Work Text:
There was something about watching Mu Qing at an old crime scene that pissed Feng Xin off.
Maybe it was the way he'd stop in the middle of a field, or on a grassy bank, or at the edge of a forest. How he'd stand there with his eyes focused on nothing, pen and paper in hand like he was going to take notes but he never did; not until after. How he'd start slowly walking, as if in a daze, as if possessed, pointing out where the body had been, where the note was found, describing the wounds and that horrible half-smile stitched onto a victim's face as if he'd been there. As if he'd seen the scene with his own eyes, been the first one to answer the call.
Supposedly, that was exactly what it was. Mu Qing could see things, had some sort of connection with a scene even a decade later. Had chalked out the location of a body years after the area had been cleaned and no longer bore the mark of death. Feng Xin had watched him do it, confusion and irritation warring with one another even as his blood ran cold.
Mu Qing was a true crime writer. Or a journalist. Whatever. Feng Xin didn't know if he could pull this magic trick out of his ass for every other crime he reported on. He only knew what he'd seen, and he'd seen Mu Qing pinpointing the details of crime scenes that were long gone as if he'd read Feng Xin's own notes.
He didn't like it. Not one fucking bit.
"Are you done?" Feng Xin squinted in the afternoon glare, one hand raised to try and stem some of the harsh light so he could see where Mu Qing stood. They were at the bottom of a grassy embankment on the edge of a busy county highway; one of No Face's more brazen dump sites.
Mu Qing, of course, didn't answer. He was staring at a patch of grass that Feng Xin vaguely remembered was where the body had been found. Stripped, bled dry, mouth cut open up into the cheek on one side and then sewn into a gruesome half-smile. Feng Xin remembered how it had looked, because he remembered them all; this one had been a man. Slim, average height, long brown hair done up in a half bun, possibly posthumously. Dark eyes wide open in death. Pale skin.
An uncanny resemblance to Xie Lian, but all the bodies had that.
"Hey! Are you done?!" The sound of cars passing couldn't drown out the volume of Feng Xin's yell, and yet Mu Qing still didn't answer. He'd started walking up the bank, toward the crest of the small hill. On the other side was more road, more strips of asphalt baked in the heat and cracked from the cold. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
He stopped at the top. From this angle, it looked like he was staring off at something in the distance. Grumbling to himself, he climbed up the hill, both hands now clutching the cardboard drink tray he'd gotten from the coffee shop just before they drove here.
Mu Qing didn't even react to his approach. He was watching a small copse of trees on the opposite side of the road, a bunch of scraggly runts that couldn't hide a mouse. Feng Xin knew what Mu Qing was thinking, what he'd say when he snapped out of his psychic bullshit. He could already hear the words in that crisp, carefully trained voice. It made him itch.
"He wasn't watching us that time," he said, before Mu Qing could claim anything. He took the second cup off the tray and shoved it into Mu Qing's chest, their fingers brushing when Mu Qing automatically reached up to take it ( they were cold, like the corpses Feng Xin examined. He was so cold, always freezing. As if he, too, was dead, a body shambling around in search of what killed it ) before Feng Xin drew his hand back.
Mu Qing frowned down at the warm cup in his hands, as if confused by how it got there. "What?"
"I said , he wasn't watching us that time." Feng Xin pointed to where Mu Qing had been staring. "Those trees weren't there ten years ago. They're new growth. Both embankments were just grass. He couldn't have been watching us, because there was nowhere for him to hide."
"Or you were just too stupid to notice him," Mu Qing snapped, and Feng Xin felt some of the tension in him ease. "...But, no. He wasn't watching you."
"Told you--"
"Not the night you found the body, anyway."
Feng Xin stopped, staring at Mu Qing, who took a sip of the tea as if he hadn't said anything. Instead, his brow furrowed and he looked at the cup for a long moment. Feng Xin, never the most patient outside of work, erupted.
"You can't just say that without a fucking explanation!"
"What do you want me to say? I'm not psychic. " Mu Qing's teeth clipped the word, a poison barb aimed straight for Feng Xin, a mockery of thoughts he hadn't actually shared. "He watched the area but not when you found the body. I can't tell for certain when. Maybe before he dumped the body here; it's not clear."
"Some fucking ghost whisperer you are," Feng Xin said with a snort, and Mu Qing glared at him.
