Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

New York, 1946.

“Please, Mr. Fontane, you're embarrassing yourself.”  Logan Sul reclined in his chair, staring down his adversary.  “The jade elephant is damning evidence. I’ve informed the police of your little underground gambling ring, and they’ll be here to arrest you presently.  This endeavor is over.”

The conman snarled, words dripping with his thick New Yorker accent.  “And who’s going to stop me from walkin’ outta here right now?”

Logan shrugged casually.  “I will.”

A sharp snap sounded through the air, and Mr. Fontane lifted a gun - cocked and ready - out from inside of his suit coat.  “Will you now?” He aimed it directly at Logan’s head.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Mr. Fontane,”  Logan sighed, sounding almost bored. He let his eyes drift around the conman’s opulent study, wandering over the man himself sitting across the table with wild eyes and trembling hands, the lavish bookcases filled with dusty tomes, the thick persian rugs.  

“You’re a common crook, not a murderer.”  Logan arched an eyebrow at the other man. “To kill a man in cold blood takes a certain ruthlessness; a brokenness of the soul; a willingness to live with whatever consequences will follow.  I’m afraid I can’t see you doing that.”

Mr. Fontane fired.

The bullet embedded itself in the backing of Logan’s armchair.  Two inches to the left and he would be dead.

Logan eyed the bullet hole.  “Then again, I could be wrong.”

“I missed on purpose,”  The conman snarled. “I don’t like these mind games you’re so fond of, Mr. Sul.”

“Then perhaps instead of a game” - the private eye suddenly rose, ignoring the trailing of the gun as he sauntered over to an ornate crystal platter, taking two glasses and a bottle of sherry - “You will be amenable to a little gamble.”  He set them down on the dark mahogany table.

The other man’s eyes gleamed.  “A gamble, you say?”

A small smile flickered at the corner of Logan’s mouth.  “I thought that might draw your attention.”

He sat down cooly, reaching into his pocket, stilling when Mr. Fontane aimed the gun again.  “It’s quite alright; I’m unarmed.” He pulled out a small tube, carefully unscrewing the top to reveal a white powder inside.  He held it out. “Smell this, but do not touch.”

The gambler reached out and sniffed.  “I don’t smell anything.”

Logan deftly took it back.  “That’s because I have in here odorless, tasteless, colorless thallium salt.  One singular teaspoon, to be precise. That’s enough to kill thirty-four men.”  He smiled. “Or one man in a matter of minutes.”

Mr. Fontane narrowed his eyes.  “What exactly are you proposing, Sul?”

Logan pointedly ignored the lack of a ‘mister’.  “As I said: a gamble.” He poured the sherry into the crystal glasses then turned around, obstructing the conman’s view.  A soft clink rang out as Logan tapped the salt container. He turned back around, placing the goblets on the table at equal distances from the other man.  “Choose your cup, and we’ll both drink.”

Mr. Fontane laughed.  “You must think me to be a mad man.”

“Quite the opposite actually,”  Logan countered, analyzing him through sharp amber eyes.  “I think you’re a man of odds and numbers.” He waved a hand at the glasses.  “I present to you a fifty-fifty shot of getting out of here a free man. It’s the gamble of a lifetime for the gambler of a lifetime.”

The other man hesitated, bloodshot eyes darting from the glasses to the private detective’s face, trying to discern what the trick was.

Logan raised his hands in pseudo-surrender.  “No tricks here, Mr. Fontane. You have an equal chance of choosing the right or the wrong glass.  You have a fifty percent chance of walking away with the police clueless, now that their favorite consultant is dead.”

The gambler wavered, index finger tapping against the trigger.  Finally, he pocketed it. “Alright, Mr. Sul, I’ll take that wager.”

Logan smiled, suddenly a gentleman in every aspect of the word.  “Excellent.” He nodded at the glasses. “The choice is yours.”

The gambler vacillated between the two options, first reaching for the glass on the left, then quickly switching to the one on the right, then backtracking to the left once more.  Logan noted with interest the thin sheen of sweat building on his brow. Finally, Mr. Fontane wrapped his fingers - loaded with a variety of extravagant rings - around the rightmost glass.

Logan duly plucked up the leftward glass.  “To your health,” He said, raising the cup in a toast.

Mr. Fontane snorted and downed his sherry.  “To my health indeed.”

Logan tilted his head back and imbibed until his cup was empty.  A quick glance told him that Mr. Fontane had done the same.

“Now what?”  The gambler said, placing down his glass.

“Now we wait.”  Logan glanced at his watch.  “Should be any moment now.”

Mr. Fontane frowned.  “I thought you said it takes a few minu-”  The rest of his sentence was cut off as he suddenly felt his throat closing.  He fell to the ground, choking.

Logan rose and looked down at the convulsing body dispassionately.  “Yes,” He agreed. “It does.”

He stepped over the body and strolled out of the french doors leading outside.  “It’s quite alright,” He called to the police assembled outside.

“Mr. Sul,”  A police woman with dusky brown skin and a thick braid that could've been used for hangings in a different time drawled as she walked up to him.  “Private eye and public nuisance.” She threw a glance inside. “What’d ya do to him?”

“Officer Calamity,”  He greeted, ignoring her grumbled protest that that wasn’t her name.  “A mild poison. Get him into the hospital, and he’ll be fine.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “Ya didn’t do anything stupid like almost poison yourself in the process, right?”

“Oh, don’t be dull.”  Logan rolled his eyes.  “Of course I didn’t.” He briefly explained the events that transpired inside.

Officer Katrina Santos eyed him oddly.  “You drank from a glass; same as him.”

The Private Eye scoffed.  “They weren’t poisoned, officer.”  

The policewoman halted dead in her tracks and stared at him incredulously.  “Then how do ya explain the nearly dead man in the middle of my investigation?”

Logan groaned.  “Really, must I spell it out for you?”  He spoke slowly and patronizingly, as if to a child.  “I could never take the risk of poisoning myself; otherwise where would you and your incompetent coworkers be?”

He studiously ignored her scowl.

“Mr. Fontane was a notorious gambler; there was no way he’d be able to resist playing the odds, especially if it let him get away.  I merely offered him a metaphorical stacked deck.”

“If ya quite done bein’ cryptic, Mr. Sul?”  Officer Santos interrupted dryly.

“I highly doubt I shall ever be done being cryptic.”  Logan sighed. “But, if you insist.” A smirk quirked the edges of his lips.  “Mr. Fontane wasn’t poisoned by either glass of sherry. He was poisoned when I instructed him to sniff the vial.  He inhaled the toxins and was damned from that moment onwards. It was only a matter of stalling.”

Katrina shook her head slowly.  “You’re far too clever, Logan.”

He scoffed.  “No such thing, officer.”  He disappeared in a whirlwind of tailcoats and shining black brogues.  He repeated his own words to himself as he sauntered down the gritty New York streets, smirking.  “No such thing.”

The heat was stifling.  In the middle of the hottest August day in almost a hundred years, Logan Sul, Private Detective, shouldn’t have been as disgruntled as he was by the weather.  Yet, the oppressive heat stuck to him like he was a gnat in a vat of honey.

Logan leaned back in his leather chair and loosened his blue tie.  A glass of golden scotch sweated on his desk; his finger idly tapped against its ribbed side as he considered just packing up and heading home.  He wouldn’t want a client to see him like this. He was already hideously improper, suit jacket slung over the edge of his mahogany desk and suspenders pushed off of his shoulders.  He was even tempted to undo a few buttons on his shirt.

He let his gaze, lazy under the oppressive heat, wander around his office.  Aside from his large desk and a few seats for clients, it was admittedly sparse.  A file cabinet rested in the corner opposite his desk. A crystal platter holding cups for vials of scotch and whisky rested on a side table.  Yellow afternoon sunlight slanted in through the blinds, casting the walls with dark and light stripes.  Instead of pictures of loved ones or pets, the walls were covered with newspaper front pages from his many cracked cases over the years:  the 1945 missing Goldblum diamond, the 1942 kidnapped British Heiress, the 1939 disappearance of Thomas Sanders.

Logan lazily scooped up his glass and took a sip.  He grimaced. Warm.

He was debating just closing up shop for the day (after all, who would be desperate enough to need help on a day like today?)  when a soft knock rapped against his door.

Logan quickly shoved his suspenders back into place and haphazardly tightened his tie.  “Come in,” He called, knowing his deep baritone rumble would travel through the heavy oak door.

The door opened and a tall, handsome man swept through like a velvet hurricane.  If Logan had known the trouble that would follow the knock-out in front of him, he’d have calmly refused to take his case and send him on his not-so merry way.  In the moment, however, Logan was busy cataloguing the man, inspecting him for a clue as to why he would be here.

He was tall and muscular, clad in a tight, dark suit, unusual for a day as unseasonably hot as this one.  His legs stretched for days, and the way his hip bones jutted made Logan shift in his chair. His brown face was composed entirely of angles: a sharp, angular jaw; a straight nose; high cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass.  His eyes were obscured by a mass of dark brown hair. His hands were shaking as he firmly shut the door behind him, closing it with a definitive click.

“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me your name?”  Logan, still leaning back in his chair, inclined his head towards the leather chair opposite.

The man sat but said nothing.

“Whisky?  Scotch?” Logan offered, preparing to rise.  He was terrible at niceties, but he knew a few sips of hard liquor could loosen most tongues.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself.”  The other man finally spoke. His voice was sultry, higher than Logan would have expected.  He finally looked up and Logan found himself gazing into an enchanting pair of haunted eyes, shining with secrets.  “I’ve come because I need your help, Mr. Sul.”

Logan arched an eyebrow.  “I hardly expected a social call.”

The other man flushed, knitting his hands together in his lap.  “My name is Roman. Roman Torres.” His lovely mouth twisted in a grimace.  “I work at a nightclub down on 31st. A performer.” He looked up and his mouth twisted in a half-smirk, as if his usual good humor was weighed down by an unknown burden.  “You may know me better by my stage name - Roman Prince.”

Logan nodded.  “You'd be hard-pressed to find a man in New York who didn't know of you, Mr. Torres.”

A small, genuine smile managed to pierce through the man's shroud of gloom. “I've been… fortunate.”

“Yes,”  Logan agreed absently, gaze darting over to the door.  “So, tell me, Mr. Torres.” He suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowing.  “How long has your stalker been harassing you?”

Roman stared at him incredulously for a long moment before a smirk settled onto his red-painted lips.  “So you really are as good as they say.”

Logan scoffed.  “Hardly.” He took a sip of his whiskey, the burn as familiar as a sleepless night.  “Anyone with half of a brain could do what I do.”

“Then I suppose your opinion is that most people suffer with an eighth of a mind?”

“I could never be so callous,” Logan corrected.  “A quarter, at least.”

Eyes half-lidded and lips curled with amusement, Roman crossed his legs, and Logan found his eyes drawn to their long stretch.

He caught himself and cleared his throat, adjusting his tie.  “It was a simple deduction, really. No one would wish to wear thick clothing as dark as yours on a day as hot as this one. Especially someone like you, who strikes me as… colorful.”

Colorful was hardly the right word for it, but the other phrases Logan wanted to utter would probably earn him a slap to the face.  The man was as obvious as a gun to the temple, and he filled Logan with the same thrill.

He continued, “I can therefore conclude that you’re trying to go incognito.  Combine that with your status, general paranoia - evidenced by your closing the door so meticulously- and allure, it’s laughably easy to see why you’ve come to me. Somebody’s been harassing you, and you need me to see who it is.”

Roman arched an eyebrow.  “All that from a black suit?”

“I doubt you’d be interested in the observations I could make about the rest of you.”  Logan digressed. “Now, tell me about this stalker of yours, Mr. Torres.”

“I’ll have to take you up on that offer for a drink first.”

Logan poured and passed it to Roman, fingers brushing.  Roman’s touch was fire.

He swirled the glass, staring into the amber liquid, before sipping slowly.  “My type of work brings me a lot of attention. Most is wanted, but, occasionally, someone will cross the line. Mr. Salem is one of those people.”

Logan leaned forward.  “If you are aware of who he is, why have you come to me?”

“Because I can’t prove it.”  Roman downed the rest of the glass.  “And because Mr. Salem is a very rich, powerful man. I need evidence, Mr. Sul.”

“What do you have so far?”

Roman grimaced.  “Roses.”

Logan blinked slowly.  “You’ll have to forgive me, but I was given to understand roses are a traditionally positive gift for a performer.”

Roman laughed humorlessly, tapping long fingers on his knee.  “Roses, yes. A single red rose in my locked dressing room every night? Not so much.”

“I see.”  Logan nodded.  “Then you can consider me your ally in this endeavor, Mr. Torres.”

The performer demurred.  “Kind of you, Mr. Sul.”

Logan snorted.  “The one thing you will find that I am not, Mr. Torres, is kind.”

He rose and strode to the door in a motion like the rippling of a thundercloud.  “Show me,” he instructed, reaching for his hat.

Roman started.  “Now?”

“I like to start immediately. No time for biases or falsehoods to creep in.”  He opened the door and inclined his head. “After you, Mr. Torres.”

New York was a superficially beautiful city.  Gleaming towers stood shrouded in clouds of cigarette smoke and smog.  Between them, crime festered in cramped, dingy alleyways. It was the type of city that tourists gawked at and natives walked though suspiciously, shoulders hunched, fingers anxiously hovering over pocket books, and eyes darting from side to side.  Anyone with an ounce of common sense left the city as soon as they could, leaving only the brave, the bold, and the stupid behind.

To this day, Logan was still vaguely unsure which group of the three he belonged to.  

More importantly, however, he needed to know which the man he was following belonged to.  Bravery in his presence at Logan’s side, dauntlessly fighting back; boldness in the set of his shoulders, head held high and practiced smile held in place; stupidity in his recklessness.  Everyone in this godforsaken city had one foot in the grave. Roman Torres didn’t seem to realize death was closer than he would’ve wished.

“We’re here.”  Roman brought them to a stop outside of a low-slung building, dwarfed by the skyscrapers flanking it.  It was well-kept, clean, and utterly inconspicuous, save for the faintly glowing neon sign above the door - Ego.  “I'll introduce you around.”

Logan nodded briskly and held open the door for him before stepping through the doors to the smoky, dimly lit building beyond.

In less than twenty four hours, someone would be dead.

Chapter Text

“Where the hell have you been?”  Someone with shadows under his eyes and a scowl on his lips stormed up as soon as Roman and Logan stepped into the nightclub.  “Patton’s been flipping out!”

“Aw, nice to know you care, too, Marilyn Morose.”  Roman grinned unflappably as the man in the purple tie pulled Roman in for the angriest hug Logan had ever witnessed.

He pulled back just as suddenly, scowl redirected at Logan.  “Who are you?” Logan noted with interest the weights tugging at his jacket, the careful positioning of his pugilist body between Logan and Roman.

“Logan Sul.”  He held out a hand to shake.  “I presume you're the bodyguard.”

“You told him about me?”  The bodyguard ignored Logan entirely, glancing behind himself at Roman.

“No,” Roman replied, looking entirely too pleased with himself.  “I didn't. Mr. Sul, please meet Virgil Avery, my bodyguard.”

“Don't flatter yourself, Princey,” Virgil said dryly.  “I'm security for the whole place and run whatever errands Patton throws at me.”

Logan withdrew his hand and fought to keep his expression neutral.  “Charmed, I'm sure.”

Virgil quirked an eyebrow.  “Well, that makes one of us.”

“Be nice, Grim Garson.  Logan's… a friend.”

“And is Mr. Avery to trust your obviously flawed judgment?  You did find friendship him, for whatever reason.”

The bodyguard’s jaw tightened.  “What are you talking about, Mr. Sul?” Virgil drawled venomously, possessively putting an arm around the slimmer man’s waist.  “I absolutely hate his guts.”

Scoffing, Logan took a moment to glance around the entryway.  It was nice enough, all velvet drapes and polished wooden floors.  Two men struggled with crates of electrical equipment as the hesitant notes of a band warming up drifted in.  It was quiet, but that was only to be expected. The sun hadn’t yet renounced its throne in the sky. Soon enough, the dark underbelly of New York would come out to play.

“Oh, goodness gracious!”  A man swept into the room in a flurry of gray and blue, cheerful grin dancing on his face.  “Why didn't you kiddos tell me you were having trouble?” He easily lifted one of the crates and bustled it onto the other room, returning for the other after a moment.  “Now, Luz, see if you can help Apolo in costumes, and, Toby-”

He cut himself off as he caught sight of Roman, and his warm gray eyes lit up.  “Ro!” He threw himself at the performer, wrapping him in a hug.

Roman seemed faintly amused, patting the man's back.  “Hi, Patton.”

“Where were you?”  He cried, looking up pleadingly.  “I was worried sick! After all that stuff that's been happening, I just-”  His gaze wandered over to Logan, and, as if just noticing his position, pulled back sheepishly.  “Hi there! I'm Patton Parker, owner of Ego. Sorry about that flowery little tangent; I wasn't expecting anything to stem from that conversation, huh, bud?”  He grinned, holding out a gloved hand, and Logan shook it, trying to process the sheer enthusiasm radiating off of this Patton.

“A pleasure,” Logan said faintly, eyes stinging from the blinding grin directed at him.  “Logan Sul, private eye.”

Patton froze imperciably and Virgil stiffened.  “Is something the matter, kiddo?” Patton smiled at him carefully.  “I didn’t think we would need a fancy detective for anything.”

“He’s just a friend of mine,” Roman interrupted smoothly.  “I thought I’d show him around.”

The tension melted out of Patton’s shoulders, and he smiled, nose crinkling.  “Oh, well it’s double nice to meet you then!”

Virgil made a sound of discontent, eyeing Logan with scarcely-concealed ire.  “Quite.”

Roman took his arm and bustled him away before Virgil could start giving Logan the fifth degree.  The thought made a smile flicker at the corner of Logan’s lips. After his sixth time dragged down to the NYPD station in handcuffs, he was pretty sure he could handle any interrogation.

“Why all the suspicion?”  Logan’s eyes automatically swept over the main room of the club, taking in the stage rimmed with thick velvet curtains and the mirrors set periodically in the far wall.  A low-slung bar held his gaze for a moment longer than anything else, yet he managed to focus on the people in the dim, smoky corners, moving equipment and preparing for their customers.  “Your friends didn’t seem too taken with me.”

Roman’s fingers tapped against his arm, but when Logan shot him a glance, the other man didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it.  Sparks lit up Logan’s skin with every tap.

“We have a… specific clientele.”  Roman’s words came out slowly, worrying at the edge of his lips before he allowed them to fall.  “So our record with the police hasn’t always been the best. It’s best if we don’t get any flatfoots hanging around.”

Logan blinked.  “What does the police raiding this place for being a gay bar have to do with the arch of their feet?”

A noise between a choke and a laugh twisted its way out of Roman’s throat.  “Not one for subtlety, are you, Mr. Sul?”

“No.”  Logan fished a notebook out of his pocket and carefully wrote down ‘flatfoot’.  “For what am I to understand this word is a substitute?”

“A policeman,” Roman said, slightly bewildered and more than a little amused.  “Might I ask about the notebook?”

“I’m expanding my vocabulary,” Logan said primly, snapping his notebook closed and sliding it into his trench coat's pocket.  “Tell me why you didn’t go to your friends with your concerns about this Mr. Salem.”

Malcontent settled in Roman’s brow, darkening his rich brown eyes.  “Patton likes to believe the best in everyone. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe me; he’s just unsure Mr. Salem means harm.”

“And Mr. Avery?”

“It’s, ah…”  Roman lowered his tone.  “Virgil prefers Mx., actually.”

“Either way,” Logan said impatiently, “what is Mx. Avery’s reaction to all of this?”

“The opposite.”  Red lips twisted dowerly.  “They’re convinced it goes beyond Mr. Salem, there’s a conspiracy, and no one can be trusted.”

Logan snorted.  “A person after my own heart.”

Roman lowered his eyes, smirking.  “I might have to take up nihilism, in that case.”

“I have rather strong doubts that you would change yourself for anyone.”  The detective took in his bold red lipstick. “Your habits are your own - flirtation and all.”

A flush colored the curve of Roman’s cheek.  “Is the flirting too much? I can-”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”  Logan strode ahead, amber eyes analyzing all.  He darted a glance over his shoulder. “Not enough.”

Roman froze for a moment before his brain kicked back into action and he hastened to the detective’s side.  “Trouble and a half, aren’t you, Mr. Sul?”

“I never do anything halfway, Mr. Torres.”  Logan eyed the mirrors and pressed his finger against one, narrowing his eyes when it touched its reflection.  “One-way mirrors?” Discretion clearly was the name of the game.

“The private rooms all have one.”  Roman pulled back a thick velvet draping and gestured down a narrow, dark hallway.  “His is box five.”

“Is he there now?”

“Should be. He likes to harass the staff, and he and Patton regularly eat together.”  Roman smiled at him, all soft silk lips and dark jeweled eyes. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you, Mr. Sul?”

Logan shook his head.  “Careful with a smile like that, Mr. Torres. It could make a man do unspeakable things.”

Roman just laughed, murmured “hopefully not to me”, and slipped away.

Logan crept into the darkness.

“It was just business, babe.”  A nasally voice drifted out of the box and into the hallway.

“You know damn well it was more than that.”  Another, deeper and smoother, countered.

Logan immediately drew himself sideways in the narrow hall, ears pricked.  He crept forward, gazing through a gap in the doorway to see a tall man looming above a shorter man who casually sipped his drink.  In the corner, a dark-skinned woman with tender, drooping lips sat, bold, cruel eyes pointedly fixed on the compact in her hand.

“If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty,” the taller of the two men scoffed, narrowing mismatched eyes.  The expression contorted his handsome, dusky face, shifting the patches of peeling skin on his cheek.

“Oh, darling,” the other purred, “you always say the nicest things.”  He chuckled darkly, pushing up the sunglasses on his nose. “It’s just business, just a deal. Nothing to get so worked up about. You know how these things are.”

The first man hissed, gritting his jaw and turning on his heel before either could say anything else.  Logan quickly shrunk back, absconding to an inconspicuous distance. The man passed Logan in the hall, roughly knocking their shoulders together and continuing his warpath.

Logan arched an eyebrow after him.  “You’re quite excused,” he muttered sardonically.

He waited a moment longer, but, when no further conversation came, he tapped on the partially ajar door.

“I thought I told you to keep everyone away, Pat-” The man cut off as he came face-to-chest with someone who was decidedly not Patton Parker.  “And you’re not him.” He looked up, over the edge of his sunglasses, and grinned slowly. “Although I’m not sure I mind.” He stepped back, sweeping with his arm.  “Come on in.”

The woman in the corner closed her compact with a sharp click, standing.  “Darling,” she said, the name amusing on her tongue, “you’ll have to excuse me.”

The man turned and smiled at her, wry.  “If you insist, Viper, dearest.”

Logan stepped aside to allow Viper to walk past him, returning the assessing glance she shot his way.  She disappeared around the corner with a rustling of her red silk dress against her dark skin.

“Your beard, I presume?”

He froze for a moment before relaxing his face into a long, easy grin.  “Am I really that obvious? What gave me away?”

“You licked your lips as soon as I entered.”

The other man laughed.  “Can't exactly blame me for that, babe.”  He winked. “You look absolutely edible.”

“I assure you I am not,” Logan said stiffly.  “I’m Logan Sul.” He held out a hand to shake.

“Remy Salem. CEO of Salem Oil.”  He ignored the hand and swept into the private room, melting into a plush seat.  Remy looked up and arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to take a seat?”

“I prefer passive-aggressively leaning in doorways.”  Logan tucked his hand in his pocket because no one had any manners in this godforsaken palace, lounging in the door frame.

The businessman chuckled.  “Imma dance my cute little ass right out in a limb here and guess that no one’s ever accused you of being a people person, babe.”

“You would be correct.”  The private eye ran his eyes over his quarry, noting the artfully tousled hair, the monogrammed green silk handkerchief, the rings glittering on his fingers.  Logan didn’t know the first thing about fashion, but that suit reeked of money. “I take it you have no such issues.”

“What can I say?”  He slid the sunglasses off of his nose, revealing a open, handsome face and shining blue eyes.  “Everybody loves me.”

“The question is if that love is reciprocated.”

“Darling, I’m flattered, but let me buy you a drink first.”  Remy chucked and lit a cigarette, breathing out a long stream of noxious smoke.  Logan could've asked him to stub it out, but asking someone else to stop their vices was a bit hypocritical coming from the man who'd downed five glasses of scotch this morning.

“Whisky, neat, if you’re taking requests.”  The plush velvet chair opposite Remy’s tried to swallow Logan whole, but he perched cautiously at its edge.

Remy threw back his head and laughed.  “I just might like you, Mr. Sul.”

“I’m flattered,” Logan shot back dryly, “but let me get that drink first. I’d need it.”

Remy’s smile put the private eye on edge.  It was just too sharp, just too pointed. A leer he could have dealt with, could have justified his hand curling into a fist and striking, but that smile, just dripping with banal satisfaction, left Logan fuming.

“Tell me just who you’re supposed to be, necktie.”  A perfectly manicured hand waved at Logan. “Bit too much of the repressed nerd vibe to be a corporate spy” - Logan’s lip curled back - “so I’m thinking reporter? Some kinda snoop.”

“I’m-” Logan cleared his throat, banishing the heat from his voice.  “I am no such thing; I assure you. Merely a curious bypasser.”

“Is that right.”  Flat. It wasn’t a question.

“Have I done something to warrant your suspicion, Mr. Salem?”  There was a glass bottle to Logan’s left, easy to shatter and swing.

“No need to snap your cap.”  The business man shrugged amiably, tapping the edge of his cigarette against his lip.  “I just didn’t get where I am by trusting every pretty bird who walks through my door.”

Logan was fairly certain Remy Salem was the only fowl creature there, but he pressed on regardless.  “Like Mr. Torres, for example?”

Understanding dawned in Remy’s eyes, his smile turning sharp.  “I’d staunch the interest before you bleed out, babe. Roman isn’t very… kind to his fans.”  He glanced out of the one-way mirror, eyeing the stage ravenously, as if he could see what was to come.  “He’s reacted badly to a couple of my little gifts.”

“Try a nice card next time,” Logan suggested wryly.  “I'm sure he'd prefer Hallmark to whatever daisies you've been giving him.”

“Roses,” Remy corrected reflexively; satisfaction curled the edge of the private eye’s mouth.

“My mistake.”

The conversation ended shortly thereafter, with Remy stating that his time was money and he couldn't waste it on small talk.  Logan thought about responding that the business man couldn't afford him, but then he compared the lush room to his own crumbling abode and decided to spare himself the embarrassment.  Remy Salem had enough money to buy what was left of Logan's soul and still have sufficient pocket change to privatize the Taj Mahal.

Logan strode down the shadowed hall, towards the main room.

“Are you excited for your show tonight?”  A dark, sultry voice purred.

Roman’s responded.  “As excited as I ever am, Mrs. Salem.”

“Honestly, Roman, you can call me Viper at this point.”

Logan stilled, narrowing his amber eyes at the sight of Viper Salem stroking Roman’s arm and pressing against him.

The performer’s smile was bland but held no discomfort.  Part of the job was dealing with the attentions of strangers, Logan supposed.  Amusement lingered in the set of Roman’s eyebrows as Viper told him how much she enjoyed his singing.  “You have a wonderful… voice.”

Her hand crept over to his chest, and Roman jerked away, smile sharp and pointed.  “So I’ve been told.”

Logan took that as his cue, materializing out of the shadows.  “Mr. Torres, if you would.” The relief that spread over Roman’s face at the private eye’s appearance did something strange to Logan’s chest, seizing it.

“With pleasure, Mr. Sul.”  Roman hastened from Viper, who rolled her eyes and fixed her gaze on a woman busy at work cleaning chairs before the patrons arrived.  Logan could hear her deep purr follow them as they slipped away.

“You’ve rescued me.”  Roman grinned. “That woman was going to eat me alive.”

“Is that a typical behavioral pattern for her?”  Logan took his arm and guided them around a man fussing with a jet-black grand piano.

Roman snorted.  “She and Mr. Salem cheat on each other like it’s going out of style.”

“Unsurprising, if his aphrodisiacs lie elsewhere. Like you, for example?”

Roman tensed, eyes hardening as he nodded.  “Like me.”

“Which is why you believe he is your stalker.”  Logan looked down at Roman, amber eyes narrowing.  “Tell me how you ascertained that it is truly Mr. Salem.”

Roman glanced at the dark hall behind them. "Have you ever felt eyes on you?" he asked, drawing them into an enclave between the thick curtains and grasping onto Logan’s arms.  "Have you ever had the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the goosebumps rise on your skin, the blood in your veins race because you know something is about to happen?"

Roman was so warm, so close, and Logan's voice barely managed to stay steady.  “I'm acquainted with the sensation.”

“Then you know how I know.”  Roman’s fingers drew lines up and down the inside of Logan’s arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.  “I’m so terribly frightened, Mr. Sul, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

“With reasonable compensation, I’m all yours, Mr. Torres.”  It had been uncharacteristic of Logan not to charge upfront, but he was reasonable certain one of the most popular performers in New York City could afford his rates.  If not, he was sure they could come to some… other arrangement.

“Thank you.”  That smile flashed at him again, dark and lovely.  “Then go buy yourself a drink, Mr. Sul, and don't you dare be late to my show tonight.”

“Maybe you could join me?”  Logan took a half-step closer, hand dropping down to rest on Roman’s waist.  “I’m sure I’d enjoy the company.”

Roman quirked an eyebrow, red lips curving in amusement.  “You know, there’s a speed limit in this state, Mr. Sul.”

“Which would be what, officer?”

“Forty-five miles an hour.”

Logan chuckled.  “Just how fast was I going?”

Roman shot back a grin.  “Ninety.”

“Then how about you get off that motorcycle of yours and give me a ticket?”  Logan laid his forearm against the wall, leaning closer.

“How about I let you off with a warning?”  Roman’s fingers crept upwards, wrapping around Logan’s tie.

“It’d have to be indelible, Mr. Torres. Otherwise, I’m not sure the lesson would sink in.”

“Oh, trust me, necktie,” Roman purred, tugging him closer, “you can’t forget any punishment of mine so easily.”

Logan leaned in, and his lips met Roman’s finger.

Logan made a noise of surprise, and Roman grinned up at him, eyes dancing with amusement.  “You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?”

Roman pulled his finger away, and Logan’s lips tingled.  “A man can always hope.”

“He that loves to be flattered, is worthy of the flatterer.”

“Timon of Athens didn’t face the temptations that plague me.”  Logan pulled back, adjusting his tie and willing the color out of his cheeks.

The seductive smirk on Roman’s mouth fell away, and his eyes lit up, smile too wide, too eager to be alluring.  “You’ve read Timon of Athens?!”

“I- I’ve…” Logan, unsure how to adjust to the sudden personality change, blinked rapidly.  “I’m familiar with the majority of The Bard’s works.”

Suddenly Roman’s voice filled the air, higher than he normally let it be, as he chattered excitedly about the parallels between Julius Caesar and Love’s Labor’s Lost and how Cesario from Twelfth Night was his all-time favorite, and how he was rereading King Lear; his voice crashed over Logan in waves of light, high and bright and ecstatic.

Logan was suddenly, painfully aware that, within this dark, monochromatic place, Roman glowed .

Just as abruptly as it began, Roman’s monologue cut off, and he flushed, cheeks coloring prettily as he demurred, tone dropping back down into a low rumble.  “Forgive me, Mr. Sul. I’m not used to having anyone share my… eccentric tastes.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Torres.”  Logan tilted his head, fingers drumming pensively against Roman’s waist.  “I merely didn’t categorize you as a literarian.”

“Then consider your lesson learned, Mr. Sul.”  Roman slipped away from him, fixing his wicked grin back in place.  “I am falser than vows made in wine.” He flicked the brim of Logan’s hat.  “Buy yourself a drink, Mr. Sul, and do try not to miss me too much.”

“Like I’d miss a bullet in my side,” Logan said dryly.

Roman just laughed, dark and smoky as the nightclub itself.  “I have to rehearse. I’ll see you tonight, Detective.”

Logan’s breath caught in his throat as the performer sauntered off, hips swaying.  By the time he was composed enough to formulate a comeback, it was too late. He scowled and fixed his fedora more firmly on his head, sweeping into the entryway.  He passed Patton, fussing over the band, and Virgil, watching him with dark eyes.

The time read 6:42, and a smile threatened Logan’s lips.  He had time enough to kill, and Picani’s was just around the corner.

He was dying for a drink.

Chapter Text

The bar’s neon sign flashed in the middle of a dirty, darkening street; Id it proclaimed, shining a blue beacon to outcasts, broken and bored people, and anyone else who prefered to drink away their wallet. Blue-collar pilgrims came to Id every evening for their fix of liquid oblivion.  The bartender, Picani, served amazingly rough swill, and the working slaves crushed by the tombstone of the day swallowed it, wincing, then asked for more with husky, dead voices.  Cigarette smoke veiled the room, mixed with a thick hum of voices and the sultry music on the radio. It was a good place, the type just dirty enough to be cozy.

“Picani, the usual.”  Logan sat down with a weary sigh, drumming his fingers against the scuffed oak bar.  The scars adorning it were remnants of brawls past - some he had lost, but far more he had won.

The bartender already had the bottle in hand.  “Two fingers of scotch and limited eye contact.”  He poured with a wink. “You got it, boss.”

“You are not by any means employed by me,”  Logan pointed out, gladly accepting the proffered glass.

“I might as well be.”  Picani snorted. “I'm pretty sure you drink half of your income away here.”

Ochre liquid slammed into the back of his throat as Logan knocked back the glass all at once.  “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.” He pulled off his hat and placed it on the seat next to him.

“Would it kill you to have a bit of company sometime?”  The bartender sighed. “Heavens knows I enjoy our little chats, but it’d be nice to see a gu- a friend with you.”

Logan snorted, tapping his glass for a refill.  “I’ve yet to have company, and I’ve yet to die. The two just might be related.”

“You of all people should know correlation is not causation.”  Picani poured another finger with a disappointed twist to his mouth, although Logan neither cared nor knew if the pseudo-therapist’s ire was due to the once-more empty glass or his logical fallacy.

“I don’t have friends, Picani. Get used to it.”

“Bold words for someone in hugging range.”  Picani grinned as Logan’s eyes widened and he shuffled backwards awkwardly in his bar stool.

“Please refrain.”

“Ah, you’re a dork.”  Picani sighed fondly and tilted his head at an angle Logan had come to abhor.  “Much like Flower from Disney’s Bambi, you crave affection but are hindered from it by some intrinsic aspect of yourself.”

“Much like a radio, I tuned you out after Disney,” Logan retorted.  

Picani just tutted.  “We’re going to have a break through one of these days, Logan.”

“I think it’s scheduled just after hell freezing over.”

The bartender hummed disapprovingly but was summoned down the bar before he could dispense another wonderful nugget of wisdom.

“A glass of whatever's the strongest swill you got,” a low voice commanded.  “I'm having a great day.”

Logan turned to see a familiar man settling a few seats down, startlingly handsome even with the patch of flaking skin cupping his cheek.  His voice was a hiss, syllables a little too fluid as they rolled off of his tongue.

The private eye’s amber eyes gleamed.  It was, in fact, the very same man he had seen arguing with Remy Salem earlier.

“In fact, Picani” - Logan moved to sit next to him - “why don’t you get him two?”

Picani made a stifled noise of excitement, trying to keep his arm-flailing discrete.

The stranger shot the private eye a glance, lip curled.  “I’m really not in the mood, Specs. Find some other bird to tip a few with.”

Logan raised his hands in pseudo-surrender.  “I meant no harm. I merely understand the need for liquid comfort. It’s my good deed of the day, if you will.”

The other snorted.  “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Logan bit his lower lip, looking down and letting his eyelashes fan out.  “Is that a threat or an offer?”

A smile flickered begrudgingly at the edge of the stranger’s mouth.  “Does it have to be just one?”

Picani set the two glasses down with a click, deftly pouring malt whiskey in an arc of amber light.  “Enjoy your drinks, boys. Logan, I’ll put it on your tab.” He winked, grinning, and bustled to the other end of the bar, chatting with a dark-haired person in a gray-striped sweater.

“Well, now you have me at a disadvantage,” Logan sighed, pushing the glasses towards the other man. “You know my name, but I’m ignorant as to yours.”

The man scooped up a glass, staring at it pensively.  He took a slow sip then smiled abruptly, all white, shining teeth set in a dark, handsome face.  He leaned closer, masses of clove curls shifting beneath his bowler hat as he put a gloved hand on Logan’s knee.  “Darling,” he purred in that too-fluid voice, “I don’t give a damn.”

Logan ground his teeth as the prospective casanova downed the rest of his drink then reached for the other.  Logan snatched it away.

“Now where are your manners, Logan?”  The snake’s grin grew as Logan’s cheeks flushed.

“I was under the impression I was dealing with a gentleman here.”  Logan drained the glass vindictively. “I see I was, for once, mistaken.”

“Fine. I suppose I’ve tortured you long enough.”  The snake laughed. “Dorian. Dorian Arya.”

