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Inference doesn’t announce himself a second time.
He stands in the doorway long enough for the room to give him a sense of who lives here.
Ronald’s opulent suite is nothing if not full of character: Costumes are left draped over chairs rather than put away, as if he only stepped out of them for a moment and meant to return. A pair of rehearsal shoes sits near the bed where they were kicked off, untouched since.
The walls are more telling: A faded theatre poster shows Ronald in an older role— bright-eyed, sharpened by ambition. It’s been left up long past its relevance. Beside it, a crooked advertisement for the same Golden Rose Theatre hangs half-tacked, a tightrope figure frozen mid-air, like it never quite belonged here but was never removed either.
Inference’s gaze lingers briefly on a plain rehearsal notice pinned slightly apart from the rest: dates, blocking notes, familiar names of the acting crew repeated in an unremarkable blue ink.
Below them, newspaper clippings form a loose patchwork worthy of attention— reviews, interviews, criticisms. Some lines are underlined too hard, some highlighted with a marker. All splayed a little too haphazardly, doing a poor job of hiding both opened and unopened envelopes containing —from looks alone— love letters from fans.
The nosy, no… detective instinct prompts him to give one a quick scan and it leaves him even more disappointed with the contents that are far too intimate to have been written by strangers who do not know Ronald at all.
It’s worse knowing Ronald cared enough to keep them— though, admittedly, this is exactly the kind of admiration and praise he has always relished.
Ah. Celebrities.
An irritation rises in his chest before he looks away.
“Ronald,” he calls from across the room.
No response.
His eyes, once again, adjust to the shape of the bed, to the mound of blankets that is very clearly pretending not to be a person as he walks toward it.
“Three addresses. Two theatres. Entire staff in disarray. And I find you here… unwilling to even face your guest.”
There is a thin slice of blond hair visible above the duvet. Nothing else. Ronald has twisted himself into the sheets as if he had crawled there and simply stopped midway through the act of existing.
Inference watches the unmoving silence of the room for a moment longer than necessary.
“You do realize I didn’t travel across half the city to speak to the air, yes?”
Nothing.
Not even the courtesy of a sigh.
His demeanor changes immediately.
“As expected,” he says, dry enough to scrape. “Fame really does remove whatever basic sense of hospitality people used to have.”
He waits. Today, he seems to be awfully good at it.
“Get up.”
This time, the irritation is not disguised.
Still nothing.
So he makes the bold move, reaches out and presses two fingers into the duvet where the back of the man's body should be. Just enough to intrude, but sudden enough that it startles the small dog –presumably Ronald's pet– into barking once or twice at him.
There is a reluctant tug at the fabric from underneath.
The blanket lowers an inch.
Then another.
Ronald’s face appears in fragments— hair in disarray, eyes half-lidded, skin dull with exhaustion he has not bothered to hide. There's an irritation there too, but it is directed inward, at the betrayal of looking unwell in front of someone he does not want noticing.
“Fineeee, I’m up. Happy?”
The yawn that follows after is so deliberate it almost convinces, until it vanishes too quickly to be real.
Inference does not answer.
He watches him, very attentively.
This is not the Ronald he had the pleasure of reuniting with the other day. This is not powder or the illusion of the stage's lighting, it is not even the effect of seeing someone usually caked in stage makeup barefaced. This is color drained unevenly from skin that should not look this tired, lips seemingly lost their usual warmth.
He remembers him under the theatre's lights just a day ago— alive and almost luminous with stage presence. This version, however, looks diminished under even the typical room lighting.
Under the scrutiny of his old friend’s gaze, Ronald's own gaze slips away on instinct, as though something unflattering has been caught in the light and he can no longer bear to meet it.
“I see,” Inference says, voice neutral, choosing not to comment on the obvious. “You’ve taken to method acting in private as well, I assume?” He exhales a slow stream of smoke from the pipe between his lips.
“While I would love for you to come over sometime, I don’t remember inviting you in today,” Ronald mutters, “Detective.”
Not quite a protest or defense. It is an attempt to push the focus elsewhere.
Inference lets it fall. He steps away from the bed, eyes moving slowly across the room, assembling the scene in his mind the way he would any other.
“You disappeared after an on-stage assassination attempt in your own theatre. Your staff cannot locate you properly. Your residence list is inconsistent at best. And now I find you like this.”
His gaze returns to the blonde.
“Lazing around while your crew scrambles without their lead. The media is trying to get a hold of you as well, and yet—”
Ronald’s mouth twitches, reaching for something flippant that never fully arrives.