Feng Xin chucked the cardboard tray into his car and sipped his coffee while Mu Qing took notes, furiously scribbling down everything he'd seen. Feng Xin had long since given up trying to understand what Mu Qing was writing; attempts to peer over his shoulder in the past were met with hissed insults. It wasn't like Feng Xin could read it, anyway. Mu Qing insisted that was because he used his own shorthand, but Feng Xin figured his handwriting was just bad. Whatever the case, it was easier to wait until Mu Qing typed them up on his laptop.
Feng Xin wondered, not for the first time, how he'd explain to his readers the source behind his precise and detailed knowledge of crime scenes he had technically witnessed only through old files. They wouldn't buy the sixth sense shit; they would never see it, never watch as Mu Qing went still and blank and breathed so quietly Feng Xin sometimes worried he'd stopped entirely. Those faceless readers wouldn't have the proof of it, not like Feng Xin did.
When Mu Qing came back to the car, Feng Xin slid into the driver's seat, placing his coffee in one of two cup holders. Mu Qing had already claimed the other, and was frowning at the backseat as he buckled himself in.
"What're you pissy about now?" Feng Xin asked as he put his key in the ignition.
"We have a plastic bag specifically for trash, and yet you throw everything in the back. It's disgusting."
"I'll throw it out at the motel," Feng Xin said. He could feel Mu Qing's glare as he pulled away from the curb. "Stop looking at me like that! I need to concentrate."
"It would be easier if you just put it in the bag."
"I've always thrown it in the back. I'll clean it out later!"
"Such a pig. "
"Fuck you!"
It was the same argument they had every few days, even though they'd been traveling on and off for weeks by now. It was almost comfortable, by this point, a groove in their conversations they could fall back into when things got too serious or too much. It helped Feng Xin forget the way Mu Qing looked at a crime scene.
Back at the motel, Feng Xin made good on what he said, muttering to himself as he cleaned out the collected garbage from his backseat while Mu Qing watched with arms crossed and eyes narrowed. When they got inside, Mu Qing made a beeline for the desk, pulling out and opening his laptop to begin transcribing the notes he'd taken at the scene. Feng Xin stepped out to get some snacks from the vending machine, and returned to flop on the bed with a bag of chips and flip through the motel's sad selection of tv channels. Nothing caught his interest; for a good while, the only sounds were the rustling of the chip bag and the clack of keyboard keys. In the absence of distraction, he grew restless.
Eventually, Feng Xin broke the silence. "So, you learn anything the case files didn't tell you?"
The sound of typing abruptly stopped, though Mu Qing didn't turn around. He didn't answer, and after a long moment Feng Xin snorted.
"So that's a no."
"I learned that he was watching," Mu Qing said icily. His shoulders, Feng Xin could see, were hunched, a posture he didn't seem to realize he had when he was at his computer. "He surveyed the area before deciding to use it."
"Well, we already fucking knew that." Feng Xin crunched on a chip with an exaggerated flair that made it extra loud. "So good job, Ghost Whisperer."
Mu Qing whirled in the chair, turning to face Feng Xin. " Don't call me that. I've done a hell of a lot more in the past few weeks than you have your entire career."
There it was: the spark Feng Xin needed to ignite, anger burning through him as he shoved himself up off the bed. The chip bag fell from his lap, the remaining chips spilling over the blankets, and Feng Xin could see that only infuriated Mu Qing more. Good.
"I spent the last ten years of my fucking life on this case, don't you fucking sit there and act like you're any better than me!" He was getting too loud and he knew it; they could very well leave this motel with a series of noise complaints at their backs. It had happened before. He didn't care. "Just because you've got some fucking voodoo shit--"
"That's not what it is, moron!"
"--doesn't mean you're a better detective than me! You're an amateur, a wannabe, that's all you are!"
Mu Qing stood up so fast his chair fell over. He stalked close enough that their faces were nearly touching, their heights close enough they could stare each other in the eye. With his silver hair and the light streaming in through the sheer curtains on the window, he almost looked aglow, lit from the inside by his rage.
"You had all the resources at your disposal," he hissed, finger jabbing painfully into Feng Xin's collarbone. "You had the training, the task force, the job , and you didn't find him. You had ten years and you didn't find him. The case has gone cold because you didn't find him. Don't tell me I'm only an amateur because I haven't handed you No Face on a silver platter. You should have caught him years ago and you didn't; don't take your failure out on me because I'm doing better than you ever could!"