Neither of them offered their hands to shake, and Logan eyed Dorian’s yellow gloves distastefully.  Honestly, who wore gloves on a day as hot as this?

Dorian caught his gaze, and his amiable facade shuttered closed, replaced with cool, handsome blankness.  “Yes, everyone loves the gloves.”  His smile was flat as he signaled Picani for a refill.  “I’ve got to find a way to keep the poor dames and pips from being even more frightened of the strange brown man, after all.”

“It was not my intent to stare.”

“It’s never the intent of anyone here.”  He cast a side glance at Logan through mismatched eyes - one the darkest brown, the other almost golden.  “But you’re not from around here either, are you, Logan-?”

The Indian man’s voice trailed off expectantly, and Logan filled him in.  “Sul. And no, I’m not.” He had only the faintest memories of Korea, but the stigma of wearing the wrong country’s skin trailed him like a cop after a crook.

Dorian’s gaze sharpened.  “Logan Sul,” he repeated; suddenly, Logan wanted nothing more than to scrape his name from the other man’s mouth.  He wasn’t governed by emotions or instincts, but he did recognize his brain, at times, filled in gaps he wasn’t aware of, resulting in what was called colloquially a ‘gut instinct’.  Currently, his stomach was screaming at him that something was wrong with the way Dorian said his name.

Then, that easy smile was back into place, and Dorian was raising his glass in a toast.  “Then I suppose this one is to the outcasts, Mr. Logan Sul.”

Logan tapped their drinks together.  “Well put, Mr. Dorian Arya.”

He’d never get tired of the burn of whisky, a dull roaring comfort by now.  Mosquitoes staggered away from him, dizzy with the stench of it on his blood.  It was a motion as easy as breathing - lift the glass, close his eyes, and, for a moment, forget.

Yet, of course, his eyes always opened again.

“Any reason you’re at an establishment such as this tonight?”

“You mean why I’m trying to get smoked?”  Dorian laughed; Logan couldn’t help but be impressed by how much bitterness he managed to fend off of his words.  “A business deal of mine fell through. It’s happened before, and it’s always been sorted out, but…” He shrugged and tapped his empty glass pensively.  “Sometimes it’s easier not to think about it.”

“I can drink to that.”  Logan signaled Picani for another round.

Dorian laughed.  “You’re just my type of guy, Mr. Sul.”

Logan lidded his eyes.  “Just what I was hoping to hear.”  He gazed at the other man, vaguely wondering the texture of Dorian’s peeling skin - atopic dermatitis, he vaguely recalled - and letting a look of consternation to settle on his own brow.  “I’ll confess you look familiar.”

Dorian laughed.  “How original. Really, I was hoping for better out of you, Mr. Sul.”

“I'm quite serious!”  Logan seriously gestured at his serious necktie with a seriously serious expression.  “I wear a necktie.”

Dorian blinked and snorted; not quite a smile and a laugh but close enough.  His shoulders were relaxed, arm draped casually across the bar his fingers idly tapped against. “How could I have been so mistaken?”

“I won't hold it against you.”  Logan exposed his teeth, smiling.  “You know, I think I remember.”

The tension was back, his fingers drumming against the bar top picking up their pace.  “Do you now?”

“Haven’t I seen you around Ego?”

Dorian’s eyes tightened as he turned away, trailing a finger around the lip of his glass.  “Under duress. My business partner is quite the… fan. Besides, his wife likes the space to run rampant.”  He quirked an eyebrow at Logan. “And I’m sure you just come for the drinks?”

Logan cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses.  “The place has a certain allure.”

The snake smirked.  “All about the ambiance, hm?”

“When did this become a conversation about me?”  Logan smiled. “I was simply here to offer a listening ear.”

“Yes, because listening to me bitch about my business partner is far more interesting.”

“I’m sure he” - Logan internally shuddered at what he must say - “feels awful about the deal falling through.”

Dorian smiled, lips pulled back to reveal sharp incisors.  “I’d wager you’re wrong there.”

“Is that your game, Mr. Arya?”  A headache was beginning to pull at Logan’s temples as they managed to talk themselves in circles.  “Gambling?”

“Why would it be? The odds are so much more interesting when stacked against my favor,” he drawled sarcastically.

Logan blinked at him slowly, lips twisting.  “Have you ever said a straightforward sentence in your life?”

“Nothing straight about me, Mr. Sul” - he winked - “but I’m sure I must have at some point.”

The glasses on the bar between them glittered dully, and Logan arched an eyebrow at them.  “Perhaps your tongue hasn’t been loosened enough quite yet.”

“Any looser, and it’d be running off without me.”  Dorian snorted, but the edge of his lip played with amusement as he glanced at the wall clock - 7:48.  “I’ve got an appointment, Logan Sul, but this has certainly been an… interesting engagement.” He slithered from his seat gracefully, all long thin limbs and sinew.  “I’ll see you around.”

“Yes.”  Logan smiled, amber eyes flashing.  “You will.”

He stayed perhaps five minutes more, long enough to make it obvious to the casual observer he wasn’t tailing the other (eyes were everywhere, and Logan had learned the hard way there was no such thing as ‘too careful’), before he stood, threw a few bills down on the bar, nodded at Picani - pointedly ignoring the thumbs-up flashed his way - and slipped into the dark night.

Figures passed him by - a few dressed to the nines, most clinging to rags.  He couldn't see any faces through the shroud of cigarette smoke and darkness, but that suited him just fine.  Faceless figures were the one constant in his life. Faceless men dying in the war. Faceless clients coming to him, sobbing about cheating husbands and dishonest spouses.  Faceless dames looking up at him through their eyelashes, scarlet with indignation when he turned away. Faceless men putting a hand on his knee, their voices rough when he kissed them as if it could offer any relief.

None of them mattered.  They were just stock characters, a useless role that anyone could fill.

All of them passed him by in the smog and the darkness and the sharp stench of nicotine, never to be seen again.

He instinctively reached to turn up the collar of his jacket, only to realize he was still in his button-up and suspenders.  The edge of his mouth twisted up. Dramatically sauntering down the dark street lost some of its effect when he didn’t have coattails flaring out behind him.

Time was ticking dangerously closer to eight as Logan glanced at his watch and cursed, picking up his pace.  He rounded a corner and saw it before him in the darkness.

The neon sign of Ego hummed as it cast its red beacon out into the black and gray night, calling in those who the rest of the world shoved away.  Promises of music, of jazz and drink, drifted through the slightly ajar door, soft as a secret. The people obeyed, furtive men and clandestine women and shifty-eyed people, painted red by the neon glow, slinking through the doors to see their Prince.

It was showtime.

Chapter Text

The first thing Logan Sul saw upon entering Ego was Viper Salem cooly stepping from a darkened side room labeled utilities, smoothing her hair as a man with rumpled clothes stumbled out after her.

She shot him a dismissive side glance, and he quickly scampered off.  

“Mrs. Salem.”  Logan greeted her with a cool nod.  “I've heard so much about you I'm starting to wonder if any of it is true.”

“Only the bad stuff.”  She smirked. “Mr. Sul, isn't it? Charmed.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he lied, a habit as easy as breathing.

“I understand you were talking to my husband earlier.”  She lifted a hand to her face and examined her nails, frowning at a tiny smudge of filth under one.  “Nothing too interesting, I hope?”

“Simply a few business matters; all tedious, I assure you.”

She huffed an ironic laugh.  “Yes, he does love to keep his affairs in order.”  At his arched eyebrow, she smiled complacently, ire wiped from expression.  “Then again, I’m just as meticulous.”

The band struck up a dramatic chord, and her eyes lit up, head snapping over towards the entrance to the showroom.  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Sul.” She didn’t bother waiting for him to return the farewell before she merged into the steady stream of people swarming into the club’s main floor.

He didn’t follow, instead stationing himself to the side, scanning the crowd.  It was a remarkably varied group - all skin colors and genders and adult ages mixed together to see their Prince.  A low thurm of voices mixed with the music, adding in a low bass to the melody, drifting alongside the cigarette smoke and sound of laughter.  

A blur of gray and blue zipped from one end of the crowd to the other, bringing with it a cheerful barrage of puns and laughter.  Logan neatly stepped forward to intercept it.

Patton Parker looked the exact same as he had earlier that day, completely unfatigued from bouncing around and tending to patrons.  “Oh, hiya!” He smiled distractedly, eyes darting over the visitors. “Mr. Logan Sul wasn’t it? So glad you showed up for the performance.”  He giggled.

Logan took a moment to breathe deeply and remind himself that he had been through war, puns really weren’t that bad.

“Your presence is such a gift!”  Patton laughed, shoulders bouncing.

Fuck this, Logan was going back to France.

“What a warm welcome,” he said dryly.

“I like to make sure all of my kiddos are taken care of!”  Patton grinned, bouncing on his heels. “Do you need anything? Can I help?”

“I’d like to have a quick word about Mr. Torres, but if you’re bu-”

“Roman?”  Patton’s restless movements stopped immediately, gray eyes snapping onto Logan.  “Is something wrong? He’s okay, right?”

The change in tone was such that Logan had to stop for a moment, blinking at the club’s owner.  “Yes, he’s quite” - seductive, enchanting, attractive, confusing - “fine. I merely wanted to chat.  That, however, can surely wait until you aren’t as preoccupied.”

“Aw, thanks, Lo!”  Patton grabbed onto his arm and squeezed it.  (Hug? Was that a hug?) “You’re the sweetest! I’ll get to you right after the show, okay?”

“Splendid.”  The word barely fell from Logan’s lips before the club owner launched himself back into the crowd, good-naturedly fussing over customers and laughing with the regulars.  Virgil was in the corner, dark eyes flitting suspiciously over the newcomers, but as Logan crossed the room to join them, they slipped away into the showroom.

Logan stepped into the stream of people and allowed himself to be carried inside.

Ego took on a different atmosphere when filled with patrons, the air thick with heady excitement.  The salaciousness of it all was a thrill, resulting in random bounds of excited giggles, exits being checked every few moments (just in case the police showed up), and liquid courage being knocked back by the bottle.  Patrons jostled against each other for seats nearest the stage and its runway, but Logan was able to secure a spot near the end, opposite the wall with Remy Salem’s box, by casually musing about the half-off drinks the bar was offering.  Smirking, he sat as the club-goers trotted like they sheep they were over towards the bar for their non-existent cheap booze.

He reclined languidly, crossing one leg over the other, and became aware of the distinct feeling of eyes on him.  Casually, he tilted his head from one side to the other, as if to crack his neck.

There.

In the darkened hallway leading to the booths, Dorian Arya was watching him.  Logan forced a smile and nodded cordially, but the other man didn’t return his greeting.  The private eye frowned, realizing Dorian’s eyes were trained somewhere over his head. He slowly stretched around to see Virgil Avery stationed against the wall behind him, glaring back at Dorian with something unreadable in their expression.

Before Logan could draw any conclusions, the lights flared dramatically, and Dorian made to go down the hallway, hesitated, and sat in the back of the showroom, disappearing in the crush of people.  Virgil entered a door hidden behind the thick velvet curtains and disappeared.

“And now, ladies, gents, and all our beloved guests” - Patton Parker stood on the stage of his club, smiling at the patrons - “please welcome the star of this and every hour - Mr. Roman Prince!”

The audience broke out into cheers, quickly quieted as the lights dimmed, and a singular spotlight shone against the thin gossamer curtains, revealing the shapely silhouette of a man.  “In olden days, a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking,” he crooned into an upright microphone as the curtains slowly drew back.  “Now heavens knows…”

Logan’s mouth went dry.

Roman’s black-rimmed eyes snapped up to meet his, and his red-painted mouth twisted into a smirk.  “Anything goes.”

He sauntered forward to cheers and whistles, red-sparkling pants slick against those long legs.  “Good authors, too, who once knew better words,” he purred, leaning his torso, encased in a white shirt with golden rope accents, against the wall, “now only use four lettered words.”

The pants clung like a second skin, muscles visibly shifting as he prowled across the stage, blowing kisses and winking at his captive audience.  “Writing prose, anything goes.”

Logan began mentally sorting through the list of his sins that had probably landed him in this exact spot.  Sure, he had shot a few people, broken into a couple places, poisoned that guy a week ago, was more than a bit of a jerk - okay maybe he did deserve torture.

“The world’s gone mad today.”  Roman’s hand trailed suggestively up and down the stand of the microphone, long fingers wrapped needily around it. “Good’s bad today. Black’s white today, and day’s night today.”

He detached the head of the microphone, curling the cord around his wrist.

“And all the guys today that people prize today!”  Roman rolled his eyes playfully as he sauntered down the stairs, reaching down with his free hand to run those long fingers across the jawlines of a few lucky patrons.  “Are just silly gigolos.” He leaned in on a person with flushed cheeks and wide eyes, grinning as they squirmed under his gaze. “Anything goes,” he crooned, tapping their nose lightly with the tip of his finger.  They almost fainted.

A curdle of envy shot through Logan’s system, burning twice as much as the whisky and nowhere near as fun. He found his lip curled back, revealing his eyetooth, and he shoved it back into place, cursing himself.  His hand curled into a fist, fingernails biting into the calloused flesh of his palm. Objective.

He had to remain objective.

The song picked up tempo, and Roman lit up with excitement, swaying to the beat.  “If driving fast cars you like, if low bars you like!” He was drawing farther away, towards the thickest part of his audience.  Roman didn’t even seem like he was walking towards them, drifting, instead, on jazz and adrenaline and the love of the crowd.

“If old hymns you like.”  Roman caught his eye and grinned, abruptly veering towards him.  The slow, sultry saunter transformed into a determined march, and Logan’s heart stuttered in his chest.  Surely Roman wasn’t going to do what Logan suspected he was going to do?

“If bare limbs you like.”  It started with Roman circling his chair, fingers gently trailing across the back of Logan’s neck, drawing goosebumps.  Then he was there before him, a hand on each armrest. He reached up to run the back of his hand across Logan’s cheek, touch blazing.  

“If heading west you like,” he purred, wrapping his arms around Logan’s neck as the audience whooped in delight.  “Or me undressed you like.” With a sudden tug, Roman was in the plush velvet seat with Logan, straddling the private eye.  He burned against Logan, like a match struck in the darkness, and they were pressed stomach-to-stomach, and Roman was warm and solid there in Logan’s lap, and this was definitely how Logan was going to die.

“Why, nobody will oppose.”  Logan’s heart hammered frantically against his chest as Roman smirked down at him, reaching up and toying with the brim of Logan’s fedora.  “Darling, don’t you know?” Roman leaned closer, closer until his breath brushed Logan’s lips. Then he quickly grabbed the hat and slipped off of Logan’s lap, grinning wickedly.  “Anything goes!”

Logan sputtered, trying to regain control of his heart rate, as Roman, reclining on the stage and drawing the hat across his chest, made eyes at some hapless pip in the first row, crooning all the way.

Logan swallowed deeply and reminded himself that it was Roman’s job to flirt with the audience.  A guy had to make a living, after all. He forced his eyes away from the stage and towards Remy Salem’s box, discerning a form pressed against the glass, staring, as they all were, at Roman.  Remy’s outline was a vague shadow against the one-way mirror, but the hunger in his stance was unmistakable.

The stab of jealousy that sliced between Logan’s ribs surprised him.  He grit his jaw and scanned the room for anything else. If Remy Salem was able to leave roses in Roman’s dressing room, it only stood to reason that he had some way of getting into it between the end of the show and Roman’s return.

Cataloguing the exits, Logan counted four he knew of - the entrance to the main room, the mouth of the hall leading to the private boxes, the door Virgil had disappeared into, and, presumably, a stage door.  He hadn’t seen Virgil reemerge yet, so it stood to reason there were at least two, possibly more, ways to get to the inner workings of the club.

The music built, and Logan realized he was missing the grand finale.  Quickly, he turned back towards the stage, just in time to see Roman replace the microphone head.

“And all the pains you’ve got.”  Roman sighed exaggeratedly, tugging his shirt collar just enough to reveal his collarbone and the edge of a white undershirt.  The audience whooped, and Logan shifted in his chair. Roman turned his head, just enough to catch Logan’s eye. “If any brain’s you’ve got.”

Logan couldn’t help but huff something that almost passed for a laugh.  Roman remembered. “A quarter, at least,” he murmured to himself.

“From those little radios,” Roman crooned, bringing up his hand and placing Logan’s fedora on his head.  It slipped down, almost covering his eyes, and he clung to the brim, lips curling wickedly. “Anything goes.”

His eyes blazed from under that dark brim, pinning Logan into place.  The Private Eye knew that, logically, they were in a room with masses of people, all clinging to Roman’s every note, but at that moment, with the fading spotlight casting shadows across Roman’s face, his grin red and dangerous, it was as if they were the only two people in the room, the building, the world.

Roman seemed to know his thoughts, smirk sharpening.  Slowly, discreetly, he nodded - five hundred micrometers of acknowledgement of this bond between them.  “Anything goes.”

It sounded almost like a warning.

The spotlight faded entirely, and the curtains swung closed, Roman’s last note echoing through the showroom.  There was a collective hush as it died, no one quite wanting to be the wretch who broke the enchantment. Then, someone started clapping, than someone else, then another, until it was a wave, a roar, a howl of something raw and feral.  Music couldn’t tame the savage beast when it ended.

The band picked up the pace, launching into a song everyone but Logan sang raucously along to. The song melded into another, and another, but Roman still didn’t reappear.

The band faltered as three songs rolled into four, then five.

The audience stirred, restless, and Patton came back on stage, red-faced and smiling anxiously.  His cuticles were ragged; he had been chewing his nails. “Now, now, kiddos, we’re having just a little-bitty technical difficulty backstage, so hang on a bit, okay? In the meantime, the band is taking requests!”

The pianist did not look particularly pleased about this, but gamely launched into the opening verse of After Hours at a shout from the audience.

The music managed to quell the crowd until, perhaps five minutes later, Roman sauntered back onto the stage, smirking.  “Sorry, darlings,” he purred, making wide, innocent eyes at them. “Just had to make sure I looked okay. After all, a prince has got to slay!”

The audience cheered as Logan slipped back into his seat, settling in for the rest of the show.  Even he, who was decidedly not a purveyor of the arts, could readily see the appeal. Although, it may have been less the performance and more the performer that held his attention.  Roman held the patrons in the palm of his hand for another six songs, toying with them playfully as his hips swayed in those infuriating pants and his dark, smooth voice raised goosebumps on fevered skin.  Fortunately for his cardio health and unfortunately for the part of him responsible for making poor choices, Roman didn’t favor him in anymore songs, keeping his flirtations to generalized provocations and coquettish, light touches of random audience members.

Eventually, however, the final song came to a crashing halt, and Roman stood on the stage, damp with sweat and grinning triumphantly.  “Thank you, beauties and gentle beauties!” He blew a kiss. “Come see me tomorrow, alright?”

The curtains fell to thunderous applause, but Logan paid it no mind.  Discreetly, he stood as the audience gathered their things, and prowled across the room.  Glancing around, his eyes narrowed, trying to piece the timeline together. Did Remy place the roses during the performance or after?  Would he be out now?

There was an echo to his footsteps as he traversed down the long, dark hallway and Logan sighed.  “Are you going to utter ‘hello’, or do you merely intend on striving after me?”

Virgil Avery slipped out of the shadows, dark eyes narrowed.  “What are you doing back here?”

“I merely thought I’d have a little chat with Mr. Salem, if you will permit it.”

They tensed, lip curling back.  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you harassing the clients, Mr. Sul.”

“Be that as it may, Mx. Avery” - Virgil inhaled sharply at the title, spine straightening - “I assure you Mr. Salem will not mind.”

“How’d you know to call me that?” they demanded.

“Mr. Torres informed me of your identity. I see no reason to use a malapropism, especially in terms of referral.”  Logan tilted his head towards the door of box five. “Now, if you don’t mind?”

Virgil stared at him for a long moment, jaw working under their dark skin and fingers tapping on their side, before slowly nodding.

“Splendid.”  Logan tapped lightly on the door.  “Mr. Salem? It’s Mr. Sul. Might I come in?”

There was no response, and he shot a look at Virgil.  “Is he out?”

They shrugged.  “I haven’t seen anyone come out this way since the show ended.”

“Mr. Salem, it’s Mr. Sul.”  Logan rapped again, but there was no response.  A twinge of annoyance hit him. “Mr. Salem, please, I know you’re in there.”  Still, nothing. Logan grit his jaw and backed up. “Have it your way.”

The doorknob crunched satisfyingly under his kick, sending the door flying open.  Logan made a mental note to reimburse Patton, pointedly ignoring Virgil’s ‘that cost money, you know’.  

“Now, Mr. Salem,” Logan sighed, adjusting his tie and strolling into the booth with Virgil begrudgingly at his side, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss-”

He saw the knee first, jutting out at an awkward angle from behind a chair.  The hands came next, bound with golden rope. Then the face, purpled and stil.  Then the neck, encircled by a furious red mark.

Remy Salem was dead.

Chapter Text

“Where is his handkerchief?”

Virgil paused, tore their eyes away from the dead man, and stared at the private eye incredulously.  “Really? You find a dead guy in the middle of the floor, and your first instinct is to ask where his fucking handkerchief went?”

“I’m merely observing the unusualness of the scenario. Why on earth would anyone want to take his handkerchief?”  Logan’s words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Virgil hissed under their breath, reaching up and tugging on a tight, dark curl.

“I gotta get everyone out of here,” they muttered.  “When the police get here… everyone is in danger.”

Logan gazed at them levelly.  “You find a deadman in the middle of the floor, and your first thought is the police?”

“That’s crippling anxiety for you,” Virgil muttered, wiping their shaking hands on their pants.  They couldn’t quite detach their gaze from the corpse in the middle of the room, dark eyes wide and wild.  “Fuck, I gotta…” They swallowed. “Patton. I’ll go get Patton. He’ll know what to do.”

“Mr. Parker isn’t going to do a singular thing.”  Logan held out a hand, barring their exit. “Additionally, you do realize that, by evacuating the building, you could be letting the murderer get away?”

Judging by the way all the blood drained from their face, Virgil had not, in fact, thought of that.  “What are we supposed to do then? Everyone here could get arrested or worse!”

The scar running the length of Logan’s back twinged.  “Worse indeed.” He look a deep breath. “Fine. Get everyone out of here, but somehow get a list of everyone who is here tonight.”

Virgil looked at him, startled.  “You’re trusting me with that?”

Logan smiled coldly.  “The more suspects you give me, the less I’ll suspect you.”

Virgil started.  “You can’t seriously think that I-”

“I don’t know,” Logan interrupted.  “I can’t draw any conclusions at this point in time. Therefore, I will be regarding everyone as a suspect.”

“Fine then.”  They made for the door, but he stopped them.

“Let me see your hands,” he said.

“Why?”  Virgil’s eyes narrowed, glistening with a sudden disdain.  “As a matter of fact, why are you marching into here and acting like you’re somehow in charge of this murder?”

“I hardly see anyone else stepping up to the plate,” Logan drawled.  “By which I mean a metaphorical baseball plate, not a literal plate like the one smashed on the ground over there.”

Sure enough, a crystalline platter lay in pieces a few feet from the shelves of liquor.  Virgil glanced at it briefly before reluctantly muttering a “fine” and holding their hands out for inspection.

Virgil’s hands were broad and long, much like the person themself.  Their nails were short and blunt, clipped with ruthless efficiency. Their skin was almost as dark as Viper’s, with no scrapes or cuts whatsoever.  Logan experimentally ran a finger down their palm, revealing calluses.

“Thank you, Mx. Avery.”  He stepped back and nodded.  “Please, then, get everyone to safety.”

When they left, Logan bend down over the body, mind racing.  This was his only chance to be truly alone with it before the police came and messed everything up, as they were prone to do.  Bruises around the neck - likely cause of death: strangulation. Upon closer inspection, tiny red marks also littered the skin around the strangulation line.  The handkerchief was missing, but nothing else, not the expensive rings or watch. Fingernails clean and manicured. A double overhand knot held Remy’s hands together.

Briefly, Logan brushed his fingers over the golden rope before backing up and taking in the room as a whole.

Ignoring the dead man and the shattered plate, it looked the same as it had before.  He prowled the perimeter, scrutinizing the thick carpet, but there were no footprints crushed against the deep red.  It was clean, luxurious, and devoid of all personality.

The parlor was empty when Logan emerged into the main room.  He realized that Ego was round, hallways arching out like the spindles of a wheel.  Around and around with no end. The long, dark hallway that led to Remy’s box wrapped around the main room, offering multiple boxes unique views of the stage.  Behind that were the unknown back rooms.

As he passed through, he flicked back the curtain he had seen Virgil slip behind earlier.  As he suspected - a door. He jimmied the handle, but it didn’t yield.

It was eerie, how silent the club could be.  Drained of the patrons and the pomp, Logan could see the spots where the carpet was worn thin.  Ghosts of voices hung in the air, oppressive in their absence. He flicked off the lights as he left, stepping into the entryway.  

“Logan!”  Roman rushed up to him, eyes wide, and clung to the front of his shirt, fingers curling in the soft cotton.  “What’s wrong? Virgil told everyone they had to leave and wouldn’t explain why.”

Logan just looked down at him, expression unreadable.  “Tell me where you were,” he said in lieu of a response, “during the middle of the show.”  Roman looked startled, so he softened his voice, stepping closer. “I was worried. I went looking for you.”

Roman demurred, blinking those long, thick eyelashes.  “Technical difficulties, just like Patton said. I had a little trouble with my costume.”

Logan nodded slightly, expression thawing the smallest bit.  He took Roman by the arm and led him to the side, the wall to their backs providing the guise of privacy.  “Mx. Avery and I found Mr. Salem dead in his booth.”

Roman's eyes widened, huge and frightened against his suddenly pale face.  “What?”

Logan just took his hand in response, toying with Roman’s long, thin fingers, inspecting his palm.  Roman swallowed, shuffling closer, almost as if he was seeking comfort.  Logan barely suppressed a snort.  Mr. Torres clearly had the wrong idea about him.

“No rope burn,” Logan noted.

Roman’s brow furrowed.  “Mr. S- Logan, please, you’re frightening me.  What is going on? What happened to Mr. Salem?”

“He was killed.”

Roman’s breath caught in his throat, face slackening.  “O-oh.” He was silent for a moment, breathing erratically.  “Who… who did it?”

“That can’t be determined yet.”  Logan squeezed his hand briefly before releasing.  “I have a few ideas, however.”

“He was an important guy,” Roman said, almost to himself.  “He had connections everywhere. It could be anyone.”

“I’ve got a list, at least.”  Virgil, Patton at their side, suddenly appeared, the aforementioned list clutched in their hand.  “I managed to nab everyone before they left.”

Logan took the paper with a murmur of thanks.

“Virgil told me everything.”  Patton Parker, pale and trembling, couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the floor.  “I… I already called the police. They should be here soon.”

“Pat, do you need a chair?”  Roman clasped a hand on his shoulder.  “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Don’t you worry about me, kiddo.”  He flashed an empty, practiced smile.  “It’s just…” The sparkling smile faltered, then collapsed entirely, stray diamonds falling to the Earth.  “It’s hard to believe.” He laughed bitterly, corners of his eyes misting. “I saw him just about every day for seven years, and now… I'm never going to see him again.”

“Yes, that is typically how death works.” Logan frowned.  “Is this news to you?”

Roman shot him a glare, and he raised his hands defensively.

“Merely stating a point.”

Patton deflected with another shaking smile.  “It’s not me we should be fussing over right now.”  He tilted his head towards the small, huddled figure, almost obscured by the shadows and décor.

Viper Salem, their only other companion in the entryway, sat on the floor, looking as if she had no idea how she had gotten there.  Still as a statue, she stared at her hands - no, her wedding ring - with empty eyes.

Logan made to approach her, but Patton laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “Maybe… maybe let her be for a little, kiddo. This has gotta be hard on her.”

“I’ll get her home,” Roman volunteered.  A tentative smile, intended to be wry but only coming across as shaken, crossed his face.  “It’s probably best if both of us leave before the bulls show up.”

Logan blinked, wondering why on Earth farm animals would be appearing, but Roman slipped away before he could ask.  He approached Viper slowly, like a frightened animal, and murmured something to her in that soft, thrilling voice of his that made her laugh, a low, bitter sound.

Roman offered his arm, and she took it with a shaking hand, leaning heavily against him as the two of them shuffled out into the dead of the night.

“Patton and I will stay with you,” Virgil offered, then paused, gaze settling on the club’s owner.  “If that’s okay with you, Pat?”

Logan was very well aware that he was rather inept emotionally.  He was terrible at reading social cues, had gotten socked in the jaw more than once for running his mouth when he really shouldn’t have, and didn’t give a damn what the men he fell into bed with felt, other than a want for more.  Yet still, despite all this, the instant Patton Parker’s name drifted from Virgil Avery’s lips - softly, reverently, warmly - Logan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt Mx. Avery was absolutely, helplessly in love.

Interesting.

“Good idea, Virge.”  Patton laid a hand on their forearm and squeezed briefly.  What with the way his gray eyes shined back at Virgil, it was just possible Mx. Avery's attentions were required.

Logan caught Patton’s hand on the rebound, scrutinizing his bare palm.  Nothing.

“What was that, kiddo?”  Patton hastily retracted his hand, half-cradling it as he blinked in bewilderment.

“He did it to me too.”  Virgil quirked an eyebrow, an edge of mischief taking them over.  “Maybe he’s just looking for help. Someone’s gotta give him a hand, after all.”

Patton lit up like a struck match, a bright, painful burst that lingered until you just couldn’t hold on anymore.  

“There’s a pun there, but I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Logan groaned. “I’m indicting you both for murder.”  Dourly, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Framing you would be literally no issue.”

Thankfully, Virgil and Patton were saved from their untimely jailing by a crisp knock on the door.

“Mr. Sul.”  Two faceless officers in crisply ironed uniforms stood on the other side, glowering strictly as Logan swung the door open.   “You’ll have to come with us.”

“Excellent.”  The private eye swept past them, towards the cop car.  “I have a few ideas. Oh, and be sure someone other than Percy is taking lead for this; he botched the last investigation so terribly-”

“I don’t think you understand, sir.”  The officer on the left laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, jarring him to a stop.

Logan tensed.  “Get your hand off of me before I am forced to remove it.”

“Threatening an officer of the law?”  The cop smiled thinly. “Hardly a good start to an arrest.”

“On what grounds?”

“You’ve stood over more than your fair share of bodies.  Just how many them have you put there?”

“None here.”  Yet Logan didn’t do anything more than grit his teeth as the handcuffs, cold and heavy, were slapped around his wrists.

Just before he was pushed into the back seat, he caught a glimpse of the other officer, talking to Virgil and Patton.  Even now, Virgil was standing halfway between the other two, as if they could protect Patton from the whole dark world with nothing more than determination and the power of love.

Logan half hoped they’d get arrested.  Couldn’t idiocy be a charge?

The inside of an interrogation room was a familiar enemy.  Same rickety chair, same metal table, same one-way mirror - there was disappointingly little variation.  Logan gazed duly at his reflection, wondering idly who was lurking behind it. No one decent. Santos was a fluke, seen as a glorified secretary despite her calamitous efforts to prove otherwise.  It’d be another dull man, with a hard face and a heart that thought it knew troubles.

Oh, they had no idea.

“This is a waste of everyone’s time,” he said, loudly enough that the microphone they thought he didn’t know about would pick it up.  “Do you truly expect me to aimlessly dwell in here when, even now, I’m sure the crime scene is being corrupted by you fools?”

“Hardly complementary, Mr. Sul.”  The door swung open, and a broad man in a leather jacket stepped through.  The policeman’s movements were languid as he strolled over, as if he were moving through water.   Chris Xander, the gold-plated name tag on his creased shirt read.  “I’m sure you don’t really think so badly of New York’s finest?”

“Of course not,” Logan drawled, eyeing him as the man spun the chair around and straddled it.  “I think much worse.”

Chris smiled in that infuriatingly lazy, slow-motion way of his.  “You’re a regular ball, aren’t you?”

Logan huffed and straightened his tie.  “This is hardly the time for a character analysis, Officer.  There’s a killer out there somewhere, and I intend to catch him.”

“Cocky,” Chris commented.  “It could be anyone.” He shrugged, leafing through the loose papers in the file before him.  “A crazed criminal, a disgruntled employee - those rigs are terribly dangerous. People go missing or worse all the time.”

“And I can’t find out until you stop this ridiculous detainment.”

Chris just flipped another page, easy as he pleased.  “Awful convient you were at the show on the night of the murder, Mr. Sul.”

Logan nodded, crossing his arms.  “I do tend to have a certain knack for finding… exciting situations.”

Chris shook his head, tisking disapprovingly.  “There isn’t anything exciting about this, Mr. Sul.  It’s a disaster. Mr. Salem is…”

“Was,” Logan corrected softly.

“Was,” Chris amended, glaring sharp enough to cut, “a rich, powerful man.  He owned oil rigs all up and down the Florida coast.”

“Do try not to bore me with things I already know.”  Logan polished his glasses with the edge of his tie. “I’m more interested in why I’m stuck here.”

“Routine questioning, Mr. Sul.”  Chris flashed the fake, easy smile of a man used to getting his way, simply due to the badge on his hip and the color of his skin.  Logan itched under the force of that smile, gritting his jaw and turning away. “We’re just hoping you can provide us with a few answers.”

“I don't know who did it,” Logan said flatly.  “Not yet.”

Chris drummed his fingers against the table, easy smile fixed into place.  “You might not know who did it, but everyone here knows you could make one hell of a guess, Mr. Sul.”

“I have it narrowed down to a few hypotheses.”  Logan inclined his head. “None, however, I am quite yet willing to share.”

“Why shouldn't you, if you've got nothing to hide?”

“Everyone,” Logan responded mildly, “has something to hide.”

The policeman leaned forward, carrying the stench of stale coffee.  “And you have-?”

Logan smiled complacently.  “My hypothesis, for one thing.”

“You're not exactly painting yourself in the best light here, Mr. Sul.”  Chris loomed over him, lip curled up into a snarl. “Tell us what we want to know, or there isn't one policeman in New York who's going to trust you anymore.”

“It’s been a long time since I burst into tears because a policeman didn’t like me.”  Logan yawned, stretched, and checked his watch. “It's been an excess of four hours, and I've yet to be detained for a crime.  Do you intend on charging me with murder, or just hurting your poor little feelings?”

“I intend on asking you what you were doing hanging around a place with such… fruity people.”  Chris smiled thinly. “A place like that is enough to warrant an arrest all on its own.”

“Yet you have no problem with Mr. Salem’s presence?”  Logan arched an eyebrow. “How will that look for you to be looking into the death of a man who frequented such an establishment?”

“He was married to one hell of a broad.  A bit too dark for me, but fine if you’re into that sort of thing.  What that doesn’t cover, his money will. We’re safe. You’ve got no such luck.”

A hot coal of something like horror settled into Logan’s stomach.

Chris’s smile widened, a predator baring his teeth.  “You wouldn’t want to be accused of anything queer, would you, Mr. Sul.”  It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Logan whispered before he could stop himself.

“Good.”  Chris resumed flipping through the file, as if he hadn't just threatened a fate worse than death.  “Now that were on the same page, why don't you tell me what you know before-”

“Before what?”  The rough screech of the metal chair against the concrete rang out.  The private eye was suddenly on his feet, fear and anger pulling him up.  “Before you alienate the only man who knows the first thing about his case?  The only one who knows who was there tonight? The only one who knows that Mr. Salem had been harassing the night club’s main performer for months?”

The policeman stifled a noise of surprise, eyes wide.

“Didn't know that, did you, Mr. Xander?”  Logan snarled.

Chris recovered from his shock quickly, schooling his face into nonchalance.  “So what? He was allegedly having some fun with a… performer.”  His voice dripped red with disdain.  “It doesn’t matter. He could be lying.  You know what? He probably wanted the attention, that little-”

“I’ll rip your tongue out if you even think about finishing that sentence,” Logan said.  His voice was ice-cold, the chill of a barrel pressed against your temple. “Roman - Mr. Torres does not deserve to be slandered.”

The policeman swallowed, hard, and nodded.

“Stay away, and this case will be solved.”  Logan breathed out slowly, straightening his tie and sinking back into his chair.

Chris curled a lip at him, brow stormy.  “It’s in your best interests to cooperate with the police, Mr. Sul.”

“It’s in yours to let me go, Mr. Xanders.”  Logan leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.  He forced away the fear building in his gut. “Your wife eloped with your secretary, by the way.”  He smirked. “I’m sure they made a lovely pair of brides.”

Chris’s face flamed, and he stormed from the room before Logan could even explain his analysis of the pattern of wrinkles on the officer’s shirt, the scent of stale coffee, and the loose papers haphazardly shoved into his file.

It was nearly three in the morning when Logan finally sauntered out of the building, hat pulled low to shield his face from the chill that had settled in.  The world was awash in gray and black. All the good things - beautiful and brightly colored - hid in this world.