“Hey! My team isn’t entirely helpless without me. I’ve left them enough structure to function when I’m not around. And the reporters—”
He lifts a hand to fix his hair.
The motion stops halfway, as if he truly is pondering for a second there.
“The media is no big deal,” Ronald continues, as if nothing happened. “I’ll deal with it later. I’m on a break right now and I'm sure my butler told you that didn’t he?”
He awkwardly shifts under the blanket, clearly unwilling to fully emerge from it.
A small, sharp wince crosses his face.
It is gone so quickly it could almost be mistaken for nothing at all.
Inference does not mistake it for nothing. He files it alongside everything else he has been observing— the usual fullness of Ronald’s presence pared back into something aloof, uncommunicative, perhaps even distant, the irritability that feels slightly misaligned but very clearly put on the front as though being seen has become an inconvenience rather than a habit. It all begins to take shape in his mind.
“Ronald.”
This time, there is no dry edge or sarcasm in his tone.
“Something's wrong with you, isn't there?”
Ronald reacts instantly, as if the accusation itself is offensive. He plants his elbow into the mattress and forces himself upright with a stubborn yet visible effort. Pillows are dragged behind him, shoved into place carelessly. He ends up halfway sitting, twisted at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, but triumphant in its existence.
“There,” he says, slightly breathless. “See? Functioning, upright and very alive.”
Inference does not comment on how long that took. Nor does he comment on how by the time Ronald finishes adjusting himself, he looks worse than before. Puffy-eyed, tired, pale in a way no excuses can hold up.
Still, he lets the suspicions sit. There is no fighting Ronald’s reflex to defy him— the near childlike obstinacy he slips into when he chooses.
Moreover, Inference is not sure he feels entitled to the old familiarity he and his squadronmates once shared anymore, not after the years they spent apart and the very different lives they returned from but oh well. He decides that it's simply too much, too many emotions, and too much unnecessary mental load to work out and so settles to get on with the main purpose of his visit first and foremost.
He drags a chair closer and sits at a careful, professional distance.
“I won’t take long. This is merely a follow-up. Not only as the detective hired before the incident, but as one of the professionals present at the scene. I already have most of what I need but protocol from the Orpheus Detective Agency requires I verify a few details with you directly.”
Hearing this, it suddenly makes perfect sense to Ronald why his butler let Inference in so quickly, and without a prior warning, it's got to do with legal matters, after all.
He sighs through his nose. “Ah. Paperwork. My greatest enemy.”
Coughing away what might've been the detective's final puff of the cigar, he begins, now with a notepad in his hand.
“Who physically received the letter?”
“Mario,” Ronald says quietly. “He brought it to me unopened.”
“Mario…?”
A loud woof answers from beside Inference’s leg.
He glances down.
“Oh. The dog. I see.”
He notes it without a pause.
“Why did you decide not to report it immediately?”
Ronald exhales faintly. “Because I didn’t want panic before the opening night. And because I thought it was someone being dramatic, a hollow threat”
“Fair.” A small nod.
Then, quieter, “Now tell me Ronald, have you felt watched as of late?” as he takes his eyes off the pad.
Ronald’s eyes too, flick to him, then away. “…Yes? I suppose.”
“Since when?”
“About a week before the play.”
He tugs idly at a strand of hair. Avoiding the boring holes from Inference’s stare.
“And why didn’t you report that?”
“I’m a public figure, Inference. Feeling watched isn’t exactly a rare, out-of-the-blue experience for me.” followed by a gesture of hands trying to shape the words.
Inference takes his pipe from his pocket out of habit more than need and exhales slowly before turning back to his notepad. As he begins to fill in the details, he mutters, “So sorry. Must be a terrible feeling to live with.”
And to that something in Ronald wakes immediately.
“It’s not— no, and that’s where you’re wrong,” he cuts in at once, sitting a little straighter despite himself. “People always assume that. That it’s exhausting, suffocating and tragic. It’s not.” His voice sharpens with sudden conviction. “I love my work. I love being seen. I worked for this, Inference. Some random creep doesn’t get to cheapen the entire thing for me.”
Inference only watches him.
“You really believe that.”
“I do.” A small breath of a laugh escapes Ronald. “You sound disappointed.”
“It's a shame, I had a perfectly good pity speech prepared. Forgive me for suspecting anything could possibly stand in the way of your indomitable passion, I guess,” he jokes
A faint smile touches Ronald’s face. “I’ll allow it this once,” he says at last, voice edged with satisfaction.
It fades almost as quickly as it arrives as Inference clears his throat, posture returning into something more guarded and professional.