Feng Xin wanted to hit him. He wanted to take that finger pressing into his skin and snap it. He wanted to scream, to shake Mu Qing, tell him he was wrong, tell him to take it back--
You've given everything to this case , Jian Lan had said, the night she gave him the divorce papers. There's nothing left for the rest of us.
"Shut up." Feng Xin was tired, all of a sudden. No, that wasn't right; he was fucking exhausted. The anger he'd embraced was gone, leaving nothing but ash. "I did what I could."
He went to turn away when he heard a sharp huff behind him.
"Don't do that." It almost sounded like a plea, and that over everything else had Feng Xin staying where he was, blinking at Mu Qing as if he'd never seen the man before. "Don't--just don't. We're going to catch him. We will. So stop worrying about the past."
It was a stupid thing to say, considering the past was the whole reason they were here. Yet Feng Xin still felt...comforted. Sort of.
He shook his head to clear the thought. They needed to stop spending so much time together; it was clearly driving him crazy.
"That was practically nice of you," he said, to push away the lingering tendrils of something he couldn't name. He earned an eyeroll, which shifted his world back onto solid ground. "So the master sleuth still hasn't solved it."
"I'm getting close," Mu Qing retorted. Things were back to normal. "And I still have work to do, so if you would stop interrupting me and do something useful , we might get somewhere."
Feng Xin retreated to the bed, grabbing a few of the old case files to review for the thousandth time while Mu Qing went back to typing. This was when they got along best, the times they'd be individually working or reading something, when they only spoke to get the other's opinion on some clue. It was comfortable, by now, in a way Feng Xin tried not to acknowledge and hadn't felt since Jian Lan left him.
They worked like this for the rest of the day; tomorrow they'd leave the motel and move on to the next crime scene. No Face had traveled extensively, his kills radiating outward from the central hub that was Feng Xin and Mu Qing's hometown. It had meant the original task force was made up of detectives from several jurisdictions, something so rare that it hadn't happened since and, considering they hadn't caught the killer they came together to find, probably never would. Feng Xin had always taken the lack of answers as a personal failure, and now, in the latest motel with papers strewn about and the killer still elusive as ever, the hammering of guilt and ineptitude was painfully strong.
It didn’t help that Mu Qing’s accusations kept repeating themselves in his head, an angry mantra that tore at his old wounds, reopening them, making him bleed.
They had takeout for dinner and then spent the night studying files and old leads as they always did, with Mu Qing at the desk and Feng Xin sitting on the bed, using a few pillows as a back rest. For hours the room was once again filled only with the sounds of typing and the rustling of papers. At one point, Feng Xin popped open a soda, hoping the caffeine would combat the burning of fatigue he could feel beginning behind his eyes; Mu Qing, he saw the few times he looked up, had brewed himself some more tea and was sipping every so often from a steaming mug.
Feng Xin didn’t remember falling asleep. There was a moment, a hazy, half-remembered feeling of being gently guided into lying down, something he could just as easily have imagined, but otherwise he was sitting there reading one second and then the next he was cracking his eyes open to the sound of his phone alarm. He squinted in the darkness of the motel room, the curtains drawn and thick enough that he couldn’t tell if the sun was up. He realized, as he reached for his phone, that he was in bed with the covers tucked over him. A soft shuffling told him that Mu Qing, who was lying on the other side with his back to Feng Xin - they always slept like that, back to back, as if not being able to see the other would let them believe they were alone in the sheets - was also waking up.
It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up to find he’d been put to bed, or that a blanket had been pulled over him when he passed out in a chair. The obvious culprit was the man behind him, the man whose silver hair spilled over the pillow like silk (and sometimes, if Feng Xin rolled over in his sleep, ended up in his mouth), but even now Feng Xin couldn’t believe it. He would be more likely to believe that No Face himself had broken into their motel room and tucked him in than Mu Qing having done something like that.
Turning his alarm off, he felt for Mu Qing’s leg beneath the covers under the guise of stretching. His foot touched Mu Qing’s instead, and he jerked it back with a hiss.
“What are you doing,” Mu Qing grunted, not turning to face him.
