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I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something fishy going on here…
Fabien was sure there had to be some greater meaning, some conspiracy, afoot that would explain just why the hell every time he got up to follow a clue or grab another drink his chair would mysteriously go missing!
Here he was meeting with his Partner, the Prince, the legendary Nomad, in Silky’s bar and he couldn’t leave his seat for more than a minute without it vanishing into thin air. It just kept happening.
He’d been talking to Phyre—well, talking his ear off, probably to Phyre’s annoyance, Fabien thought—and then he’d get a ping on his “detective radar” (patent pending). He’d said his excuses—apologizing to Phyre, who honestly seemed more and more amused each time, somehow—before swanning off to inspect a suspicious draft or pattern of oddly-placed pool balls across the bar.
Most of his leads ended up duds, what with the city only recently beginning to breathe again after the Sabbat invasion. Tolly, in his infinite wisdom, carefully explained away the event as a series of toxic gas leaks and an explosion causing confusion throughout downtown and the business district. With the mortals grasping onto the threads of a conspiracy of incompetent city government officials, they quickly forgot about the blood-soaked streets left in the wake of a hundred Sabbat Unbirthed.
But back to the mystery at hand: the case of his missing chair!
Fabien huffed out an annoyed sigh and returned to the secluded table near the back of the bar he and Phyre shared under the scaffolding. The table was comparatively private while providing a view of the “entertainment”—Fabien used the term with disdain only in the comfort of his own mind. Even I’m not crazy enough to insult a Brujah band in the middle of a Brujah bar… but they sure do make a racket!
Phyre cut an intimidating figure, slouched artfully against the wall: lean but solid, and tall enough to worry even the more seasoned regulars. Fabien swore he saw a couple bikers stumble to get out of his way when the Elder was just calmly walking up to the bar to make their order.
Maybe he was biased, having spent time literally in the man’s head, but Fabien thought all the fear toward Phyre was mostly unfounded. The Elder kept to himself and often went out of his way to assist members of the Court directly. He wasn’t one to fly off the handle without reason and it usually took effort to get Phyre’s expression to change from deadpan to anything beyond annoyed stoicism.
Their new Prince was a hard man to read, rarely offering a kind word and usually settling for cutting remarks about loyalty in return for service to a Court eager for the stability he offered. He rarely smiled, that Fabien could remember. But sometimes, like right now, Phyre would look at him with this warm, indulgent look—sharp, green eyes almost soft in the neon bar light—and Fabien would wonder just how much he could get away with…
Reaching the table, Fabien was beside himself: his chair had yet again been poached! While he glared disappointedly at the space where his chair was, Fabien felt a bright crackle along the side of his mind and without his control his Network fed him warm amusement and the words “Hmm, he is pouting, perhaps he was not satisfied with his lead” in Phyre’s smooth voice.
And that was just… he didn’t… he doesn’t pout! Well… okay, maybe he was a little bummed out about the chair thing. But mysteries begged to be solved! And the first step to solving a mystery is clues, clues which he… didn’t have. Ah, yeah, I’m definitely pouting now, I can feel it, he thought. But… wait a second. There’s one lead that could crack this case wide open! It’s staring me right in the face!
“It’s so obvious!”
Phyre gave a slow blink at Fabien’s outburst, reminding him of a particularly well-groomed cat. His small smile was still in place from when Fabien had left to investigate earlier and he seemed entirely at ease.
Fabien felt that itch again, that itch that hits when he really wants to know the truth, peel back the obfuscating lies, to know, more than anything. As if aware of his sharpened focus, Phyre’s eyebrow slowly lifted in time with the corner of his mouth. “Have you found a lead, my Detective?”
Phyre’s accented drawl almost served to distract Fabien from his question, but the itch was just strong enough to overpower his usual flustered reaction to the petn—nickname. Ehem. Get it together, Fabien, he thought harshly, before pointing at the empty space where his chair used to be.
“I’ll do you one better: I’ve got a new case,” Fabien admitted. “But I’ve got a mind to know when I’m in need of a second set of eyes, and peepers don’t get more powerful than yours around these parts!”
Fabien smiled wide at Phyre’s inhuman head tilt of interest, the slit pupils of his green eyes narrowing. Fabien was familiar with his partner’s tendency to forget that mortals (and most modern Kindred for that matter) didn’t tend to wordlessly emote at each other the way predatory birds do when at ease. It could be seen as unsettling and alien, but to Fabien, that use of body language was just another fascinating piece of the puzzle that was Phyre. Always the most interesting man in the room, Fabien thought fondly.
“I’m calling this case: The Case of the Mysteriously Moving Barstool,” Fabien announced. “I’m going to need to question the only witness at the scene of the disappearance: my one and only Partner-in-Crime-Stopping, the new Prince of Seattle!”