The fog muffled his vision, turning people into muted shadows against the gray.  The further he wandered from the hub of downtown and towards his own wretched apartment, however, the fewer and fewer shapes he saw trailing around him.  The city was a gnarled old heart, streets crackling out from the beating center like so many vessels and capillaries. The darkness set in the further one wandered from the illusion of safety offered by the streetlights and people.  The shadows were more alive here, in this rotten place that squeezed out half-digested dreams. Here was where Logan lived, where he belonged, in the place where the wicked were tenfold what you could see by the meager daylight.

In fact, one of the wicked was following Logan.

Logan heard the man before he saw him - a simple click.  Freezing at the sharp sound of a gun’s safety being snapped off was second nature at this point.  The street was deserted. No one would bear witness to Logan's murder; no one would see the gray of the night painted red.

“Turn around slowly. No funny stuff.”

Logan did as he was told, facing the silhouette of a man with a long, shapeless trenchcoat and a fedora pulled low over his face.  The barrel of the gun in his hand aimed directly at Logan’s chest. He breathed out slowly.

“This is a warning, Mr. Sul.”

“Oh, I usually don’t get any of those.  How terribly considerate of you.” Logan took a microstep closer.  “I ought to add you to my Christmas card list.”

“I said,” the man snapped, then calmed himself as Logan shuffled closer yet again.  “No funny stuff.”

“I’m entirely serious.”  Logan gestured at his chest.  “Necktie.”

“I think you owe my people an apology,” the stranger said.  “Mr. Fontane really was one of our best.”

Logan’s blood ran cold.  “He was it. Mr. Fontane was the head.  That gambling ring is over.”

The man smiled, a cruel and ghastly grin.  “It’s a big city, Mr. Sul. Surely you didn’t really think you could save it yourself?”

“I’m not trying to save a thing, save for myself.”  Another tiny step closer. Just two feet between them now.

The stranger just laughed.  “You’re something, ain’t you?”  His finger tapped against the trigger of the gun, and the smile slid from his face.  “You know what? No.” He cocked the gun. “I think I’ll save myself some trouble and just kill you now.”

That’s when Logan lunged.  

His hand seized around the stranger’s wrist and snapped it up, twisting the gun down as the man cried out sharply.  The finger caught in the trigger crunched as Logan wrenched it at an impossible angle. The stranger, hissing, drove his shoulder into Logan’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.  Logan staggered into the man, arms pressed together as they both grappled for the gun.

Logan’s grip was slipping, the barrel of the gun edging dangerously towards his stomach.  

Two shots echoed through the empty city streets.

Logan staggered back, shaking.  Already, he could feel the slickness of blood, red against the whiteness of his shirt, spreading.

The stranger before him smiled, coldly, cruelly, then collapsed.

Logan kicked the gun away, shoving his fist against the bullet wound in his shoulder.  “It appears your patella has been shattered.” He wiped the back of his mouth with his shirt sleeve, spitting out red.  “You might have some troubles walking to the hospital.”

He touched the brim of his hat ironically, then turned on his heel and walked off into the damp, dark night.

“Stop!”  The stranger called out to him, voice ringing with fear and desperation.  “Please. Please, I need help.”

“How unfortunate.”  Logan’s pace didn’t falter.

“I’ll die out here!  I’ll bleed out before anyone finds me.  Please, I’m begging you.” The man’s voice was fading behind Logan.  “Do you really want my blood on your hands?”

Logan didn’t bother to respond.  He just pressed his hand harder against the bullet hole and kept walking.  His fingers were wet and sticky. There was plenty of blood on his hands; a little more didn’t make a difference.

In his apartment, Logan downed a few shots of whisky, dug out the bullet, and patched up his shoulder with practiced, efficient stitches, pouring a bit of the whisky over it afterwards.  It’d leave a scar, but it wasn’t like he was already winning any beauty pageants. His was a cold, cruel elegance.

Finally, after he bound the wound with a roll of cotton, he collapsed, socks and shoes still on, onto his rickety old mattress.  His muscles ached with exhaustion, but he set the alarm clock for eight. Closing his eyes, he let the facts run through his mind.

There was a dead man with countless enemies.

There was a killer on the loose.

There was a criminal ring after him.

There was a man with red in his smile and fire in his eyes waiting for him.

Logan let a small half-smile creep over his face.  Oh, this was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Thin, gray sunlight streamed in slants through the open window, crashing against the ringing in Logan’s ears.  Last-night Logan had made the decision to wake up early.

Last-night Logan was an idiot who early-morning Logan would shoot on sight.  Then again… he had been shot.

His entire body groaned in protest as Logan dragged himself out of bed.  Gingerly, he rolled his bandaged right shoulder. White-hot pain ricocheted through him.  He closed his eyes until the spots faded from his vision.

Okay, bad idea.

He stumbled out of bed, blindly grabbing clothes from his small, dingy closet.

Logan pulled on a shirt, wincing as it rubbed against his shoulder.  He opened his eyes, staring at himself in the mirror for a moment. He could've been handsome, could've been elegant and charming and everything he would need to sweep Roman off his feet - if not for the cold, hard anger in his eyes, if not for the viscous slant to his mouth and the cruel set to his jaw, if not for the spider web of scars curling around his chest.

He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs from his terrible, labyrinthine brain, where he kept building new rooms to escape his ghosts.  There were more important things to worry about now.

Picking up the phone, he dialed zero, waiting for the buzz of empty air to give way to a soft, pleasantly familiar voice.  “Operator.”

“Ms. Alvi.”  Logan allowed a hint of warmth to enter his voice.  “A pleasure, as always.”

On the other side of the line, Kaimi Alvi snorted.  “You’re being nice. Did hell freeze over, or do you just want something?”

“Just a few people I need you to contact.”  Logan wedged the phone’s horn in the crook of his shoulder and strained against the cord, nabbing a mug of cold, stale coffee.  Without a second thought, he flicked off the lip of a silver flask and poured in a shot of whisky as he rattled off a list. “Tell them to meet me at Ego in an hour and a half.”

“New case?”  Clattering came from the other end, Kaimi flipping switches and connecting lines.  “Anything interesting?”

“Oh,” Logan chuckled darkly, “you have no idea.”

“So” - Logan flung open the doors, coattails flaring around his legs and amber eyes flashing - “which one of you did it?”

Unfortunately, those in attendance - Viper Salem, Roman Torres, Patton Parker, Dorian Arya, and Virgil Avery - looked rather nonplussed by his dramatic entrance.

“Helpful hint to the scientist that programmed you,” Virgil drawled, “most humans say hello at the beginning of a conversation.”

“Hello,” Logan snipped impatiently, striding into the room.  “So, which one of you did it?”

“None of us, as far as I know!” Roman cried, standing and holding out his hands, a perfect picture of supplication.  “Mr. Sul, please, this is ridiculous. You can't seriously think that-”

“Don't tell me what I can and cannot think,” Logan interrupted cooly.  “I've seen enough of the world you ducks have tripped into to know it.”  He slid around the bar, using his teeth to pull the stopper out of a bottle of scotch.  Patton looked vaguely disgruntled, as if mentally running through a list of health code violations.

The heat from yesterday - only yesterday - hadn't drifted off into the great gray yonder.  Instead, it stayed, seeping into the cracks in the sizzling pavement, broiling the buildings and those inside.  The glass started sweating as soon as he poured it.

“And let me tell you what I do know, Mr. Torres: at their smallest components, humans are indistinguishable from forest fires.”  Logan Sul swirled his sweating glass of scotch around idly, watching the ice clink together. “All it takes is the smallest spark to set them off.”  He casually took a sip, amber eyes piercing each member of the assembled group.

Virgil Avery, the paranoid security guard.

Patton Parker, the far too-cheerful nightclub owner.

Roman Torres, the high-strung star.

Viper Salem, the obsessive widow.

Dorian Arya, the mysterious ex-business partner.

“Any singular person is more than capable of being a murderer.”  He set his glass down on the side table with a soft clink, dabbing at his mouth with his handkerchief.  He turned back to the group and smiled viciously, a hunter with his sights set on prey. “And one of you is.”

A beat of stunned, reverent silence.

“Anyone have a phone?”  Dorian yawned. “I’d like to call bullshit.”

Patton was startled into laughter, and Viper, who henceforth had been silently withdrawn, curled up in a red velvet chair, narrowed her eyes and sat up straight, smoothing out her green skirt.  “How dare you,” she said, evenly. Her bold, cruel eyes flashed at Logan, and a snarl crossed her unpainted lips. “My husband is dead, and you come in here, slinging around accusations like judge, jury, and prosecutor?”

“She’s right, Mr. Sul.”  Virgil, leaning against the wall with their arms crossed, tilted their head challengingly.  “Who are you to come in here and act like you can run this joint?”

“This type of work is my life,” Logan said, staring off into the middle distance.  It was a practiced empty stare. Good for staying alert, while still contemplating the meaning of a short and brutal existence.  “If you didn’t kill him, you have nothing to fear. Any individual has no doubt of their own innocence, yet can anyone vouch the same for the person next to them?”

The tension in the air shifted, spreading and hanging thick as suspicious eyes turned from Logan and onto each other.

“No,” Dorian finally said, mismatched gaze never leaving Virgil.  “I don’t suppose I can.”

Logan smiled thinly.  “In that case, you comprehend my perspective.”

“Fine then,” Viper said shortly.  “As…” She swallowed. “As Remy’s widow, I grant you permission to investigate.”

“Unnecessary but appreciated regardless,” Logan drawled.

“Mr. Sul, really!”  Roman burst out. “I still think this is unnecessary.”

“I agree,” Patton chimed in.  “I can’t believe any of us would hurt a poor, innocent guy like that.”

Roman’s jaw tightened, and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Humanity is capable of the worst things you can imagine, Mr. Parker.”  Logan shrugged, taking another pensive sip of his drink and relishing the burn.  After all, he had seen it with his own eyes, seen the-

“Okay, Sam Spade, chill out.”  Virgil arched an eyebrow at him.  “You look like you’re about to start monologuing.”

Logan hastily cut off his internal dialogue about the streets he had seen run red with blood.  “I most certainly was not.”

Patton smiled indulgently.  “Whatever you say, kiddo. I’m not about to go mono-a-mono with you on that one!”

Logan thought he could probably bash his own brains out with the cleaning supplies behind the bar, if he really tried.

“I will be conducting private interrogations with each of you individually,” he said, instead of driving the broomstick directly through his skull.  “Mrs. Salem, would you mind?” Logan downed the rest of his drink and opened the door to the main entrance, inclining his head.

“Not at all, Mr. Sul.”  She slung a purse over her shoulder and sashayed through the doorway in a rustle of green taffeta.

“I’d prefer if the rest of you refrained from consorting,” the private eye instructed.  “I’ll be able to tell, trust me.” He almost closed the door, but paused, turning back with a sharp smile.  “Furthermore, don’t fret over locating me for our conference.” His amber eyes gleamed. “I’ll find you.”

Only last night, Viper had been curled into a miserable, shocked ball on the floor, not five feet away from where she and the private eye sat in the plush seats of the entryway.  That pitiful creature, however, was a far cry from the dispassionate woman before him. She placed her purse on the floor and pulled out a fountain pen.

“You'll forgive me,” she murmured, “but I go absolutely mad without something to do with my hands.”

“Whatever you like.”  Logan watched with no small interest as she began twirling it nimbly around her hands, faster and faster until it was nearly a blur.

He took a moment to study the woman before him - her clear, dark skin, her restless hands, her bold eyes and sour lips.  She knew it though, knew how he was assessing her. Even as his eyes took her in, calmly and clinically, she was primping and preening and smoothing her face into a cool clay mask.  This was a woman who had lived her entire life on display and was far too used to the golden bird cage.

“Tell me something about Mr. Salem,” Logan said eventually, smoothing his tie.

“I hope to God he’s in heaven,” she sighed, “but I doubt he’d have much fun there.”

Logan fought down a snort, pressing his lips together sternly.  “Do you have a point there, or are you just brushing up on your small talk?”

“My point is that Remy liked to have his fun.”  She bit her lip, jaw working. “He wasn’t terrible, just brazen.  He was headstrong and brash and leapt over the waterfall without checking for rocks at the bottom.  He had a nice six-cylinder Rolls-Royce silver wraith with chromium-plated silver bores and-” She made a small noise in the back of her throat and glanced over at Logan.  “He had a nice car he liked to crash every few months and the money to buy a new one whenever he did.”

Logan couldn’t help a small groan of envy.  “Isn’t it terrible?” he muttered, almost to himself.  “The only ones with money are the ones who shouldn’t have it.”  He snapped out of it, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie.  “Which puts me in mind - did Mr. Salem ever limit your salary?”

Her long, thin fingers twirled that fountain pen around and around her palm, tapping against one side of her hand, then another.  “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

“It’s really quite simple, Mrs-”

“Ms.,” she interrupted sharply, then forced away her tension.  “Have some respect for the dead, Mr. Sul.”

“I’m more concerned with the living, Ms. Salem.”  He leaned back, crossing his legs. “Don’t you stand to inherit all of the late Remy Salem’s money? With his death, it’d be just like” - he pulled out and consulted a small notepad - “‘pennies from heaven’.”

The pen in Viper’s hands twirled, again and again and again.  “What on earth is that, Mr. Sul?”

“The English language is confounding and filled with ridiculous terms.”  He flipped the notepad shut primly, sliding it back into his pocket. “I’m merely attempting to increase my fluency.”

“I see,” she said with a wry quirk of her eyebrow.

“More to the point, where were you during the show?”  Logan steepled his fingers. “You left me as soon as the show started, but when” - he blinked, realizing he didn’t know the extent of Virgil’s openness - “that security guard Avery and I found the late Mr. Salem…”  Logan trailed off meaningfully. “You were nowhere to be found. Strange that you were so excited for the show, yet didn't stay for its duration.”

“Is that unusual, Mr. Sul?”  She huffed, lips turning sourly.  “Perhaps I found a better view elsewhere.”

“Better than a view with your husband, from the luxury of a private box?”

A laugh, faint and tart.  “He was my husband in name and on paper, but nothing more.”  She unscrewed the pen’s cap, gutting it and reassembling it without a single glance.  “If you must know, I was preoccupied at the time with a rather delightful member of the sound crew.”  Her lips curved derisively, hands a blur as they fiddled with that pen - together, apart, together, apart.  “You’d be welcome to confirm it, but I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch her name.”

Her.  A jolt of fear struck Logan, but he shoved it down.  Things like that… weren’t unusual here. It was fine.  He’d be fine.

“‘Your husband on paper’,” he echoed, instead of instinctively looking around for whatever brute took issue with this place’s preferences.  “Explain that.”

Viper shrugged.  “Remy and I… we weren’t lovers or even friends, really.  More like allies.” She sighed, tapping the edge of the pen against the table.  “It’s a dangerous world out there for people like both of us. His money kept me safe, and, well, he liked other men.”  A wry, bitter smile touched her lips. “As I'm sure you've heard, so do I.”

“His money,” Logan said, leaning back and steepling his fingers, “but not him?”

“No.”  Viper appeared as if she had bitten into a lemon.  “He didn't seem to care all that much what happened to me.”

“Yet you stayed married to him.”

“I’ve never hated a man enough to give his diamonds back.”  Viper smiled, flat. “Will that be all, Mr. Sul?”

Logan rose as she stood, and they stood there a moment, glaring at each other.  “That will be all, Ms. Salem.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” Viper shot as she sashayed out of the room.

“All mine, I assure you,” he retorted, holding the door open for her.

Dorian Arya was smoking a cigarette in the back alley when Logan found him, tamed fire dangling from his long, gloved fingers.  “Mr. Sul.”

“Mr. Arya.”  Logan stopped before him, squaring his shoulders.  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow cooly, leaning back against the wall and breathing out a stream of white smoke; it drifted forward idly and then dispersed itself as though it had thought of something much more interesting to do.  “I had no idea you were a gumshoe. So much for a casual drink.”

Logan blinked.  “My shoes are perfectly fine, I assure you.”

Dorian ignored him entirely.  “You found him, didn’t you?” The faint glow of the cigarette in the gloom shone in his mismatched eyes, sharp.  “How did he… how’d it happen?”

“Word travels fast, I see.”  

Dorian simply shrugged, and Logan continued, “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me something to help.”

“I'm sure I don't know anything.”  The cigarette burned down to the quick between his fingers, and he dropped it; the ember sizzled, red-hot, for a moment against the slick black pavement, before he ground it out under the tip of his loafer.

“Regardless, every little thing helps.”  Logan tilted his head as Dorian settled another cigarette between his lips. “Nervous, aren't you?”

“What gave me away?” the suspect drawled sarcastically, “the chain-smoking or the fact that there's a murderer on the loose?”

“The smoking,” Logan said evenly.  “I didn't take you for the type.”

“Bad habit from an old” - Dorian flicked on his lighter, the blaze casting shadows over his features, sharp and uneven in the sudden light - “flame.”

He lit his cigarette and took a long drag before breathing out slowly.  “Do your worst, Mr. Sul.”

“Do you know of anyone who would’ve wanted to hurt Mr. Salem? Any personal enemies?”

Dorian lolled his head back against the brick wall and snorted.  “You want the long list or the short list?”

“The comprehensive one.”

“Everyone under the goddamn sun.”  Dorian took another drag. “The thing with Remy is-”  He cut himself with a sharp clamp of his jaw. “-was that he’s… intoxicating.  Rich and powerful and handsome and everything that makes people jealous.”

“And you were jealous of…”  Logan’s mind whirred, running facts and data against the man before him.  “His money, weren’t you?”

Dorian shrugged.  “Sure. Anyone would be.  He was a glitterati if I’d ever seen one.  But if he was making money, I was making money, so I managed just fine.”

“What was the exact nature of your business relationship?”

Dorian turned to him with a wicked smirk.  “I’ve got a very clever tongue, as I’m sure you’ll get the chance to find out. Remy found himself in scandals; I told everyone it was a bum rap, dragged him out, and got paid. Pure gravy.”

“You’ve made your own fair share of enemies in that line of business, haven’t you?”

The fixer snorted, the promise of grit and blood in the thin line of his smile.  “We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, Mr. Sul. Decency and integrity are fancy words, but they never kept anybody well fed.  And I’ve got quite an appetite.”

Everything that makes people jealous.  Romance included?

“Were there any romances you competed for, perhaps?”  Logan leaned forward. “An attractive man like you must have-”

“Me? Attractive?”  Dorian snorted. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Sul.”

Logan blinked at him, brow creasing for the briefest of moments.  “I’m sorry?”

Dorian stubbed his cigarette out against the wall, finally pulling away from it and drawing himself up.  He was even taller than Logan. “Brown men don’t turn heads the right way in this world. Surely you know that, Mr. Sul.”

Logan, a picture of Roman flashing though his mind, began to retort, but Dorian cut him off.

“Besides” - he scratched irritably at his cheek, at the eczema patch and the flaking skin - “I have it on good authority I’m not what most men are looking for.”

Logan instinctively tensed, some deep, primal urge of self-preservation quite literally beaten into him revolting.  “Not the sort of thing you admit to casually, Mr. Arya.”

Dorian snorted.  “Oh yes, because after the way you went looking after your Mr. Torres at the show was bupkis.”  A wicked smirk crossed his lips. “You looked about five seconds from the big sleep when he crawled in your lap.”

“He's a… callipygian man.”  Logan crossed his arms, fighting the flush creeping across the bride of his nose.  Were his intentions really so transparent to everyone? He’d have to work on that. “Regardless, I’d hope you have more self-preservation than that.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest,” Dorian drawled, “looking out for me like that.  I promise you, dear Mr. Sul, I know how to handle the bulls.” He grinned wryly.  “Can't you tell what an upright, honest man I am?”

“Lying never works on me,” Logan tisked.  “That’s not the way to win.”

The suspect quirked an eyebrow.  “Is there a way to win, Mr. Sul?”

Logan smirked.  “There’s a way to lose more slowly.”

Dorian laughed and made to clap Logan on the right shoulder, but seemed to think better of it at the last minute, smoothly bringing his hand up to run through his slicked-back hair.

“Anything else, Mr. Sul?”

“Far be it from me to detain you, Mr. Arya.”  The door was halfway open when a soft voice called for Logan to wait.

He turned.  Dorian was a shade in the darkness, face obscured by the shadows and smog that hung over Logan’s city like an unshakable depression.  “You’re going to hear a lot of things about Remy. Probably all of them are true, but I just…” He broke off, muttering in Tamil and shaking his head.  “He wasn’t a… bad person. That’s all.”

“Understood,” Logan said as he closed the door.

“I still think this whole thing is ridiculous,” Virgil Avery, their scuffed black boots casually propped up on a coffee table, said flatly, almost refusing to look at Logan.

“Duly noted and promptly disregarded,” Logan deadpanned, settling himself next to Virgil on the couch.

A small snort escaped them, but they quickly muffled the sound and scowled, shifting as far from Logan as they could get.

“Now, tell me, Mx. Avery,” Logan began, swinging his feet up alongside Virgil’s.

“Get your feet off there,” Virgil interrupted, swatting at Logan’s legs.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

Logan looked from his feet to Virgil’s and back again.  “Copying body posture in a subliminal psychological message that I may be trusted?”

“Ruining Patton’s nice, clean table, that’s what.”  Virgil’s arms crossed, long, lean lines of muscle shifting.  “Have some respect.”

“Respect?”  Logan bristled.  “I hardly think the person whose done nothing but insult and degrade me since I set foot in this building has any room to lecture me about respect.”

Virgil’s jaw tightened.  “Maybe I could stand to be nice if you didn’t barge into my home and start throwing wild accusations at my family, upsetting Patton to no end, and whispering who knows what into Roman’s ear!”  They were practically shouting at the end of their rant, dark eyes flashing.

“Your family?”  Logan echoed, brow furrowing.  “Unless you and Ms. Salem are somehow related, I do not see-”

“I’m talking about Roman and Patton, moron,” Virgil snapped.   “They’re my family.”

“That… that’s ridiculous.”  Logan blinked. “You’re not related to them in any way.”

Gesturing broadly, Virgil shook their head.  “They love me, they protect me, they understand me, and I do the same for them.  If family isn’t people you put first, and who put you first, what is it?”

“A biological connection.”  Logan adjusted his glasses. “People no longer needed once you mature.  Those who know you put yourself first, because that’s the only sensible thing to do in this world.  You can either be selfish, or you can be dead.”

Virgil stared at him for a long, long moment.  “I’m not telling you a damn thing, Mr. Sul.” They crossed their arms and leaned back.  “Not because I think anyone did it but some lunatic off the streets, but because I hope you fail.  I hope you can’t find a single thing, I hope you crash and burn, and I hope you rot.” They smiled, vicious.  “Understood?”

“Nothing?”  Logan said, slowly, as his mind raced.  Protective instincts, a hot temper, ridiculous level of loyalty - there was a motive if he’d ever seen one.  “Yet, what of Mr. Salem’s attentions for a certain employee?” Logan arched an eyebrow, tamping down a triumphant smirk as Virgil flinched.

“Who told you about that?” they demanded.

“Mr. Torres,” he responded cooly.

“Roman,” they muttered, almost acerbic.  “I fucking told him I would handle it.”

“Did you?”

Virgil leveled him with a venomous glare.  “Not like that, you-” They broke off into angry muttering, gritting their teeth.  “Look,” they finally said, forcing themself to look to the side. “I know this paints me in a bad light, but I was going to try to get Remy to stop.”

Logan tilted his head.  “How?”

“Not by strangling him, that’s for damn sure!” they snapped.  The two stared at each other for a moment before Virgil deflated, relaxing his shoulders and turning their head.  “Sorry, that was… uncalled for.” They sighed, leaning back in the rickety chair. “Look, I didn’t like Remy, and I sure as hell wasn’t happy with what was happening with him, but I didn’t kill him.  I was back stage the whole time. I’m sure you can get a bunch of techies to confirm my story, or whatever.”

“I will,” Logan replied, somewhere between a promise and a threat.

“Fine.”  Virgil lifted their head challengingly, arms crossing tighter.  “We’re done here.”

“If you insist,” Logan accepted, rising and smoothing his shirt.  “It really is quite fascinating to see how enamored you are with Mr. Parker, by the way,” he called over his shoulder.

Logan smiled to himself as he heard them sputtering indignantly behind him.

He found Patton standing at the lounge’s bar, idly wiping down the counter, again and again and again, as if he could buff out the scars on the surface with nothing more than elbow grease and determination.  He didn’t even seem aware of his actions, a software program caught inside a endless loop; just bad code that kept repeating.

“Mr. Parker,” he greeted, and Patton started.

“Oh, Mr. Sul!”  Patton pressed a hand to his chest and laughed half-heartedly.  “You startled me there, kiddo. I nearly jumped out of my skin.”  A slow smile spread on his face, and Logan found himself tensing, as if for an oncoming blow.  “I really need to raise the bar when it comes to my attention level.”  He chortled, tapping on the wooden counter.

Logan released a long-suffering sigh and wondered if solving a murder investigation was worth it.  After establishing a rather detailed pros / cons list, he came to the unfortunate conclusion that it was.

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Parker.”  Logan settled onto a bar stool, gesturing at the seat beside him.

“Of course.”  Patton joined him, resting an elbow against the bar and leaning into it. He suddenly seemed tired, face lackluster and eyes heavy.  “Whatever you need, kiddo.”

Logan considered him a long moment.  “How long had you known Mr. Salem?”

“Oh, um…”  Patton blinked, considering it for a moment.  “Must’ve been about seven years. He’s been a regular here almost since I moved here and opened it.”

“You moved here?”  Logan tilted his head.  “Most people try to get out of this city, not the other way around.”

Patton shrugged.  “Well, I miss the sunshine, that’s for sure, but there wasn’t really anything left for me at home.  Besides” - he looked around his club, a glimmer of pride in his gray eyes - “I think I’ve been doing okay.”

“And what was your relationship with Mr. Salem?”  Logan leaned forward. “I’m lead to believe you were friends.”

“No,” Patton sighed, looking regretful.  “Close, but not really.  Remy… he didn’t really like playing with others.  I don’t know why, but he didn’t seem to want any connections with anybody.”  He took off his glasses, rubbing them against the edge of his blue shirt. “I always worried about him.”

Logan’s eyebrows raised of their own accord.  “Even despite his attentions for Mr. Torres?”

Patton slid his glasses back on his nose and blinked.  “Well, of course he liked Roman.” An edge of wry amusement lifted his lips.  “We’d all be out on the streets if Roman didn’t get people to like him.”

“As I comprehend it, he had more… pointed attentions.”  Logan pushed down a curl of jealousy, recalling that hungry silhouette.

“Oh, he wasn’t Roman’s gentleman caller, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Patton corrected gently.  “I mean, I saw Roman go into his box a few times, but never long and only rarely.”

“But what of the roses Roman received?”  Logan demanded. “Aren’t they evidence of intent?”

“Roses?”  Patton, quickly developing whiplash from the conversation’s many turns, tilted his head.  “I mean sure, everyone sends Roman roses. He gets dozens every day” - a smile crossed his face, and Logan frantically searched for another glass of scotch - “but he’s never thorny about it!”

“The ones in his dressing room!”  Logan hissed, devoid of alcohol and good humor.  “I was under the impression Mr. Salem had sent Mr. Torres roses in his dressing room.”

“No,” Patton said slowly, hesitantly.  “Roman… never got roses in his dressing room. Only workers can get back there.”

Logan swallowed, hard.  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Parker.”  He rose abruptly, hands clenched into fists at his side.  “I must be going.”

“Mr. Sul?”  Patton rose in turn, reaching a beseeching hand out.  “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m sure Roman-”

He was cut off by a door slamming shut.

Roman looked up, startled, when Logan flung open the door to his dressing room and stormed in, barely registering the small, cosy room littered with bric-a-brac.  There wasn't a single rose in sight.

“Mr. Sul!” the performer cried, standing and laying aside his book.  “What’s wrong?”

“You lied to me,” Logan growled, crowding Roman against the wall and jabbing a finger into his chest.  Roman flinched, crossing his arms protectively over it, and looked up at Logan with wide, scared eyes.

“What?”  His voice tripped and wavered. His pretty red lips trembled, eyes grew liquid with fear, and eyebrows drew together in agitation.  “Mr. Sul - Logan, what’s this about?” Slowly, he unfurled himself, pressing closer to Logan, as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.  “Please, tell me.”

Logan gritted his jaw, looking down at the showman impassively.  “You’re a performer in more than one way, aren’t you, Mr. Torres?”

“Logan, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Roman drew back, huddling into himself. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?”  Logan echoed, eyes flashing.  “What’s wrong is that you had no intention of telling me that Mr. Remy Salem wasn’t truly stalking you!”

Roman froze.  He was the perfect picture of fearful innocence - eyes wide and clear, soft lips parted incredulously, expression open and guileless.  “Wha- what?” He breathed, blinking up at Logan, who simply crossed his arms and squared his stance.

“Logan, I don’t-” Roman reached out, desperately, but Logan stepped back.  Roman held his hand there for a moment, then crumpled, letting it fall back to his side as his shoulders slumped and his head listed to the side.

“Damn.”  Roman sighed, then looked up and smirked lazily.  “What gave me away?”

Chapter Text

“A number of things,” Logan said, flexing and unflexing his hands at his sides.  “Really, I'm the worst sort of idiot for not noticing before.”

That lazy, infuriating grin on Roman's face grew.  “You said it, not me.”

Just like that, every ounce of control Logan had managed to scrap together was thrown out the window. “You treacherous, lying siren,” he hissed, staking towards the performer.

“Anyone ever tell you you have the voice of a songbird drowning in tar?”  Roman drawled. He didn't flinch as Logan approached, tilting his head up and quirking an eyebrow.

“You should be more careful, Mr. Torres. One day, you'll wind up in a perilous situation with someone a hell of a lot less forgiving than I,” Logan snarled, amber eyes flashing.

“You be careful, Mr. Sul.”  Roman licked his lips. “Last time someone looked at me like that, we wound up all tangled together.”  He lidded his eyes. “Then again, something tells me you wouldn't mind.”

“Do you enjoy being infuriating?”  Logan demanded.

“Greatly.”  Roman smiled angelically.  “It should be my full time occupation, truly.”

“No, I think your talents for tricking and seducing men are being put to great use here,” Logan spat.

“Mr. Sul, if I was actively trying to seduce you, one of us would be on our knees already.”  He rolled his eyes, softening. “Look, I know this looks like bad business, but it's nowhere near as crummy as you're making it out to be.”

“Oh, really?”  The private eye laughed bitterly, mind sparking and buzzing.  “Let me illustrate for you, Mr. Torres, the specifications of this ‘bad business’.  You had Mr. Salem accused of a false conviction and put a renowned private eye on his case, so obviously you wanted him out of the way somehow.  A scandal, a conviction, a death sentence-”

Roman made a noise of protest, but Logan silenced him with a snarl.

“-you wanted him out of your way.  Why? He was a threat to you somehow.”  Logan pulled back, tugging at his tie and pacing the small dressing room.  “You couldn't have minded his patronage; Mr. Parker himself said you call get paid because your employment is obtaining people's affections.”  A dark shadow crossed over Logan's face. “As I so unwittingly discovered.”

“Logan, please-”  Roman held his hands out beseechingly, but Logan knocked them aside.

“I wasn't finished!”  He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, trying to calm himself.  “As I said, Mr. Salem was a threat to you. It can't be because of your employment here, because any member of the audience could unveil you as a… bent person.  No, he had something else. Something that made him dangerous.”

“Listen, Logan, I’ll explain everything, I swear.”  Roman grabbed onto his arms, looking up at him with those eyes.  “I may have bent the truth, just a little, but Remy wasn’t a good person.”

Damn those eyes.

Large, dark, tragic - Roman really did have the most gorgeous eyes.  Stunners, heartbreakers, humdingers; it was a shame Logan's heart had already been done in long ago.  They shone with sincerity and the threat of tears as Roman gazed at him, lying through his teeth.

The realization that Roman Torres was so terribly different than the man Logan imagined he knew tried to creep up on Logan slowly, but now it pounced, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him to the ground.  The Roman that had swept into Logan's office with a sob story and trembling hands was a mirage in the moral desert of New York City, leaving him stranded. It dissipated into thin air even as Logan's hands desperately reached out.

“Do yourself a favor, Mr. Torres,” Logan sharply cut off the middle of Roman's false refrain, “and shut the hell up. You're just digging yourself in deeper.”

Roman's jaw snapped shut;  he had the audacity to look wounded, heartbreaking eyes looking up balefully.

“I’m hardly an angel, Mr. Sul, but I’m no killer.”

“I’m more worried about what a liar you are, currently.”  Logan tugged at the end of his tie.

A memory sparked.

“You refused to tell your friends who I was when we first met,” Logan hissed, slamming his fist into his palm.  “God damn it, I’m an ignoramus. You fabricated the allegations against Mr. Salem, and you knew Mr. Parker or Mx. Avery could give you away.  You… distracted me. Every time I started to ask about facts or any evidence you had, you just batted those pretty eyelashes, and I fell for it.”

Roman smirked - small and secretive, as if he couldn't help it - as the pieces clicked into place in Logan's head.

“You metaphorically played me like a fiddle,” Logan growled.

“Mr. Sul, please, don't be so callous,” Roman drawled, pulling out a pocket compact and checking his lipstick.  “Fiddles are hard to play. I played you like the cheap kazoo you are.”

Logan’s hand flew of its own accord, smacking the compact out of Roman’s grasp. It shattered.  The fractured pieces gleamed from the floor.

Then, and only then, did Roman look at him with something like fear.  “Careful, Mr. Sul,” he murmured in that low, thrilling voice. He swallowed hard and shrank back, clutching the back of his dressing room chair.  “That’s seven years of bad luck.”

“I doubt mine can get any more rotten.” The private eye sank into the armchair, forcing his clenched hands to relax,   “I didn’t mean to…” He shook his head and adjusted his glasses. “I have the worst sort of temper, sometimes.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”  Roman edged out from behind the chair and perched cautiously beside Logan on the couch.

“But did you hurt Mr. Salem?”

“Of course I didn’t!”   Roman threw up his hands.  “Why would I hire you and then murder him on that same day? I would hope you think more of my intelligence than that.”

“Trust me, Mr. Torres,” Logan said darkly, “I’m starting to think more highly of your intelligence than you would like.”

Roman made a small noise, caught somewhere between affronted and pleased.

“Besides, it could be a double bluff.”  Logan waved a hand. “Or a triple or a quadruple.  We have no time to get caught inside of logical lemniscates.  The facts are that, regardless of you bringing me to this case, you still could have proven to be Mr. Salem’s demise.”

“Except I wasn’t!” he insisted again, gesticulating wildly.

Logan leaned back to avoid the flying limbs, reaching out and capturing Roman’s arm.  His touch startled the other man, turning him statue-still.

“Please, Mr. Torres,” Logan growled, “control yourself before I’m forced to do something about it.”

Roman shifted, slowly, unconsciously licking his lips.  Logan's hand, wrapped around Roman's wrist, felt his pulse stutter and jump and soar.

Well, there was an idea.

“Stop me if you want,” Logan said casually, before sliding his hands under Roman’s legs and lifting him onto the private eye’s lap.

Roman made a small, shocked noise, but didn’t move.  He hovered there, straddling Logan just as he had at that fateful performance yesterday.  Logan pressed two fingers into the side of Roman’s neck. His pulse fluttered under thin, soft skin.

“Are you familiar with a cardiogram?”

The front of Roman’s flat, smooth neck bobbed as he swallowed.  “No.”

“It’s a fascinating idea, truly.”  Logan looked up at Roman with a smirk.  “I’d be happy to go into the details, but something tells me you aren’t in the mindset for a proper, scientific discussion.”

Roman’s expression hardened, so different than that guileless mask he had been toting around.  “Unlike you seem to be, Mr. Sul, I am perfectly capable of separating business” - he pressed dangerously closer, touching their foreheads together - “and pleasure.”

Logan scoffed.  “Brazen words for a man sitting on my lap.”

Long, clever fingers laced together behind Logan’s neck.  “Says the man who put me there.” He smiled wryly. “Do you treat all your suspects like this, or am I exceptionally lucky?”

Logan almost hated him for the way that, even now, he could make Logan smile.  “You’re exceptionally something, that’s for sure.  And, as for luck, well…”  There was a loose curl spiraling down Roman’s cheek.  Logan tucked it behind the performer's ear. “Let’s see how these questions go.”

“I’m all yours.”  Meant to be teasing, dark and breathy instead.

Logan cleared his throat and put as much distance between them as he could.  Considering Roman was literally straddling him, it wasn’t much.

“A cardiogram records the human heartbeat.  We, as humans, are not accustomed to lying-”

Roman released a soft, ironic laugh.

“It’s true.”  Logan shrugged.  “Our brains can become twisted, trained to fabricate falsehoods, but our bodies” - he stroked his thumb, achingly gently over Roman’s pulse point - “have a nasty habit of betraying us.”

“How so?”  Roman fought a shiver.

“If you try lying to me, your heart will start racing,” Logan explained cooly, “your breathing will change, you’ll fidget, and your hands will begin sweating.”

“You sure know how to set the mood.”  Roman grimaced. “Fire away.”

“What color are your eyes?”

Roman gave him a strange look, but Logan didn’t flinch.  “Eyes, Mr. Torres.”