“Nothing, just getting up. You should wear socks or something to bed, your feet are fucking freezing .”
“I am not wearing socks to bed. ” Mu Qing started sitting up, then, keeping his back to Feng Xin. He had, of course, changed into his pajamas, and Feng Xin’s nose wrinkled as he pulled himself out of the bed, feeling the uncomfortable impressions in his skin from having slept in his jeans all night. I guess I should be grateful he didn’t strip me, too.
The mental image of Mu Qing struggling to change Feng Xin into pajamas while he was unconscious made Feng Xin want to laugh, and also created an alien warmth in his chest that he decided to ignore. He didn’t have time to dwell on it, anyway; he had to get dressed and cleaned up so they could head out again. Mu Qing got even pissier if they didn’t leave early enough, and Feng Xin was too tired to deal with that right now.
It was when they were nearly out the door, Feng Xin checking that they had both room keys so they didn’t end up with another fee for losing them, that he remembered something he’d meant to bring up the day before. In the rush of another crime scene and the fight that came after, it had completely slipped his mind.
“Hey, so…” Feng Xin coughed awkwardly, and Mu Qing turned to face him, one brow raised. “On the way to the next scene, uh. We’ll be passing my ex’s place, and Cuo Cuo’s got the day off from school for some parent teacher thing, so she said if I was in the area, I could stop by.” He already has the argument prepared for if Mu Qing says no, if he tries to keep pushing them ahead because, as he’d once said when Feng Xin detoured too long, the longer they took to find the killer was more time No Face had to potentially come out of hiding and kill again.
“So,” Feng Xin continued, “It’ll only put us a few hours behind, and it’s not like the crime scene is going anywhere anyway—”
“We can go,” Mu Qing interrupted. Feng Xin stared at him, and he scowled, looking away. “But it’s not like you need my permission to see your own son, I’m not your jailer.”
“I know that! I was just—” Feng Xin huffed, ran a hand through his hair. “I was being considerate, dickhead!”
“Whatever. We’re going. We can look at the scene tomorrow.” He walked away, then, toward where Feng Xin had parked the car, using the key fob to unlock it so he could begin loading his suitcase in the back. Feng Xin watched him go, flabbergasted at the turn of events. Mu Qing hadn’t argued at all; every reason Feng Xin had scrounged up after getting Jian Lan’s text yesterday morning evaporated, unused and unnecessary. Mu Qing had agreed, just like that, to go with Feng Xin to see his kid, when Feng Xin was pretty sure Mu Qing hated kids. Considering Mu Qing seemed to hate almost everything, especially Feng Xin, spending the day with the results of his gene pool sounded like the last thing Mu Qing would agree to do.
Well, there was no use looking a gift horse in the mouth. Mu Qing said yes, and even pushed their crime scene visit to tomorrow, which meant Feng Xin could spend most of the day with Cuo Cuo, if Cuo Cuo would let him. The lingering hurt of the night before dissipated, burned away by the nervous anticipation of seeing his son. It had been a few weeks since he’d last gotten in a good visit - constant traveling didn’t make for a reliable child care schedule - and he missed his little asshole of a kid.
Maybe he could pick up a present on the way, something Cuo Cuo would like. An RC truck or something. Bribery always tended to make Cuo Cuo that much happier to see his dad.
He was pleased enough that when they left the motel and headed back toward the highway, he’d actually started humming under his breath. They usually left the radio off in the car because they could never decide on what station to listen to, and Feng Xin had long gotten bored of NPR and news programs, so there was nothing to overwhelm the little tune Feng Xin was entertaining himself with.
After a while, Mu Qing spoke up. “You must be really happy to see him.”
“Hm?” Feng Xin’s humming stopped as he glanced over at Mu Qing. His companion wasn’t looking at him, eyes forward and trained on the road ahead, but even in profile it was easy to see his usual severe expression was gone. He looked...thoughtful, almost.
Feng Xin waited a beat, certain that mockery would follow. When it didn’t, he cautiously replied, “Yeah, I am. It’s been a while since I last did. Since we started looking into this case, actually.”
Now Mu Qing looked at him, and the incredulity in his face, bordering on horror, was startling. “You haven’t visited him since then? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why would I? We were working a case. Jian Lan doesn’t like it when I’m wrapped up with my job around A-Cuo.” She’d always tell him that it was like he wasn’t there at all, and why bother visiting if his mind was lost in work?
