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The old door creaks on its hinges. That ought to be fixed, she thinks; she makes a mental note to bring up later that stands a 50/50 chance of maintaining a decent spot in her memory. She doesn’t expect it to be open, but it swings easily under the weight of her palm. Wrapping a gloved hand tighter around the knob, reading off the words on the arched plaque above the door, printed in plain copper with a plain font, as she goes; ORPHEUS DETECTIVE AGENCY on top, and then, smaller underneath, something illegible, worn down and struck-through. Luca chews on her lip when she passes, leaving behind the only hint as to what the building once might have been.
The agency is empty; they aren’t sure yet whether that’s for the better or the worse. It’s a nice space, if not a little cramped, with pieces of furniture shoved into spaces where they don’t quite fit, lopsided or overlapping at the edges. In a sense, it feels almost comfortable, like a well lived-in home, and they suppose, with a twinge of guilty, cynical amusement, that it makes for a more bearable waiting area for uneasy clients.
It’s dark inside- lit only by the rays of sun filtered through the window slats that converge on the glass door at the end of the room, glinting at a sharp angle off the simply labeled announcement of “ Mr. Inference ” in the same font as that over the building’s door. It’s a little too on the nose for her tastes, borderline corny, but she figures it’s for some good reason or other (or at least that’s what she would like to claim, if asked for her opinion on the subject), and at any rate it seems to be effective, considering how often she hears the name around town. She takes a closer look, sidling along the length of the lobby to peer at the window, but it’s in vain; as expected, nothing is visible through the opaque glass. Luca clicks her tongue, tries the knob, and considers, for a dangerous moment that lingers a bit longer than it should, trying to see through the keyhole.
Just when they’re stepping away from the office, a different knob clicks and the other door is open again, whining on its rickety pins. They spin, trying not to look too guilty despite the fact that they haven’t done anything, one hand flying behind their back to adjust their coat.
The door slams against the wall. Inference is all tense steel when his head snaps over to stare at Luca, one hand flying to his hip before he recognizes them. He looks distinctly cornered, and though she wouldn’t ever usually think of him as prey , he looks terribly like he’s being hunted. They swallow against the sudden lump in their throat, staring at the empty space on his belt where his hand lingers, and become distinctly, uncomfortably aware of the fact that they’ve seen something they weren’t meant to. The two of them regard each other in stiff silence until Inference’s hand drops again and all the fire is gone from his body, replaced by something more suffocating and yet more tame.
“Balsa,” he says, not quite asking despite the questioning tone of his voice, but still sounding like he didn’t expect her to actually come . The word trembles on his tongue, awkward and slightly souring.
“I’m here.” Luca lifts one shoulder in a sideways shrug and doesn’t sound half as enthusiastic about it as she’d like to. Fool to the end, she thinks with a flicker of fond exasperation, that he should be surprised to see her; it dies down when he steps inside, boots clicking with all the solemnity of his old soldier’s bearing, and lets the door fall shut behind him with a screech.
“I wasn’t expecting you this early. I was only out for a minute.” Inference exhales and tugs at the lapels of his coat, hands drifting down to his sides immediately after. It seems as though he’s about to say something else, but when the ensuing silence begins to stretch into something unbearable, Luca coughs.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in.”
She’s not an idiot, comically far from it, but she knows just when to say the perfectly wrong things.
“No. It’s good that you did.” He’s still bad at lying. When he really looks at her for the first time, his left eye visibly wanders and takes its time to catch up. It’s a bit distracting.
“It’s a nice building,” she says. “Easy to find.”
“I know.”
Another bout of silence; another scrambling attempt to fill it:
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” She cracks a ragged grin.
One of his brows twitches, raising into an arch. “It has,” he says slowly.
“ Well .. It’s a nice building,” she says again, tongue moving faster than her brain. “What did you do, after…” She gestures vaguely, as though attempting to speak of an unspeakable topic.
“I’ve been in the army. You know that.” Inference frowns, as if she’s the one acting obtuse. He’s still standing stock-still, frozen by the door.
“No. No, I mean the, uh-“ She clears her throat and feels his gaze on her; keen, fixated, already knowing what she’s going to say, having known the entire time, and suddenly she’s the one that really feels like prey. “After the army . I was only curious,” she adds as a lame attempt to backtrack, as if she were capable of that. “That’s all.”
How did you come across the funds to make this happen?
“I made my own way well enough.” He tries to smile, or maybe he doesn’t; his mouth curves ever so slightly but his eyes stay the same, always the same, like he’s seeing something behind her rather than seeing her .
They really aren’t stupid and consider taking offense at the clearly lacking explanation, but the uniquely uncanny wince still on his face is enough to discourage that. So they pivot again. “Mind if I take a seat?”