“Brown,” Roman said, rolling them.  “And might I add what a marvelous job you’re doing of focusing on the important details.”

Ba-bum.

“I’ve got to establish some sort of baseline for your heart,” Logan justified before he could even wonder why he felt the need to.  He cleared his throat, moved on. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

Ba-bum.

True.

“Tell me something strange about yourself.”

Roman arched an eyebrow, smirked.  “Is this an interrogation or a first date, Mr. Sul?”

“An interrogation, although I’m sure I know your preference.”  Roman’s pulse stuttered, and Logan bit back a triumphant grin. “Something strange.”

Roman was quiet for a moment, thinking, before an ironic grin flickered across his lips.  “My name is actually misspelled on my birth certificate.”

Ba-bum.

A startled snort escaped Logan.  “Really?”

“Hardly the kind of thing that I’d make up.”  Roman chuckled. “American doctors and Venezuelan baby names don’t mix, I suppose.  Doesn’t really add to my homme fatale persona, does it?”

Logan batted a smile off of his face and refocused.

“How long had you known Remy Salem?”

Roman made a small noise.  “Well, the club opened… seven years ago, and he had gotten an invitation to opening night - Patton thought it’d be good to have a wealthy benefactor - so it must’ve been then.”

Ba-bum.

“Did he ever seek your attention personally?”

“At the risk of sounding vain, everyone does.”

Logan leveled him a look, and Roman sighed.

“Yes, we had a few… conferences.  Nothing untoward, though.”

Ba-bum.

“Are you glad he’s dead?”

Roman swallowed hard and averted his eyes.  When he spoke, it was hardly a whisper. “Yes.”

Ba-bum.

“True.”

They both sat in silence for a moment.

“Did you kill Mr. Salem?”

Roman startled, eyes widening as Logan’s glare darkened.

“No!”

Ba-bam, babababum.

“Tell me the truth,” Logan growled, pushing their faces closer together.

“I didn’t kill him,” Roman breathed.  “I swear to you I didn’t.”

“Your heart is racing,” Logan said, pressing his fingers deeper into the side of Roman's neck and watching his eyes dilate.  “You're lying.”

Roman shook his head and responded breathlessly.  “Trust me, Mr. Sul. That's not the reason.”

He shifted, and every inch where they were pressed together blazed.  Logan looked at the man before him and realized that Roman could burn him alive.  So easily he could reach out and take Logan however he wanted, and Logan would melt into him, burning like scotch, burning like an old scar, burning like fire.

That would never do.

Logan made to refocus, to ask him about the handkerchief, about who has access to the costumes, but then Roman tilted his head just so, and…

The only way to fight fire is with fire.

Logan dropped his hand down to rest on Roman’s thigh, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.

Roman stiffened.  “What are you doing?”

“Repaying your hospitality.”  Logan smiled. “Do unto others and all that.”

Gritting his jaw, Roman stared defiantly at the private eye.  Logan didn't move, didn't waver. He just rubbed small circles, staring as Roman began to shift and squirm.

Slowly, he began to toy with the edge of Roman's shirt, and Roman bolted off of his lap like a shot.

“Alright, alright, fine!”  Roman exclaimed, warding him off.  “You've made… whatever your point is.”

“More a demonstrative example of what you do to me.”  Logan, unsure if he should feel triumphant, stood.

Roman tilted his head.  “And what do I do to you, Mr. Sul?”

“Too much,” Logan said. “And not enough.”

Roman uncoiled, a coy sort of smile forming.  “Mr. Sul, now, don't be cross-”

“Don’t.”  Logan seized Roman’s arm the second before it wrapped around his shoulders.  “Your alter ego is quite useless now.”

Roman's mouth twisted up in playful disappointment, but the glossy vapidity evaporated from his eyes.  “You can hardly blame a man for trying.”

“I could blame you for a hell of a lot more than trying, if I wanted to.”  Logan dropped Roman’s wrist. “They trust me down at the station.”

Roman stilled, looking at him with those sharp, clever eyes.  “Surely you’re not threatening me, Mr. Sul.”

“It’s not a threat if it’s true.”

“I’m not entirely certain that’s how it works.”   Roman looked at him balefully. “Would it really be so terrible to just trust me a little?”

“Perhaps it would.”  Logan scoffed, eyes blazing.  “You’re nothing more than a pretty face hiding an wicked mind, Mr. Torres.  I don’t trust you worth a damn.”

Roman flushed, red lips curving into a snarl.  “At least I don’t act like a hero for sweeping in and ruining people’s lives, bastard.”

Logan’s hand clenched at his side.

“I’m leaving, Mr. Torres.”  The private eye turned away, shoulders tight.  “I can't stand to look at you right now.” He growled, tugging at the end of his tie.  “I need a drink.”

“You've got a nasty little habit, don't you?”  Roman hissed. “A tendency to go off and get skunked whenever the tiniest bit of emotion clinks up against that whisky-plated armor of yours.”

“You may confer with me about healthy coping habits when you stop hiding everything real about you behind a simpering persona,” Logan snapped.  “Liar.”

“Yes,” Roman said, softly.  “Fine, Mr. Sul. I'm a liar.  I'm rotten all the way through, but so are you.”

Logan smiled thinly.  “The difference is that I don’t pretend to be anything else.”

Roman flinched back, arms crossing protectively over his chest.  “Why didn’t you warn me you’re so cruel?”

“Why didn’t you warn me you intended on driving me mad?”

“Maybe I like the way I can rile you up,”  Roman sniped.

Logan huffed a bitter laugh.  “That you can most certainly do.”  He stalked over to Roman’s dresser, glass crunching under his shoes, and snatched his hat from the edge.  “I’ll be taking this back.”

“Where’d you get the other one?”  Roman eyed it, dropping into his vanity’s chair.

Logan smiled thinly.  “I think of it as compensation from the police station for wasting my valuable time.”

“Oh, so you’re a thief?”  Roman’s lips curled wickedly.  “I knew I was right about you.”

“You know, Mr. Torres,” Logan said conversationally, hands trembling with the urge to clench as he swept his coat around his shoulders.  “I truly believe I might loathe you.”

“Oh, trust me, Mr. Sul.”  Roman leaned back, coquettishly crossing his legs.  “The feeling is quite mutual.”

Another night.  Another bottle of whisky.

Picani’s was closed by the time he got there, but Logan kept his own stash.  Hell, he could probably get skunked just from the fumes in his place at this point.  His apartment was a dismal affair, all graying, thin carpets and peeling paint. He had gone through a phase a while back where he took a strip of paint with him everytime he passed by the unused closet of a kitchen.  Logan looked at the stripes now, shades of gray upon shades of gray, like bars across a cell in the clink. The whole place was nearly empty.

His finger idly trailed the rim of his glass as he sat, thinking.  He hadn’t taken a sip yet, but he would need to soon. The worst thoughts always crept in at night.  Enough amber medicine and he could ward off the dreams.

Something wasn’t adding up.  Roman had lied, sure, but there was something more.  Why did he need to get rid of Mr. Salem so badly? Who had Virgil been talking about?  Where was the damn handkerchief? How much did Patton know about? How hadn’t he seen though Roman’s act?  What was the deal with Dorian? Did Viper have anything to do with -

Logan groaned, letting his head thunk down into the cradle of his arms.  A deep breath in. Out. Enough. Categorize.

Logan sat up, straightened his glasses.  He took a long pull of whisky.

At times like this, he wished he was a machine.  One of those slick computers that Mauchley guy had just come out with, maybe.  As much as he wanted to pretend his head was organized, was neat and proper with everything in its place, he couldn’t.

There was a tempest raging in his mind.  Some days it was all he could do to cling to the lifeboat and try to stay afloat.

Logan knocked back the rest of his glass.  The waved abated, just a bit. This here, this bottle in his hand, it made everything quiet.  Just for a moment. It wasn’t good, he knew that. But what else was he supposed to do?

Maybe one of these days he wouldn’t wake up.

Logan staggered to bed and didn’t dream.

Roman was sitting in the entryway, lean and beautiful in the late afternoon light.  He didn’t look up as Logan approached, intent on his book. Twelfth Night. Shakespeare.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Torres,” Logan greeted cooly.  “Have you decided to develop a conscience overnight?”

“And one to you, Mr. Sul.”  Roman flashed a snide smile, sliding a bookmark between the pages.  “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure. Have you decided to stop blowing your fuse?  The whole city will lose power at this rate.”

“Oh, and then however would you primp and preen for your audience?’  Logan shot back.

“Quite right.”  Roman rose and took a step forward, lowering his eyes in false modesty.  “I’d hate for that to happen, especially after you were so” - he trailed a hand up and down Logan’s arm - “entertained by the last one.”

They glared at each other.  Logan was unsure if he wanted to punch Roman or kiss him senseless.  Both seemed like viable options.

“Mr. Torres, I know you’re-”

Virgil barged into the room, eyes darker than normal and smudged with worry.  “Have any of you seen Patton?!”

Roman startled, worry furrowing his brow.  “Not today. I assumed he was with you.”

“He isn't.”  Virgil tugged on their hair, tension infecting every line of their body.  “Shit.”

“Placate yourself, Mx. Avery.”  Logan instructed, turning from Roman and towards them.  “If he isn’t here, where else could he be?”

“I don’t know!”  Virgil stressed, jittering with undirected anxiety.  “He’s always here at this time. Opening is in an hour, and he’s supposed to be straightening up and calling everybody ‘kiddo’ and making sure everyone is hydrated and I don’t know where he is and there’s a murderer hanging around and-”

“Virgil.”  Roman’s voice cut through the torrent of words, and the anxious person looked up at their best friend, helpless and pleading.  “It’s going to be okay, Clark Jabb-le.” He padded towards Virgil and wrapped his arms around them, pressing them close until the shaking abided.  “He’s probably having another bad day. I’ll stay here in case he comes, you can to go and look at his apartment. Okay?”

“I’ll come along as well,” Logan volunteered.  A chance to observe and interrogate Virgil and Patton without Roman’s interference?  He couldn’t pass it up.

“It’s none of your business, Sul,” Virgil snapped, pulling away from Roman.  “Would it kill you to leave us alone?”

“Virgil-!” Roman, apparently under the impression that only he could antagonize the private eye, started, but Logan interrupted him.

“I merely meant to offer my assistance.”  The private eye smiled, sharp. “If he isn’t having another bad day, as our lovely Mr. Torres said, and the worst did occur, as I’m sure you fear, wouldn’t it be to your benefit to have a detective by your side?”

Virgil blinked at him.  “I think I hate you.”

Logan lifted an eyebrow.  “Jury’s still out? I’ll have to work harder then.”

“Do the world a favor and can it, Mr. Sul,” Virgil growled.  Roman touched their arm softly, and the worst of Virgil’s tension faded away.

They released a shuddering sigh.  Gritting their teeth, Virgil pressed their forehead into Roman’s shoulder.  “I just… I thought he would tell me if he was having another bad day, and if that’s not it…”

“I know,” Roman murmured, voice thick.  “I know.” He pulled back and fixed his best friend with a firm stare.  “You’re going to check, and everything’s going to be swell, okay?”

Virgil nodded, letting their hands unclench.  “Okay.”

“What did he mean by ‘another bad day’?”  Logan demanded as soon as they left the nightclub, Roman anxiously hovering at the entrance.

Virgil shook their head, uncharacteristically, eerily still.  “If I’m right, you’ll see for yourself. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Their walk to the apartment building was silent.  So was the building itself once they arrived. It was a nice enough place, the type for those who, while not distinctly well-off, managed to escape the plague of poverty sickening the city.  Faded wallpaper with oversized flowers hung alongside the stale stench of cigarette smoke.

Virgil seemed to know the way by heart, nodding at the tired-eyed doorman and climbing the stairs until they reached the fifth floor.  

“Patton?”  They lightly rapped at the door of 518.  “It’s Virgil. Is everything okay?”

There was no response from inside.

“Patton,” Virgil called again, softly pleading.  “Pat, please come here. We’re worried about you. Roman is worried about you. He was so scared, Pat. Just let us know you’re okay, Patton-cakes.”

Still, nothing.

“As… touching as this may be” - Logan brushed past Virgil and towards the door - “I believe I have a much more effectual approach.”  He dropped to his knees, sliding a small case out of his trench coat inner pocket.

“Are you…”  Virgil narrowed their eyes.  Their lip curled in distaste.  “Is that something you should know?  I thought you were supposed to be the good guy, Mr. Sul.”

The lock popped open with a satisfying click, and Logan rose to his feet, tucking the lock-picking kit back inside his coat.  “Only when it benefits me, Mx. Avery.” He winked and swung open the door.

Stillness.  The air was frozen in place, thick and cloying.  Nothing stirred, not even sunlight; nothing could get past the thick curtains and tightly drawn blinds.

Virgil tugged at their hair, hissing a swear.  “I hate it when I’m right about this stuff.” They moved swiftly through the stillness, Logan hot on their heels, only stopping when they came to a final door.  “Pat? Padre?” They rapped softly again. “I’m coming in.”

Inside, they found Patton Parker crumpled up on an unmade bed, staring at a wall as blank as his gaze.  “Hey, Kiddo,” he mumbled. “’m sorry. I’ll get up soon.”

Virgil smiled sadly.  “Yeah, I know you will.”  They padded to the bed, sitting on the foot.  “Did something happen?”

“Nothing.”  His words were stilled, harsh, as if each one took the greatest effort imaginable to squeeze out.  “‘M just tired, Virge.”

Virgil swallowed.  “I know, Pat.” They put a gentle hand on Patton’s shoulder.  “I thought you were going to tell me or Ro if you had another bad day.”

“Couldn’t get to the phone.”

Logan hovered in the doorway awkwardly, unsure if he should make his presence known.  Virgil caught his eye and beckoned him over with a slight, reluctant nod.

“Pat, Logan’s here, too. We’re all really glad you’re okay.”  Logan walked like a pallbearer towards the bedside, breath catching in his throat as he met Patton’s eyes.  He knew those eyes, that gaze, that hollowness. He saw it every time he looked in a mirror.

“It’s like all the color’s gone, isn’t it?”  Logan spoke before he could wonder if he should, and Patton stirred the slightest bit.  “Everything is the same, nothing happened, nothing’s different, but the world just turns gray. Nothing seems worth it, and you’re just so, so tired.”

Patton closed his eyes painfully.  “How’d you know?”

“Shell shock.”  Logan hovered his hand over Patton’s but pulled away before they could touch.  “I get gray days, too.” He looked up and locked eyes with Virgil, who was looking at Logan like they’d never seen him before.

“The war?” Patton breathed, and Logan nodded.  “How'd you… how do you get through it?”

He hadn't.  That other world, slick with red and gray and black, where barbed wire cut the sky into strips and trenches ran wet with blood had broken something inside of him.  He had just learned to live with the rattle.

Logan shrugged and thought of red lips curled into a wicked smile.  “Find a bit of color.”

“I lost somebody,” Patton said, words barely carried on faint puffs of air.  “And I just…” He closed his eyes, moisture gathering at their corners. “I miss him so much it feels like I’m gone too.”

“Was he in the war?”  Logan had lost more than a few, including himself.

“No. At home. Some stupid accident . We didn’t know what happened until his body washed up.”  A hint of color appeared on his face, anger and grief painting his cheeks red until it was washed away by the gray, and he crumpled down with a sigh.  “I just miss him. A whole lot.”

“I’m sorry.”  Logan stroked his thumb over the back of Patton’s hand.  He didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew what he would’ve liked to hear on the gray days.  “I know what that’s like.”

“Do you?”  Patton's gray eyes were flat in his freckled face.  Logan suddenly realized that he and Patton were broken in all the same places.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry too, Pat.”  Virgil stroked Patton’s dirty blonde hair off of his forehead.  “Do you think you can make it to the club tonight?”

Patton nodded unconvincingly and sighed.  “Just give me a minute.”

“Take your time,” Virgil murmured, leaning down to untie their shoes.  Logan shot them a questioning look, but Virgil just shrugged and crawled into the bed next to Patton, lying above the covers.  “I’ll be here.”

“Just another minute,” Patton said again, eyes already drifting closed.

Virgil hummed comfortingly and smoothed Patton's hair back off of his forehead.  They glanced up at Logan then the door, and he gladly took his cue. Those softer emotions he was so fond of avoiding were running rampant in here.

He loitered in Patton’s living room, flipping through a Macy’s catalog, palm-tree studded postcards from a Christian and a Shea, a note in a child’s careful, rounded letters thanking him for looking after her while her parents were out.  There were winter gloves under a thin layer of dust on a bookshelf, behind a Carson McCullers novel.  Stacks of yellowing newspapers teetered on the side tables.  The entire place was filled with meaningless bric-a-brac, side effects of a life well-settled.

On the coffee table, a picture of Virgil, Patton, and Roman beamed out at him.  He picked it up, gazing blankly at the way their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, how they curled into each other’s sides.

Logan shoved away a stab in his gut.  The three were standing in front of Ego , the club looking significantly less worn than it currently did.  Behind them, a steady swarm of people tricked in through the open doors.  Picking up the picture, Logan squinted.

He recognized that dame.

Half-turned towards the camera, Viper Salem’s profile was clearly visible.  Then man she was walking next to… Logan narrowed his eyes against the graininess of the monochromatic image.  Remy Salem. It had to be. Her hand rested gently on his arm, a paper loosely dangling from his hand.

Still, that wasn’t what interested Logan.

Remy’s other hand was intertwined with a gloved one, belonging to a man in a bowler hat.  Logan smiled thinly.

There was a new thought gracing the bookshelves of the private eye’s mind; it was nascent, floating around him like a great cloud on the cusp of irreversible gravitational collapse, to become, at critical density, as bright and hot and fierce as a new star.

He left the apartment and took the photo with him.

He stared at it that night, ruminating as he took long, slow sips straight from a bottle.  He didn’t know what it was, really, but it was cheap, and it was strong, and that was enough for him.

The emptiness of his apartment felt alien after immersion in Patton’s cozy home, but he silenced those thoughts soon enough.

He tried to keep his eyes on the grainy forms of Viper, Remy, and Dorian, but he kept straying towards Roman.  He looked… happy. Real happy.

Had Logan ever seen that smile?  He tried to remember, tried to think past red-painted smirks and masks of sultry innocence and honeyed lies.

He couldn’t.

Logan passed out on the couch and dreamed of red.

Virgil Avery was leaning against the cracked brick facade of Ego, far too early the next day.

“Were you waiting on me?”  Logan came to a stop, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Virgil said simply, arms crossed over their chest.

“Well, you must know I’m flattered, but my attentions lie elsewhere,” Logan said dryly.

They smiled thinly.  “Just what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“As a murder suspect,” Logan drawled, “are you truly in the best position to be giving me the shovel talk?”

They pulled away from the brick wall, strolling over to Logan with their hands swinging loosely, easily by their sides.  “I’ve been doing a little thinking, and, while I’m no private eye, I did come up with something pretty interesting.”

They were taller than Logan, standing like that.  Logan fought down the instinct to take a step backwards as Virgil stopped, far too close for comfort.

“Me, Patton, Roman, Ms. Salem… Mr. Arya.  See a connection there?”

“Besides having untested alibis, motive, and means?”  Logan raised his jaw defiantly. “Or is there something else I’m missing, Mx. Avery?”

“Someone, more like,” Virgil corrected, dark eyes glinting like light off the barrel of a gat.   “I didn’t see you during our… impromptu intermission.”

Logan started.  “I went looking for Roman!”

“Untested alibi,” Virgil replied.

Logan’s amber eyes flashed.  “I just wanted to check if he was okay.”

“Motive,” Virgil shot back.

“Would you stop that!”  Logan snarled, rage firing up like the spark of a match.  He had his arm halfway back before he came into his senses.

Their eyes both moved to Logan’s clenched fist.

“Means,” Virgil said softly.

Logan let his hand drop to his side, suddenly drained and pale.  “What the hell do you want?” He flexed and unflexed his hand at his side, as if to check he was still in control of it.

“To keep my family safe.” Virgil shrugged.  “You want to find out who killed Remy, fine.”  Those dark eyes bored into him. “But if you threaten my family, I’ll be taking you for a ride sometime soon.”

“Oh, that actually sounds rather pleasant,” Logan, confused but game for the sudden shift in conversation, said.  “Where are we going? Is there an open bar?”

Virgil started.  “Uh, what?”

“You said we were going for a ride,” Logan informed him.  “Although I normally avoid getting into cars with people for avoidance of murder and-or kidnapping, I sense this is mandatory.”

“What?”  Virgil blinked.  “No. That doesn’t… It means I’m going to… I don’t know, hurt you.  Or something,” they finished lamely.

Logan squinted his eyes.  “With your car?”

“There is no-!”  Virgil released an exasperated huff.  “Yes. With my car. Whatever.”

“Alright then.”  Logan bobbed his head.  “Threat received.”

They stared at each other for a long, awkward moment.

“I’m going to go inside now,” Logan stated, pointing at the door.

Virgil let their head thunk back against brick wall, sighed.  “Yeah, you do that.”

Roman’s soft, smoky voice wrapped around Logan as soon as he stepped inside.  He was singing, voice tripping up and down the scale alongside a piano.

Do, re, mi, fa, so, la-

Roman cut off, dismayed just as Logan stepped into the room.  The singer hit the key again, but nothing came out.

“Damn thing’s busted again,” he muttered.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to get it fixed,” Logan responded.

Roman startled, gaze flying up.  He tensed, but when no further comment came, no accusation slung carelessly forward, his shoulders crept back down.  “I gotta find you a bell.”

“And ruin my aura of mystery?”  Logan arched an eyebrow. “Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel.”

The edge of Roman’s perpetually-red lips twitched; it still wasn’t that photo’s unabashed beam.

“Virgil told me what you did,” Roman said.

“Ranted about shell shock to poor, unsuspecting Mr. Parker?”  Logan snorted, dropping down on the piano bench next to Roman. “Yes, grant me a medal of valor.”

Still no smile.  Just an unreadable side-glance.  “Still, it was kind of you.” He huffed out a laugh, nudging Logan.  “Careful, or I just might start getting the wrong impression that you're a halfway good man.”

“Oh, please refrain,” Logan quipped.  “My dismal reputation is all I have left going for me.”  He snorted. “Besides, there are no good men. There isn't anyone you can trust in this world.”

Roman shook his head, looking almost disappointed.  “Surely you can't believe that? Humanity is good. People are good, Logan.”

“There is no such thing as a good person.”  Logan clicked his tongue. “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”

“I highly doubt nihilism is what Fitzgerald had in mind,” Roman countered, a small, triumphant smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.

“You're well-read,” Logan admitted begrudgingly.

Roman licked his lips.  Logan wondered if the move was deliberate. Knowing Roman as he was coming to, possibly.  It was alluring, certainly—drew Logan's eyes in a way only a twitch of danger could, in a way that nobody else ever had.

“So are you.”

Logan shrugged.  “I have down-time between cases that needs filled.”

Something in Roman’s face shuttered closed at the reminder of the private eye’s profession.  

“How is the case going?”  he hedged.

“As can be expected,” Logan said tersely.

Roman nodded absently, eyes drifting to the side.  “There really isn’t anyone who knows this place better than me,” he said.  “You know…” Roman hesitated. “I could always help.”

Ten sorts of alarm bells went off in Logan’s head.  He stood abruptly and uttered a short ‘no’ before making to leave.

Roman sat there, stunned for a moment, before chasing after him.  “Please, Mr. Sul.” - he grabbed his arm -  “I want to help.”

“So you can mess up the results?”  Logan arched an eyebrow. “So you can throw me off of your trail?”

“Because this is my home.”  Roman's voice trembled precariously, almost on the edge of breaking.  “This place is… it's the only place that I can be myself. I need to protect it.”

Logan stared at him for a long moment.  “I can't trust you.”

Roman swallowed, looking up at him with those dark, tragic eyes.  “You don't have to. What's that expression? ‘Keep your friends close’” - he reached up and smoothed down Logan's collar, hands lingering on his chest - “‘and your enemies closer’.”

Logan captured his hands there, holding onto him.  “And what if I don't know which of the two you're supposed to be, Mr. Torres?”

“Well then” - Roman took one step, then another, then hooked his leg around Logan's - “I suppose you'll have to keep me very close indeed.”

Logan glared down at him, at his dark, tragic, mendacious eyes.  Roman had been right, that time in his dressing room. There was something rotten about both of them.  They weren’t good people.

But that was alright.  Good people didn’t make it long in this world anyway.

Logan ran his thumb across Roman’s pretty, red lips, watching with rapt attention as they parted obligingly.  “Something tells me you like that, Mr. Torres. That you enjoy being the center of attention.”

Roman’s dark eyes shone with something like hate and something like longing.  “What’s wrong with liking the way it feels to be wanted?”

“Nothing,” Logan admitted begrudgingly.

“And what’s wrong with liking the way you look at me?”  Roman purred.

Logan clenched his jaw.  “Everything.”

“Well that’s rotten,” Roman sighed, pushing himself away.  “We really could’ve done something about this whole situation then.”  He sauntered off, hips swaying, and cast a coy glance over his shoulder.   “A shame.”

Logan barely had time to mutter “oh for heaven’s-” before his feet were carrying him across the room, and his arms wrapped around the singer’s slim waist, spinning him around to face the private eye.

Roman’s eyes shone up at him, amused.  “I thought so.”

“Do you enjoy doing this to me?”  Logan demanded.

“You have no idea.”

“You know, Mr. Torres,” Logan said, fighting down a pulse of something warm as Roman wrapped his fingers around Logan's tie.  “I think I’m quite growing to loathe you.”

Slowly, easily, Roman grinned.  “Logan, you flirt.”

He licked those red, red lips expectantly, and Logan kissed him.

Which, really, was a terrible decision.  Yet, then Roman melted against him, long, clever fingers wrapping themselves in Logan's hair, and Roman's mouth was hot and insistent, and Logan's skin blazed everywhere they were pressed together, Roman balancing them perfectly on the knife’s edge between too much and not enough.

It was an explosion -  violent and riotous and all-consuming.  The kind that ruins everything in its wake, because Logan was weak then, weak for Roman Torres, weak for what he did to him, weak for the candle, bonfire, inferno blazing in his stomach but then Roman sighed and pressed closer, closer until Logan couldn't even think of anything but heat.  Skin. Pressure. Roman. Roman, Roman, Roman.

Roman.

Chapter Text

“What’d you go and do a thing like that for?”  Roman asked once they finally pulled back. His tone was flippant; his expression was anything but.

It took Logan a while to find himself again.  Roman Torres, with his pretty red lips and shining brown eyes, had robbed him of any coherent thought.   “I’ve been wondering if I’d like it.”

“What’s the verdict?”  Roman draped his arms around Logan's shoulders.

Logan put a hand on the curve of his waist, pulling him closer.  “I don’t know yet.”

“I suppose I'll have to fix that.”

“If you must.”

Roman tasted sweet and heady, like a draught of honeyed bourbon.  Logan's brain – always churning with that infernal sea, always threatening to drown him – went quiet, still.  Roman pulled Logan’s lower lip into his mouth, nipping it lightly.

Logan pulled back, slowly, and toyed with the fine hairs at the nape of Roman’s neck.  “It’s even better when you help.”

Roman twisted a smile up at him.  “I'd say that counts as a glowing review.”  His grin took on a mischievous edge. “And I must add, that shade really works for you.”

Logan blinked.  He turned to the wall of one-way mirrors and snorted.  “I think I'll leave the finer points of makeup to your expertise.”

He wiped at his mouth with a handkerchief, smearing off the worst of the lipstick.

Roman pouted.  “Oh, I thought you looked quite lovely.”

“First time I’ve been accused of that.”

Logan smoothed back his hair when a sinking feeling hit him, a hot coal settling somewhere in his chest.  He hadn’t kissed anyone like that since… 

He cleared his throat.

“Do you want a drink?”  He crossed the room towards the low-slung bar before Roman could answer.  “I want a drink. Let me make us some drinks.”

“Don’t bother,” Roman said.  “Patton always locks the liquor cabinet.”

“Don’t worry.”  Logan pulled a small kit out of his pocket.  “I always bring my own keys.”

Roman cautiously perched on a bar stool, watching Logan focus on the lock.  Within seconds, he had it popped open. Wrapping his fingers around the closest bottle, he rummaged for glasses.

“First you can kiss like that, and now you can pick locks?”  Roman accepted the glass Logan slid his way. “Mr. Sul, I dare say you’re a regular hooligan.”

The faintest hint of laughter escaped Logan.  “I’ve been called worse.”

Roman cast a sidelong glance at him but said nothing more, not until the far doors swung open to reveal Patton and Virgil.

Virgil had held the door open for Patton, and the look of tenderness they cast after him was almost enough to make Logan’s stomach churn.

“Roman, Logan.”  Patton’s mouth twisted in disapproval.  “It’s still morning.”

“It’s five o’clock where I’m from.”  Logan raised his glass in a toast before downing the rest of it.  “Geonbae.”

“Well, down where I’m from, it’s still morning.”  Patton tartly took the glass from Roman, who looked vaguely abashed.

“Where is that, anyway?”  Logan tilted his head at the club’s owner.

“West Hills,” Virgil interrupted.  “The good ol’ sunshine state.” Their voice dripped with venom as they took in Logan.  “Now, mind telling us what you're doing here, Sul? Or are you just”- they mockingly touched their thumb to the corner of their mouth- “harassing the staff.”

“Virgil!”  Roman hissed, coloring.

Logan touched his fingers to his lips.  When he pulled away, a smear of lipstick remained.

Virgil smirked.  “Glad to see workplace professionalism isn't dead.”

“Well,” Logan retorted, looking from Virgil to Patton and back again.  “I'm sure you'd know all about that.”

Virgil's lips curled.  They stepped forward, shoulders squared, only to be stopped by Patton's gentle hand on their arm.

“Virge made a good point.”  He flashed a smile up at them before turning it on Logan.  “Did you need something, Lo? Anything we can help with?”

Logan blinked.  Right. Murder investigation.  He didn't come here to drink scotch and neck with Roman Torres.

That was just an added bonus.

“I was hoping to talk to Mr. Arya.”  He had a few questions for the snake of a man.  “I assumed someone here would be able to get into contact with him.”

Roman and Virgil were having a silent conversation, made entirely of twitching eyebrows and narrowed eyes.  Neither of them seemed satisfied with the conclusion.

Patton nodded.  “I'll ring him up and get his address.”

He padded off, and the other three were left to stew in silence, trading suspicious glances and uncomfortable grimaces.

“Mr. Sul.”  Dorian Arya lounged in the door frame of his apartment on the high side of the city. He crossed his arms, brandishing a smile.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Patton had made all due haste in getting the address, and, after a trip through the concrete, labyrinthian streets of upper manhattan, Logan found the joint.

“Business, not pleasure.”  Logan stood stiffly while Dorian casually took a drag of his cigarette, mismatched eyes unblinking.  “Are you going to invite me in?”

“Far be it from me to be a bad host to the man coming over uninvited,” Dorian drawled, slithering out of the way.  Mockingly, he swept a hand inside.  “Attakaiya varavēṟpu; attakaiya piriyāviṭai,” he welcomed at odds with his hooded eyes.

The apartment was nice enough.  Clean. If you ignored the haze of smouldering cigarettes and smell of smoke, it could almost be called pristine.  No clutter on the low-slung coffee table; no unwashed dishes sitting in the sink; no magazines junking up the unmarred marble countertops of the small, tidy kitchen.

“Have a seat.”  Dorian gestured to the gray couch.  “I’ll make us a drink.”

Logan perked up.  “What do you have?”

Dorian’s voice drifted out of the kitchen, droll.  “Tea.”

Logan huffed and strode over to the living room, scanning the area as he sat.  it was almost unsettling, how spartan the space was, as if nothing in it had really ever been used or -

Something slithered over Logan’s foot.

He yelped, scrambling to fling himself up on the couch, staring down with wide eyes.

“I see you’ve met Amoli,” Dorian drawled, mouth flirting with amusement.  He lounged against the doorway, a mug of tea in each hand. “Looks like she likes you.”

“I regret to inform her that the feelings are not mutual.”  Logan sat down, as dignified as he could, while Dorian crossed the room and put the tea mugs down on the coffee table.

He crouched, making soft noises.  “Come on, precious. I promise that nasty detective isn’t going to do anything to you.”

Logan made an affronted huff, but Dorian ignored him in favor of reaching under the couch.  He emerged with a snake, nearly the length of his arm, wrapping itself around his hand. It had coral stripes and large, golden eyes that seemed to be glaring at Logan.

Logan grimaced at her.  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Dorian settled in his seat, the snake coiling around him like a particularly large, angry bracelet.  “So,” he said languidly, crossing his legs. “I take it there's a reason other than my charming company you decided to barge in.”

“There's only one reason I'd associate with you,” Logan shot back.

The edge of his sharp canine gleaming against his lower lip, Dorian smirked.  “I would think Mr. Torres would be taking care of you in that regard, but if you insist…”

Logan rolled his eyes.  “I found out something interesting about you and Mr. Salem.”

“We wore the same suit once,” Dorian bemoaned, a little too quickly.  “Terribly embarrassing, but don't worry, I made him change.”

Silently, Logan withdrew the photograph of his six suspects he had bagged from Patton's apartment.  He threw it down on the table.

Dorian gazed at it impassively.  “How precious,” he deadpanned.

The private eye tapped on the background, where Dorian, Remy, and Viper stood.  He could see the exact moment Dorian’s gaze landed on his past self and Remy’s joined hands.  His mug froze, smirk plastered unnaturally on an immobile facade.

Slowly, he picked it up and examined the picture more closely, eyes softening just the tiniest bit.  “I remember this,” he said. “We were still in a bit of a honeymoon phase at that point.”

“I thought your relationship was strictly professional,” Logan said, perhaps a bit too triumphantly.

Dorian rolled his shoulders, shaking his head.  “Let's call it business with benefits.”

He put the picture back on his coffee table, face down.

Logan frowned. “You mean it was… strictly venereal?”

Dorian stared at him flatly. “We slept together, if that's what you mean.”  He shrugged. “A wife who doesn’t love you, late nights, a bit too much whisky - it was a simple equation.  He could’ve been anyone. It was sex, nothing more.”

“You always have a quick explanation ready, don't you, Mr. Arya?”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow.  “What do you want me to do, learn to stutter?”

“I’d prefer you tell the truth, but I’m beginning to think that’s against your intrinsic nature.”

“Ten points to the gumshoe.”

Logan glanced down at his loafers, tilting his foot to check the sole. “I see no polyisobutylene.”

“Why do you only do that with me?” he muttered, then shook his head.  “Look, I know what you're thinking, but this wasn't a case of the jilted lover.  He didn't do anything to snap my cap-” He shot a look at Logan. “To make me mad, and I'm not prone to senseless homicide.”

“Really?”  Logan said, tilting his head.  “Not even if I told you I know for a fact he was sleeping with someone else at Ego?”

“Tell me something I don't know.”  Dorian’s expression didn't shift. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn if Remy was sleeping with someone else.  He slept with… a lot of people.” A wry smile lifted his mouth. “If I was that jealous, I’d off them instead, wouldn't I?”

“You didn’t harbor any” - Logan gestured vaguely - “affections for him?”

Dorian snorted.  “Remy wasn’t the sort of man you fall in love with.  He had a mouth that worried you until you knew him and then it worried you more.”  He took a long drag of his cigarette.  “Besides, we aren’t the sort built for romance.”

Logan started.  “We?”

Drolly, Dorian waved a hand.  “Our sort. All the people at Mr. Parker’s precious little night club.”

“That can’t be right,” Logan protested automatically.  “Statistically, with the high population of the queer community, there must be at least-”

“Name one,” Dorian demanded, shifting forward to rest his elbows onto his knees.  Amoli slithered into a new position around his arms, restless.  “Name one person like us you know who’s been happy.”

“I don’t… I…”  Logan floundered, casting about before his mind settled.  “I knew one. First case I ever worked. He was happy, I know it.”

"Was," Dorian repeated, a wry twist to his mouth.  “Tell me, Sul, what happened to him?”

Logan could almost smell the tang of brine in the air, the sharp stench of oil, the bright scent of blood.   “He died.”

His responding smile wasn’t victorious.  “I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” Dorian hissed.  “There’s never been one. People like us don’t get happy endings, and the sooner you let go of all of this, the sooner you realize that what happened to Remy is just what happens to us, the better off you’ll be.”

“That just doesn't make sense, though,” Logan countered, fighting down the strange squeezing in his chest.  He’d thought those sorts of things himself, but it was different, somehow, to hear them aloud from someone else.

Logan was right about most things.  He didn’t always want to be right about some things.

“That nightclub was full of our sort.  If it was a hate-motivated crime, why would he, specifically, be targeted?”

“Because he was better known than anyone else there,” Dorian stated.  “People in my line of work get angry with each other for the littlest things.  Can't stand anyone richer than them, can't stand anyone more influential than them, can't stand anyone handsomer than them.”  

He slithered forward, eyes boring into Logan's.  

“Now imagine someone who's all three also turns out to be something illegal, something you find immoral, something you're afraid of.”

Logan leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.  “So that's what you think it was?”