“But he’s your son . Where do they live? How far?”
“Um.” Feng Xin’s brow furrowed when he glanced aside again. “About an hour and a half from here, maybe half that to the next crime scene.”
“That’s not that out of the way at all. You should really make time to see Cuo Cuo more often. He’s your family, and he needs his father.”
“Fine, okay, jeez.” Feng Xin shook his head, frowning. “Since when did you become an expert on parenting?”
“Any idiot would know to see their own child more than once every few weeks,” Mu Qing snapped. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to stare out the window instead. “No wonder he doesn’t like you, you’re never around.”
“Fuck you,” Feng Xin snarled, and his words were sharper this time, more raw. He wondered if Mu Qing realized how much he sounded like Jian Lan, sometimes.
Mu Qing didn’t look at him, but Feng Xin did hear a soft sigh. “We’re going to be in this general area a lot for this case. You can go see your son as often as you want. Don’t use me and Xie Lian’s disappearance as an excuse to avoid your family. Okay?”
Though what he said was insulting as usual, Mu Qing’s voice didn’t have the same bite. It was...softer. Like it was an observation instead of another barb meant to sink deep into Feng Xin’s insecurities.
“I’m not avoiding anything,” Feng Xin grumbled instead of hollering. Mu Qing snorted. They fell back into silence until Feng Xin couldn’t take it anymore, and when he turned the radio on to a classic rock station, Mu Qing didn’t complain.
Jian Lan’s current place was a typical suburban affair, complete with the neat front lawn and trim hedges lining the porch. Back when they’d first divorced, any time Feng Xin saw her living on her own with Cuo Cuo, the image was almost like a knife stuck in his chest, and he would think, this should be ours. I should be living here. That should be where my chair is, and my photos should be with hers in the living room, this should be our space—
Now, the pain had dulled into a muted ache. He could look at that house as he pulled up alongside the sidewalk out front and not think about how it should have been theirs. He could get out of his car after parking instead of sitting there trying to keep himself from crying, trying to pull himself together before Jian Lan saw him and gave him that same pitying look she had so often in the wake of their divorce.
And this time, odd as it was, he wasn’t alone. Feng Xin expected Mu Qing to stay in the car or insist on driving around on his own while Feng Xin was here, but instead he got out too, tilting his head up so he could take in the house.
“This is a nice place,” he commented, hands in the pockets of his long coat. “There’s good schools in this area, too.”
Feng Xin stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Uh, okay. Good to know.”
When they came up the front path, the door opened before they even reached the porch, and Cuo Cuo, small and gangly at eight, squinted out at them. His eyes immediately fell on the bag Feng Xin had tucked under his arm - they’d stopped to pick up a gift at a Target on the way - and he eased himself out from behind the door’s frame. He didn’t say hello or anything else in greeting, fixated completely on the present; Feng Xin didn’t let it get to him. Cuo Cuo was always like that.
“Hey, kiddo.” They came up the porch steps and Feng Xin grinned, crouching to be closer to Cuo Cuo’s height. “Where’s your mom?”
“Cleaning the bathroom.” Cuo Cuo finally dragged his eyes away from the bag to look up at Mu Qing. “Who’s this?”
“He’s my—friend. From work.” Feng Xin’s grin twitched. “His name’s—”
“Mu Qing.” The sound of movement, and Mu Qing was crouching beside Feng Xin. “You’re Cuo Cuo, aren’t you? It’s very nice to meet you. Your father talks about you a lot.”
Cuo Cuo blinked, eyes darting between the two of them like he couldn’t believe what Mu Qing was saying. Feng Xin didn’t blame him; he could hardly believe it himself. It was true that he had gotten into the habit of chattering about whatever updates Jian Lan sent him regarding his son during their long car rides, but he’d never thought Mu Qing actually listened to him.
“He never mentioned you,” Cuo Cuo said, frowning. “Besides, Mom said Dad doesn’t have any friends.” He looked right at Feng Xin when he said it, making him wince. He didn’t want to believe that was true, but he knew better than anyone how vicious Jian Lan’s tongue could be, especially when she was pissed at him about something. Which, in the past decade, had been pretty much all of the time.