“Right... Before we wander any further off-piste, I need you to really think back to that day and tell me exactly who had full backstage access that night.”
Ronald lists the names without much thought. Crew. Technicians. People who have been with him long enough that he no longer has to question their presence.
“Any recent hires or replacements?”
“One lighting assistant. Temporary. Came recommended.”
“I see.”
Inference notes it down, expression unreadable.
“Who knew your exact blocking for that particular scene?”
“Stage manager. Lead tech. Anyone on headset comms.”
“Did the perpetrator say anything before or after pulling out the gun?”
Ronald frowns faintly, sifting through memory. “No… not that I recall”
A pause.
“Did anything about him feel familiar?”
Ronald hesitates longer this time. His gaze drifts somewhere unfocused. “…Maybe. I might’ve seen him once or twice while he worked for us. But nothing strong enough to matter,” a small breath leaves him. “…Or maybe I knew exactly who it was and just didn’t want to admit it until very late.”
It’s a roundabout way of expressing his concerns, of the fact that he’s struggling to come to terms with something uncomfortably close to home, with the idea that someone he considers close might have had a hand in putting his life in danger. It isn’t exactly an out-of-nowhere fear; both of them are fully aware of the cursed theatre’s history, of the two actresses who were murdered in cold blood, and how plainly that pattern points forward. It’s a fear so real it can’t be ignored, and Inference knows it all too well.
The room feels smaller after that.
Inference studies him for a moment longer than necessary before moving onto the next question. His tone shifts, imperceptibly.
“Why did you refuse medical attention on site?”
“Because if I hadn't, the audience would’ve known it wasn’t part of the show. You should know this best.”
“I do, but it's protocol that I hear these words exactly from your mouth before I make an entry”
Sounds fair.
But for some reason, Inference doesn’t move to write anything down, contradicting his own words.
He just watches intently before speaking again.
“Do you not trust your staff with this?”
Ronald’s fingers tighten faintly in the blanket, around where his knees would be pulled to his chest, not looking Inference in the eyes “I didn’t want them worrying.”
Then Inference asks, quieter than before,
“…Do you not trust me with this?”
Ronald blinks, caught off guard. “Huh?” Before a brief huff of laughter escapes him. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m fairly certain that’s not one of the questions your agency wants answered.”
“You’re right,” Inference says calmly. “It isn’t. This is one of the few ways I attempt to speak to you as a person rather than a case. So—should I take your silence as a no?”
Ronald finally looks at him properly.
Before he can answer, Inference closes the notebook with a soft snap.
“Ronald, you…”
“I understand being wary of DM’s associates,” he says dryly. “Especially after the irrecoverable dent he left in the entertainment industry.”
Then, more earnestly, “But I would hope you know the client is all he is to me. And you—friend, estranged or not—are still who you are to me, Ronald.”
To that, Ronald lets out another short laugh. “Did I not employ your services out of trust to begin with, why clarify this to me?”
“Because I know you’re very good at pretending you don’t need anyone,” Inference replies, meeting his eyes, “and very bad at hiding when you do.”
It catches Ronald so off guard that a startled breath slips out of him and turns into a cough. He reaches instinctively for the glass of water on the bedside table—
The moment his arm extends, pain tears through his upper body.
“—ah, ow—”
His hand abandons the glass and flies instead to his left shoulder, fingers digging hard into the spot where the impact of the deflected bullet still burns raw beneath the skin. His body curls forward before he can stop it.
And that is when Inference knows.
He is already on his feet, reaching for the glass before Ronald can try again. He himself brings it to Ronald’s lips, one hand steadying the glass while the other settles at the middle of Ronald’s back to keep him from tipping forward.
The touch is careful, considered and no longer impersonal.
Ronald drinks in uneven sips, his breath catching between each swallow. Inference holds the glass steady until Ronald leans back enough to signal he’s done, then sets it aside without a single wasted movement.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
The silence after the reveal feels different. Heavier. Stripped of the polite distance they had both been maintaining.
Ronald exhales slowly, trying to gather himself, but his shoulders twitch faintly as another pulse of pain moves through him. His jaw tightens.
Inference notices immediately, “Where exactly?” he asks.
Ronald blinks. “What?”
“Where are you hurt?”
A pause.
Ronald lets out a tired sound that almost resembles a laugh. “Do you want coordinates too?”
He knows this tone. Ronald sure loved to wear this toughness like armor, especially when it comes to anything that makes him look fragile.
“I’m assessing damage,” Inference says calmly. “It’s none of my business, of course… but it could help build a case.”