Dorian worked his jaw, idly scratching at his eczema patch.  “I think there's a lot of twisted people out there,” he said, finally.  “And, through business, I've met more than my fair share.” His mouth twisted into a smirk.  “Then again, they also met me.”

“They did,” Logan hedged, “and I take it many didn't cope well with dealing with someone who isn't white.”

“Which is exactly why I needed Remy,” Dorian countered.  “Most of our associates couldn't pick me out of a crowd of two, but Remy…”  He cut himself off, the edge of a fond smile touching his lips. “Rem was impossible to ignore.”

Logan's eyes darkened.  “I'm beginning to understand that, yes.”

He rose without prelude, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt.  “Well, this has been most informative. Thank you very much, Mr. Arya.”

Rising in turn, Dorian regarded him with something just short of bemusement.  “So glad you enjoyed your tea.”  

The untouched mugs nestled quietly on the table.

“A bit too low in proof count for me,” Logan fired back.

“It seems like you want proof in everything.”  Dorian ran a finger along Amoli’s smooth head.

Logan just barely bit back a smile.  “Why set your sights low?” He adjusted his tie, thinking for a moment before adding: “oh, and stop by Ego tomorrow night. There's something I need all of you for.”

Then, without so much as a touch of his cap, he disappeared out the door in a twirling of his coattails.

Dorian stood, looking after him for a long minute and sighed, sitting back down and scooping up one of the two abandoned cups.

“I don’t suppose you’re thirsty,” he said to Amoli.

Logan was getting sick of the darkness.  Night came early to New York City, and it often refused to leave for hours and hours, until the sun’s bright rays beat it back.  It returned. It always did, chasing the light away from its joint and bearing down on the city and all its inhabitants, until they cracked and crumbled under the pressure.

There had been a bottle in his hand just a little bit ago, hadn’t there?  He had bought one. He was a quarter short, so he’d examined the grizzled shop owner.  Then, Logan detailed to him how the man had lived in a small town until about four years ago, he had two children, he was drowning in debt but still had a gambling problem - then the man threw the bottle at him and screamed for Logan to get out.

He had saved two dollars.

People like us don’t get happy endings.

Why the hell was it so dark in here?

Logan stumbled over to the windows, throwing open the blinds.  Gray light streamed in slants over the dingy white carpet, pooling in dismal puddles on the chipped table.  He stared outside, at the streaks of headlights fading into the horizon and the indistinct black masses of people scuttling to and fro, even at this hour.  Gray and white and black.

There had been amber a minute ago.  Swishing sedately at the bottom of his glass.  He had swallowed it up, but the color hadn’t absorbed into him.  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. Gray shadows under his eyes.  Black hair in disarray. Naturally dark skin gaunt and pale.

Bile burned at the back of Logan’s throat.

People like us don’t get happy endings.

“It’s not us that’s the problem,” he argued, voice thick and slurred.  “It’s them!” He waved a hand emphatically at the anamorphosis masses outside his window.  His arm caught an edge of a lamp and sent it flying. The bulb smashed against the wall.

It became a little bit darker.

“If they weren’t so damn…”  He had a page in his notebook for this.  “Sheep-headed.” That wasn’t right. Logan pawed through his coat, looking for his notebook, but his thick fingers were larger than usual, clumsy.  “Rabbit-headed…” He muttered, trailing off halfway through his words. Some sort of animal they had on those quaint little farms, far from the smog and darkness of the city.

Now there was a happy ending.  Alone.

Away from everything, everyone.

If he didn’t have anyone, he didn’t have anyone to lose.  No “family” of strangers to hold him back and make him weak.

No smirking red lips.

No chirps of ‘kiddo!’

No dark scowls.

It’d be so much easier if he wasn’t starting to care.

Someone was looming above him.

Instinctively, Logan’s fist went flying, but a large, calloused palm stopped him.

“Aren’t you hospitable,” Virgil Avery drawled, letting Logan’s hand drop from their grasp.

Each word hit Logan like a sledgehammer between the eyes, and he groaned, closing his eyes against the blinding light slanting in from the drawn blinds.  “Too loud.”

“Probably because you’re nursing a bottle-ache the size of Texas,” Patton Parker chided, bustling into the room with a steaming mug of what smelled like mint clutched in his hands.  “You’ve slept all day. Didn’t you get tired of it?”

Logan squinted at the window.  “Six?”

“Seven,” Patton corrected, pressing the mug against his lips.

Logan made to jerk his head away, but a stabbing pain forced him to stay, taking a tentative sip of honeyed tea.  It eased his throat, reviving him a bit.

“I thought your tolerance was higher,” Virgil cluckled.  “Or at least your common sense. We found you passed out on the floor.”

“I got worried when you didn’t show up at the club,” Patton explained.

“Apparently it’s just not the same without you making us all miserable.”  Virgil rolled their eyes, and Patton swatted their arm gently.

Logan squinted up at the two of them blearily - Virgil with their arms crossed and a scowl plastered on their face, and Patton with his open, freckled face of concern.  “How the hell did you know where I live?”

“I asked Dorian,” Patton chirped, coaxing him to take another sip of tea.

“That doesn’t answer-”  Logan cut himself off as another wave of nausea hit him.  He leaned over the edge of the bed, but nothing came out.

“You’re super dehydrated, mac,” Virgil clucked, pinching the skin on the back of his hand between their long fingers.  “When’s the last time you drank something that didn’t make you all warm and fuzzy after?”

“I hate you,” Logan muttered, face pressed into his matress.  “Also my name is Logan.”

“You’re going to wreck your kidneys,” they lectured, thumbing at the ruddy coloring on his cheeks.  “Pat, keep him on his side. I don’t want him choking if he throws up again.”

“I can take care of myself,” Logan protested, pushing himself up.  The room spun. He promptly dropped back down.

“That’s what I thought.”  Virgil smirked down at him.  “Drink the tea. If you get hypoglycemic, who’s going to make our lives miserable?”

Sullenly, Logan sipped the cup Patton brought to his lips, glaring daggers.

“You gotta take better care of yourself, kiddo,” Patton chided.  “Virge knows about a ton of medical stuff because they’re so smart, but what if we weren’t here?”

“Why are you here anyway?” Logan snapped back.  “There is no need for you to be. I have attended to my own needs perfectly sufficiently before now, and I can continue to do so.  Last night was a… a fluke.”

They exchanged glances, Patton’s mouth twitching up and Virgil’s eyebrows twitching down.

“You came to check up on me when I needed it,” Patton said, finally.  “I owed you one.”

“Then you can pay me back by absconding.” Ignoring the ringing in his ears, Logan flung himself up and stumbled past them into the kitchen, intent on opening the door to shove them out.

He came up short.

Roman.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Mr. Sul?”  He glanced idly at the detective before continuing dumping a bottle of scotch down the sink.  A row of empty bottles ran down the counter top.

“What, exactly, do you presume you’re doing?”  Logan demanded, hackles rising.

Roman poured the last of the alcohol down the sink.  With a satisfied flourish, he lined the bottle up with the others and turned to face Logan.  “I hired you for a job, Mr. Sul. Last time I checked, drinking yourself into a stupor and sleeping for a full day doesn’t help me.”

“You hired me to investigate a made up stalking claim,” Logan growled.  “And, on top of that, you haven’t paid me a single cent.”

“Semantics.”  Roman waved a hand.  “You have a case, Mr. Sul.”  He stalked up to Logan, smoothing down the wrinkles in his sleep-creased shirt.  “And last I checked, I was going to help you solve it.”

“We never agreed to that.”

“But look.”  Roman gestured to the empty bottles with a beatific smile.  “I’m already helping.”

Logan glared down at him.  Roman met his gaze unflinchingly.

“You’d be doing a much better job of intimidating me if you didn’t look like hell warmed over.”

Logan looked away, a bitter laugh escaping.  “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Mr. Torres.”

Roman smirked.  “I prefer ‘devilishly handsome’, Mr. Sul.”

“Emphasis on the devil,” Logan groused.

“And you’re going to have a hell of a time if you don’t sit down right now, mister.”  Patton appeared in the doorway, hands on his hips.

Logan made a show of flopping down into his sagging couch.  “Happy, Mr. Prohibition?”

Patton beamed.  “Ecstatic.”

Logan decided his sanity was more important than continuing that particular conversational strain.

The other three settled around him - Roman pressed against him on the couch, Patton on his other side, and Virgil sitting on the wobbling coffee table.

Logan shot them a questioning look and they shrugged.

“Listen, life is hard.  And when tomorrow comes, I will be faced with even more challenges.  And I am too overwhelmed to worry about what ‘is’ and ‘is not’ a chair.”  They inked finger quotes in the air. 

Patton sighed.  “Virge, I was feeling good today.”

“It’s an excellent theory if not practice,” Logan conceded.  “I may have to adopt it.”

“Better than whatever you did last night.”  Virgil arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, what did that poor lamp ever do to you?” Roman joked.

The lamp in question was sitting on the rickety side table, patched together with a careful but awkward glue job.

“You… fixed it.”  Logan blinked. 

“Not perfect, but it might dispel some of the doom and gloom in here.”  Patton winked. “It's sure to brighten up your day.”

Logan clenched his jaw, looking away.  Roman placed a hand on his, and Logan couldn’t tell if he was meant to jerk away.

“I didn't mean to break it,” he defended.  “I just… lost a bit of control.”

“Did something happen?”  Patton asked, softly.

This was exactly what he didn’t want.  People in his space, caring for him, looking after him.  It wasn’t… it wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t want it.

Every moment here was a game of russian roulette.  Any longer and there’d be bloodshed.

He let the silence last just a moment too long, feeling the weight of six eyes on him like so many tons of crushing rubble.  His hands flexed and unflexed on his lap as he wrestled with himself.

“I talked to Dorian,” Logan said, eventually.

“That explains it.”  Virgil nodded sagely.  “I’d probably try to drown myself in a bottle after talking to him, too.”

Patton shot them a look.

Logan couldn’t help a huff of laughter.

“He said something, and it just…”  Logan shook his head. “I’d never really thought about it before, but he was right, and I didn’t want him to be.”

“What was it?”  Roman asked, tracing gentle circles on the back of Logan’s hand.

“Not important.”  Logan shied back, suddenly and acutely aware that he was hemmed in on all sides.  Even if it was Roman, the feeling of someone touching him… 

It felt wrong, right now.  Itching and irritating, like a parasite trying to break through his skin.

“He just… managed to figuratively get in my head.”  He shifted away from Roman, accidentally knocking against Patton.  He barely managed to hide a wince as Virgil began speaking.

“Yeah, I get that.”  They tapped their temple.  “It just gets stuck up here, right?  Like the world’s worst record scratch.”

“But you can tell us anything, kiddo.”  Patton rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “We’re here for you, okay?”

Panic rose in Logan’s throat.  His skin was crawling on his bones like it wasn’t put on right.

“Shower.”  Logan stood up, wobbling, and barely avoided toppling into Virgil’s lap.  “Roman said I look like – and I definitely reek so I should most certainly” – he tottered backwards, escaping and babbling as the other three stared after him with wide, bewildered eyes -–“get clean.  Shower. Very hot shower.”  He closed the door to his room in their faces.

He stood there for a long moment then sighed and let this head thunk against the door.  He winced. That had been a bad decision. Rubbing at the aching spot on his already pounding head, he stumbled out of his clothes and stepped into the bathroom.

The water felt good on his fevered, scarred skin - warding off the worst of the pounding in his temples and washing away the ghosts of hands on his skin.  He got like that sometimes, where he couldn’t bear anyone to touch him. It felt like they were leaving markers on him - sticky, uncomfortable brands that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard he rasped a washcloth down his arms.  It didn’t stop until he warded off the deep, primeval panic that came over him like a fog.

They had just been touching him like petty comfort could offer solace for a hurt they didn’t know anything about.  Staring at him, like they expected something from him.  What did they think he was going to do, share his feelings and welcome with open arms the verifiable strangers that had invaded his apartment to baby him?

Fat chance.

Logan didn’t get out until the water ran cold, letting his fog of panic disperse and hoping against hope that they’d be gone when he came out.

He had just wrapped a towel around his waist when Roman opened the door behind Logan.

“Oh, good. You didn’t drown in there.”

Oh, his headache was back.

“I’m beginning to wish I had.”

He thought about shying away almost reflexively, but no.  If Roman saw enough of his scars, he and the others might get scared away.

“Did you need something, Mr. Torres?”  Logan turned around, watching Roman close the door with a soft click and lean against the frame.

“What, I can’t show an adequate amount of concern for someone very near and dear to my heart?”  Roman splayed a hand over his chest, mock-pouting.

“What heart?”  Logan said dryly.

“Insulting me?  Oh, you must be feeling better.”  His dark gaze followed a water drop, running down the length of Logan’s neck and pooling in his collar bone.  “Looking better too.” He licked his red lips.

“Still trying to seduce your way out of everything?”  Logan rolled his eyes, turning to rummage through his closet for clothes.

Roman flashed a wry smile.  “It’s my go-to move.”

“I hope you think highly enough of me by now to comprehend it won’t work.”  Logan pulled on a black shirt.

“I do,” Roman hummed, turning around before Logan could ask.  “But there’s no rule against having fun.”

“Is that what this is for you?”  Logan finished dressing. “Fun?”

“This whole scenario?  No. You? Yes.” Then, before Logan could even begin to figure out how to respond to that, he continued.  “Are you decent?”

“Morally?  Never. In terms of dress?  Yes.”

Roman laughed as he turned around, full and unabashed.  Logan’s breath caught in his throat.

“You should leave it natural sometimes,” Roman mused, stalking forward and combing through his damp hair with his fingers.  “It looks good.”

“I’m not one for aesthetics.”

“You look cross.  Am I not in your good books?”

“If you were,” Logan managed, soft as a promise as he pulled Roman closer, “I’d burn down the study.”

And Roman… finally, Roman smiled.  Bright and pure and honest.  He looked just like he had in that photograph.  “Much Ado About Nothing,” Roman said, pleased. “I'm going to have to try much harder to stump you, aren't I?”

And there, with Roman smiling up at him, that bright laughter still ringing in his ears, Logan let himself, just for a moment, be hap-

People like us don’t get happy endings.

The mantra shot into his mind like a bullet, killing off any sentimentality.  His fingers tightened on Roman’s hips, just a little, and he lowered his head, tightening his jaw.

“You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Logan’s head snapped up, startled.  “What?”

“What… whatever Dorian said.”  Roman blinked, a small crease forming between his eyebrows.  “Your mind is off in space. I can tell.”

“Oh.”  Logan’s shoulders relaxed, and he cleared his throat, wishing he had a tie to adjust.  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“What was it, Logan?”  Roman said, softly. “What’d he say to you?”

The words tumbled from him, helplessly: “That people like us don’t get happy endings.”

Roman paused for a long moment, jeweled eyes taking in Logan’s face.  “You know,” he said, slowly. “We could always get a happy ending, if you decided.”  

Logan could feel Roman's breath against his own lips.  Hot. Tone lower than usual, layered with want.  

“If you just let this whole thing go.  If you just let yourself be happy here.”

Logan snorted.  “One kiss and you think the world is upside down.”

Roman smiled.  “Two kisses.” And he took him by the back of the neck.

A banging on the door interrupted them far too soon.

“If you’re done deflowering each other,” Virgil’s voice drifted dryly through,  “the show’s scheduled to start in an hour and a half, and Roman’s absence would probably be noted.”

Roman’s face flamed violently, and he marched over to the door, slamming it open.  “We weren’t doing… that,” he hissed at them.

“We know you weren’t, obviously.”  Patton interrupted, flashing a half-fond, half-exasperated smile at Virgil, who had the decency to look somewhat abashed.  “But we really have to get up and go, Ro. Are we going to see you later, Lo?”

Lo.   Logan bit back a snappy retort and gave him a tight-lipped smile.  “Perhaps.”

“I question why you’re such a man of mystery,” Patton giggled, ushering the others to the door.

“Actually.”  Logan impulsively stopped them.  “Mx. Avery, if I could just speak with you for a second.”

They shot Logan a confused look but shrugged.  “Go on,” he told Patton and Roman. “I’ll catch up.”

“Alright…?”  Patton’s concerned gaze bounced between the two of them.  “Is something-”

Logan swung the door closed on the befuddled men and beckoned Virgil further into his apartment.

Virgil reluctantly followed, hackles raised.  “I don’t see what’s so important that you couldn’t have Patton and Roman here.”

“That was an act of personal courtesy, but I’d be happy to call them back.”  Logan’s amber eyes narrowed. “Although, something tells me you wouldn’t like that if you knew what I intend to ask.”

They shifted, almost unconsciously, into a fighting stance.  “Is it that time sensitive? I don’t like letting them walk through this neighborhood alone.”

“This won’t take long,” Logan said, settling himself on the coffee table and smiling at Virgil.  “I’m just curious as to how long you were sleeping with Remy Salem.”

Chapter Text

“Does it matter?”  Virgil said tersely, curling their hands into trembling fists on their thighs.  “I thought we already had this discussion, Mr. Sul.”

“Ah, about that.”  Logan hid a wince. “A series of… misconceptions and overly vague statements lead me to believe that Roman was the object of Mr. Salem’s amorous attentions.”

Virgil started, a half-choked laugh escaping them.  “Roman and Remy? Oh, hell no. They hated each other.”

“Well now I understand that,” Logan muttered, somewhat sullenly.

Narrowing their eyes as the realization fully hit them, Virgil raised their jaw.  “So you’re telling me that when you were talking about Remy’s ‘attentions for a certain employee’ – you were talking about Roman?”

“Correct,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“So how did you know it was me then?”  They demanded, coiled with tension.

“Simple,” Logan said, leaning back.  “I found out that Roman had fabricated a recital where the late Mr. Salem was stalking him.  As soon as I became aware this was not the case, the only logical receptacle of Mr. Salem’s torrid affair was you, judging from your reaction and apparent knowledge as to the accusation.”

“So you’re telling me,” they said, stilted, “that it was a fucking fluke?”

He frowned.  “Well, I would hesitate to phrase it so crassly.  More like it was a logical deduction based on context clues and your own misinterpretations of a truly simple conversation–”

Virgil’s fist slammed into his jaw.

Logan’s head snapped back; he stayed like that for a moment before his hand slowly came up to rub the already-reddening spot.

“I’ve had worse,” he said, simply, turning back to Virgil.

“You’re an arrogant little swigger,” Virgil hissed, “that doesn’t know his fucking left from his right.  Don’t try to lie to me.”

“I generally refrain from falsehoods.”  Logan’s tongue ran along his teeth, making sure none were knocked loose.  “But if you are referring to Mr. Torres’s lie, my account is entirely accurate.”

“That’s a bum rap,” Virgil snarled, dark eyes flashing.  “Roman would never do something like that. Why would he even–”  They broke off, shaking their head. “You’re a damn liar.”

“Really now, Mx. Avery, I thought you were better than that.”  Logan shook his head. “Humanity is tragically inclined to endow its friends with the certain type of stability that only fictional people posses.  Whatever evolution this or that popular character has gone through between the book covers, their fate is fixed in our minds.  Similarly, you expect your friends to follow this or that illogical, conventional pattern you have fixed for them. Thus” - Logan began to tick his points off on his fingers - “X will never compose the immortal music that would clash with the second-rate symphonies he has accustomed us to.  Under no circumstances can Y ever betray us. Z will never commit murder.

“We have it all arranged in our minds, and the more often we see a particular person, the more satisfying it is to check how obediently they conform to our notion of them every time we cross paths.  Any deviation in the fates we have ordained would strike us as not only anomalous but unethical. We would prefer not to have known at all our neighbor, the retired hot-dog stand operator, if it turns out he has just produced the greatest book of poetry his age has seen.”

“Slow your roll, Sul.”  Virgil rolled their eyes.  “If I want my issues psychoanalyzed, I’ll use that gift certificate for a therapist Patton gives me every Christmas.”

Reluctantly, a smile flickered at the corner of Logan’s lips.  “I know a bartender who could help you out with that for free.”

“Bet you know more than a few of those,” Virgil muttered.

“Correct,” Logan agreed simply, taking them in through amber eyes.

Virgil swallowed, rubbing at their knuckles.  “I didn’t… I shouldn’t have hit you.”

“I’ve had worse,” Logan said again.  He feathered his fingers across his jaw.  “Besides, I know what it’s like to have that sort of temper.”

“Still, I…”  Virgil chewed on their bottom lip then launched into motion, retreating into Logan’s kitchen.  “You have ice, I hope? And a cold compress?”

“Bottom drawer, left side,” Logan called.

Before long, Virgil was carefully placing the compress against Logan’s jaw, instructing him on how to hold it.

“No, not that tight!”  They smacked at his hand.  “I swear, you’re the most disastrous person I know.”

“So you don’t know yourself?”  Logan rolled his eyes, settling the ice on his chin more gingerly.

“I’m letting that one slide,” Virgil said, “but only because I’d feel bad for hitting you when you’ve already got a bottle-ache and a bruise.”

“I’ve got a bit more than that,” Logan snorted, feeling the dull ache of the bullet wound in his shoulder.

Virgil made a noncommittal noise, and they both sat there a moment, unsure of what to do with this strange sort of ceasefire.

“Listen, I’d…”  Virgil started, tugging on a curl.  “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about… you know.”

“Mr. Parker, you mean.”

“And Roman,” Virgil sighed.  “Things are just odd right now, and I don’t want them to…”  They trailed off hopelessly, chewing on their bottom lip.

“I’ve seen the way they both look at you,” Logan scoffed.  “I doubt they have the brain capacity to hate you.”

Virgil looked up at him, startled.  “You know, Sul, I’m having a hell of a time trying to figure out if you’re an asshole or not.”

“Oh, I most certainly am,” Logan assured them.

A ginger smile touched the edge of Virgil’s lips.  “True. Well, asshole or not, I appreciate it.”

Logan shrugged.  “I’m rather adept at keeping secrets.”

“I really didn’t mean for it to happen.”  Virgil’s words tumbled from their lips; they looked almost surprised by the confession.  “You know, the thing with me and Remy.”

Logan stayed silent.  He knew how to weaponize silence against even the most tight-lipped suspects.

“Just sort of happened one day, and I couldn’t kick the habit.  There was something” – they made an odd, stilted sort of shrug – “sort of irresistible about him.  Every time, I’d tell him that it was the last, but he’d just laugh and kiss me again. I don’t even think he liked me that much – we had more arguments than pillow talk.  He just liked that he could keep me coming back.”

“How did it start?”  Logan prompted, once it became clear they didn’t intend to continue.

Virgil was silent for a long, long time, chewing at their bottom lip until Logan was sure a bright red spring would stream from it at any second.

“We have dances at Ego sometimes, you know,” Virgil said softly.  “And… I’ve been in love with Patton for the longest time.”  They looked up with a miserable sort of smile. “You’re the first person I’ve actually admitted that to.”

Oddly enough, Logan almost felt touched.

Virgil shook their head, trying to clear out the cloying melancholy.  “So this one time, I was sitting at the sides, watching, making sure no one got rowdy, when I saw Patton, right in front of me.  I had been dancing earlier - Roman pulled me with him - and my feet hurt so I had my shoes off. But when I saw Patton, a slow song came on, and everyone started partnering up.  So I… I made up my mind. I was going to ask him. Temporary insanity or something, I guess.”

They smoothed a hand over their hair.  Huffed out a bitter laugh.  

“I was so fucking nervous.  I was trying to tie up my shoes, but my fingers kept slipping on the laces.  I was shaking. Wasn’t even sure I’d be able to stand. But finally, finally, I got them tied, and I got up…”  Virgil shook their head, rolling their tongue across their teeth. “And he was already dancing with someone else.”

After a moment, Logan blinked at them.  

“That’s it?”

“You think I don’t know that it sounds dumb?”  Virgil snapped. “How about some context, hm? I was always scared to say anything because Patton is too fucking good for me.  When I saw him with someone else, smiling and giggling and dancing and looking so damn happy, I knew I was right.  I just knew that Patton was never going to feel the same way. That he was never going to be mine.” 

Virgil flushed, turned their head.  “And I hurt.  I ached, everywhere.  So I walked away, past Remy,  and Remy said… something, I don’t even remember, but I looked at him and I didn’t want to think about Patton anymore.  I didn’t want to feel like that. So I asked him to dance. It was fun, I guess. He was the type of guy that couldn’t help but be charming.”

Virgil knit their fingers together in their lap, looking off somewhere to Logan’s right.  “Then he asked me if I wanted to go somewhere more private. I couldn’t get Patton out of my head, but then… there was Remy, and he was looking at me like I was something beautiful, and that ache in my chest had gone, just a bit.  So I… I said yes.”

They looked at Logan like they were begging him to understand.  “I didn’t know it would last that long, or I wouldn’t have done it.”

“How long?”

“Five months, give or take.”

“And your most recent tryst had been when?”

“The night before.  I met him in his box after the show.”

The private eye’s amber eyes sharpened.  “The night before what?”

Virgil’s shoulders tensed.  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Humor me.”  Logan leaned back, steepling his fingers.

“Why are you making me say it?”  Virgil snapped. “You fucking know!”

“Death isn’t the sort of thing that can be glossed over, Mx. Avery.”

“We fucked the night before he was murdered, is that what you want to hear?!”  Virgil snarled at him, eyes dark and wet.  

Logan smiled thinly.  “Yes.”

They stood abruptly.  “I’m leaving.” They stalked to the door, slamming it open.  “I don’t care if you follow me or not.”

He did.

The two of them walked in silence through the gritty streets.  Virgil’s shoulders infinitesimally relaxed from their hunch as they neared Ego, and the warm satisfaction of unraveling yet another suspect purred in Logan’s chest.  This was much better.

Virgil’s steps turned pensive as the neon sign flashed its beacon in the distance.

“You’re trying to ruin this, aren’t you?”

“Odd as it is for me to say: I don’t know what you mean, Mx. Avery.”

They snorted, shoving their hands in their pockets.  “I think you’re allowed to call someone by their name once they punch you.”

“You may be, Mx. Avery, but I chose to uphold the rules of propriety.”  He arched an eyebrow at them as they reached Ego’s door and leaned against it.  “Do you intend on letting me in, or are we to watch over Misters Torres and Parker from afar?”

“There you go again,” they clucked.  “You know, Logan, I don’t think it’s a coincidence you decided to confront me after we helped you through your bottle-ache.”

“Of course not,” Logan conceded.  “It was the most convenient time to stage a private conference with you.  Additionally being on unfamiliar ground would make you more uncomfortable and vulnerable to whatever verbal attacks–”

“Just when someone gets close to you, you try to ruin it.”

Logan froze.  “I beg your pardon.”

They shrugged lazily.  “Just makes sense. You neck with Roman one second and accuse him of murder the next.  We help you out, and you try to get me to hate you.”

“You speak of these things as if you don’t hate me.”

Virgil’s smile turned predatory, smug.  “I’m not so sure I do.”

Logan’s chest seized.

“Come on, then.”  Virgil pulled away from the wall and opened the door, gesturing before Logan could even begin to formulate a response.  “Don’t want to miss the show.”

“No,” Logan said, shoving his hands into his pockets.  “I believe I’ll stay out here.”

About an hour and a half later, he watched the last of the patrons trickle out the glass doors.  It really could be any of them, theoretically. He recognized some faces from the night of the murder – a man with sideburns, a woman with lips stained dark, someone else with black hair twirled up in a knot.  What did a murderer look like, anyway? There was no distinguishing mark, no damned red spot on their hand. A murderer could have jeweled eyes or a bright smile or masses of curls or freckles or carefully pressed dresses.

It really could be just anyone.

Why, then, was Logan so sure it wasn’t?

“Didn’t want to see the show?”  A low, thrilling voice interrupted his thoughts.  “I was so sure you’d be inside.”

Logan didn’t turn his head, amber eyes following the last patrons around the corner.  “Then I suppose you aren’t as familiar with me as you presumed.”

Roman’s dark coat shifted as he settled next to Logan on the curb, flashes of his costume sparkling out.  “Then you can’t begrudge me the chance to get acquainted, Fullcan-illusive.”

Logan started.  “Beg your pardon?”

“You know” – Roman made a frustrated hand gesture – “Fulcanelli?  French author and man of mystery?”

“I’m aware of the man,” Logan retorted, “but I have yet to be confronted with so bewildering a form of address.”

“It’s called a nickname, The Grapes of Wrathful, and I’d suggest you get used to it.”  

“Suggestion considered, evaluated, and promptly disregarded.”  Logan scoffed. “Besides, I have yet to hear an author-riff used as traditional nickname.”

“Have it your way, Guachimán,” Roman said, a wicked laugh tucked in the corners of his mouth.  “What shall I call you then? Darling? Gorgeous? Handsome?”

“I do have a name that has served me quite well for the last thirty years,” Logan said dryly.  “I don’t suppose that would interest you.”

Roman just grinned.  “You’d be correct.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer before Roman said, softly: “Do I get to ask about that gunshot wound I saw earlier?”

Logan rolled his shoulder.  “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“And yet I just did.”

Roman snorted then stood in one fluid motion, turned, and held a hand out for Logan.  “Come on then, Prideful and Prejudiced. Let’s hear whatever new and thrilling deduction you’ve come up with.”

Logan stared at that hand – smooth and dark and small – for perhaps a moment too long before he drew himself up to standing.  “If you must.”

“Logan!”  Patton chirped at him as soon as he walked inside.  “There you are. Glad to see your private eyes are looking much better!”

Logan immediately turned on his heel and began walking out of the room.

“Come on, Mr. Drab-cy.”  Roman, a smile playing on his lips, grabbed his arm.  “Surely you can handle a few little puns?”

“I already hate the English language as is,” Logan sighed.  “Must I also be constantly subjugated to the butchering thereof?”

“If you hate it, shouldn’t you be happy that Patton’s butchering it?”  Virgil, sprawled across the stage, pointed out.

Patton made an affronted noise, and they laughed.  “Fine, Pat, we love your puns.”

“That makes one of us,” Logan muttered, but let himself be pulled the rest of the way into the room.

“Ms. Salem and Mr. Arya should be on their way,” Virgil supplied as Logan joined their wobbly circle.

A proud, femmine voice interrupted them: “Just Dorian, actually.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” Roman murmured lowly as Viper swept into the room – bold, cruel eyes flashing.

Logan stifled a snort then shot him a glare.  Roman smiled, pseudo-innocent.

“Ms. Salem,” Patton greeted her kindly, flashing that ever-cheerful smile.  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“And I’ll get even better when that private dick finds out who killed my husband,” she said flatly, shrugging off his hand and settling into a seat.  Either ignorant or willfully denying the sudden awkward atmosphere, she flicked a speck of oil out from under her nails.

“I assure you, Ms. Salem,” Logan said, “I’m doing all I can.”

She glanced at him cooly.  “You better be.”

Dorian sauntered in, almost a quarter of an hour of uncomfortable silence later.

“You're late.” Viper arched an eyebrow at him.

“He's terribly unspecific when it comes to timing,” he drawled with a glance towards Logan.  With a smirk, the business man dropped onto the seat one down from Viper, propping his legs up on the ripped seat backing behind him.  “I think it would run his dramatic persona,” he stage-whispered.

“Now that were all assembled,” Logan started, pointedly ignoring the two of them, “there are a few semantics with which we must deal.”

“How Mr. Arya most resembles a snake when Ms. Salem has the snake's name,” Virgil said, nodding sagely.  “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”

“Are you sure it isn’t the mystery of how anyone ever manages to differentiate Virgil Avery from a raccoon?”  Dorian drawled, drowning out Viper’s mutter of ‘it’s a dragon name, thank you very much’. “The eyeshadow isn’t helping anyone’s case.”

“Hey, now!”  Patton frowned.

Logan raised his voice slightly.  “I actually gathered you all with the intent to–”

“Oh, really?”  Virgil snapped.  “At least I don’t wear gloves all the time like a Johnson brother.”

Roman chimed in.  “Virge, however much I agree, now isn’t the time, Lauren Banal.”

“Yes, why don’t we all listen to Roman for once?”  Dorian smirked.

That started the rest of them up in ernest, Viper sitting quietly to the side and Logan trying futilely to intervene.

“–did you just finish washing some dishes?–”

“–love the new outfit, Roman–”

“–oh, thank you!–”

Logan tried again.  “If we could all just–”

“–well, classy is my middle name–”

“–you wouldn’t know anything about words, would you?–”

“–seriously, check my birth certificate–”

“–well, kiddo, Thomas always said–”

“If you would please,” Logan roared, “shut up!”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

“Virgil started it,” Dorian muttered petulantly, only to be rounded on by Patton, suddenly exhibiting inhuman levels of parental energy.

Virgil held up their hands.  “Hey, don’t pass the buck to me.”

Logan frowned.  “Why would anyone hand you a male Cervidae?”

“It means passing responsibility,” Viper said, unscrewing one of the stage lights and looking with interest at the insides.  “Can I go now? Doesn’t exactly seem like I’m contributing much.”

Barely repressing a groan, Logan flipped out his notebook and scribbled the phrase down.

“Oh, is that your diary?” Virgil smirked.

“What?” Logan flushed.  “No.”

“It's obviously a journal,” Roman drawled with a wicked grin, draping his arms over Virgil’s shoulders.

“I already informed you of its purpose, Mr. Torres.”  Logan scowled, effect somewhat ruined by the way you could've fried eggs on his face.  “The English language is absolutely ridiculous, and I require some manner to keep me” - he flipped a few pages - “‘on the beam’.”

He snapped it shut definitively as Patton tuned back in from scolding Dorian.

“Oh, kiddo!” He beamed.  “Is that your diary?”

Roman collapsed into a fit of silent laughter, burying his face in Virgil's shoulder as they fought to keep a cool face.

“No,” Logan yelped, voice strangled, before Patton cut him off.

“Oh, I'm sorry, a journal.”

Virgil shattered, shoulders shaking and hiding their face in Roman's mass of wild curls.

“It's not,” Logan protested as Patton smiled on, oblivious.  Logan gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand up. “We are in the middle of a murder investigation.  Is now truly the time for jocularity?”

Dorian lidded his eyes; a lazy smirk curled his lips.  “If it's bothering you so much, you can always write about it in your diary.”

“I give up.”  Logan threw his hands in the air.  “I renounce my tenuous grasp on sanity.”

“Can’t hold onto what you don’t have.”  Virgil said, tapping their temple.

“I suppose that’s the motto you live by?”  Logan shot them a dry glare. “Seems to fit.”

“Can it, Sul,” Virgil socked him – somewhat playfully –  in the shoulder, and Logan doubled over, hissing and clutching at his gun wound.

“Oh shit!”  Virgil hovered over him anxiously, eyes wide.  “Are you okay?”

“Gun shot,” Logan muttered through gritted teeth.

Patton, eyes wide, chimed in: “How’d you get shot?!”

“Old war wound,” Logan deadpanned, straightening up with a wince.  “Acts up around morons.”

Virgil stifled a snort.  “Stop it. I’m still trying not to like you.”

“Must be his charming personality,” Dorian drawled, half sugar, half arsenic.

Roman smoldered at Logan.  

“Must be,” he purred.

Logan and Virgil rolled their eyes.

“Mr. Parker,” Logan said, returning to the club’s owner.  “If everyone here is going to insist on acting like a child, I don’t suppose you could give me a tour of this place so I can get some actual work done?”

Patton’s mouth twisted sideways.  “Oh, I would if I could! I’ve just got so much to do.  The bar needs to be” - he coughed delicately - “restocked, we’ve got to run rehearsals for the band, one of the lightbulbs on stage is burned out, some of the chairs have ripped backings, and I need to find a new buyer for Remy’s old box.”

“And the piano’s broken again,” Roman chimed in.  “I think one of the keys is busted.”

Logan stood stock still before crossing the room and flinging open the piano lid, ignoring Virgil’s cry of ‘hey! Be careful.’

“Roman was right,” he said, stunned.

Roman flushed, slightly, as the other four turned to him, eyebrows raised.

“There’s a missing wire,” Logan continued, fingers skipping from one to another, until he reached an empty space.  Unique for its lack of substance.

He knew the feeling.

Squinting, Logan compared the wires on either side of the gap to his memory of the bruise on Remy’s neck.  

A perfect fit..

“Well,” he cleared his throat, slamming the lid back down with another protest from Virgil.  “I suppose you’ll have to get it fixed.”

“Why are you so determined to break everything in here?” Virgil moaned, running their hands down their face.

“I’m not the one who removed the piano wire, M-”  Logan cut himself off, unsure who in the room knew of their identity.  “Virgil.”

The name tasted odd on his tongue; not quite bitter but far from sweet – like a dry sort of wine.

A dark gleam of triumph shone in Virgil’s eyes.  “Well then, Logan, I suppose that’s my mistake.”

They looked far, far too pleased with themself.

“Nonetheless,” Logan continued, shooting a glare at them.  “I think that’s all I’ll be needing here. Mr. Torres, if you’re not otherwise occupied, perhaps you could guide me?”

“A pleasure, Mr. Sul,” Roman purred, putting his arm out for Logan.

With a put-upon sigh, Logan took it.

As soon as they were through the door to the backstage, Roman was all buzzing enthusiasm and shining eyes.