“Go ahead.” Inference, too, seems glad for the change in topic, expression settling back into the usual perpetual frown. He’s had it since they were children, but it’s even more pronounced than it used to be, written well into the lines of his skin. He watches them as they settle into a chair by the window, lazy eye skittering like it can’t quite find them. They wonder how much he can see out of it, if anything at all, whether the monocle actually helps.
He lingers by the door still, hovering; is he guarding it or barricading? Luca cranes her neck to watch him and feels oddly smothered. “You ought to sit too,” she tells him.
His brow twitches again but he makes no movement, and now she begins to grow perturbed, crossing her arms with a sigh. “If you don’t, I’m just going to stand again anyway.” Though she doesn’t know if she could ; she feels pinned to the seat, as if she couldn’t rise from it even if she tried.
Inexplicably, Inference nearly laughs at that; he huffs out something that could be a chuckle and rolls his shoulders so his coat slips off, withdrawing his arms from the heavy sleeves at the same time. Luca isn’t sure whether to be offended, pleased, or wary; in the end, she settles for staying perfectly silent, tongue working behind her teeth.
He glances at her again, mouth still quirked in the first semblance of positive emotion she’s seen from him yet. “Do you remember…” he starts to say. Then he cuts himself off just as fast and ducks his head until his eyes disappear under the shadow of his cap. Luca nods along anyway. Pretends that there’s a chance she might remember it , whatever it is; thinks that maybe if she tries hard enough, she will.
But Inference never finishes the question, never says what it is she should remember. Instead, he flexes his fingers in a motion that is almost violent, kept in check by the heft of the coat now clutched to his breast between them. His eyes come back into focus and he lifts his head after another moment before he turns to hang the coat on the rack in a mechanical motion, practiced and easy, and clears his throat. “Not important.”
If Luca were less quick, or perhaps more , depending on how one might view it, they would hear the firm note of finality in his tone and know not to push further. But they have always been curious by nature- innovator first, investigator second, both fueled by their desire for objective knowledge- and so they play their cards a bit more recklessly. “You aren’t really the type to bring up a topic of no importance.”
His eyes slide over to her, bemused and then sharp and finally settling on resignation- and that’s the type of expression she’s used to, that is one of the few things she remembers clearly. She clings to it like a lifesaver in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty.
When Inference looks away again, it starts to flicker; they just have time to think that for a detective, he isn’t very good at maintaining eye contact, before he says, “I’m- not , am I.”
A pause, like he expects her to agree. “Well,” he adds when she doesn’t speak again, “it’s really not anything you need to worry about.”
Reaching into the pocket of the coat, he produces a ring of bronze keys, thumbing through them at a rapid-fire pace until he lands on the one he wants. “I’ll be in my office,” he adds, head tilting in a subtle motion for her to follow, though he doesn’t say it aloud.
It takes him two tries to fit the key into the lock because his left hand is slightly unsteady. Luca looks away while he’s doing it- as if he needs privacy, as if that will do a single thing to actually help him, because lord knows he wouldn’t accept any real help- and so she doesn’t see the way he grimaces when she does.
Inside, after taking quick notes of the many cabinets and the evidence boards pinned to the walls, she watches as he removes his cap and tosses it down on the desk. It lands haphazardly atop a pile of loose papers and manila folders, nearly blowing a few sheets to the ground with the force of its impact. Luca vacillates for a moment before reaching out to set it right, moving it to one of the few empty spots on the cluttered table and giving it a firm pat. Inference watches her with vague interest, peeking from his peripheral vision like he doesn’t want her to notice. She lets him have that, because he seems uncharacteristically lost, even more so within the cold intimacy of his own office, and because she feels bad for him in a way she thinks he would maybe hate her for.
“So,” he says once she’s taken a seat, doing his best to regain control of a casual line of conversation, neither of them willing to address the elephant in the room. “Paranormal investigator, is it? No offense, but I can’t say it’s exactly what I expected.”
Expected. Luca is mildly (bitingly) curious as to what it might have been that he had in mind instead, but when she does her best to consider it from an outsider’s perspective, it isn’t too difficult to figure. “Yes. Well,” she splays one hand over the surface of the desk between them, feeling the sturdiness of the wood through her glove, “it isn’t precisely what it sounds like. You see, there is always some certain truth to be ascertained behind rumors and hearsay of the supernatural. Rarely, if ever, would I expect to find a true case of paranormal activity.”
“Ah,” says Inference, stretching one of his legs under the desk- it brushes dangerously close to Luca’s; she draws her own closer to her seat- and propping his cane up against the side, well within arm’s reach. “So you don’t believe in ghosts?”
Somehow, the question is so unexpectedly blunt that Luca pauses for a moment, mind cutting to blank static as they try to find the answer somewhere within the mess. “I… well. No. Between us, I shouldn’t say that I do,” they hedge.
“You don’t sound so sure.” They can’t tell if he’s teasing or not with how solemnly he continues to gaze on them, one eye bluer than the sea, darker than night, the other straying to some indeterminate point on the opposite wall.