Ronald frowns. “What makes you think I want to sue him and bury myself under even more laws and paperwork? I’ve had enough of that since Scrooge left.”
“Even if you could finesse money out of it?” Inference asks, a subtle lift of one eyebrow, like he’s entertained by a private thought.
“A Lot of Money,” he adds, stressing the phrase for Ronald to hang onto.
And without fail, a surprised glint crosses Ronald’s face. He coughs once, distracted— and, without realizing it, walks straight into the detective’s trap: “left shoulder,” he admits. “Upper back, too. It sort of creeps all the way into my neck and—” He grimaces, fingers drifting to rub one of the aching spots. “Actually… that fall from the platform was awful! Everything hurts.”
A complete one-eighty in his emotions follows in him, the irritation no longer hidden, a faint pout forming on his face.
Inference’s eyes narrow slightly. “I see.” He’s already unbuttoning his cuffs with an efficiency he brings to every other task, before shrugging off his long coat for ease of movement.
“Sit forward.”
Ronald squints at him.
“Shirt off. Face down on the bed,” Inference says, tone perfectly businesslike. “You’re about to receive the best massage of your life.”
“…What?”
“You heard me.”
Ronald stares. “I’m a celebrity. I have an army of professionals at my beck and call. Do you really think I’ve ever had anything less than the best masseurs?”
“I suppose those masseurs weren’t me,” Inference replies with his barely disguised arrogance as he settles his coat on the side of the bed. “Come on.”
“Hold on. Are you seriously offering to massage me? You don’t have to—” He stops, realization dawning upon him. “Wait. The lawsuit thing was fake, wasn’t it? You just wanted me to tell you where it hurt so you could—” he trails off. Saying it aloud would make this absurd suggestion real.
Ronald can only stare.
For a moment, he genuinely wonders if the pain has begun to affect his hearing.
Because this… this offer, does not belong to the man he once knew. Not the disciplined soldier who kept everything and everyone at arm’s length, far from too personal.
Even for a friend, this feels dangerously casual. Almost suspicious.
His mind supplies reasons why this would be a terrible idea: “No. I don’t want your hands on my naked body, thank you very much,” he says flatly before defensively pulling the blanket up.
Inference doesn’t even give him a chance.
“Fame has truly changed you, huh,” he replies.
“We used to share communal showers. Sleep on the same ground. I’ve held your head up while you threw up half your rations and cried about not wanting to go back out there. I’ve seen you in far worse states than shirtless.” delivered with his most inscrutable face.
“That was different!” Ronald groans, dragging his hands up to cover his face in a familiar, boyish gesture of embarrassment— the same way he used to when things got too much, a habit Inference remembers far too clearly. He shoots back, voice muffled behind his palms, “We were teenagers… and miserable. And the military life doesn’t exactly encourage privacy.”
“And we’re posh now, are we? Golden boy?” Inference asks dryly.
Ronald hesitates. That isn’t what he meant— but nothing he says can quite salvage it without making things more awkward.
“Stop being dramatic,” Inference lectures instead. “I’ll be good.”
And Ronald doesn’t protest when he moves closer, only gives a long, resigned sigh as understanding lands.
“Unbelievable.” But he lets him help anyway.
The shirt comes off slowly. Ronald winces once or twice as the fabric drags over sore muscles. Inference takes his time adjusting the fabric, as if mentally noting how Ronald reacts to each movement.
And in no time, Ronald is bare from the waist up.
——
Inference hates how familiar the sight feels.
Lean muscle. Defined lines across his back and shoulders. A build shaped by discipline rather than vanity. He has seen this body younger, thinner, marked by different scars. Now it is stronger, shaped by a different life.
He looks away a fraction too late to pretend he hadn't looked at all.
Ronald lowers himself face down into the mattress with a strained exhale, arms folded beneath the pillow. At least like this he doesn’t have to look at Inference. Or so he thinks.
Inference rolls up his sleeves.
“Oil? Lotion? Anything?”
Ronald’s voice comes muffled. “Cabinet. Left of the dresser. Second shelf.”
Inference retrieves a small bottle and returns. The moment he places one knee onto the mattress, it's as if the air in the room shifts all over again.
He pours oil into his palm, sets the bottle aside, and rests his hand gently between Ronald’s shoulders.
Warm skin. Solid muscle. Thoroughly marked by heat.
Ronald startles at the first touch, then flinches, instinctively pressing himself deeper into the bed before he can stop himself. The movement is almost unconscious— leaning into the hands rather than away, his body yielding to the pressure almost despite itself. The oil warms quickly against the overheated skin. He stays quiet, cheek pressed into the pillow, pale strands of hair scattered across the fabric as his shoulders gradually lose some of their rigidity beneath Inference’s hands.