“The missing piano wire has to mean something, doesn’t it?”  His voice was high with excitement, flush with the thrill of discovery.

Logan missed that, sometimes – how much this job used to be about curiosity and passion and justice, not about a paycheck for his next bottle.

“Not necessarily,” he chided gently.  “To come to that conclusion, we would have to interview the pianist or whoever is in charge of repairs first, to ensure that the missing wire didn’t simply snap and was removed to be replaced at a later date.”

“Then the question isn’t just who took out the wire,” Roman concluded, “but also where they put it.”

Logan glanced slidelong at Roman.  “Yes, that’s… that’s exactly what I was going to say.”

Roman bit down a grin and shrugged.  “Well, I was just building off of what you said.”

He shifted his shoulders, just slightly, and their hands brushed.

“I guess we make a good team,” Roman continued, studiously not looking at Logan.  His hand was pressing against the back of Logan’s, insistently.

“Yes.”  Logan cleared his throat, holding his hand-stock still.  “I suppose we do.”

There was nothing there that could stop him from taking Roman’s hand in his own.  No one there who would object. Nothing there to keep him from lacing his fingers - short and broad - through long, elegant digits.  Nothing there to make Logan miss out on the sensation of warmth, traveling up his arm like so many sparks, radiating outward from where their palms chasetly met.  Nothing to keep Logan from pulling Roman close and keeping him there.

He shoved his hand in his pocket.  Walked a few steps away.

He didn’t bother to check Roman’s expression.  He didn’t want to know.

“Right then,” he said.  “Where exactly could a murderer be in a place like this?”

As Logan had previously deduced, Ego was shaped like a wagon wheel.  The show room occupied the center of the building and the entryway a narrow portion of the circumference, but the rest of it was riddled with dressing rooms and winding, twisting hallways.  Roman, quiet and terse – although from anger or disappointment Logan couldn’t tell – dispassionately listed off rooms as they passed them by.

“Bathroom there, hallway to the show room down there, dressing rooms here…”

Roman stopped in front of an otherwise nondescript metal door, rust lining the hinges.  “And this is the other door to the private hall. We keep it locked from both sides, but the private boxes are just on the other side.”

Logan dropped to his knees in front of the handle, squinting in the fairly dim lights.  “I don’t suppose you’ve got a light?”

Roman fished in his jacket and pulled out a sleek, silver lighter.

Logan arched an eyebrow.  “I was under the impression you didn’t smoke.”

A smug smirk lit Roman’s mouth.  “People go wild when you light their drags.”  He smoldered down at Logan. “Sometimes I light their cigarettes too.”

“Right.”  Logan fought down a surge of jealousy that wasn’t his to feel and took the lighter; holding the flame next to the handle, he noticed several small scratches around the keyhole.  “Look. Someone picked it.”

“Or someone with keys has shaky hands,” Roman responded tartly.

Logan tried the handle.  “Locked.”

“And here I was thinking you were a bonafide renegade, Mr. Sul,” Roman drawled.  “Yet here you are, befuddled by pins and turners.”

“I could probably concentrate better,” Logan, already with a few picks in the door, said, “if this strange, incessant buzzing didn’t insist on perpetuating itself.”

“Oh, sorry,” Roman said, lounging dramatically against the door.  “Am I distracting you?”

“Everytime you reveal to me how insufferable you really are, the homme fatale persona becomes less and less convincing,” Logan sighed.

Roman stilled and drew back.  “Well,” he said eventually, “there’s no reason for us to both wear masks.”

Logan startled.  Under his hands, the lock clicked open.

Roman pushed on the door, and it swung open silently.

Logan stood and stared down into the dark, empty hallway.  “Now tell me, Mr. Torres: why would a rusty door open without making a sound, unless someone primed it beforehand?”

Roman’s eyes widened.  “You think the killer came through here?”

“Not think, Mr. Torres.”  Logan slid his lock pick kit back into his jacket.  “I know.”

He frowned, stepping into the hallway.  “None of this makes sense, is the issue.  Someone with keys would have had ample time to commit the murder some other night.  Someone without keys would be hard-pressed to get backstage, navigate to this door, and commit the crime.  Why, then, is–”

Roman suddenly slapped a hand over Logan’s mouth.  “Look,” he mouthed, pointing through the open door of box twelve.

Dorian was inside, sitting in the chair Remy died in, running his fingers over the armrests.

Logan and Roman exchanged glances, creeping in on silent feet.

Dorian was staring through the window, back to the door, but his head dropped down and his shoulders began shaking, as if he was crying.  “It’s been awful without you, Rem.”

He pulled his hat off, running gloved fingers through thickets of messy curls.  “The lawyers are hounding Viper like they can smell pure gravy, and our daughter, Amoli, is absolutely despondent.  You’ve never seen a more depressed snake.”

Roman barely muffled his laughter.  Logan was inclined to agree.

“I just wish you could kiss me again, make passionate love to me.”  Dorian shook his head mournfully. “It makes me wish I didn’t… I didn’t…”

Logan leaned forward, tense.

“I didn’t have to inform these dumbasses that one-way mirrors are reflective on both sides when the stage light isn’t on.”  Dorian idly glanced over his shoulder. “Hello, boys.”

Logan flushed, and Roman coughed awkwardly.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you eavesdropping is rude, gentlemen?”  Dorian pulled himself sideways in the chair, lounging with his legs draped over the armrest.

“I’d be more mad if I wasn’t genuinely impressed by your acting skills,” Roman admitted reluctantly.

Dorian grinned, serpentine.  “You really bought it? I would think the ‘passionate love’ bit would be a bit over the top, even for you.”

“Melodramatic monologues aside,” Logan interrupted.  “What are you doing in here?”

Dorian draped a hand over his chest.  “Letting my beloved, late business partner know how our snake daughter is doing, of course.”

Logan’s glare didn’t falter, and Dorian shrugged, languidly pulling himself from the chair.  

“Work has been hell without him.  Makes me almost miss the guy.”

“I'm not too fond of your manners, Mr. Arya.”  Logan squared his shoulders, lip curling derisively.

Dorian smirked, slow and infuriating.  “I'm not crazy about yours either, Mr. Sul.”  He drummed his fingers against Logan’s chest, arching an eyebrow.  “Then again, maybe it isn’t your head that’s in the wrong place.”

He slipped to the side and slithered off before Logan could even begin to unravel that statement.

Roman scowled at Dorian’s retreating figure.  “Ignore him, Logan. Who does he think he is anyway? Walking around in a knockoff Blass suit.”

Logan stilled. “What did you just say?”

The star blinked at him. “That you should ignore him?”

“No.” The private eye waved a hand dismissively. “That's a knock-off suit?”

Roman shrugged. “Well, yeah. I know Bill Blass, and there's no way he would be caught dead making a suit with such wide lapels. Besides, the top stitch is all wrong.”

Logan stared at him for a long moment. “Mr. Torres,” He said eventually. “I have learned two very important things just now.”

“Being?”

“The first is that you are far too clever for me to be comfortable with.”

Roman scoffed, but a slight, shocked smile curled his lips.

“And the second is that our Mr. Arya is not who he appears to be.”

Chapter Text

“You have a nasty habit of finding people who don’t want to be found.”

Dorian was leaning against the cracked brick facade of Ego, cigarette loosely dangling from his lips, when Logan approached him.

Logan smiled thinly, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket.  There was a cold snap coming in. “Part of the job, I’m afraid.”

Dorian snorted, taking a long drag.  “What is it this time? Have you found my and Viper’s illegitimate child?  Mr. Torres’s evil twin brother? Is Mr. Parker a criminal who faked his death and has been living on the lam since?”

“No, actually.”  Logan leaned against the wall next to Dorian, both of them staring across the dingy alleyway to the next crumbling building.  “I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me for referencing the eighteenth century moral philosopher who said that one quote that made you think of the one thing that unraveled the whole case?”  Dorian drawled. “No trouble, really. Anytime you need me.”

“To thank you,” Logan continued, regardless, “for not hurting my shoulder.  Especially when you knew I was shot.”

Dorian didn’t react.  His breathing, continuing at a slow, even pace, didn’t hitch.  His shoulders, sitting relaxed in the suit jacket, didn’t stiffen.  His eyes stared forward, unblinking.

That, more than anything else, was how Logan knew he was right.

“You made to clasp my shoulder three days ago, but you didn’t.  At the time, I assumed it was some strange backtracking, but now I see you merely didn’t wish to harm me.  Really, it was rather considerate. As Virgil has shown us today…” Logan rolled his shoulder gingerly. “It would have proven to be a rather painful experience.  Your actions, of course, could be an aversion to touch, or mine specifically, but that particular theory fails to hold up when your previous encounters with me are considered.”  Logan snorted softly. “Besides Mr. Torres, I’d say you’re the second most tactile person here.”

“Like you don’t have aversions of your own,” Dorian said, mildly.  “Everyone has off days, Mr. Sul.”

Logan couldn’t argue with that, not when the ghosts of so many sensations on his skin clawed at him, digging into his flesh.  “But not all successful businessmen have to wear knock-off suits.”

Dorian blinked, looked down and tugged at his lapels.  “The suit?” he muttered.

Then, much to Logan’s shock, he started laughing, almost hysterically.  

The private eye startled, leaning back.  “Mr. Arya, are you… quite alright?”

Dorian was fully leaning against the wall, bright peals of laughter bubbling out of his mouth, ineffectually muffled by his gloved hand.  “The suit!” he howled, pressing his hands into his eyes as his bouts started to die down. “Of all things, it’s the damn suit that gives me away.”

His cigarette smoldered, forgotten, on the ground.

He managed to pull himself back into sobriety, but a hint of wildness lingered in the sharp curve of his smile as he pulled himself up, facing Logan.  “I didn’t take you for a fashionista, Mr. Sul.”

Stance more alert, eyes more shifty, an accent blurring the edges of his words – his mannerisms had changed infinitesimally.  The guise of the respectable businessman fell away, and Dorian Arya stood before the private eye.

“I’ll… I’ll confess it was not entirely my doing,” Logan managed, still trying to grapple with the sudden shift.  “Mr. Torres was kind enough to point out your fraudulent attire to me.”

Dorian sighed, shaking his head.  “Should’ve known better than to hang around the diva himself.”

“Once I made the obvious deduction that, if you can’t afford the genuine artifact, you must not be as legitimate as you claim to be, your hesitance to touch me was metaphorically cast in a new light.  Drawing from those conclusions, it was obvious that–”

“Spare me the dramatics, Mr. Sul.  I can track your logic.” Dorian’s voice was warm, almost amused.  “I knew you were shot, but at the time, only the man who did that could’ve known.  Or his associates, at least.”

“I’ll confess it’s good to know he survived,” Logan said.  “I’ve got enough blood on my hands as-is.”

“Bullet went clean through.  He’ll be fine.”

Logan hummed in the back of his throat before turning to Dorian, shoulder pressing into the chilled brick.  “So, Mr. Arya, how does a gambler and a con man come to work with Remy Salem?”

Dorian’s lips tried to tug themselves into a smile.  “A man can’t change his ways and make an honest living?”

Logan chuckled.  “I doubt there’s a single honest thing about you.”

Dorian raised one hand, drawing an X over his heart with the other.  “I honestly love snakes.”

The private eye arched an eyebrow.  “Merely due to the family resemblance or…?”

Dorian snorted, relaxing against the wall once more and casually flipping Logan off.

“Charming.” Logan grimaced, leaning back in turn.

They stood there, in a strange sort of impasse, until Logan spoke again.

“I’m not going to do anything to you, Mr. Arya, if those are your concerns.  I won’t turn you in or out you to the others. All I want to do is to know the truth.”

“Should I laugh now or wait until it gets funny?”  Dorian demanded, an edge of bitter irony to his words.  “Trust me, I’d love to get some of that ‘truth’ you’re so keen on as well.”

He was silent for a long moment.  His mouth opened, but nothing more than a wisp of confused air managed to escape before he closed it again.  Logan could almost see the years and years of deceit stacked up on his tongue in neat, militaristic rows, each lie primed and ready to be deployed at a second’s notice.

“It’s funny,” he continued, softly.  “I’ve been lying for so long that I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

“Then don’t,” Logan said.

Dorian startled, turning to him.  “What?”

“Don’t tell the truth, if it’s harder for you.  Tell me a lie.”

If Logan didn’t know better, he’d say there was gratitude shining in Dorian’s mismatched eyes.

“Okay,” the con man said softly.  “A lie. I can do that.”

He cleared his throat, shook his head, and when he spoke again, it was the smooth, silver tones Logan was accustomed to.

“I was the happiest immigrant story you’ve ever heard.  I worked my way through law school, just like I had always wanted.  I never starved on the streets or wondered where my next meal was going to come from.  I never had to turn to charming people out of their wallets just to scrape by.”

His yellow gloves scratched at the angry eczema patch on his cheek.  “Never got called a freak. Never had to fall in with the wrong sort.

“Remy and I found each other by choice, not assignment.  I wasn’t a con man, an agent to scope out a potential new sponsor for the gambling ring.  I was just a man, standing before another man in a smoky club, falling in love so slowly that” – A bitter smile lifted his lips  – “it didn’t even hurt.” He was quiet for a moment before clearing his throat, briskly straightening up. “We didn’t work well together, and I never helped him out of whatever scrape he ended up in.  We were lovers, not partners, even if the lines tended to blur.”

Dorian swallowed hard, dropping his eyes to the pavement.  His mouth worked a few times before he managed his last lie, perhaps the biggest one of them all.

“He loved me too.”

Dorian reached into his pocket, pulling out a match book.  He settled a cigarette between his lips and struck a match, staring at the flickering flame until it threatened to singe his fingers.  “That’s all you’re going to get out of me, Mr. Sul.”

He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, letting the burnt-out match sizzle out on the damp pavement.  

“I don’t get it.”  Logan eventually pulled away from the wall to look Dorian in the eyes, intent.  “Why would you lie about your emotions towards Mr. Salem?”

“I don’t like it when people see me hurting, Mr. Sul.”  He managed to shoot him a roguish grin. “Handsome detectives included in that list, unfortunately.”

Logan startled.  “What?”

Dorian shrugged.  “That’s how you know it’s love.  If it hurts you.”

“If I’m being honest, Mr. Salem never seemed to produce much of an emotional reaction in you.  You’ll forgive me if I’m having difficulties processing your… story.”

“What?”  Dorian’s face flushed, a low hiss escaping his lips.  “Are you…”

Logan hid a small, triumphant smile.

Dorian loomed forward, mismatched eyes livid.  “What the hell do want me to say? That I loved him?  That he was the best thing in my life? That I could’ve died I was so jealous of all those men he went around with?  This isn’t a fucking fairytale, Sul; it’s the real world. Remy was an asshole, but I loved him anyway. He was a fucking mess, and I would do anything for him.  Remy and I were never together, and I wanted us to be more, but now he’s–” He cut himself off forcibly, hands clenching until the seams of his dull yellow gloves strained against themselves.  

“He’s dead,” he said levelly.  “He’s dead, and all I have left are regrets.”

Something twisted deep in Logan’s stomach as Dorian’s words from a few days ago drifted back to him.  “So that’s why you said people like us don’t get happy endings.”

Dorian exhaled, mouth curling up into something bitter.  “Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, and it was almost a plea.

Logan couldn’t.

“I’m just saying,” Roman’s voice drifted out as soon as the doors to Ego swung open, “I still think it could’ve been anyone.”

“Why would it have been though?”  Viper snapped back as Logan followed the voices through the twisting, turning curves of the club’s backstage.  “Wouldn’t it have been more convenient to kill him somewhere else?”

“Not necessarily,” Virgil drawled.  “Public spaces and all that.”

“Exactly!”  Roman’s voice was triumphant.  “He was big into oil and all that, right?  You can get a ton of enemies whenever you’re in a dangerous business, and those rigs blow up all the time.”

“Oh, that’s true.”  Patton nodded emphatically as the two rounded the corner into the main room.  “When I was in Florida, I heard about this kiddo who went missing for weeks on one of those things.”

“Cases like that are far more common than one would think,” Logan supplied, prowling up to the group, Dorian on his heels.  “I tackled one with a rather unfortunate conclusion seven years ago. Although” – he looked around the group, an eyebrow arched – “I’d prefer it if the detective work was left to me.”

They, as a collective, looked unimpressed.

Patton said something to Virgil about it being late and Dorian pulled Viper into a conversation as Roman sashayed towards Logan, putting a hand on the private eye’s arm.

“You two have a nice chat?” 

Logan looked down at him, finding not playful seduction but intense curiosity in those jeweled eyes.

“Informative,” Logan said, shortly.

Roman pressed a little closer, almost insistently, but Logan just shook his head.

The homme fatale pulled back with a scoff and a pout of his red lips.  “Not like you to miss an opportunity to monologue, Specs.”

Logan looked over Roman’s head to see Dorian looking at him with those mismatched eyes.

“There are a few things that take precedence over my own ego,” he said, almost absently.

If he didn’t know better, he would say Dorian was almost smiling as he turned back to Viper.

“Come on, gang,” Patton chirped.  “We’d better get to bed before we go to jail.”

Logan blinked.  “Why would you go to jail?  Are you confessing to–”

“Resisting a-rest of course!”

Logan immediately yanked himself away from Roman’s grasp and power walked to the door.

“Mr. Sul.”  Viper intercepted him, swinging car keys around her finger.  “Why don’t I give you a lift home? It’s terribly late.”

Logan cast a side-long glance at Virgil, who only shrugged.

“It’d be a pleasure then, Ms. Salem.”

On the grimy city streets, the immaculate silver Jaguar stuck out like a diamond among scraps of coal.

Logan couldn’t help but raise an impressed eyebrow.  “A fine car.”

She brushed a hand over the hood.  “A XK 120. Tweaked it up a little, just for fun.”

Viper settled in the driver’s seat, beckoning Logan to join her with a nod.

He settled into the passenger’s side, half-certain the filth of the city would rub off of his battered coat and onto the pristine upholstery.  After he rattled off his address, Viper nodded shortly and turned the ignition. Her eyes lit up as the engine purred awake, as primed and ready to run as its namesake.

She pulled away smoothly from the curve, turning onto the gridded streets of their city.  Except this wasn’t their city, not really. Viper, as far as Logan knew, came from the upper east side – clean streets and coats that didn’t have to be patched up every other week and doorstoops clear of huddled vagrants, dirty faces looking up with resignation.

“What does being in love feel like?”

Logan snapped his head around to look at Viper so quickly he nearly got whiplash.  “What was that?”

“What does being in love feel like?”  She repeated, patiently. “You’re a clever man, Mr. Sul.  Surely you can quantify it for me.”

He managed a rough sort of laugh.  “I hardly think I’m the foremost expert on the subject.”

She frowned.  “You’re in love with Mr. Torres, aren’t you?”

Logan startled.  “I beg your pardon?”

She waved a hand dismissively.  “Or in lust. Same difference.”

“No, it’s not,” he managed.

Her silver-tipped fingers tapped against the steering wheel.  “Love is just lust between two people who can stand each other, as far as I can tell.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong impression, then.”

Her eyes narrowed, foot pressing down on the pedal.  “I just might.”

Logan dared a glance out the window, noticing with a jerk how quickly the buildings were zooming past, giving way to trees.  “Where are you taking me, Ms. Salem?”

“I told you.”  She jerked the wheel to a hard left, skidding down a side road.  “On a drive.”

Logan clung, white-knuckled, to the handle by the window.  “Like that slang term Virgil taught me?”

She almost laughed.  “No, Mr. Sul. Not quite.”

She banked the car again, pushing the accelerator past sixty.

Logan swallowed a yelp, pushing himself back down into the chair.  “Are you quite certain?”

A bitter smile curved her lips.  “We’ll see.”

The yellowing lights of the city were fading away, replacing themselves with bright porch lights, burning cheerfully on each cookie-cutter house of each perfect suburban family, so shackled by their own conformity they couldn’t even bear to have the grass cut a different length than their neighbors.

“Did you ever live in a place like this?”  Viper asked, abruptly, making another turn, seemingly at random.

“I beg your pardon?”  Logan said, a bit too wrapped up in trying not to die to respond properly.

“White picket fences and houses all lined up in a row,” she spat, tires squealing as she cut another corner, just a tad too sharply.

“No.”  Logan feverantly wished there was some way to belt himself into the seat.  “Never.”

A small, bitter smile flickered at the corners of her mouth, and she eased up on the gas, just a little.  “We’ve got something in common then.”

As they zoomed along, Logan realized that, despite her apparent recklessness, Viper’s control never wavered, tires hugging even the sharpest of turns.

“You’re a good driver,” he managed as the houses passing by faded to gray, growing cracked paneling and scraggly yards.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

They drove in white-knuckled silence until, without warning, Viper slowed to a stop in front of a ramshackle house, more of a hut than anything, cowering between its decrepit twins.  There weren’t any lights shining inside, but Viper didn’t look surprised to see no one was home.

“There.”  She pressed her fingertips to the Jaguar's pristine window, leaving smudges behind.  “That’s where I grew up.”

There was a gunshot somewhere, perhaps two streets over.

Logan flinched, ducking down behind the dashboard.

Viper didn’t blink, just shifted out of park and pulled back onto the streets, streaking away like a silver comet.  “We got a lot of those. I could hear gunshots every night. Had to put my pillow over my head and pretend they were fireworks just to get any sleep.”

The roads were cracked and warped, scarcely more than gravel slapped down in semi-straight lines.  Curtains flicked shut as they roared past, eyes too jaded to be curious turning away before they could get into any more trouble.

“Why are you showing me all this, Ms. Salem?”  Logan let his amber eyes scan the dilapidated world around him, reeking of desperation and more than its fair share of sob stories.

Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel, mouth drawing up into a sour pucker.  “This is what I came from. Tell me, Mr. Sul, why would I kill a man who gave me a way out from this?”

To that, Logan had no answer.

They continued in silence, watching as the houses became more and more spread-out, rusted bicycles and scraps of tires planted in overgrown lawns.  As they left the neighborhood behind, zipping onto a tree-lined side road, gray wafts of smoke drifted past the window. Logan startled, whipping his head forward to shout a warning, but Viper had already noticed.

With a curse, she shifted gears, easing up on the accelerator, but it was too late.  The car slowed, hissing and sputtering to a stop.

“Damn it,” Viper spat, hauling herself outside and examining the smoking hood with her hands on her hips.

Logan slid out as well, resisting the urge to drop to his knees and kiss the solid ground.  By the time he recovered, Viper already had the hood popped open, the sleeves of her dress pushed up to reveal surprisingly strong forearms.  Waving away the smoke, she fished a bandana out of her purse, doubling it up and turning a metal knob until a slow, steady hissing rang out.

She twisted her mouth into a frown.  “Make yourself useful, Mr. Sul, and get a gallon of water out of the boot.”

Logan frowned, peering inside the cabin of the car.  How on Earth would a gallon of water fit inside a Viper’s boot?  She was far too small.

“The trunk, Mr. Sul,” she trilled, noticing his distress.

He fumbled for the keys she threw at him but managed to open the trunk – filled with a tool case, a few cases of water, and a spare tire – and grab a gallon.

He hauled it back to her just in time to see her pulling out a long, thin metal stick out of the engine, squinting at the line of oil on it, and placing it back.

“Good news is that the engine just got overheated,” she said.  “Oil levels are fine, and the gasket head isn’t cracked, so all we have to do is refill the coolant and wait.”

“You’re good with cars,” he commented, handing her the container.

“I used to hide out in the back of a garage when things got too rough at home.”  She accepted it without looking at him, unscrewing a metal cap. “That’s how I met Remy, actually.  He couldn’t figure out how to replace a worn-out belt, and all the mechanics were on lunch shift. I fixed it up for him, and he came back the next day with a string of pearls and an invitation to dinner.”

She touched the necklace hanging around her neck.  “We got married a few months later.”

Logan blinked, startled.  “Isn’t that a bit soon?”

She shrugged, pouring the water into an empty tank.  “We knew it was never going to be romantic. He had a string of men to keep him occupied, and I’ve never been the sort for romance.”  She said it dryly, with no hint of bitterness or longing, just as someone would declare their aversion to a live bomb strapped to their chest.  “He needed cover, and I needed a way out. I didn’t have much of an education to get a job or anyone to take care of me anymore, so…” She shrugged.  “Seemed like my best bet.”

“Something tells me you hardly need anyone to take care of you,” Logan said, wryly.

She snorted.  “Tell that to the legal system of New York state.”

The hood closed with a satisfying thunk as Viper stepped back, wiping the grease off of her hands with the bandana.  “Nothing to do but wait.”

Logan grumbled, leaning against the car.  “I detest waiting.”

She flashed a half-smile at him.  “Two things in common? Mr. Sul, I must say this is getting a bit spooky.”

She hopped up on the hood of the car, leaning back and crossing her ankles, staring up.  “Come on then, Mr. Sul,” she coaxed once it was clear he wasn’t moving. “You’ll make me nervous just standing there.”

Gingerly, he slid onto the hood, keeping a healthy distance between them.  “People will get the wrong sort of ideas about you, Ms. Salem. All alone in the woods with a strange man.”

“They’ve already got it.”  A bitter smile touched the corners of her lips.  “At least most don’t mention it to my face.”

“You’re lucky then.”

“How’s that?”

Logan shrugged.  “In your crowd, a polite ‘no’ is enough.  In mine, it isn’t. The only kind of a ‘no’ they understand is from the end of a gun.”

“You’d be surprised.”  Her jaw tightened. “Skirt-chasers never seem to take no for an answer.  Maybe that’s why I like you, Mr. Sul. You’re a right bastard, but not in the ways that count.”

Logan snorted softly.  “A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.”

Something in his stomach twisted at her confession.  She could be lying, but she didn't exactly have motive to do so.  He was already working on her case as ardently as he could, but… the only other alternative was that she was telling the truth.

Strange.

Logan hadn’t considered himself the type of person others could like.  Not lately.

“I mean it,” she insisted.  “I've never seen you pressuring that singer of yours.”

“He isn’t mine.”  It was getting cold out.  Logan’s words left his lips in small puffs of air, like a short-lived speech bubble.  “I doubt he could ever be anyone’s. I don’t know if either of us are the types built for romance.”

“I don’t know how anyone really is.  It always seemed a bit ridiculous to me,” Viper confessed, lacing her hands together over her stomach, “that someone could just lose their mind over another person like that.  Used to be that all my friends would talk about butterflies in their stomach when they saw a certain someone, but it just… never happened to me. I didn’t see the point, to be honest.  The whole thing seems a bit over blown.” She sighed, twisting her mouth up into a frown. “Guess I just don’t understand.”

Logan couldn’t help a soft laugh.  “That makes three things in common.”

Viper startled, turning to him.  “But aren’t you… don’t you get those feelings?”

Maybe it was the sight of stars, shining above him, maybe it was the way the inky blackness wrapped safely around him, or maybe it was the fact that he had simply never had a listening ear like this, but, regardless of why, Logan found himself speaking, softly, honestly.

“I experience them, but understanding them is a far more ardent struggle.”  Logan pressed a hand to his stomach, as if feeling for butterflies. “It’s… different from person to person, I believe.  I always wanted it, and I thought I had it for a brief period, but then he…” Logan’s throat closed, a bitter taste growing in the back of his mouth.  “Well, I didn’t exactly get any closure.”

Viper’s hand briefly found his in the darkness, squeezed.  “I’m sorry.”

Logan just looked up into the star-studded sky, thinking of the salt of the sea and bright, shining eyes and the color red.  “I am too.”

“I think I miss it,” he added, later, once the comfortable silence had settled around them.  “It was… nice, while it lasted.”

“You could still have it, Logan.”  Her voice turned teasing, playful. “I can think of a certain singer who’d be more than happy to help you out there.”

“Yes,” Logan said, softly.  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Good night, Mr. Sul,” Viper said, later, after the car was cooled and the bright lights of the city rushed out of the forest to meet them.   “I’ll confess, this wasn’t quite what I expected when I invited you out, but…” She almost smiled. “I’m glad.”

Logan almost smiled back.  “Good night, Ms. Salem. And…”  He hesitated, gripping the door handle.  “Likewise.”

He watched, standing on the street corner, as she zoomed off in her Jaguar, like a silver comet in the dull gray darkness.  His steps were ponderous as he climbed the rickety stairs back to his apartment.

Maybe that’s why I like you, Mr. Sul.

It was ridiculous.  He didn’t deserve praise for something as mundane as respecting someone’s boundaries.

Still… it was nice to think he could be mistaken for someone worth liking.  It half-made him wish he really was someone who was worthy.

His hands were thick, clumsy as he fit the key into the lock and turned.

There wasn’t much to do in his apartment now that the liquor was gone.

Logan could feel the irritability creeping up on him, the itch for a drink on his hand, but he pushed most of it down, pouring water into a scotch glass, and letting the familiar weight ameliorate the itch that his own will power hadn’t quite managed to quell.  The water was cold going down, slowly pooling and spreading in his stomach.

He leaned against the counter, swirling the glass in his hands and watching the crystal clear water swirl, round and around, an endless spiral like his thoughts – going in circles, seemingly nowhere, but falling deeper and deeper with every seemingly innocuous turn.

Dorian Arya, who lost something like love and was miserable.

Viper Salem, who never had anything like love and was miserable.

Was that it, then?  Were happiness and love two unrelated variables with no correlation between them?  Or did the intensity of one just add to the fury of the other?

Not just romantic love either – it was that thing he saw shining when Virgil and Roman smiled at each other, or when Patton proudly looked over his club, or that moment, captured in a black and white photograph, were the three of them had their arms around each other, glowing.

Logan trudged into the living room, kicking off his shoes and letting his bare feet drag over the grimey carpet.  The couch squealed in protest as he settled on it, amber eyes passing over where Patton, Virgil, and Roman had sat, not so long ago.

Now that his brain wasn’t hazed over with booze, he grimaced at the state of his couch.  Not only that, he soon realized, but the state of the rest of the room as well. Crumpled newspapers and old case files strewn on his desk, peeling walls, dirt cloying every surface – the disarray was about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake.

What must those three have thought of him?

Logan Sul, who had love tenuously flicker in and out of his life and was miserable.

But maybe…

Logan stood, shuffling the papers on his desk into order.

Maybe he didn’t have to be.

Maybe he could be better than whatever this was.

Maybe he could be worthy of whatever it was the others were starting to look at him with.

In the kitchen, Logan wet a cloth, and he got to work.

He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed every surface in the room, from the counters to the walls to the cracked windows.  Those he rolled up, letting a breeze, polluted and pungent as it was, blow away the worst of the stagnant air. A quick knock on old Mrs. Hahn’s door (and a lecture on acceptable visiting hours) later, he acquired a vacuum to run over the grimy carpets.

He paused.

Had they always been white?

He mopped the tiled kitchen, wiped down the bathroom, and scrubbed his bedsheets until the stench of sweat and scotch faded away.  He collapsed onto his newly-made bed at a quarter past one, falling into a dreamless sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He saw himself in the morning, hair still damp from his shower, as he smoothed down the lapels of his suit.  His scars were prominent, but the shadows under his eyes had lightened. His hands were shaking as withdrawals clawed at his stomach like hungry demons, but his gaze was steady as he took in the newly-cleaned room.  Discontent still pressed his mouth into a flat line, but something in the pit of his stomach didn’t weigh as heavy anymore.

“Well,” Logan said, softly.  “That’s a start.”

Chapter Text

Logan ate breakfast for once, begrudgingly forking over a nickel for a bagel with lox and wolfing it down on his way to his office.  

His case files were there, and he needed some way to organize the myriad of thoughts crashing against each other in his head.

There had to be some way to spin this all.  To show the police without a shadow of a doubt that one of them had done it.

Damn the nagging voice in the back of his head that said he didn’t have to.  Damn the guilt churning in his stomach. Damn the dark, sultry smile that wouldn’t leave his mind.

“You’ve been solving cases for seven years,” he muttered to himself, “and you get tripped up by a smile.”

He was going to be better.  He wanted to be better, and that meant puzzling out this case.  Things would be better for everyone once one of his suspects was behind bars.

The only problem was who.

A stack of mail was waiting inside of his office door, pushed through the mail slot and left piled on top of each other.

He flipped through advertisements, notes from a few of his informants – a few interesting details, but nothing currently pressing – and a letter, all the way from Alachua county.

He threw it in the trash can without a second thought.  His old home was one he did his best to leave behind.

He spent the majority of the day filling out his case files, trying to get the myriad of thoughts crashing around in his head down in nice, neat lines of black ink against crisp, white paper.

Motive – to get a husband’s money, to thwart a blackmailer, to revenge unrequited love, to protect someone, to give in to envy.

Means – a piano wire.

Alibi – unaccounted for, missing, vague, untested, nonexistent.

There was something missing here, something hiding behind Logan’s world of crisp, cool logic and white and black lines.

Who could have done it?  Who made sense?

A headache was pulsing behind his eyes by the time Logan ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a sigh.

From the wall, his clock ticked invitingly.  6:15.

A smile lifted the corners of his lips as he swung his overcoat across his shoulders.  There was enough time to make a visit.

It was almost alarming, how familiar he was becoming with the cracked brick walls of Ego.  How familiar he was becoming with the secrets it held inside.

As he pushed through the frosted double doors, the red sign flickered to life above him, staining the darkness that threatened to close in behind him.

“Virgil,” he greeted as soon as he stepped inside, voice light if a bit stiff.   “Salutations. It is certainly, um” – he mentally ruffled through his notebook – “‘the bee's knees’ to see you.  You’re looking well.”

Virgil stood there, eyes wide as they slowly backed away.  “I thought we dumped all your liquor.”

“Yes, you…” Logan sighed, pushing down a twinge of annoyance.  “You certainly did.”

“Right,” They drawled, eyeing him suspiciously and sniffing, as if to check for the stench of whisky.  “Then why are you talking like someone put a gun to your head and told you to act natural?”

“I’m engaging in a bit of experimentation,” Logan said, expression carefully set to congenial.  “It’s called being pleasant.”

“Well, that certainly is out of your comfort zone,” they agreed, meandering closer with something far too delighted in their teasing expression.

“That’s…”  Logan’s smile strained, trying to slip away.  “That’s certainly true.”

“Plus, you probably could stand to be a nicer person,” Virgil mused, not even bothering to hide their coprophagous smirk.

“I seem to recall a saying about a pot and a kettle,” Logan snapped.

Virgil broke into a grin, briefly clasping Logan’s non-injured shoulder.  “There’s the moody gumshoe we know and loathe.”

Logan just shot him a dower look, mouth twisting up, askance.  “If that’s all, I was in search of Mr. Torres.”

He brushed past them, when Virgil called out for him to wait.  He turned to see them, something that wasn’t quite pity in their eyes.

“Seriously though, Logan.”  Virgil rocked back on their heels, rubbing at the nape of their neck.  “Don’t feel like you have to change everything about yourself for… whatever reason.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, you could definitely stand to be less of a fat-head, but I gotta admit that it’s… nice.  having someone besides Arya around who isn’t prone to flights of fantasy. It’s kinda. Reassuring or whatever. Cut out the times you’ve been an alcoholic dick, and… yeah.”

They shrugged, not meeting his eyes.  “You’re alright, man.”

Logan cleared his throat.  “I must confess that I find your pragmatism… refreshing, as well…”  He floundered for a gender-neutral equivalent nickname. “Fam.”

Virgil frowned.  “‘Fam’?”

Logan flipped open his notebook, frowning.  “Is that not a slang term?”

“No?”  Virgil snorted.  “Jeez, where’d you get that from?  Who would even say that?”

Logan shoved his notebook back into his pocket with a scowl.  “It may catch on. Eventually.”

“Sure.”  They rolled their eyes.  “Jeez, you really don’t need to use slang, you know.  We’d understand you just as well without, Mack.”

Logan shrugged, letting his thumb run over the yellowing, crinkling pages in his pocket.  “It was once pointed out to me that it made me appear more approachable.”

“Nah.”  Virgil offered him a half-smile.  “You’re doing a fine job of that on your own.”

A curl of something warm unfurled inside Logan’s chest.

“Ah,” he said, adjusting his glasses and fighting down his smile.  “I appreciate that, Virgil.”

“Whatever.  Don’t get mushy on me, L.”  They nodded their head towards the backroom.  “Roman’s in his dressing room. Follow the sound of too much vibrato, and you’ll find it.”

Logan snorted, softly.  “Much obliged.”

With a touch of his hat, he was off, sweeping through the main room, where Patton, leading a few stagehands in cleaning efforts, looked up with a smile  and into the dark and twisting pathways of Ego’s backrooms.

Despite the three times he had been backstage, the narrow hallways were still nearly impenetrable – a honeycombed labyrinth.

He stood still for a moment, head tilted to catch the faintest, softest strains of music drifting from somewhere deeper inside.

“You call everybody darlin’...”

Logan turned to his left, trying to follow the sultry voice.

“You don’t mean what you’re sayin’...”

Logan wandered through the halls, the song seeming to spiral in the air around him, neither leading nor pushing him, just laughing as he turned himself in circles.

“It’s just a game you’re playing…”

He rounded a final corner, nearly ending up with his nose pressed against a door with a golden star reading Roman Torres.   Silently, he pushed it open.

