to mention irritating, and Wadsworth finds himself snapping at the man by the end of it.
But making sure no one else is in the house is a decent strategy, though Wadsworth is loath to have them all split. He does suspect it's one of them, but it's the best course of action they have for now. He grabs the matchsticks, and they all follow him to the kitchen.
They draw lots, pair up. Scarlet and Mustard, Plum and Peacock, Green and Yvette, and Wadsworth and White.
“No man in his right mind would be alone together with you”, he’d said to Mrs. White. So naturally, that's how he got paired. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, because this night wasn't enough of a farce already.
They all head out into the house with their partner, splitting to the separate floors, and Wadsworth points out the cellar as he ascends the stairs, then points out the attic as they pass it. Yvette tiptoes skittishly beside Green, but as they move up the stairway, Green glances back at Wadsworth.
There’s something harder in his eyes, something that isn't Mr. Green for the moment, and Wadsworth reads the message there loud and clear.
Stay safe.
He lifts his chin in response, a return of the sentiment, as he heads for the bedrooms. It feels wrong, dangerous, to walk away from each other in the middle of a situation like this, when they’re usually watching each other’s back. The night stretches onward in front of them.