For a while, neither of them speaks. There is only the steady glide of Inference’s thumbs along the tense muscles of his upper back, and the uneven rhythm of Ronald’s breathing slowly beginning to level out.
“You’re remarkably tense,” Inference comments, both hands settling on Ronald’s mid-back. His thumbs press carefully into the muscle in circles.
“Oh God,” he exhales as his body begins to give away beneath the pressure. A small, private smile ghosts across Inference’s face, hidden from view, while part of Ronald still can’t quite process that this is happening at all— much less how strangely natural it feels.
The silence stretches comfortably before Inference finally breaks it.
“I’m surprised,” a pause, voice low and even, “that you still haven’t made enough peace with your own employees to tell them when you’re unwell.”
His hands continue their slow work along Ronald’s shoulders, thumbs easing through knots built from more than the recent injury alone. The theatre has been demanding lately— longer hours, closer oversight, the strain of keeping the place steady after the instability it had been left under.
Ronald lets out a faint, disbelieving sound into the pillow. “What unwell? Just because you’ve convinced yourself it’s serious doesn’t mean it actua—”
Inference almost immediately and tactfully uses his thumb to press sharply into a swollen point.
Ronald’s breath breaks into a helpless moan before he can stop it. His fingers clutch the sheets. His back arches away from the pressure instinctively.
He knows Inference did that on purpose.
“You were saying…?”
The silence that follows is different now. It's humiliating and almost entirely stripped of pride. For the second time today, Ronald is grateful Inference cannot see his face.
“…There’s still tension at the theatre,” he admits at last, voice muffled. “After her.”
Lady Bella.
He never says the name aloud.
He doesn’t have to.
“Her maid. Her stylist. Some of the older crew. They were devoted to her in ways that went beyond work. When I chose a new female lead…” He swallows. “To them, it felt like I erased what little of her was left. And because I made that decision, I’m the easiest person to resent. You saw how poorly we mixed last time, you know how it is.”
“Then fire them,” Inference says flatly.
“I can’t,” Ronald mutters, shifting beneath his hands. “They’ve been with Golden Rose Theatre longer than I have. Longer than I’ve owned it. I can’t take away their livelihood just because they’re grieving badly.”
Inference says nothing to that at first, though something in his chest tightens.
At least Ronald remains recognizably himself. The same admiration for art, refinement, beauty— but without the casual cruelty so often accompanying the circles of the upper class he now moves in, their instinct to discard people the moment they become inconvenient.
Not that Inference expected otherwise.
Still, there’s irony to it. That same stubborn kindness is now costing Ronald comfort in the very place he fought to build for himself.
“I see,” Inference says stiffly, choosing to keep the thought to himself.
Instead, his hands move lower along the groove of Ronald’s spine with nothing less than a methodical precision. He can feel the muscles loosening beneath his palms with each press. His fingers stall over an old scar near the right shoulder, his thumb resting there a moment longer than necessary.
“…This one,” he says with a scoff, “I only know a handful of people who have somehow hurt themselves from the barbed-wire crawl training.”
His hand shifts, tracing a faint line along the tailbone. “And this was during the night drill where you slipped.”
What goes unsaid is the rest of it— the damage that needs no pointing out. The burns that claimed most of the right side of his body, the eye that never quite recovered.
“I forgot how easily you let yourself get hurt,” he breathes.
Ronald turns his face further into the pillow, voice blurred by fabric. “I’d say you're disturbingly good at remembering the details.”
Inference could tell him the truth— that every failure to protect his men, no matter how small, still follows him like a shadow. Instead, “You make it easy,” is all he says as his fingers continue to travel along Ronald’s back, mapping old damage by touch alone. They pause over a faint mark near the ribs.
A brief hesitation. “This one I don’t recognize.”
“Stage rigging accident,” Ronald replies. “Couple months back. Nothing exciting.”
“Of course,” he replies dryly, resuming the slow pressure of his hands. “Even after leaving the army, you’ve maintained an impressive injury record. You merely changed professions.”
A muffled laugh escapes Ronald. “Occupational hazards, am I right? Besides, you’re looking at a very tough man to brea—”
Inference presses both thumbs firmly into the muscle beside Ronald’s spine in a rough motion. It is not even one of the worst areas, but the sheer force of the kneading makes the rest of the sentence fall apart into a sharp exhale. The sound escapes Ronald before he can swallow it down— half startled, half a helpless yelp. He goes still immediately afterward, as though freezing up might somehow erase the evidence.