“But you’ll find out that I can play the game just as well as you.”

And there was Roman, crooning to himself with a coy smile on his red lips as he ran a comb through his already perfect hair, sitting before the vanity.

“Always singing, aren’t you?”

Roman startled, whirling around, but his face lit up as soon as he saw the detective standing in the doorway.  “There’s my favorite pain in the neck.”

Logan couldn’t help his answering smile - soft and faint, but heart wrenchingly honest.  “Is that what I am?”

“Nothing but a stressor,” Roman sighed, and threw him a wink, just to prove it.  “See?” He made a noise of disgust as he turned back to his mirror. “I swear I didn’t have a single gray hair before I met you,” he groused, examining his thick oaken curls in the mirror.  “Now look at me.”

“I find it hard to stop,” Logan quipped, crossing his arms and leaning back against the dressing room’s door.

Roman caught his eye in the mirror and smiled.  “Don’t get sappy on me, specs,” he said, voice almost too soft to be teasing.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Logan assured him, stalking behind the singer and wrapping an arm around his shapely waist.  “I assure you, I can remain perfectly professional,” he murmured into his hair.

“‘Can’ but not ‘will’ I see.”  Roman stood and turned in Logan’s arms, smiling up at him.

“You’re a mortal danger to all men,” Logan said, airily.  “Beautiful without knowing it, and possessing charms you’re not even aware of.  Like a trap set by nature.”

“Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac,” Roman said, smugly.  “You’ll have to try harder than that, Mr. Sul.”

Logan’s mouth twisted in playful disappointment.  “First Shakespeare, then Fitzgerald, now Rostand? Mr. Torres, I fear you’ll deplete my repertoire soon.”

Roman huffed out a laugh, nuzzling closer to the other man.  “Don’t worry, Mr. Sul. I have enough faith in you for the both of us.”

“Flattery,” Logan murmured, hands settling on Roman’s hips as he drew him closer still.  “Gets you everywhere.”

He could never get tired of this, the way Roman pressed himself against him, burning and blazing like a bonfire, the way his curls slipped through Logan’s fingers like silk, the way he gasped and shuddered when Logan took his bottom lip between his teeth and tugged gently.  But most of all, the way his mind quieted when they were pressed together, how the world faded away and the storm in his head abated, everything quailing in comparison to the force of nature wrapped up in his arms.

“Well,” Roman breathed when they pulled back.  “Hello to you too.”

Logan hummed noncommittally, eyes still closed, savoring the remnant peace in his head.

“What,” Roman teased, “singer got your tongue, Mr. Detective?”

And just like that, the storm rolled back in.  Logan couldn’t help his grimace, something twisting in his stomach.  “I think I prefer your other nicknames, Mr. Torres.”

Roman winced.  “Yeah, that one was a bit lacking.”

“It wasn’t,” Logan said, a bit too sharply.  Roman startled, and Logan softened his voice and expression, reaching out in apology and tucking his hand in the curve of Roman’s elbow.  “Forgive me. I…” He shook his head, pressing a hand to his stomach. “I’m not myself.”

Roman’s face creased in sympathy.  “You’re itching for it, aren’t you?  Another round of giggle water?”

Logan snorted, collapsing on the couch and letting his head loll backwards until it touched the wall.  “Itching like someone threw chicken pox and cythilicus all over me.”

Roman sunk in on himself, rubbing at one arm.  “I’m sorry for throwing out all of your stash. I know it wasn’t right of me, but when we found you there, half-way to gone, I just…”  He shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“It was probably for the best.”  A bitter smile touched the edge of Logan’s mouth.  “I know it’s not good for me. It just… makes it easier to sleep sometimes.  Quiets everything that’s going on up here.” He tapped his temple. “Gets rid of the worst of the nightmares.”

“You get those a lot?”  Gingerly, Roman curled up next to Logan on the couch, dark, jeweled eyes intent on him.

“More than anyone’s fair share.”

“Can I ask about what?”

Logan snorted.  “It's easier to list what they aren’t about.  Do you want to hear about the war, the dark underbelly of the criminal world, or the failed romance?”

Roman blinked.  “I’d hardly call this failed.”

Logan couldn’t help his laugh, hushed and bitter.  “Shocking as it is to believe, not everything is about you, Mr. Torres.”

“You’re right.”  Roman flashed him a grin.  “That is shocking.”

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t like this,” Logan found himself continuing without his own permission.  Those memories had pushed against his skull for so long that it felt strange yet pleasant to let them out, like the satisfying ache of pressing on an old bruise.  “I was little more than a kid. It was all so innocent, just a summer haze.”

A bitter smile lifted the corner of his mouth.  “But, of course, August had to come.” He shook his head, as if trying to shake away the memory of white beaches and palm trees and waves lapping against a dark sky.  “No matter. Those things are never permanent.”

“Who says?”  Roman demanded, a petulant twist to his mouth.  “Plenty of folks wind up happy.”

“Do people like us?”  Logan shot back, then winced once he saw the way Roman’s face fell.  “Oh, Roman, I didn’t mean…” He swallowed hard, adjusting his tie. “I’ve been making an effort to be pleasant today, but I’m afraid it’s going nowhere near as I planned.”

“It’s okay, Logan.”  Roman’s voice was soft, and he didn’t look at the detective.  “I know you didn’t mean it.”

He was lying, of course, but both of them were quite in the habit at that point.

“I…”  Logan cleared his throat, but whatever he was going to say died under the weight of Roman’s dark-jeweled eyes, looking back at him.  “I believe your rehearsal starts soon,” he murmured instead. “You’d better get ready.”

“Ah, you’re right.”  Roman slid out of his lap, sashaying over to the overstuffed racks of performance costumes.  He flashed a hesitant smile at Logan over his shoulder. “Why don’t you help? Find something you’d like me in.”

“Nothing isn’t here, though,” Logan mused, biting back a grin at Roman’s red-faced sputter.

“That’s not what I meant,” Roman hissed, hiding his face in his hands.

“Alright, alright.”  Logan held up his hands in mock-surrender.  “Far be it from me to challenge your honor.”

“Know your place, peasant,” Roman sniffed, pointedly turning away.

Logan just smiled as he began to rifle through the racks.  “Whatever you say, my Prince.”

For a while, there was comfortable silence as the two hunted through the racks and drawers and chests full of feathers and leather and silk and so many sequins it almost made Logan’s eyes sting.  In the back corner, Logan found Roman’s outfit from the night of the murder, neatly folded and tucked away.

He held it in his hands for a long moment.  Roman could’ve worn this, as he secreted a piano wire into his pocket.  Roman could’ve worn this, as he crept through the twisting maze of backstage, towards that rusty door.  Roman could’ve worn this, as he snuck behind Remy Salem, looped a wire around his neck, and began to pull.

“Find anything?”  Roman called.

It took Logan a second to remember how to respond.

“This?”  He suggested, pushing the white outfit away and randomly pulling out a red sequined dress with a slit going far, far up the left leg.  It had been pushed to the far bottom of a trunk in the corner of the cluttered room, but Logan was somewhat an expert in finding things secreted away.  “You’d look rather devastating.”

“Oh?”  Roman purred, turning around.  “Are my ears deceiving me or was that a complement, Mr. S–”

He bit off his words as he saw the gown in Logan’s hands.  His face shuttered closed as he arched an eyebrow cooly, lips pressed into a firm line.  “That’s a dress, Mr. Sul. Do I look like a dame to you?”

“No, I just– I–”  Logan reeled back, trying to stammer out a response, but Roman, rolling his eyes, was already prying the garment from his hands and throwing it carelessly back into its trunk.

“Clearly you have no eye for fashion, poor dear,” he cooed, batting his eyes up at the private eye.  “That’s alright; I’ll manage.”

His long, elegant fingers wrapped around Logan’s tie, tugging him down, and suddenly Logan was trying to remember how to speak for quite a different reason.

“Sit there and look pretty, hm?”  Roman purred.

Logan found himself collapsed on the armchair, Roman hovering above him, red lips brushing his with each word.  “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Roman, are you going to be ready soon?  Rehearsal's–” Virgil swung open the door then flushed, face burning as they took in Roman and Logan’s position.  “Sorry, I have to go. I just remembered there's a cliff I have to jump off of.”

Roman laughed, loud and bright and unabashed.  “You’ve seen me in more compromising positions, Mopy Dick.”

“Don’t remind me.”  They winced before turning a scowl on Logan.  “I sent you here half an hour ago. Don’t tell me you were distracting our star performer this whole time.”

“Alright,” Logan said, faintly, brain still buzzing with Roman’s recent proximity.  “I won’t then.”

Their head thunked against the doorframe, and they dragged a hand down their face muttering something about ‘stupid best friends’ and ‘stupid detectives’ and ‘one normal work day, goddamn it.’

“Just… be ready in five, or Patton’ll do the dad look.”  Virgil sighed, trudging off, still muttering under their breath.

Roman jumped to attention at that, practically flinging himself at his vanity to reapply another coat of lipstick, fussing over his hair.

“Distract Pat for me, won’t you, Logan?”  He pleaded, brushing on a coat of mascara.  “Nothing’s worse than the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ face.”

Logan collected himself and offered a mock-salute, standing.  “At your service.”

Patton was waving out the last of the workers as Logan entered the main room.

“Thanks for your help kiddos!” he chirped, handing each of them a cookie as they passed.  “I’m so glad you could chocolate- chip in!”

A few workers groaned, but most just laughed, thanking the club owner with smiles.

“Thanks, Pat!”  The last one called out, offering a wave as they disappeared into the night.

Patton smiled to himself as they left, then, with a huff of satisfaction, turned, only to come face-to-chest with Logan.

“Oh, Mr. Sul!”  He bounced back, beaming.  “How are you, kiddo? Feeling alright?”

“As can be expected,” Logan responded.  Pleasant, he told himself firmly.  You’re going to be pleasant.   “Might I inquire as to the gentlemen who just departed?”

“Not all gentlemen,” Patton corrected gently, setting down the plate of cookies on the stage.  “Patricia, the one with the pretty braids, is a woman, and Omar doesn’t like being referred to with pronouns.”

“Noted.”  Logan adjusted his glasses.  “You seem to know them rather well, for the help.”

Patton just smiled, hopping up to sit on the stage.  “Some of the kiddos who like to come here for events and stuff can’t always afford it, so I get them to help out with some handiwork from time to time, and we call it even.”

“Oh.”  Logan blinked.  “Altruistic of you.”

Patton waved him off, feet swinging.  “Nah. It’d be sad if all those poor kiddos couldn’t be at a place like this.” He gestured for Logan to join him, and they sat there for a moment, looking out over the club.  The furniture was all second-hand, scuffed and worn-thin, but clean and polished to a shine.

“Everyone needs someplace they can be safe,” Patton continued, softly.  “Were they don’t have to be afraid, just for being themselves.”

He shook himself out of whatever fog hung over him and flashed a smile at Logan, sliding the plate his way.  “Cookie?”

Logan took one, with some misgivings.  “Didn’t poison it, did you?”

“Of course not!”  Patton cried, a hand thrown over his chest, before his face morphed into a mischievous grin.  “I might have eaten it instead.”

Logan couldn’t help his startled laugh, and he bit into the treat.  Brown sugar and chocolate exploded over his taste buds, and he wolfed the whole thing down in less than half a minute.

“If that’s how you pay your workers,” he said, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.  “You may have to consider me hired.”

Patton just laughed, nudging Logan with his shoulder.  “Great! Next time the upholstery needs stitched up, you’re the man for the job.”

“I look forward to the day,” Logan affirmed, eyeing the plate ravenously.

With an eye roll and an indulgent smile, Patton handed him another.  “Save some for the band, Lo.”

“You know, I really don’t understand why you do all this,” Logan confessed, munching away.  “You treat everyone like they’re your child. Well,” he amended with a smirk, thinking of Virgil, “mostly everyone.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”  Patton chirped, swinging his legs, face perfectly pleasant.  “Everyone deserves someone to look out for them.”

“Everyone?”  Logan arched an eyebrow.  “Don’t you think that’s an exaggeration?  Not everyone is deserving.”

Patton’s pleasant expression intensified, sitting as firmly on his face as a mask tied on with steel wire.  “Well, I don’t know if I’d say that, but–”

Logan raised a hand, cutting him off as he heaved out a sigh.  “Could you please refrain?”

Patton blinked.  “Re- what now?”

“You have a strange tendency to hide whatever you’re feeling behind a smile, Mr. Parker, and I’m getting rather sick of it.  You know as well as I do that not everyone in this world is good. Hell, you probably know that not everyone in this room is good.  If you could have a normal conversation with me for once, that would be greatly appreciated.”

Patton’s smile wavered, shifting around like a rat trapped inside a cage, before it escaped, slipping off his face and leaving worry lines, shadows, and something defeated behind.

The club’s owner looked at him through solemn gray eyes.  “What else am I supposed to do, Mr. Sul?”

Logan sat there silently, and Patton let out a bitter laugh, pushing a hand through his hair.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I’ve been often informed honesty is the best policy.”

“Really?”  A note of heat crept into Patton’s voice.  “Is that what I’m supposed to do? Am I supposed to be honest when the police ask me just what type of establishment this is?  Am I supposed to be honest when Roman asks me if everything is alright? Am I supposed to be honest when people here need me to smile?  Am I supposed to be honest when I write to the godsons I have left and tell them that everything is fine? Am I supposed to be honest when things in this world are five seconds from falling apart, and everyone needs someone who at least looks like he’s holding it together?  Am I supposed to be honest with Virgil about how I feel, when I know how that will end?!”

“You never thought to ask how they feel?”  Logan countered.  “You just might be surprised.”

All the tension left Patton in a rush, leaving him quiet and slumped and bittersweet.

For the first time, a small, genuine smile lifted the corners of Patton’s mouth.  

“No need,” he said, quietly.  “I know Virgil loves me too.”

“What?”  Logan almost fell off the stage, turning to Patton with shock etched into every facet of his face.  “But- you- what?!”

A tiny laugh escaped Patton.  “I’m not as dumb as I look.”

“Then why?!”  Logan demanded.  “Why the pining, and the angst, and the drama?”

Patton leveled him with a flat, serious look.  It seemed so strange against the broad planes of his freckled face, but there was steel in his gray eyes.  “Because it isn’t safe.”

“Isn’t that the point of this place?”  Logan demanded, gesturing around at the club.

“It’s bad enough we both look like men, but there are limits,” Patton said, quietly.  “Even at a place like this, there are limits. Remy and Viper could get away with it, because everyone knew they weren’t really together.  Even you and Roman are both of Color. But you know how they treat people like Virgil who fall in love with people like me.”

Logan startled.  “You really think that’d happen?”

“Come on, Logan.”  Patton offered him a weak smile.  “Out of everyone, I’d expect you to understand how the world really works.”

Something settled, deep and heavy in Logan’s stomach.  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I do.”

Patton pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, shaking his head.  “I’ve tried so hard, Logan. For so long to make this a place that’s safe for them, but I’m just…”

“Scared,” Logan finished quietly.

Patton looked up at him with water-rimmed gray eyes.  “Terrified,” he agreed. “I try to get to know everyone who’s here, try to make sure they’re all good, but what if I missed one?  What if someone dangerous is still here?”

He cut himself off with a bitter laugh and gestured to Logan.  “The whole reason you’re here is because someone bad got in.

“If we got together, everyone would know.  We wouldn’t even have to say anything. They’d just be able to see it.  I don’t think I’d be able to stop touching them, once I knew that I was allowed to hold them, I wouldn’t…”  Patton swallowed hard, studying the pattern of his knit-gray suit.  “Patrons here don’t like Virge that much already. They’re tough. They keep everyone in line.  I don’t want to think about how easy it would be for someone, with just enough hate inside, to pull out a knife and start swinging.”

“It’s hurting them,” Logan said.  “I don’t think you know how badly Virgil wants you.”

“I’d rather they be hurt than dead.”  Patton’s mouth pressed into a steely line.  “I love them, Logan.  So I can suck it up.  So I’m going to do what’s best for them, not me.  Even if it means I never get to hold them the way I want to, it means I get to keep them safe.”

“I see,” Logan said, quietly, then nothing more.

Patton’s gray eyes took him in, a hint of confusion behind the determination.  “I thought you would have protested.”

Logan shrugged.  “You know this place far better than I ever could.  And I’ll confess that…” He shuffled, clearing his throat.  “I, too, would be… distressed. If anything unfortunate were to occur to Virgil.  Or Roman. As well as Viper.” He allowed himself to meet Patton’s eyes. “You too, I suppose.”

A grin spread across Patton’s face, slowly at first, but breaking into a blinding beam as his hands came up to cover his mouth, where a noise quite like the air being let out of a balloon was escaping.

“Why, Mr. Sul, you do care!”  Patton practically tackled the detective in a hug, still making that infernal squealing noise.

Logan, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling of Ego, let out a long-suffering sigh, and reconsidered this whole ‘benevolence and goodwill towards humanity’ thing.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

The doors at the far end of the room swung open, spilling in the last remnants of dusky light as the band filed in, chattering amongst themselves and calling cheerful greetings to Patton.

“Alrighty then!”  With a flash, Patton’s plastic smile was fixed back on his face as he bounced off the stage, wiping his hands together briskly.  “Chop-chop, it’s almost show time!” He swept his arms around the room as the band began to set up. “How’s everything looking?”

Logan let his gaze sweep around, eyes alighting on the recently-fixed chair backings.

“They did this one wrong,” he said, sliding from the stage and poking at an unusually lumpy lining.

Patton sighed.  “As soon as you successfully stitch up a few dozen chairs, Mr. Sul, you’re more than welcome to tell my workers how it’s done.  Besides” – he nudged the next one with his foot – “they’re all a bit mismatched, aren’t they?”

“No excuse for poor workmanship, Mr. Parker.”  A thought struck him. “If you had to give me an estimate for how long these chairs have been damaged, what would you say?”

“Oh, um.”  Patton blinked.  “A little under a week, I guess?”

“Huh,” Logan said, feeling at the lump under the chair’s velvet lining before he crouched down.

“Do me a favor,” he said, pulling a pen knife out of his jacket, “and don’t tell Virgil about this.”

Patton’s eyes widened.  “What, exactly, are you planning on–”

Logan slashed through the velvet backing, hand out just right to catch the thin metal wire that spilled out from inside.

“What is that?!”  Patton cried.

“That, Mr. Parker,” Logan said, staring down at the piano string, “is our murder weapon.”

Chapter Text

“W-why…”  Patton couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the wire, pale.  “Why didn’t my kiddos notice it was in there?”

“Old chairs, lumpy lining.”  Logan shrugged, standing up and squinting at the thin wire.  “Additionally, it slipped too far down the back for anyone to notice when they were repairing the top of the chair.”  He clicked his tongue. “It’s clever, really. It’s easy to slip something as small as this in the little gap, and anyone would have guessed the chairs would be patched up soon enough.”

“Oh.”  Violent shaking wracked Patton’s frame as he collapsed into a chair, as if his strings had been cut.  He stared at the wire in Logan’s hand, as if it would leap forward and attack.

“God, he’s dead, isn’t he?”  Patton said, faintly. “I never…  I didn’t see the body, you know? I just didn’t see him again.  I knew he was dead, but it’s…” He brought a hand up to touch the soft, pale flesh of his throat.  “That thing was wrapped around his neck. Then he died.”

Logan hastily shoved the thing in his pocket, but Patton’s gaze was unfocused, hands shaking where they were folded in his lap, and breathing too slow, too deliberate to be anything but a sign of a man trying to fend off the emotion that overwhelmed him.

“Patton,”  Logan murmured, crouching down to try to catch his eyes, but Patton’s gaze was fogged over.  “Patton, you need to breathe, alright?”

Patton blinked, deliberately, and turned to look at Logan with a sudden, startling ferverency.  “I’m going to tell you a secret, Mr. Sul. I didn’t like Remy, not at first. He was just some rich jerk that showed up, unprompted, and tried to act like the world owed him something.  Especially towards Virgil. He was awful. He’d always call them a ‘he’. They’d have these awful screaming matches about it, especially after the two of them got together.”

Logan couldn’t help his sharp noise of surprise, and Patton flashed him a self-deprecating smile.

“One of the kiddos that works here saw the two of them go off in a cab together.  Virge came back the next day with a hickey hiding under their collar.”

“And you were okay with that?”  Logan demanded.

“Ecstatic,” Patton confessed, softly.  “God, it sounds so stupid now, but I thought… I thought that if anyone could keep them safe, it would be Remy.”

He laughed, bitterly.

“Remy wasn’t…  I don’t think he was a very good person, Lo.  But you’d have to commit a worse sin than that for…”  Again, he touched the vulnerable flesh of his throat. “What a horrible way to die,” he said, softly.  “I hope it didn’t hurt for long.”

Strangulation by garrote involved several minutes of agonizing pressure, during which the lungs became saturated with carbon dioxide to the point where pulmonary function was lost and oxygen supply in the blood was depleted, but Logan didn’t think Patton would appreciate him sharing that information at the moment.

“Let’s get you outside,” he said instead, putting a steadying hand under Patton’s elbow and helping him to his feet.  “I think some air would do you some good.”

Patton half-hung on Logan, until they passed into the lobby and were suddenly intercepted by a tense bundle of Virgil Avery, seamlessly lifting him from Logan’s side and onto their own.

“Patty-cakes, you good?” they said, voice low and gentle, despite the almost-accusatory glance they shot at Logan above the club owner’s head. 

“He suffered a dizzy spell,” Logan said, smoothly.  “I believe he requires a bit of fresh air.”

Virgil bustled Patton out the door, murmuring and clucking over them.  Just before the pair passed through the doors, Patton glanced over his shoulder, mouthing ‘thank you’.

Silently, Logan touched the brim of his hat.

He took up residence in the lobby, watching with interest as the first patrons began trickling in around ten minutes later, giggling to each other, eyes alight and mouths grinning.

A familiar face caught his eye, and he rose, stepping neatly forward to intercept.

“For someone who claims to dislike this place, you certainly do spend a good deal of your time here, Mr. Arya.”

Dorian gave a shrug and a lazy smile.  “Seems to be where all the action is.”

“I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Dorian mock-gasped, gloved hands flying up to cup his cheeks.  “You mean you’re not omnipotent? Mr. Sul, you had the wool good and pulled over our eyes.”

Logan set his jaw.  “I’m an honest man, Mr. Arya.”

“Yes,” Dorian drawled.  “Because you’re the most reliable narrator of your own biased accounts.  Totally trustworthy, I’m sure.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dorian’s expression, his words, his posture were lazy, as if he were lounging, somehow, without even sitting down, but his mismatched eyes were sharp in his face as he idly scratched at a patch of his flaking skin.  “Not sure I like how you showed up like an eager beaver right before everything went haywire. You’ll forgive me for not opening my heart and mind immediately.”

“Is that what you see?”  Logan demanded. “A suspect?”

“You wanna know what I see, Mr. Sul?  You wanna know what I think is hiding behind those specs?”  Dorian tilted his head, the brim of his hat throwing half of his face into sharp relief.  “A man with a temper. A man with a history of violence. A man who wanted someone he thought Remy was after.  A man whose morals could be called questionable.”

“I find your morals questionable at best, Mr. Arya,” Logan snapped.

“I don’t care if you don’t like my morals.  I don’t like them myself. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.”  Dorian rolled his eyes. “Who watches the watcher, Mr. Sul? You barge in here with your accusations and your deductions but no one bothers to check what you’ve been doing this whole time.”

“I assure you, Mr. Arya, I am nothing if not professional,” Logan said stiffly, adjusting his tie.  “Frankly, I resent the accusations to the contrary.”

Dorian just looked at him through those mismatched eyes.  “I guess you’re nothing then, Logan Sul.”

Without another word, he slipped into the main room, and Logan, stunned, let him.

He found himself sitting in the back row, just before the show started.

Across the room, he saw Viper, and nodded in greeting, rising to join her, but she just shook her head and winked as she wrapped her arms around the shoulders of a nearby man.  Logan huffed out a laugh as the poor guy nearly fainted and nodded far too eagerly at whatever it was she whispered in his ear. Viper tossed Logan an airy wave as the two of them slipped from the room, into the entry hall, but there was something strange, almost bitter about the set of her mouth.

With a roll of drums, the curtains pulled back, and Ego’s prince stood before them.

Suddenly, all thoughts about Viper wiped themselves clean from Logan’s mind.

It wasn’t a dress, not exactly.  The fabric was clearly gathered into two pants legs, but they hung loose around his frame, revealing slits and tantalizing flashes of skin as he prowled slowly forward.  The shirt was made of the same red, sparkling material, hugging his torso and ending in a high neck. The shifting muscles of his arms were entirely bare.

Around him, people were shifting forward in their seats, eyes wide and greedy; if Logan hadn’t been just as enthralled as the rest of them, he’d be tempted to fight them all off.  He could secret Roman away, where it would be just him, drinking Roman in, kissing those red lips, brushing his fingers reverently over that lovely dark skin.

“To spend one night with you,” Roman crooned, “in our rendezvous.  That’s my desire.”

His voice was husky, purring and dripping with promise.

“Roman!”  Someone in the crowd yelled.  “I love you!”

There was a hushing, but Roman just laughed, throwing a wink that way.

“We'll sip a little glass of wine, and I'll gaze into your eyes divine.”  He smiled coyly, relishing in the whoops and cheers that met him as he swung his hips, lidding his eyes.  One hand ran up the expanse of his muscled arm, trailing up his neck and caressing his lips. “I'll feel the touch of your lips pressing on mine.”

“It’s rather queer,” Logan heard someone behind him murmur to their companion.  “He never used to sing so many love songs.”

“To meet where ladies play, down in that dim cafe, and dance till break of day.”

There was a sudden stir from the back of the room, on the side opposite Logan, and he saw a figure stand, jostling through others to get closer.  Angry murmurs met the man, but he pushed forward again, until he was almost sprinting, eyes wide and fevered.

He was going to rush the stage.

In a flash, Logan was on his feet, running, but out of nowhere, a blur passed him by, and suddenly the man fell to the floor, one hand still desperately out where he had been reaching for the stage.  Virgil loomed above him, eyes dark and fierce.

He tried to push himself, but Virgil grabbed his arms, twisting them into a painful lock.  They hissed something Logan couldn’t hear and wrestled him up and towards the door.

On stage, Roman had collapsed backwards, but the band was clustered protectively around him; the bassist – a woman named Zuhal with a gentle voice and a plain black hijab – was crouched next to him, murmuring soothing words.  He was shaking, an ashen tint to his skin.

The audience fought with itself – half the patrons jeering at the perpetrator and half shouting for Virgil to let him go.  People rose in their seats, hollering and swarming. Virgil managed to strong-arm the perpetrator into the entryway, but the audience didn’t falter.

On stage, Roman flinched back.

Logan’s vision flashed red.

He darted through the crowd, throwing elbows and baring his teeth at anyone who dared get too close to the stage.  A man, nearly his height and twice as wide, snarled right back, and Logan swung a fist into his gut, knocking the air right out of him.

Just as it seemed the audience would succumb into outright blood-lust, a calm, bright voice washed over everyone’s heads.

“That’s quite enough, kiddos!”  Patton Parker stood from his usual seat in the back row, flashing his neon smile.

As if a switch had been flipped, everyone froze, looking almost guilty.

“Now,” he continued, ruddy-cheeked and congenial, as he bustled onto the stage, handing out smiles as he passed,  “we can hardly blame anyone for getting a lil’ riled up around our prince here” - he threw Roman a wink - “but it’s always important to keep things calm, alright?  I know princey and your dear old dad both appreciate it!” He exchanged a conspiratorial glance with the audience, dropping his voice into a pseudo-whisper. “My legs aren’t what they used to be, so I kinda kneed to keep things cool.”

A smattering of laughter rippled through the crowd, and he beamed, giggling along.  “Let’s all take our seats, alright?”

With a shuffle, everyone found their places, but Logan slipped away, tucking himself against the thick curtains.  “Roman,” he said, softly, and the singer startled, whipping around to see the detective.

“Are you quite alright?”  Logan asked, trying to keep his voice soft. “We can get away, if you need.  I can secret us backstage with no issue.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Sul.”  Roman flashed something that could have passed for a smile and stood, brushing himself off.  “The show isn’t over.”

“In that case,” Patton was saying, “let’s all remember to tip our servers, respect the performers, and legs get this show back on the road!”

Hearty applause met his words, and after Patton gestured encouragingly at him, Roman retook the microphone, crooning as the band re-started the song.

Logan’s gaze trailed Patton as he slipped back into the audience, smile dropping as soon as the shadows folded in around him.  There was a fierce sort of stoniness to his face as he slipped into the lobby.

Silent as a whisper, Logan followed.

Virgil had the patron’s arms twisted up into a painful lock as Patton approached, shoes clicking firmly and deliberately against the cool floor.

“Well,” he said, mildly, taking the man in.  “That wasn’t very nice, now was it?”

The man attempted an apologetic grin, letting something like a grimace settle on his lips.  “I know what you thought, but I swear you’ve got it all wrong. I was just… trying to get closer, is all.”

“And I’m sure we all know how close you were planning on getting,” Virgil spat.

“Virgil,” Patton admonished gently, though his gray eyes never strayed from the perpetrator.  “Let’s be sweet, alright?”

He hummed, lacing his hands together and rocking back on his heels. “You know,” he told the man, “you’re a ‘lil lucky.  We don’t really like the bulls around here, so you don’t have to worry about jail.”

The man only just managed to breathe a sigh of relief when Virgil’s fingers tightened around his arms, so tightly Logan could almost swear he heard bone creak.

“No police,” Virgil agreed.  “Just me.”

The man’s face went pale as Virgil smiled a shark’s grin.

“Virge,” Patton said, saccharine.  “Escort him outside and take care of him for me, pretty please?”

“Wait, no, please no!”  The man babbled frantically, digging his heels in, as Virgil began dragging him outside.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’ll never bother you again, I swear, I’ll never come back just please please–”

Patton held up a hand, and he clamped his jaw shut.

Patton considered him, mouth puckering in consideration.  “Really? You pinky promise never to come back?”

The man nodded frantically, head bobbing.  “Yeah yes of course.”

Patton sighed, waving a hand at Virgil.  “Let him go.”

Virgil startled.  “What? But Pat–”

Patton fixed them with a level look, and they relented, flinging the man distastefully away from them.

He hastily backed away, babbling and groveling out apologies and promises up until the moment he slipped between the double doors and into the night.

The second he did so, Virgil and Patton burst into laughter.

“Did you see his face?”  Virgil wheezed. “He really thought I was going to do something.”

“Be nice.”  Patton swatted at them, muffling his own giggles.  “You can be plenty intimidating.”

“What,” Logan spoke up, “on Earth was that?”

The pair startled, turning to see Logan, confusion plastered over his features.

“Mr. Sul!”  Patton beamed.  “Welcome to Ego’s very own rule-enforcement policy.”

“Don’t have to worry about trouble-makers if trouble-makers are too scared to ever come back,” Virgil added, tapping the side of their head.  “Plus, it helps my rep when someone is dragged out, never to be seen again.”

“Wait, but weren’t you going to…”   Logan waved a hand, trying to display the impression of dark alleyways and fists and bruised knuckles.  “Do something?”

“Of course not!”  Patton’s eyebrows drew together, affronted.  “We just had to make sure he was a bit spooked, is all.”

“I’d love to,” Virgil admitted, then winced as Patton elbowed them, “but Pat isn’t big on the whole ‘corporal punishment’ thing.”

“Oh.”  A frown creased Logan’s face.  “But then what about–”

In his peripheral vision, a flicker of movement caught his attention.

There was a mechanical room, tucked neatly away in a cranney between the main entrance and the heavy doors to the showroom.  Viper Salem was slipping out of it, a man trailing after her with sex-mused hair and glazed eyes. Logan disregarded the man, narrowing his amber eyes at Viper herself.  Her face was shuttered, and she refused to quite look her companion in the eyes.

Without a word, she left him, slow enough not to draw any regular attention, fast enough to catch Logan’s.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Parker, Virgil,” Logan said, not bothering to wait for a response before, silent as the dark shadows pressed against the windows, he followed Ms. Salem.

Viper’s gaze darted around suspiciously, clearing the path before her.  She glanced behind her shoulder, but Logan had the presence of mind to pause and act as if he was inspecting a piece of scarlet drapery.

Satisfied, her pace picked up as she cut into the darkened main room before seamlessly picking the lock slipping backstage, Logan a soundless spectator.  With Roman onstage, no one even noticed them.  

Backstage, free from any prying eyes, she was practically running, yanking off her heels mid-stride and clenching them in a white-fisted grip.  Her other hand pressed into her stomach.

Her shoulders heaved; a muffled sob escaped her lips.  She threw open the door of the dingy bathroom like it was the gates of heaven and piously knelt before the toilet, slamming the door behind her.

Logan stood pressed against it, scarcely daring to breathe.  The sound of retching, of sobbing, of curled fists hitting the floor rang out.  Viper was sobbing like someone had torn her heart, her soul from her chest, and stood there, dangling them inches from her grasp.

It was a sound Logan was rather familiar with.

Before he could think better of it, Logan was pressing against the peeling paint and the door swung open.  “Ms. Salem,” he said softly, and she jerked to her feet like a puppet on a marionette string, frantically wiping tears and bile from her face.

“Mr. Sul.”  She cleared her throat, hands fluttering as if they couldn’t decide what to right first.  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you to knock before you walk in on a lady?”

“When it comes to traditional chivalry, offering comfort to a crying dame just tops out knocking.”  Logan’s words teetered on the edge of his lips before he allowed them to fall. “Are you alright?”

Viper stared at him for a moment before slumping over like her strings had been cut.  She looked ashen and exhausted under the dull lights, makeup running and spine bent. “Aren't you always reprimanding us about stupid questions, Detective?”

“I tend to be more forgiving of faults in myself than in others.”  Logan tried not to grimace as she rested her cheek against the edge of the toilet, eyes dull.  “Let me help you up.”

She took his arm, and he lifted her effortlessly to her feet.  Despite her sturdy frame, she seemed insubstantial, almost - just a wisp of green satin and curls.  As soon as he let her go, she wilted against the sink, forearm pressed against the cracked porcelain.

“You know how foreign emotional comforts are to me,” Logan said, softly, “but I'm given to believe when someone asks ‘are you okay’, they are truly inquiring as to what's wrong.”

Viper shrugged listlessly.  “You know my reputation. It's not one I like.  Flings… never happen right for me.”

“Did he…”  Logan took a step back and raised his hands, trying to appear as small and harmless as possible.  “Did he force you?”

Viper laughed bitterly, wiping the last bit of slime from her mouth.  “No. I came onto him. I come onto all of them.”

Her hand drifted behind her ear, fiddling with the clasp of her hoop earrings.  It was so quiet, Logan could hear it snap into and out of place - clicks as rhythmic and consistent as the hushed whispers of a clock.

“I think there's something wrong with me,” she said, so quietly Logan had to lean forward to hear her.  The words were smooth, soft, hesitant, as if she had run them over in her mind so many times she was afraid to give them the weight of the real world.  “As soon as I grew old enough to start turning heads, people told me that's what I was, that was how I'd escape the treatment people like me” – She glanced at Logan and smiled wryly – “People like us get.”

She sighed and sank to the floor, blind to the filth and grit.

“And I saw the way they all looked at me, but when I looked back, I didn’t feel anything.  Not the urge to kiss them, godforbid undress them, or even to hold hands. Have dinners together.  Get married. I never…” She laced her fingers together in her lap. “Something’s different inside me.  I figured that if I tried… being with someone, then it then it might feel better. I’d like it once I got used to it, but… it never happened.”

“Then why do you keep trying?”

She looked at him, and there was something defeated in her eyes.  “What else am I supposed to do?

“First I was a kid, then I was a Black woman with no prospects, then I was a trophy wife, and now I'm… nothing.  My whole damn life, I've never had a choice in anything. Even when I managed to get out of my neighborhood, that was just because Remy snatched me up.  It wouldn’t matter if it was me or any other girl off the streets. I'm a stock character, the femme fatale!  

“Sex is all I'm good for.  I drag some dame or some suit into a dark room, and, just for a minute, I can pretend that I've got a choice.  I can pretend that… I want them. I can pretend I'm in control of something about my life. I can pretend I'm not broken.”

“Broken?”

“Look around, Logan.  Everything in this dreary world is cheap booze and guns and sex.  People go mad with lust disguised as ‘love’, but I've never been… interested.  In either of those things. People talk about that spark, the heat curling in the bottom of their stomach, the electricity zipping through their veins, and I feel… nothing.  I can't. There's this whole other language of sex and romance that I don't understand.”  

She sighed shakily, burying her head in her hands.  “Everything in this damn world is about sex, except for sex.  It's about power. And if I can make someone want me, just for that moment, I'm not… powerless anymore.  And I hate it. God, I hate it.”  She looked up and smiled at Logan.  He wondered how he'd never seen the sharp, brittle edges hiding behind that smile.  “But it's my part to play.”

“You're not broken, Viper,” Logan promised.  “God knows you deserve to hear it from someone you can trust more than me, but I swear by whatever light is left in this world that you aren't.”