Mu Qing laughed, the bastard. “You’d be surprised,” he said pleasantly. “Can we come inside?”
Cuo Cuo shuffled his feet a bit, then nodded, pushing the door open further for them. Feng Xin stood, his knees aching from having squatted even for that short amount of time; usually, though, it was worse. The last time he stopped by, it took him at least ten minutes to convince Cuo Cuo to let him inside, and here Mu Qing had done it in maybe two.
And he was smiling as they stepped into the house, watching Cuo Cuo with what looked like fondness but couldn’t be. Mu Qing didn’t know his kid, and he hated kids. At least Feng Xin thought he did. Was he doing this purposefully to show Feng Xin up in front of his own son?
His stomach twisted, teeth clenching. Mu Qing would pull some shit like that. As if his super power making him a better detective wasn’t enough for him.
Jian Lan, he found when he called her name, was now in the kitchen, which meant Feng Xin was absolutely not supposed to approach it. He’d gotten better about that in recent years, so instead he veered into the living room, letting himself slip into observation as his eyes scanned the various surfaces. He thought he saw his own face looking back at him, here and there, pictures of himself with Cuo Cuo that were tucked into less-noticeable places, while the mantelpiece was dedicated to only Cuo Cuo and some Jian Lan. Some tension eased from his shoulders to see that some bits of him were still welcome in their lives; he remembered the days when you’d think Jian Lan had summoned Cuo Cuo into existence all on her own.
“What’d you bring me?” Cuo Cuo’s voice brought Feng Xin back to the present, and he turned to see his son perched on the couch, Mu Qing seated beside him, eyes on Feng Xin. Like he’d been watching. Feng Xin averted his gaze.
“Well, you said last time you were looking for a new video game, right?” Pulling up the nearby stool, Feng Xin sat off to the side of the couch, closest to Cuo Cuo. He pulled the bag from under his arm and passed it to his son, who eagerly shoved a hand inside. “So when I saw this at the store, I thought you’d like it.”
Feng Xin had actually been a bit lost as to what he should bring Cuo Cuo, and it had been a few sarcastic comments from Mu Qing that had him picking out the game. Cuo Cuo had been hinting at a different one - something violent, involving guns - but, as loathe as he was to admit it, with Mu Qing’s help he’d landed on this fighting game instead. It contained many old video game characters he remembered from when he was younger, and the cartoonish nature should be much better for an eight year old than some war game.
It was another odd thing Mu Qing had done ever since this morning, when he’d agreed to visiting Cuo Cuo. What made it more strange was that when Cuo Cuo lit up to pull the game out, when he cried, “Yes! Mom said I couldn’t get this until my birthday!”, Mu Qing smiled again. Not smug or pleased the way Feng Xin expected, but happy to see that Cuo Cuo was happy.
He looked up, then, to see that Feng Xin was looking at him. His smile didn’t waver. Feng Xin found himself smiling back, genuinely, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his mood easing.
Mu Qing flushed, suddenly, eyes darting away as he scowled, and the moment broke. Feng Xin’s smile faltered.
“Dad!” Cuo Cuo had torn the plastic wrapping off of the game case and was now tugging at Feng Xin’s coat sleeve. “Dad, Dad, can we play? It’s four players so Mu Qing can play too. Can we?”
Feng Xin hadn’t touched a video game controller since college. “Sure we can,” he said anyway. Cuo Cuo’s excitement, so rarely seen, was impossible to say no to. “Let me help you get the console set up.”
After several minutes of Feng Xin trying to remember how to bring up the gaming system on Jian Lan’s TV, they finally got the game running. Cuo Cuo even moved over so that Feng Xin could join him and Mu Qing on the couch, squishing his tiny little self between the two adult men on either side of him. They played like this for hours, Cuo Cuo insisting on just one more round even though he consistently handed their asses to him. Mu Qing and Feng Xin instead began an unspoken competition to see who would come in second, and Feng Xin was once again surprised to find that Mu Qing actually wasn’t that bad. They ended up evening out each other’s loss to win ratios, while Cuo Cuo, of course, had a spotless win streak.
When they first started working this case together, Feng Xin had assumed Mu Qing could never surprise him as much as he had upon revealing his voodoo shit. To find that Mu Qing could, and did, continue to surprise him, that Mu Qing could play video games and laugh when Cuo Cuo beat him and praise his son for being so good at this…
It had been a long time since Feng Xin had been wrong about something and not hated himself for it.