Inference hears it.
And courteously pretends he doesn’t.
Then, with a sort of coaxing cruelty, he repeats the motion and Ronald’s breath betrays him again, dragged out despite himself. Not quite a moan this time, more breathy than sound, but it's still enough to make humiliation burn hot across his face as he buries it deeper into his folded arms.
“Still,” Inference says, his tone remaining absurdly composed despite what his hands are currently doing to the other man, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always had a talent for ignoring your own limits.”
Ronald manages, voice strained from the stimulation, “Is this—hah—part of the service tonight?”
“It’s a personal observation.” That earns a tired sound that might almost be laughter.
A brief silence settles before Inference speaks again.
“And yet,” he says, almost reluctantly, “you’ve improved.”
“The play,” he clarifies. “I watched your performance.”
That gets Ronald to lift his head slightly from the bed. “Oh? Go on,” he says, amusement sneaking back into his voice.
“It was good,” Inference replies.
“Just good?”
A pause.
“You performed exceptionally well, Ronald of Ness,” Inference amends with an uncomfortable formality. “I mean, Officer Jose would’ve said so. And I would agree with him.” Such a roundabout approach to offering a compliment that it almost misses its mark.
He remembers the old days— Ronald forcing half-willing soldiers to sit through his exaggerated skits during downtime. While overacted and clumsy, they were painfully earnest.
And very Ronald.
Inference’s hands continue moving over the tight muscles of Ronald’s body, thumbs working slow circles into knots that have lingered too long. A few loose strands of blond hair have fallen across the pillow; without thinking, his fingers brushing them aside.
“It suits you,” he remarks absentmindedly.
“Mmhmm?” Ronald murmurs. “The speeches? The dancing? The unbearable charm?”
“The blond hair.”
“...”
There’s no immediate follow-up. Inference doesn’t elaborate, for whatever reason and the moment is left to settle into another of their not-so-uncomfortable silence.
And yet, Inference’s hands never stop. The motion simply changes into longer, steadier strokes now, thumbs traveling down either side of Ronald’s obliques before sweeping outward across his ribs. The oil is fully warmed beneath his palms, each movement smooth with something closer to instinct than effort.
At some point, without Ronald quite noticing when, Inference shifts for leverage, one knee braced against the mattress between Ronald’s thighs.
Ronald only registers it gradually: the closeness, the weight of the other man, the realization that there’s suddenly very little distance left between Inference’s knee and his own legs— with absolutely no recollection of when he’d spread them apart enough to allow it.
He decides, after a brief internal pause, not to think too hard about it.
Mostly because the alternative is acknowledging that a countrywide-known detective is currently on his bed, entirely too comfortable, hands working through his body with the confidence of someone who does this far too often.
“Hey man… don’t mind me asking but…” he muses “why are you so good at this? I’m not complaining, just— you never did, I mean ‘showcased such a skill’ in the army. I would’ve remembered.”
A pause.
“I learned after,” he says.
“After?”
“Hm. Briefly worked at a parlour. Needed quick money.”
Ronald goes still.
“…You?” There’s genuine disbelief in it. “You worked at a spa?”
Inference lifts his hand just long enough to tap the back of Ronald’s head with two knuckles.
“Ow—!”
“Do not sound so astonished.”
Ronald exhales something that almost turns into laughter. “I’m just imagining what D.M. would say if he found out what the fearsome hands of his long-standing rival are also capable of.”
Another firm press lands between Ronald’s shoulders in retaliation.
“And what–” Inference replies coolly, “would your adoring public think if they knew their beloved star is currently being fondled in private by a man in his bedroom, far away from the public eye?”
“Hey!” Ronald turns his head to the side, affronted. “There is no ‘fondling’ happening here. This is entirely medicinal—”
Inference’s palm moves over to the back of the head and roughly pushes his face back into the pillow.
“Mmph—!”
A graceless struggle follows before Ronald frees himself with an offended inhale.
“What was that for?!”
Inference hums, unimpressed, and resumes as though nothing happened.
This time, his hand slides upward instead, fingers working slowly into the back of Ronald’s neck. No longer searching for injury now— just kneading carefully along the tense muscles. His thumb drags across the base of Ronald’s skull while the fingers slip into the blonde strands he’d commented on earlier, combing through them in slow passes.
The change is subtle, but unmistakable: It no longer feels like the touch of a former mercenary. Not the hands of a commander hardened by gunfire and smoke.
It feels almost… unintentionally gentle.
Surely this is not the sort of treatment a young Inference’s clients received at that parlour. Ronald sincerely hopes not, and pointedly refuses to inspect why that thought bothers him.