Luca sighs through their nose and clamps their mouth, ruminating over the slightly questionable degree of their own candor. “The truth,” she says, tongue tying itself into a loop yet again as her jigsaw-wired brain skips ahead and tries to add Naib , nearly tasting the stale remnants of years lost to the kaleidoscope of a forged existence, before resorting to Detective, though that doesn’t feel right either, heavy and ridiculously unfamiliar against the roof of her mouth, and then finally stutters to an ungainly halt that leaves both of them waiting in suspended silence before she can remember where she’d like to pick up.
“The truth is,” she starts again, and Inference gives no indication of any sort of emotion as she does, despite the fumble, despite the fact that it never would have happened before, “I can’t disregard the theory of the transcendental , let’s put it, in its entirety.”
“I see.” He’s nodding slowly, like it makes perfect sense, and that puts her enough at ease to continue, regaining the thread of the subject with enough fluidity to surprise herself:
“Metaphysics could, hypothetically, offer a framework of possibility for the existence of such phenomena, but truth be told, it isn’t something I’m able to speak on with full certainty.” It isn’t in Luca’s interest to admit it when they don’t have some degree of prowess to demonstrate on a particular concern, but they must concede that there’s no reason to conceal such facts from Inference. “My colleagues, on the other hand…”
She trails to a halt and sees the way he’s looking at her, or rather the way he isn’t. He seems more preoccupied than he has up until now, avoiding her gaze again; his shoulders are stiff and square under the limp lines of his shirt.
“Do you?” she asks before she can hold back.
“What?” His head snaps to the side as if he’s awoken from a half-slumber, except his eyes are wide and fully awake, no longer curtained behind drooping lashes, and it takes everything in Luca not to scoot back in alarm.
She breathes in sharply, feeling the creak of the leather chair under her weight, and tries again, knowing well that she’s out of line. “Believe in ghosts?”
The quiet that follows is deafening. Then Inference scoffs at the back of his throat, folding his arms over his chest; in the action she sees again a hint of the petulant child. “Of course not.”
Luca blinks a few times, feeling the incessant ache of her skull behind her eyes, and fixes him with her stare, crooked enough to match his. His throat bobs, barely perceptible, and his shoes shuffle under the desk, as if trying to stand before remembering he can’t. Another snort, this one more rueful. “I don’t,” he insists, more genuine. She can hear the but coming from a mile away.
“I only-” His hand closes around the handle of his cane, squeezing hard enough to create an indent in the leather. “I’ve- seen things. Even, especially, after my discharge.”
Inference pauses again, and despite Luca’s burning desire to butt in, she keeps her mouth closed, waiting for him to follow the thought out to its completion, because she knows if she interrupts now, she’ll throw him off of it, perhaps forever. The wall between them is transparent and yet reinforced with barbed wire. He resumes after a beat, lips twisting, and the silvering scars around his mouth curl into something grotesque, more skeletal than any phantom.
“I don’t believe in ghosts, not in the least bit. No. But I’ve found myself wishing I did. I couldn’t… ” He coughs, fumbles for his pocket, and withdraws a worn silver lighter. Luca knows that he doesn’t plan to go on this time, but she still stays silent as he reaches for the pipe propped on the desk. The lighter clicks a few times and he turns his head to exhale a bitter cloud towards the corner of the room.
They watch the grey fumes slither past each other, fogging the air around his face. “What happened out there?” It slips out, unsolicited and yet entirely deliberate; it’s been on the edge of her tongue this entire time.
Inference laughs, rougher than gravel, and shakes his head. “I’d like to know myself.” His tongue flicks over the cracking ridges of his lips. “Luca-”
She sits up straighter at the sound of her name, barely whispered but unmistakable. There is little to no familiarity in the way he says it, quiet and tense and very nearly resigned, but Luca thinks that it tickles some half-lost piece of her memory anyway, sparks to life a little flame in her brain. “Naib?” she ventures to respond, and she feels afraid, for some reason, to hear it in her own voice.
He lowers the pipe and takes a breath of the stuffy office air. The smile he offers is just a little more real; though it’s small and fleeting, it reaches his eyes, graces the corners with furrows far too well pronounced for his age. “Fine pair, aren’t we?”
For some reason, she can’t bring herself to return it. Her temples throb, skull squeezing in on her until she feels sick, above her brow and in her chest and at the pit of her gut. “I suppose we are.”
He hesitates; then his hand creeps up over the edge of the table, hovering between them as if he expects a shake on that. “It’s good to see you again.”
The brown leather furrows and molds itself to the creases of his palm. Luca can’t help but wonder if it hides scars, how many, how old, how deep. She strips off her own glove, leaves it as an inside-out crumpled mess on the desk, and grips his; feels the warmth of him, feels how his hand flexes and then goes lax within hers as he realizes she isn’t letting go. “You as well,” she says with a rush of breath, and means it.