Phyre quickly looked down at the standing table between them, pressing his lips firmly together. Oh Partner, I’ve got you now, Fabien thought smugly. “Did you happen to notice any strange movement from this side of the table around, say, two minutes ago when I stepped away to question that shifty-looking package on the bar counter?”
Fabien smiled wide when Phyre, as he predicted he would, let out an undignified snort under his breath. The Elder quickly recovered and managed to school his face into an almost convincing glower—if Fabien couldn’t feel the joyous amusement practically radiating from him like the heat of the sun.
“‘Shifty-looking package’?” Phyre asked, barely concealing his smirk.
“Very shifty,” Fabien confirmed. He leaned in across the table and whispered conspiratorially, “But don’t worry: I asked it what was inside and it said a few books of the… less-than-savory variety.”
Phyre snorted again, confirming Fabien’s assumption that he could hear a whisper in an ear-bludgeoning bar with his spectacular Elder hearing. “‘Less-than-savory’, you say. I see Amelia’s book club continues to grow its influence. Even among those more wary of Clan Tremere.”
Sharp eyes glinting golden in the dim lighting, Phyre’s fond smile threatened to take Fabien’s nonexistent breath away for a few moments. And that’s not all he’d let him take—Oh boy, those are some less than savory thoughts, Fabien berated himself, halting his wandering mind. And not a moment too soon, it seems, since Phyre was leaning closer over the standing table and no longer slouched against the wall behind them. Fabien couldn’t place the look in his eyes for a moment, Phyre’s gaze seeming oddly intense and shadowed.
But just as quickly, Phyre’s expression returned to warm humor as he questioned, “‘Partner-in-Crime-Stopping’? Really, Fabien?” A shiver ran up Fabien’s spine at the sound of his name rolling in that deep, accented voice. “I believe we have committed more crimes than we have stopped in our time together. Both mortal and Kindred alike.”
Recovering, Fabien chuckled. “Well, you got me there, Partner. But it just has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Phyre flashed his prominent fangs for a brief moment in a simile of a smile. Some (okay, most) Kindred would see it as a threat—but Fabien was betting it was another alien display of affection… Or maybe that jolt of heat he felt imagining those fangs in him was messing with his better judgement.
“You wanted something?”
“Uh,” Fabien said intelligently. He’d been a little preoccupied with Phyre’s eyes—and boy howdy, when’d they get so close to each other?!—when Phyre murmured a low question into the scant space between them. That intense look was back in Phyre’s eyes and Fabien was really curious as to what exactly it meant. Almost as curious as—
“You’re right: my chair!” Fabien gasped.
Phyre froze—oh, I guess that was pretty loud—and stared. Slowly, his eyes closed and Fabien saw the Elder’s shoulders lower just a tad. But before he could ask if Phyre was tired (stranger things have happened!), his partner let out a short laugh and his eyes opened with a painfully fond smile.
“Yes, I saw two Kindred—Gangrel by the scent—collecting chairs for what might be their pack. Perhaps this is their attempt at marking territory in the bar…” Phyre trailed off when he noticed Fabien vibrating with child-like excitement. He raised a brow to signal the man to speak, and Fabien couldn’t help the warm rush at Phyre’s instant understanding and interest in his chaotic mind.
“There’s Gangrel in Seattle again?! Well, paint me red and call me Saint Nick! Or better yet, let me check them out and give ‘em the formal Sheriff’s greeting!” Fabien smirked secretively, fangs flashing, missing how Phyre’s eyes locked onto his mouth with laser focus as he continued. “Gangrel are the closest we Kindred get to Mother Nature, you know, so who better to ask for advice on how to finally track down that wily rascal on the outskirts of town!”
Phyre blinked twice, quickly. Fabien would have commented on the uncharacteristically ruffled reaction had Phyre not immediately repeated, “‘Wily rascal’?”
“Oh right, you might not’ve heard, Partner,” Fabien said apologetically. “He’s a real secretive sort, but nothing to worry the Court about,” he clarified quickly when he saw Phyre tilt his head down and let his eyes go that steely green they get when staring down a fight. “In fact, he’s a peaceful creature so far as we know.”
“And does this ‘peaceful creature’ have a name?” Phyre was cautiously relaxing but instantly stiffened again when Fabien cheerfully clarified—
“It’s called Bigfoot!”
“…”
“Phyre? You okay? You look kinda—“
That night the whole of Silky’s bar, Silky included, were sworn to absolute secrecy on pain of violent blood immolation (courtesy of Mrs. Thorn) and verbal flagellation (courtesy of Tolly) to never reveal what they saw or heard that night: the Nomad, Prince of Seattle, brought to his knees by hysterical laughter while their Malkavian Sheriff tried desperately to find out just what was so funny.