Inference’s fingers catch lightly in his hair before giving a careful tug near the scalp.
“Mmm—ah—” The sound escapes Ronald before he can stop it. “Dude, stop that—”
The protest weakens halfway through the motion. His body has already begun loosening again despite himself.
And Inference, naturally, does not stop.
His fingers gather another section of hair, slipping through it before catching near the roots once more— pull, release, reset in a slow rhythm. Each wave unwinds another layer of tension.
Then the tugging gradually melts into slow scratches against his scalp, and Ronald falls completely quiet. A low groan leaves him before he can swallow it back, fingers twitching once against the sheets.
Heat crawls up his neck for reasons that have nothing to do with any injury as he has to actively suppress himself from making an embarrassingly content sound— the same noise Mario makes when he’s petted like this.
The comparison nearly kills him on the spot.
And yet he doesn’t ask Inference to stop again.
Because beneath the embarrassment sits something far worse: he likes it.
Inference swallows carefully. He keeps his breathing measured, hands disciplined, resisting the impulse to let them linger anywhere they shouldn’t. Ronald is so pliant beneath him, relaxed in a way Inference has never witnessed before, and something about the sight unsettles his composure.
It prompts him to blurt out what had truly been eating away at his mind the whole time: “I should’ve stopped it before it reached the stage.”
Ronald frowns, “Stopped what?”
“The man.. and the gun. The chain of events that ended with you needing to calculate where to be shot.”
Inference’s fingers pause briefly in his hair before resuming, “I knew there was a threat. I knew the letter wasn’t some performative nonsense. I anticipated something.” His voice lowers. “I didn’t anticipate enough.”
And suddenly Ronald hears it.
Guilt.
There’s a shame in his tone that has nothing to do with today, he realizes this isn’t about the present at all.
“The last time I underestimated a situation,” Inference continues, “Men died. Good men. Under my command. I learned to account for everything and every possibility…”
His thumb presses gently at the base of Ronald’s skull.
“And still, you had to compensate for my misjudgment.”
Ronald’s chest tightens. Instinctively, he tries to push himself upright, unwilling to hear that tone from the detective— but Inference’s forearm locks firmly across his back before he can rise.
“Stay.”
Ronald rolls over anyway, stubborn as ever. The massage helped, but not enough to erase every ache; he winces and sucks in a quiet breath as he turns onto his back.
Inference’s hand leaves him immediately.
Their eyes meet properly this time. No distractions. No easy deflections. Nothing shielding either of them except whatever manages to stay hidden on their faces.
And Ronald freezes.
Because Inference looks… wrong.
Not exactly angry... or calm, not analytical but something softer, something more open. Something that doesn’t quite fit on his face.
Inference notices the staring at once and reacts quickly, tugging his hat lower as though that might hide it. Ronald, too, pretends not to notice. Because if he acknowledges it outright, the moment will become something neither of them knows how to survive gracefully.
So he jokes: “You thought a visit and a massage would make up for almost getting me killed?” It lands lightly, meant to steer them back toward safer ground. Ronald even manages the ghost of a grin.
Inference, however, doesn’t take the offered escape. His gaze stays fixed on Ronald’s face, strangely unguarded beneath the lowered brim of his hat. There’s no sarcasm waiting there. No dry remark ready to defuse the moment, just honesty.
A beat.
“I simply thought you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
To that Ronald’s smile falters. For a second, he simply stares at Inference, caught off guard by the sheer simplicity of the answer. No deflection, no clever phrasing. Just that.
“Oh.”
Blinking once more.
And suddenly he finds himself unable not to stare at Inference, he studies the line of Inference’s mouth, the way his jaw is set a little too tight, the faint tension he’s trying to hide, all to find a meaning behind his words.
And soon something clicks right into place,
the humor fades from Ronald’s expression, something gentler subsides there instead.
Before the moment can veer into anything else, Ronald moves first. He reaches forward and, without warning, drags Inference into a big, clumsy hug— as though physical contact is the quickest way to smother whatever this conversation is threatening to become.
Inference goes rigid in surprise. His hands hover awkwardly before settling briefly against Ronald’s bare back— not holding him there, merely acknowledging the contact.
“...Ronald,” he says quietly.
Ronald’s face ends up pressed against the detective’s chest. He doesn’t think about that part. Or maybe he does and chooses not to examine it too closely. He maybe even takes a moment to inhale his scent without meaning to. A faint cologne clings to his body mixed in with the warmer trace of tobacco in his white shirt. Together, it’s a scent that feels distinctly Inference.