Around the early afternoon, Jian Lan finally made an appearance in the living room, bearing a plate of ham sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea. Cuo Cuo regaled her with play-by-plays of the many times he’d beaten Feng Xin and Mu Qing at his new game, and Jian Lan smiled indulgently, running her fingers through his hair and telling him what an amazing boy he was. Feng Xin watched them together, aching to be a part of it, so lost in his own desires that he startled when he felt something touch his arm.
“He’s a good kid,” Mu Qing said quietly. Cuo Cuo had gotten up to talk to his mother while he stuffed a sandwich in his face, leaving them together on the couch. Somehow, the Cuo Cuo-shaped space between them had shrunk somewhat in his absence. “Why don’t you come by more often?”
His voice was low enough that Jian Lan couldn’t hear them. Feng Xin sighed, and muttered, “She doesn’t like me coming around too much. Our divorce wasn’t exactly pleasant.”
“Then why don’t you watch him instead? Take him to your apartment?”
“Well, technically our custody agreement is that I get him every other weekend and one weeknight when Jian Lan’s got him for the weekend, but with how this case has been going, and the other work I’ve got for the department…” Feng Xin looked down at his hands, at where he rested them on his knees. “I end up not having the time, no matter how much I want to see him.”
“Then you need to make time.” When he lifted his head, he found Mu Qing’s dark gaze boring into his own. “He’s only got one childhood. You’ll regret it if you miss it.”
Feng Xin huffed a breath through his nose. “Yeah, yeah, you told me already, Dr. Phil.”
Mu Qing took in a sharp breath, clearly preparing to say something else; he never got the chance. Cuo Cuo ran back over, brushing crumbs off of his shirt and onto the carpet, practically jumping onto the couch and separating them once more.
“Best two out of three!” he declared, holding up his controller. The conversation was over. Feng Xin was grateful.
By the time they left, it was growing dark. Cuo Cuo had eventually gotten tired of beating them at the fighting game, and switched to Mario Kart. He still won every time. Getting his ass handed to him by a child, however, was completely worth it, for as he and Mu Qing stepped out into the chilly evening air, Cuo Cuo actually ran forward to wrap his arms around Feng Xin’s middle, hugging him tight.
“Thanks for the video game, Dad,” he said, muffled by how his face was buried in Feng Xin’s stomach.
He bent to more easily hug Cuo Cuo back, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Hey, anytime, kiddo. In fact...maybe next weekend you can come over, bring your games with you, and we can play some more. How’s that sound?”
He’d been thinking of it after what Mu Qing said. Breaks from the case were needed anyway, lest it drive him to the breaking point experienced by some of his colleagues, and he did want to see his son more than once every few weeks. His pulse beat a nervous rhythm in his ears as he waited for Cuo Cuo’s answer.
It didn’t take long. “Okay!” Cuo Cuo said, sounding eager. He even pulled his face away to look up at his father, eyes shining. He really wants to, Feng Xin thought, happy to the point of haziness. And then:
“Can Mu Qing come too?”
“That’s up to your father,” Mu Qing replied while Feng Xin was still recovering.
“Uh, yeah, okay. If he’s around, he can come too.” The words were strained even to his ears, but Cuo Cuo didn’t seem to notice, bouncing over to Mu Qing to thank him for playing before he ran back inside to his mother. Jian Lan gave them one last look before she closed the door, finally settling on a little wave goodbye that Feng Xin just managed to return.
Neither he nor Mu Qing said anything as they drove away from Jian Lan’s house, heading back to the highway that would bring them to the next motel. It was only when they stopped at a gas station to grab some dinner and were sitting in one of the few parking spaces to eat that Feng Xin suddenly blurted, “So what was that all about?”
Mu Qing paused, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “What was what about?”
“That. With A-Cuo. Being all friendly with him, and giving me that advice. What’s your game?”
“Game?” That one syllable was coated with ice, shivering in the air between them. “There’s no game. ”
“But you were all nice to him,” Feng Xin insisted. “Kept smiling and complimenting him. I get that I’m not the best dad, but—”
“You can’t be serious.” Mu Qing looked about ready to launch himself across the partition between their seats; his jaw was tight, unbridled rage blazing sudden and hot in his eyes. “You think I was being kind to a child to compete with you?”