“Look at me,” Ronald says more gently after lifting his head slightly, breaking the brief contact. His brows crease together. “You don’t have to talk like I’m still one of your soldiers. I’m not a comrade anymore. And you’re not my commander. You– you don’t owe me protection, not anymore.”
“I just—” Inference starts, then stops.
Ronald gives him a small, reassuring look. “Inference, it's truly okay…” He gives a brief squeeze at his back, like a silent reassurance before continuing, “More importantly, I’m still alive and breathing, aren't I?”
Their hands drop, and with them, the excuse to remain that close.
Looking at Ronald’s uncharacteristically bashful expression now, something flickers across Inference’s face as well before he forces it away and attempts to redirect himself back toward professionalism— except Ronald is no longer lying face down. He’s upright now, comfortably propped against the cushioned headboard, thanks to the remarkably effective massage, suddenly leaving Inference with nowhere appropriate to put his hands.
For one painfully awkward second, they hover uselessly in midair before settling absentmindedly at Ronald’s waist.
They both realize it at the same time.
Ronald glances down.
And then back up.
“You know...” he trails off playfully, “this looks like the premise of a deeply questionable film I'd rather not star in”
Inference jerks his hands back immediately.
“Pervert.”
“I meant in a cinematic sense!”
“There is nothing cinematic about porno,” Inference spits. “Tch. I regret even bringing you flowers. You didn’t deserve them.”
Ronald blinks. “What flowers?”
They both turn toward the nearby table.
The bouquet is gone.
Mario is nearby, happily chewing the remains.
“Good thing he understands the situation.” Inference snorts.
“No—! Not the flowers—” Ronald scrambles to get off the bed too quickly and instantly regrets it with a pained hiss.
Inference laughs. A real one.
Not loud like it used to be during service years ago, but genuine enough to slip so easily past his usual restraint. And Ronald realizes, with some alarm, that he might have missed hearing that sound far more than he should have.
——
As much as they would both like to let these quiet, comforting moments stretch on, wedged improbably into the chaos of their lives— some things simply have to end.
“I must leave.”
“Already?”
“You must be forgetting I’m not entirely self-employed. I’ve already stayed well past what my schedule allows.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the window, judging how much night has slipped by without either of them noticing.
“You’ve received what, in the average massage parlour’s books, would qualify as a five-star service. No need to thank me. And do keep the knowledge of my skills to yourself if you ever speak to D.M. again.”
Ronald smiles faintly. “Your secret is safe.”
Inference turns to leave, collecting his coat and gloves but Ronald reaches out and catches his sleeve, completely stopping him mid-step.
Inference pauses and Ronald studies him for a moment, “It was good to see you again, Inference…” he says. “Detective, commander, friend— whatever you are. I liked having you here.”
Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Now say it back to me.”
“...” Inference can only stare at him.
Not offended per se— but utterly disarmed, like the request is so shamelessly direct it takes a second to process. His expression changes into something closer to disbelief than confusion.
Ronald, however, doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits expectantly, a stupidly pleased grin on his face as though this is an entirely reasonable demand he’s already decided is going to be met. Maybe there are indeed so many more sides to his Ronald of Ness that he has yet to discover.
“You don’t need me to say it for it to be true, now, do you?” With that, Inference adjusts his hat back into place, tone flattening as if to restore order to reality.
With a gentle motion of his free hand, he loosens Ronald’s grip on his sleeve and makes his way to the door before the man calls to him once more.
“Hey!”
Inference turns, one brow lifting.
Ronald, now half-sunk into the pillows, raises two fingers to his lips and blows him an exaggerated, flying kiss.
Inference instinctively recoils. “Ew.”
It comes out so flat and immediately so that Ronald bursts into laughter— and, to his own surprise, Inference does too. Not in the loud, wild manner it would’ve been in their younger days; this one is polished but equally genuine.
The sound lingers a moment too long, out of place but mutually craved in a way both of them could probably get used to, like the old days.
“Goodnight, Ronald,” Inference finally says, a hint of laughter still in his voice.
“Bye-bye,” Ronald sings back to him.
——
Inference has long since left Ronald's bedroom, now walking down the corridor, already bracing himself for how long Lady Truth will nag him for taking this much time on what was meant to be a simple witness follow-up and for the half-truths he’ll have to construct. It’s almost enough to raise a headache.
Still, the details of something far more memorable refuse to take coherent shape, something that has nothing to do with the case or the report he’ll have to cram through before the night is out.
He finds himself staring at the same wrist where Ronald’s touch had lingered, smiling for reasons he does not entirely understand.