“Uh,” Feng Xin said, because when Mu Qing put it like that it sounded ridiculous, “Weren’t you?”
“No! I was—” Mu Qing couldn’t finish, mouth moving like he wanted to keep going but couldn’t find the words. It was the only time Feng Xin had seen him speechless.
When the words still wouldn’t come, Mu Qing let out a noise of frustration and smacked his hand on the dashboard. “You’re impossible!” he seethed. “You really can’t fathom that I would treat your son well unless I’m doing it to show you up?! Are you that self-absorbed?!”
“Self—? Just yesterday you were going off on me about how shitty a detective I am, and this morning you were telling me I was a shitty dad too! What the fuck was I supposed to think?”
“Not that! And I never meant—” Another angry sound, before Mu Qing took a few deep breaths, eyes closed, sandwich container set in his lap so he could clench and unclench his fists. Feng Xin sat with his finger curled so tightly around the wheel his knuckles cracked, body tensed.
“You’re not a bad detective,” Mu Qing said at last. “And you’re not a bad father.”
Feng Xin stared at him, and Mu Qing twitched slightly under the scrutiny. “But you are an idiot. The whole reason I came out here with you was to help build off of what knowledge you have. If I thought you were a shitty detective, I wouldn’t have bothered bringing you along at all. And why would I want to show you up in front of your son? You really think I’m the kind of monster who would try to destroy an already tenuous family bond?”
“Well,” Feng Xin said, uncomfortable now. His hands flexed on the wheel, and he couldn’t look Mu Qing in the face. “No. I guess not.”
“Good. Because I wouldn’t.”
While Mu Qing went back to angrily tearing off hunks of his sandwich, Feng Xin found he didn’t have an appetite anymore. He looked down at the half-eaten hot dog in his lap and couldn’t muster up the energy to have any more of it.
Instead, after a long silence, permeated only by Mu Qing’s frustrated chewing, he murmured, “Thanks.”
Immediately, the chewing stopped. “What?”
"I said...thanks. For working this case with me, for using your vo--your gift. To try and catch this guy.” He squeezed the wheel in pulses, the supple material bending just enough beneath his grip to release some of the tightness in his muscles. “Thanks for helping with A-Cuo. I’ve never seen him take to someone so fast.”
The subtle sound of Mu Qing shifting in his seat. “...You’re welcome. I have some experience with children, that’s all.”
Feng Xin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye; Mu Qing’s features were blank, betraying nothing. I have some experience with children. He did? Why? How? Feng Xin’s detective’s mind churned with the unanswered questions, but this time he didn’t press. Mu Qing was the type who let things out in slips of the tongue more than naught, and trying to lean on him only had him clamming up tighter.
The atmosphere between them, at least, no longer felt like it would snap at any second and leave the two of them brawling in a gas station parking lot. Feng Xin was glad for that. The last time that happened had been fucking awkward.
“He’s the reason I do it, you know,” Feng Xin admitted, so quietly he might’ve been talking to himself. Didn’t matter; he knew Mu Qing was listening by the taut silence that followed it. “Why I work so hard. I want him to grow up in a world where monsters like that get caught, you know? Where he can trust his dad will be there to clean the streets of scum.”
Another glance showed Mu Qing was looking down at his hands. “I think I understand,” he said at last. “We’ll catch him. We’ll put No Face behind bars, and Cuo Cuo will be safe.” The way Xie Lian wasn’t is unspoken, yet Feng Xin hears it as clearly as if Mu Qing had said it right into his ear.
“We will.” Feng Xin paused, then turned in his seat. He offered Mu Qing his hand, pinky curled outward. “Promise?” he asked, lip curved in a crooked grin.
Mu Qing watched that finger like it might pop off of Feng Xin’s hand and stab him in the eye. Eventually, cautiously, he curled his own around Feng Xin’s, a gesture they hadn’t done since childhood. The presence of that missing third finger sits between them, yet it seems to bind them more tightly.
“I promise,” Mu Qing whispered. Their eyes locked over their joined pinkies, and Feng Xin felt something...stir. Something big. Something certain.
It wouldn’t be a smooth ride, but they’d do it, the two of them. Together.