“What am I then?”  She rounded on him, eyes flashing, glowing with pain and anger and a lifetime of hurt.  “If I'm not the femme fatale and I'm not the trophy wife and I'm not broken-” Her voice caught, and the fight drained out of her slowly.  Her shoulders slumped as she gathered her knees to her chest, huddling into herself.  “What's this… thing that's wrong with me? What am I?”

Logan watched her, sorrow creasing the corners of his eyes.  “Isn't Viper Salem enough?”

“She never has been before.”

Her voice cracked, trembled, fractured like a shattered mirror.  

“I don't know what you are, Viper,” he confessed, laying a hand over her trembling palm, “but I do know something.”

“What?”  She drew back to look him square in the face, tear-rimmed eyes searching his features like she could somehow read the answers there.

“Whatever you are,” he said simply, “you're real.”

She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed out a lifetime of fear and heartbreak.  He held her there, on the dirty bathroom floor, until her tears ran dry.

He shuttled her to her car once she’d recovered, and she waved off his concerns over if he’d be able to get home alright.

“I may be questioning everything else about my existence, Mr. Sul,” she said, managing a wry smile,  “but I’ll never question if I’m in the right state to drive.”

He stood on the dim street corner and watched that silver comet of a car until it was swallowed up by the city.  People started to file around him, going off, back to homes and lives and jobs, and all the other places where they had to pretend they didn’t frequent places like this.  Two women, both with wedding rings, stood close, arms wrapped around the other’s waist.

“Tomorrow,” the taller one promised, cupping the other’s face.

The shorter one nodded, leaning into the touch with a sad smile.  “Tomorrow.”

She was a mousey little thing, the sort usually prone to timidity, but her eyes were bold as she cast them surreptitiously around and rose up on her toes to steal a kiss from the other woman’s red-painted lips.

Logan averted his eyes and curled his hand into a fist.

What was it about love that seemed to make people so reckless?

He dared a glance back, but they had been swallowed up by the crowd, no doubt off to lie to their husbands about where they’d been.

In the distance, there was a rumble of thunder, and Logan lifted his head to the sky.

There was a storm rolling in.

Once back inside, Logan rapped lightly on the golden star of Roman’s dressing room.  “Is there a Mr. Torres inside?”

That low and thrilling voice drifted back out, carrying a grin.  “That depends, who's asking?”

Logan couldn’t keep the note, low and anticipatory, out of his voice.  “An ardent admirer.”

“Well, in that case…”  Roman swung open the door with a soft smile, leaning against the door frame.

Logan was about to think of a witty comeback when he saw Roman.  Roman Torres not in a suit. Roman, wearing not a suit but soft, rumpled clothes and a soft, rumpled smile.  Smudged makeup and tired eyes on Roman. 

No matter how he formed those words, no matter how many combinations he could fathom for the sight before him, they felt… They felt like… Something.  They felt like something. And Logan felt like something. Something he didn't want to, didn't dare to name.

Something like a candle, flickering on the inside of his chest.  He was afraid, suddenly. So, so afraid that if he even twitched, it'd go out forever and he’d lose that ineffable glow.

A curl of fear wrapped itself around his heart.

“You’re not wearing lipstick,” he said, instead of anything remotely witty or intelligent.  Mentally, he kicked himself.

A defiant, proud sort of flush crossed the bridge of Roman’s nose.  “So?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“No! No, I didn’t…”  Logan shuffled, adjusted his glasses.  “I had no intent to offend. I was merely… taken aback.  You, ah…” Logan had put his tongue down this man’s throat before.  Surely he could give him a compliment. “You look quite nice.”

“Oh.”  Roman blinked, foundering for a moment, before that coy, practiced smile settled on his lips.  “Just nice, Mr. Sul? Not ravishing? Gorgeous?” He stood on his tiptoes and purred into Logan’s ear.  “Sexy?”

“No,” Logan said, simply.  “Adorable, quite frankly. I believe this is akin to a kitten attempting to seduce me.”

With a huff, Roman bounced back on his heels.  “Sex kitten?” he attempted.

Logan’s eyes went wide.  “What?! No, that’s terrible!  Why would anyone–”

Roman hastily waved him off.  “Just another expression, specs.”

Logan heaved out a sigh and fished out his notebook, grumbling.  “Someone ought to be censoring these things.”

Roman shook his head, vaguely bewildered.  “Why do you even bother cataloguing those things?  You never use them.”

Logan’s hand tightened around his pen before he forced it to relax.  He carefully jotted down the phrase with a shrug. “Call it a bit of a guilty pleasure.” 

Roman smirked, white teeth biting down on a pink lip.  “No pleasures are guilty.”

“You’re too cute for this to work,” Logan informed him dryly.

Roman pulled a face and flashed a sheepish smile.  “Force of habit.”

“You shouldn’t have to smile through everything,” Logan said, a pang of guilt hitting him.  “Forgive me, I didn’t even ask about how you’re doing.”

Roman blinked owlishly.  “What do you mean?”

“After that man rushed the stage!”

“Oh, that.”  Roman waved a dismissive hand and turned back to his room, obstinately fixing his hair in the mirror.  “It’s nothing.”

“It’s far from nothing,” Logan countered hotly, stalking behind him.  “You appeared rather distressed.”

Roman shrugged, not meeting his eye.  “Not the first time it’s happened. I’m sure it won’t be the last.  Virgil’s never slipped up, though, so I’m sure I have nothing to fear.”

“Roman,” Logan said, softly, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “You are not required to pretend with me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Specs.”  Roman pulled away. “Let’s just say I can take care of myself and leave it at that.”

Logan shook his head.  “Are you ever going to give me a straight-forward answer, Mr. Torres?”

A dark, almost bitter sort of melancholy passed over Roman's face as he swung a coat over his shoulders.

“You like mysteries, Mr. Sul,” Roman said softly.  “And I'd prefer it if you kept liking me.”

“Are you saying I only care for you because of the mystery you present?”  Logan blinked.

“No,” Roman bit out, knotting a scarf around his neck with a vicious sort of single-mindedness.  “I'm saying you wouldn't like me if you knew everything about me.”

“And how can you be sure of that?”  Logan demanded, taking a step after him.

A sad, wry smile twisted Roman’s lips.  “Let’s call it intuition.”

Logan started to protest, but Roman shook his head, as if to push away his melancholy.  “Come on, Mr. Sul,” he murmured, taking his arm and leading him through the twisting halls of Ego’s backstage.  “It’s too late and too nice a night to quarrel.”

Rain lashed against the exit door’s window, and Logan grimaced.  “Are you sure about that!?”

Roman just laughed and pushed the doors open.

Logan shied back from the onslaught, staring with loathing at the barrage of water; it wasn’t the brackish thing he loathed, yet it was still far too close.  Puddles dredged up oil that had long-since burrowed into the streets, glimmering sickly with iridescent hues. The few people passing by on the busy street scurried about like insects, hiding under back umbrellas and sodden newspapers.  Logan tore his eyes away from the way they lapped at the curb, like waves upon the shore, and fixed his gaze somewhere across the road.

“I don’t suppose you brought an umbrella,” he managed, voice somehow steady.

“No,” Roman said, but he was smiling as he stepped out into the downpour.

It made him laugh and plant himself, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. His palms rose towards the sky; he could feel the rain, cool and fresh and clean, as it came down. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, the rain streaming over him in rivets of diamond.  Logan watched it trickle down his fingers, wrists, arms, forehead, nose, lips. He looked breathtakingly beautiful, dripping wet and glowing from the yellow street lamps, like a false sun. Logan would never get used to seeing him like this - bright and shining against their gray world.  That strange feeling curling in Logan's stomach made him take a few steps closer to where Roman was standing, raise his hand, and touch his arm, soft enough to be discreet. 

When Roman blinked his eyes open, raindrops clung to his lashes, making his eyes look huge and wonderstruck.  His fingers slipped easily, discreetly into Logan's. Logan couldn't help but think he looked even more beautiful when the rain started to fall over both of them, together.

“Almost no one here,” Roman murmured, soft as the rains.  He pressed closer, half-expectantly tilting his head.

Logan brought a hand up to brush those red lips.  “Almost,” he warned.

Roman sighed, the warm air washing over Logan’s fingers.  “Almost.”

Logan swallowed.  He pulled away. “Pretend,” he said, instead of drawing Roman close and kissing him, kissing him, kissing him, until he was drowning in soft skin and red lips and fire - the rest of the world be damned.  “Pretend I'm kissing you so hard it hurts.”

Roman almost smiled, torturing him with soft brushes of their hands.  Too much and not enough. “I wish you were.”

“You scare me, Mr. Torres,” Logan said before he could stop himself.

Roman laughed, a bemused sort of tilt to his head.  “Has my reputation as a fearsome warrior reached your ears already?”

Logan smiled, shook his head.  “Let’s go with that.”

Roman gave him a queer sort of look, but shook it off, letting his palm slide against Logan’s as he pulled away.

It was strange, how little mind the people passing them on the street paid them, so long as they didn’t stand out.  Walking side-by-side, not touching, buried beneath dark overcoats and low-brimmed hats, they could’ve been absolutely anyone.  Just two more faceless figures in the late-night throng.

If he reached out to touch Roman’s hand, if he tucked his arm around his waist and pressed a kiss into his hair as they walked, if he even smiled at him with too much affection in his eyes, this crowd would turn on them in an instant.

An image of those women he had seen before, standing together in the middle of the street, flashed before Logan’s eyes, unbidden, and he felt something like longing curdle in his stomach.

Something about love seemed to make people reckless, but Logan had always been a careful man.  

A coward.

But he could always do what cowards did best – hide.

Before he could think better of it, Logan’s hand darted out to close around Roman’s, quickly pulling them into a narrow alley.

“Mr. Sul?”  Roman followed quickly behind, voice confused but eyes bright with raindrops and curiosity.

Logan kept pressing further into the shadows, quickening his pace, drawing them deeper into the gloom, into the maze of alleyways and side-streets and grit that marked New York City, his city.

Roman’s touch burned against his hand.

Not really, of course.  Touch wasn’t real. Logan, a man of science, knew this to be true.  Nothing really touched anything else; atoms pushed each other away, and the brain treated it like a sensation, like something was there, pressed against you, when there was nothing but empty air.

Even when they were alone, there was something keeping them apart.

There, with Roman’s hand warm in his own, Logan was aware of the emptiness of the gaps between their palms, and even as he drew them to a halt and wrapped his arms around Roman’s waist and kissed him like he meant to devour him, it still wasn’t close enough.

Closer.

He gripped Roman’s waist, feeling the star lick into his mouth.

Closer.

His hands skimmed over Roman’s face, touching the smooth, unscarred skin, the high sweep of his cheekbones, the arch of his eyebrows.

Closer.

Logan pressed forward, as if that could rewrite the rules of the world around them, as if the fire blazing in his stomach could burn away science and society and mysteries until there was absolutely nothing left between them.

Roman squirmed under his hands, gasping into Logan's mouth as his back hit the cold, wet brick of the alleyway.

Logan pulled back immediately.  “Too much?”

Roman glared at him, eyes dark and chest heaving.  The rain slicked down his curls, crystalline water trickling down his neck, bringing a flush to his cheeks and glow to his skin.  “Not enough,” he growled, grabbing Logan's tie and pulling him back in.

Closer.

Roman’s hands skated over Logan’s chest, pressed between their torsos as his fingers took in every curve of muscle and jagged edge of scar beneath that thin cotton shirt.

Closer. 

Roman blazed, searing against his skin.  He was a flame against the chill of the rain and the wind of late August.  It made him want to press Roman deeper into the bricks and take him in front of the gray sky and the thunder rolling in from a far off land.

Closer.

Logan’s hands, desperate to touch more of that smooth skin, slipped under the edge of Roman’s shirt, skimming over the curving edges of hip bone, and Roman stiffened.

Logan pulled back instantly, hands retracting and lacing safely around Roman's neck.  “Sorry.”

“It's alright.”  Roman’s mouth pulled a smile up at him, perfunctorily coy.  “You'd better get me home, Mr. Sul. It's late.”

Logan wasn’t an idiot.  He knew he was missing something, something huge.  He had known for a while now.

There was a reason Remy had been able to blackmail Roman.  There was a reason the singer’s voice strained up by nature but kept low by choice.  There was a reason he stiffened when Logan’s hands teased the edge of his waistband, why he was careful to never let his chest press against Logan’s.

But in this, at least, Logan couldn’t fault him for keeping secrets.

In this, at least, Logan wasn’t going to push.

In this, at least, Logan could wait for Roman to trust him.

“Right then,” he said, and took Roman’s arm.

“Thank you, Mr. Sul,” Roman demurred, in his doorway, eyelashes fanning out, “for walking me home.”

Logan sighed, what was almost a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth.  “I'm beginning to realize that I'd do anything for you, Mr. Torres.”

“Then kiss me again, and say goodnight, Mr. Sul.”

Logan cupped his jaw, still cool and fresh with rain and kissed him, just out of view of those eyes that would never quite leave them.  “Goodnight, Mr. Torres,” he said, soft as the final kiss he gave. “Goodnight, Roman.”

The phone was already ringing when Logan stepped back into his apartment, something dream-like in his steps.

“Hello?” he said.

“I dream about you,” Roman’s voice trickled down the phone line, a miracle of electricity and cable wire and speakers carrying it to Logan’s ear.  “Did you know that? I dream about you, here, with me, lying in my bed.”

Logan swallowed heavily, sitting down on his couch.  “I dream about you as well,” he confessed.

“Good,” Roman said, softly, then was silent for a moment.  Logan could hear the soft flow of his breathing, distorted as it was by distance and static.  “Logan, why did you… Earlier, you said that I scare you. I don’t understand.”

“Because,” Logan said, and the words came out easier, smoother than he ever could’ve imagined, like they had been pressed between his lips and teeth, waiting for the opportunity to slip out.  “Because I’m afraid that if I’m not very careful, Roman, I’ll find myself falling in love with you.”

Roman’s static-breaths caught in his throat.  They both waited, as if Logan’s words would fall flat, crashing and shattering against the ground, but they simply hung there, pure and crystalline.

There was something miserable, something tragic in Roman’s voice when he spoke again.  “I’m not ready, Logan. I… I just can’t.”

“I know,” Logan said, softly.  “It’s okay.”

For a moment, that was it, a quiet reassurance and the sound of breathing.

But then Roman spoke again, and his voice was low, purring, trickling into Logan’s ear like warm honey.  “Close your eyes, Logan. And reach down.”

And Logan did as he said.

Logan knows he is dreaming, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He looks up and finds Roman's eyes on him in the dark.  Everything is gray, unreal. There isn’t enough light in the room for color, but Logan still knows the exact shade of Roman's lips – red as sin when he's performing, blush-pink when he's not – the warm hazel of his irises, the golden-brown of his skin, the auburn highlights when his hair is in the spotlight.

‘Mr. Torres,’ he tries to say, but his words are muffled, like he’s speaking underwater.

Roman’s hair moves strangely as he swims closer, and Logan realizes they are under water.  He looks up to see the shining surface of the water above them, light rendered into slanting shades of cool gray.  He tries to push himself up, but there is a hand on his face, and he is pulled into a kiss. His eyes slide shut, blocking out the brine, and he cups the cool curve of Roman’s cheek, pressing against his water-chilled form.  He waits for that feeling, that scalding bonfire to consume him, but it doesn’t happen.

Roman’s cold.

He’s too cold.

Logan pulls back, and it isn’t Roman.

A familiar face gazes dully back at him, eyes half-shut, the light behind them long-since extinguished.

Logan tries to scream, but the water rushes down his throat as soon as his mouth opens, gagging him with the taste of brine as sea water rushes up his nose, burning.

He breaks the water’s surface with a horrible noise, something between a sob and a gasp.  In the distance there is fire, burning burning burning, licking into the dark and smoky sky.

And the air hangs thick with the stench of oil, and a corpse bobs among the sharp rocks, and lips, once pressed against Logan’s, are blue and open and dead, and–

Logan jolted himself out of sleep, eyes wide and chest heaving, with Thomas’s name on his lips.

Chapter Text

Gainesville, Florida.  1939.

“What’s the matter, you don’t like the ocean?”

Logan, unscarred at twenty-four, startled, tearing his gaze away from the endless blue horizon of the sea on a May day, and towards the man who had spoken.

He was young, about Logan’s age, with a wide, easy grin, sparkling eyes, and large hands casually tucked in the pockets of his overalls.  A bulky duffle bag was slung over one of his shoulders.

“I beg your pardon?”

The man shrugged, sitting next to Logan on the bench, just a little closer than Logan would have expected.  “You looked glum.”

“Not glum, merely…”  Logan adjusted his round glasses.  “Contemplative.”

He leaned forward, letting his eyes scan the man before him.  “So, how long have you been working on the oil rigs?  It can’t have been for an extenuating length of time, since you still commute in every day.”

The man startled back.  “What?”

Logan let a smile touch the edge of his lips.  “There’s a bus stub sticking out of your pocket, but it’s worn, so you’ve had it since at least this morning.  Why would you be up so early?  Simple, for work.  You’re in street attire currently, but the way you’re holding your bag leads me to believe it’s not heavy.  So, we can conclude it’s something bulky, yet light.  A workman’s uniform, for example.  Most damning of all, though…”  He reached out and skimmed his thumb gently over the edge of the man’s cheek.  The man’s breath hitched.

Logan pulled back and showed him his smudged thumb.  “You’ve still got a spot of oil on you.”

The man looked at him, wide-eyed for a moment, before breaking into a brilliant grin.  “That’s amazing!  I’ve never seen anything like that, mister…?”

“Logan Sul,” he supplied.  “And it was a simple deduction.  You can find just about anything out, if you’re paying attention.”

“Well, you can color me, Thomas Sanders, impressed.”  He smiled again, easily.  “What, are you a detective or something?”

Logan felt a swell of pride well up in his chest.  “I will be.”

“Not half bad then, Mr. Detective.”  Thomas’s eyes were just as soft as his voice, and Logan felt his heart stutter in his chest.  “You know, I’ve been coming in from Gainesville for about a year now, so I know the area pretty well.”

“You’ve got the advantage on me there, then,” Logan laughed.  “I’ve only arrived recently.”

“I could show you around sometime, then,” Thomas added, a little too casually.  On the bench between them, he moved his hand closer, until their fingers just barely brushed.  “There’s plenty of nice spots on the beach.  Private.”

Logan swallowed hard, willing the flush away from his cheeks.  “Yes,” he said.  “Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Alright then.”  Thomas stood.  “Come on.”

“What?”  Logan startled.  “Now?”

Thomas grinned down at him.  “Why can’t sometime be this time?”

Logan let himself be carried along, and couldn’t help a passing wish that, once they were out of sight, Thomas would reach out and take his hand.

As it turned out, he did.

He and Thomas fell into the habit of being together, Logan finding himself waiting at that bench every weekday, taking the bus into Alachua county on the weekends.  But it didn’t feel like routine, didn’t feel like any sort of mundanity.

It felt like a hand, large and warm and calloused, tucked in his own.

It felt like sun-warmed sand against his bare feet.

It felt like sparking elation, welling up like so many champagne bubbles in his stomach.

It felt like his cheeks aching with smiling, his mind buzzing with banter, his chest glowing with something entirely new.

And when Thomas, eyes bright with the sea and cheeks flushed with laughter, leaned in to kiss him, nothing in the world had ever felt so natural.

“What, exactly, is this for?”  Logan asked, on a lazy June day, toying with the notebook Thomas had proudly presented him with.

“Your favorite thing in the world, Mr. Detective.”  Thomas paused dramatically.  “Studying.”

Logan laughed, bright and true, as it was so easy to do back then.  “But what am I to be studying, dear?”

“I’m glad you asked.”  Thomas tapped his nose lightly and leaned over him to flip the notebook open.  “I took the liberty of providing a few examples.”

“‘Slip me five’,” Logan read, dubiously, “‘a request to shake one’s hand’.  ‘Dog soup: water’.”  He squinted.  “Is this… a list of shortened-language words?”

Thomas grinned.  “You’re” – he tapped a phrase – “on the money, Mr. Detective.  You’re always complaining that people find you too…”

“Cold?  Formal?  Stiff?”  Logan offered.

“Intellectual,” Thomas amended with a wry grin.  “I figured it might help if you’re a bit more comfortable with colloquialisms.”

“Thomas,” Logan said, seriously after a moment.  “I do believe that I” – he squinted at the notebook – “hold a torch for you.”

Thomas just smiled at him, eyes soft.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I love you, too.”

As it turned out, he did.

“I can’t wait for you to meet everyone,” Thomas bubbled, tugging Logan along by the hand through the heat of a July afternoon.  “You’ll love Shea – you’ve got the same terrible sense of humor – oh, and Christian!  I don’t even want to think about all the stories he’s going to tell you about me.  My mom is going to grill you, but it’s Aunt Patty you really gotta worry about–”

“Are you sure about this, Thomas?”  Logan wasn’t dragging his feet, exactly, but apprehension gummed down the soles of his shoes.  “It’s bad enough I’m a man, but…”

Thomas stopped, turned, and Logan gestured to himself – to his slick, black hair and his monolid eyes and his fawn-brown skin.  “Not exactly their typical social circle.”

“Hey.” Thomas’s face softened, his voice dropping.  His hand twitched in Logan’s own, and Logan had the distinct impression that, if they hadn’t been in public, Thomas would’ve cupped the curve of Logan’s cheek.  “They’re going to love you, Logan.  I promise.”

And Logan trusted him.  Trust came much easier back then, too.

Thomas’s family was just as chaotic as he had promised.

As soon as they crossed the spacious home’s threshold, they were met with cheers, and Thomas’s brothers practically tackled him, dragging him off with some complaints about how their godfather and cousin hadn’t been able to make it.

A surge of panic hit Logan, as a throng of people, with wide, toothy grins and loud, chattering voices suddenly engulfed him.  He tried to back up, but he just hit the door.  They pressed in closer, pelting him with questions about his name, how old he was, where he was from, until Logan could hardly breathe and they were too close–

A large, warm hand engulfed his.

“Okay, okay, everyone,” Thomas laughed, squeezing his hand.  “Don’t everyone mob him at once.  We’ll get around to everyone, I promise.”

There were a few good-natured jibes, but for the most part, the mob receded, people breaking off into smaller groups or wandering over to where a few platters of finger-food had been set out.

Tension fell from Logan’s shoulders.  “Thank you.”

“Sorry about them.”  Thomas flashed a wry smile.  “They’re just excited.  Are you okay?  We can take a breather if you need-”

“I’m fine.”  Logan fiddled with the end of his tie.  “Perhaps you could simply… remain with me.”

Thomas brought up their joined hands and kissed his knuckles.  “As long as you need.”

As it turned out, he did.

Thomas stuck by his side through the introductions and beyond, easily swooping in when Logan forgot the name of a cousin or aunt.

Even when Logan told him to go off, to join his brothers in whatever strange improv game they were playing, he wavered, reluctant.

“I’ll be back as soon as it’s over,” Thomas compromised, kissing his cheek before rushing over to barrel into Christian, laughing all the way.

Logan’s cheek warmed with the tingling memory of that kiss. 

It was scary, that Thomas could do that, in the best possible way.  Logan was so used to having to check over his shoulder twice before standing within a foot of a man, but Thomas, fearless Thomas, was so confident in his family, he didn’t even bother to hide – not the way he felt about Logan, not the kiss he gave him before slipping away, not the brilliant grin he wore as he pantomimed something Logan couldn’t begin to decipher, his brothers howling with laughter.

Logan loved him, so much that it made his chest feel too small to contain such emotion, sometimes.

“Take good care of him for us, will you?”  Logan jumped, head whipping around to see Thomas’s mother standing next to him with a wry smile.

“Sorry?”

She shrugged.  “Normally, I have to threaten the boys he brings home, but, that look you had just now…”  She let out a little laugh.  “I think the only thing I can say to you is to take good care of him for us.”

“I will, Mrs. Sanders,” he said, softly.  “I promise.”

“No need for formalities.”  She knocked her shoulder against his.  “You’re one of us, now, you know.”

“Oh,” Logan said, and turned to hide his glowing smile.

“Logan,” Thomas said, brushing those hands through his hair.  It was a sticky August night, and their window was open to let in the breeze.  Logan had been right, all those months ago – it was inconvenient for Thomas to commute in every day.  So, instead, they lived together, here, in their small apartment, an extra room made up for appearances, and two wardrobes stuffed in one closet.

“Hm,” Logan made a small, sleepy noise, too comfortable to do anything but let his head rest against Thomas’s chest, listening to the steady ba-bum, ba-bum of his heart.

“I’m going to marry you one day, Logan,” Thomas said.

Now Logan was awake.

“What?”  He startled back, pushing himself up to look at Thomas.  “What on Earth do you mean?”

“What I said,” Thomas said, simply.  He put one of his hands over Logan’s, thumb sweeping back and forth over the ridges of his knuckles.  “I love you.  So I’m going to marry you, one day.”

“Thomas, you’re being irrational.”  Logan swallows hard, turning his head.  “You know we’re not… that it would be highly irregular and illegal if… if we were to…”

“I know.”  Thomas smiled, and it was only a bit sad.  “But just… pretend.  Just for a minute.”

Slowly, Logan lowered himself back into Thomas’s arms, huffing out a laugh. “Imagination is hardly my forte, Thomas.”

Thomas laughed, and Logan could feel the warmth of it on his skin, not the blistering, cracking heat of a bonfire but the gentle radiance of a star, if he could ever manage to reach out into the night sky and take one in his hand.

“Don’t worry,” Thomas murmured into his hair.  “I’ll do the heavy lifting.  Just make agreeable sounds whenever I pause for breath, okay?”

Logan made an agreeable sound.

“It'll be on the beach,” Thomas said, after a moment’s pause.  “Right where we met.  Nearly sunset, so we can slip out of the crowds and go star-gazing as soon as you want.  The sand will be drenched in gold and red, but no one’s going to even glance at the sunset, once they see how lovely your smile is.  No one’s going to walk us down the aisle, either.  We’ll walk towards each other, and meet in the middle, right in front of the preacher.”

His voice was soft, achingly sincere, as steady and sweet as the steady ba-bum ba-bum of his heart.

“You’ll have a blue suit, and I’ll wear red, or maybe pink.”

“Not black?”  Logan couldn’t help but ask.

“No,” Thomas countered, smiling.  “No black or gray anywhere.  We’ll make all our guests wear color too – like a kaleidoscope settled itself down, just for us.  It’ll be more color than you’ve seen in your whole life.

“We’ll have simple rings, before you ask.  Plain gold, but we’ll keep them clean, even when we’re ninety-two and bickering all day, over the newspaper and books and whatever’s on the radio.

“And we won’t say vows, either,” Thomas continued, a laugh in the lilt of his words.  “I know how much you’d hate having to tell everyone you actually have feelings.”

“I’d do it,” Logan found himself saying.  His voice felt thick, heavy.  “I’d do it for you.”

He didn’t realize he was crying until one of Thomas’s big, warm hands brushed under his eye.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just…”  Logan swallowed hard, pressing his forehead into Thomas’s shoulder.  “I’m entirely fine.  It’s…”  He cleared his throat.  “It’s a very nice thought, Thomas.”

“Not just a thought.”  Thomas pressed another kiss into Logan’s hair.  “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you, Mr. Detective.”

As it turned out, he did.

“Hello, love.”  Logan kissed Thomas’s cheek as he walked past, flopping unceremoniously on the couch with a groan that could’ve passed for a ‘hi’.

“That good of a day, huh?”  Logan said, sitting next to him. 

Thomas sighed and shuffled around, resting his head in Logan’s lap.  “Whatever fat cat owns the rigs is working us double time.”

Logan frowned.  “Thomas, I think your fatigue has reached a point of nonsensical behavior. How can an animal…”  He sighed. “Notebook?”

“Notebook.” Thomas confirmed.

Logan flipped it out, grumbling.  “Meaning?”

“Rich jerk.” Thomas wiggled his way more firmly into Logan’s lap, sighing.  “Sayles, or Salesa, or... or something like that.  We’ve been working nine hours straight, and I swear half the safety rigs are falling apart.  I saw some pipes leaking, too.”

Logan hummed, stroking Thomas’s hair off his forehead.  “You should take some time off.  It’s unsafe to keep pushing yourself at this inane rate.”

The corner of Thomas’s lip quirked into an almost-smile.  “We need an apartment, Lo,” he said, softly.  “As soon as you get your first case and cash that check, I promise I’ll take all the time off you want.”

A prickle of something like shame crept up Logan’s neck.  

“Ah, yes,” he managed.  “That sounds quite rational.”

“Oh, wait, no, Logan-” Thomas pushed himself up, grimacing.  “I didn’t mean it like that, honey.”

“I know you didn’t.”  Logan knit his hands together in his lap.  He tried on a smile, and found it too tight.  “Too bad I can’t investigate that boss of yours.  Sounds like he’s ‘itching for’ an official  reprimandation.”  He risked a glance at Thomas.  “Was that the correct usage?”

Thomas, kissed him, softly.  

“Perfect,” he murmured against his lips, then leaned back with a teasing smile.

“I could always do it,” he offered.  “I mean, I’m there every day.”

“You’re not allowed to get a case before me, Thomas,” Logan said tartly, then paused when he saw the look in the other man’s eye.

“Are you quite serious?”

“I mean, why not?”  Thomas shrugged.  “Wouldn’t even be that hard.  Sneak into a few roped off areas, swipe a few files.”

“I see,” Logan mused, then, eyes widening: “Can you imagine what a debut that would be?  If we were able to expose such an example of obvious corruption–”  He cut himself off, abruptly, adjusting his glasses.  “Well, that would be illogical, I suppose.  It’s hardly worth the risk to you and your livelihood.”

“Sap,” Thomas accused, gently knocking their shoulders together.  “Careful, Mr. Detective.  Your cool-guy persona is slipping.”

“I mean it, Thomas.”  Logan frowned.  “I’d like you to promise me you won’t push the matter any further.”

“Alright, alright.”  Thomas held his hands up, placating, and flashed a smile.  “I won’t do anything stupid, Logan.  I promise.”

As it turned out, he did.

Thomas left for work the next morning, and he didn’t come home that evening.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Logan’s world was suddenly a flurry of missing posters, of police stations, and ‘last known whereabouts’, and Thomas’s family hiring him, just so the strange foreign boy had an excuse to be so invested in a good, white man’s disappearance.

My first case, Logan thought with a bitter twist to his stomach, thinking of a story about a monkey’s paw Thomas had once read to him.

Perhaps it was silly of him, to not think of the oil rigs until the explosion.

But it was as he was slumped over a scuffed up bar on the beach, nursing his second glass of whisky in as many minutes, that the sky blossomed with flame.

Logan shot up, glass smashing against the ground, and there was a bar-keep shouting at him, and patrons were stampeding across each other to get the windows, but Logan couldn’t hear any of it over the roaring of his ears.

Logan stumbled back from the bar, feet unsteady, before pushing through the crowd, pushing through the doors, and running, faster and faster and faster until he was alone on the beach, coattails flapping behind him as his heart pounded in his chest with terror and exertion and dread.

The rocks were sharp here, and the water picked up the reflection of the flames that licked against the sky, scattering pin-pricks of light across the inky black waves.

He had forgotten about their conversation, the brief and silly idea Thomas had floated past him being washed away in panic and fear and a nagging sense that it was all his fault, somehow.  

The oil rigs.  The damn oil rigs.

They had been lacking in security and safety measures for the longest time, but with an explosion like this, all their unsafe regulations could be burned away, reduced to an unfortunate accident, something that no one could’ve avoided.  Maybe some foolish worker had lit a cigarette at just the wrong moment.

Logan ran faster, but his foot caught on an uneven rock, and he fell hard; a sharp rock caught his coat and sliced straight though, tearing down the length of his back.  Logan lay there, staring up at the sky, a dull, ugly brown with smoke and the reflection of fire, bleeding slowly, and he felt a sob rise in the back of his throat.

If Thomas had slipped from one of the riggings and fallen into the ocean below, the current would’ve taken him westward, but if he had swam against it, he could’ve been swept south-west, or perhaps he had gone out with the rip tide or had been wrapped up in the tendrils of a jellyfish or –

And Logan suddenly realized, with startling clarity, that he’d never be able to find Thomas, not among the ravages of the sea, not considering the days and days it had been since he’d seen him last, not in a million years. 

He was never going to see Thomas again.

Yet, as it turned out, he did.

Thomas was floating just off the shore, face up.

Dead. 

New York, 1946.

Logan, scarred and battered and tired at thirty-one, shook, cursing under his breath and knotting his fingers in his hair until the roots threatened to give away.

“Fuck,” he murmured, then again, voice raw and desperate as his eyes began to fog over.  “Fuck.”

Thomas was one of those memories he thought he had managed to down in whisky, along with the sound of gunfire in the air and the hot spray of blood in his face.  Thomas, with his laughing caramel-brown eyes and huge, warm hands and quick, easy grin.  Thomas, who Logan had killed.  Logan’s heart pounded in his chest like it was trying to batter its way through his rib cage, heavy and painful with each pulse.  

He felt shaky, unstable.  Like his countless hangovers over the years still hadn’t quite worn off.

He hadn’t thought about Thomas in years,  had managed to get to the point where he glossed over anything that even vaguely reminded him of the other man without even thinking about it.

Logan hissed out another curse, digging his short, blunt fingernails into old scars, just for that sharp, bright burst of pain to remind him he was here, alone in New York City, not seven years ago, on a beach with a man he had let himself imagine a future with.

There was a flask, hidden under the kitchen sink.  Just enough for a rainy day.

The tin was bitingly cold in his shaking hand.  He uncapped the top, feeling the weight of the weight of it in his hand.

He should dump it out.  That’s what Roman would want him to do.  That’s what the healthy thing to do would be.

He brought it to his lips, let it hang there, and breathed in that sharp smell – acerbic, bracing, familiar.

No one could blame him for doing it.  He wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise.

He capped the flask and tucked it back beneath the sink.

Not yet.

There was something he had to do first.

He was right.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Six o’ clock found Logan Sul, shirt pressed and hands trembling behind his back, standing before his suspects in the showroom of Ego.

“Greetings,” he said.  “I am glad all of you could join me.”

“Everything alright, kiddo?”  Patton tilted his head, flashing a sympathetic smile.  “You seem a bitty bit out of sorts.”

“I’m…”  Logan cleared his throat, smoothing his tie again and again, just for the soothing texture of the silk against his scarred, calloused fingers.  “I suppose I am.”

“Oh, joy, group therapy,” Dorian drawled from where he was draped across one of the velvet chairs.  “Can my turn be next or do I need to hold the sharing stick for that?”

“I’m next,” Virgil deadpanned, “but don’t worry.  We’ll get to why you’re such a drip in a jiffy.”

Roman stifled a snort, and Dorian bristled, straightening up, ignoring Viper’s murmur of ‘simmer down, Arya’.

“Oh, does the kitty-cat have their claws out?”  Dorian’s mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.  “I thought Specs had you too clobbered to do anything but purr.”

“The hell is your damage, Arya?”  Virgil demanded, hands clenched at their side, stalwartly not looking at Patton.  “You didn’t used to have it out for me like this.”

Dorian’s face stayed carefully smug.  “Too much personality in one place.  Bound to make anyone antsy.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know I’m quitting the case,” Logan said, calmly, shattering the undercurrent of tension.  “None of you are going to have to bother yourselves with me, anymore.”

For a moment, there was complete, shocked silence, as their heads all swiveled to look at them.

His hand dropped inside his jacket pocket, thumbing at the worn pages of his notebook.

There was a cacophony of noise all at once – Viper, rising from her chair and demanding to know why, Patton, frantically asking if everything was alright, Dorian, throwing back his head and laughing, Virgil, snapping that if he wasn’t handling the case, the police would, and they all knew how that would end up going.

In the middle of it all, Roman sat, quiet and stunned, looking at Logan with something like heartbreak in his dark eyes.

Logan swallowed hard, averting his eyes somewhere to the side.

“I’ve realized my involvement in this issue has become far too… personal for me to continue objectively.  Logically.”  He adjusted his sharp, square glasses, feeling five pairs of eyes burning into his face.  “Therefore, there is no reason for me to stay on.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do about the pigs, then?”  Virgil snapped.  “They’re not just going to magically forget about Remy.”

“I have no intention of hoisting you off onto their mercy,” Logan promised.  “I have a few contacts within the station that can… lessen the intensity of investigation, let’s say.  Not to mention, the long list of patrons that were also here that night.  I’ll do what I can to avoid any consequences for any of you.”

“Don’t you care?”  Dorian demanded, voice rough.  “Someone killed him, and you’re just going to walk away?  Let them fucking get away with it?”

Logan’s face stayed impassible.  “It’s not my issue to care about.”

No one realized why, exactly, Dorian had stood and stalked over to Logan until his fist cracked him across the face.

Logan was on the ground, cheek and place where his head had smashed against the ground aching.

Slowly, he pulled himself to sit up, rubbing at his cheek.  Dorian’s mismatched eyes stared cooly down at him.

“Feel glad I like you, Sul,” he said, looming over him.  “Wouldn’t have pulled my punch otherwise.”

He spun on his heel and stalked out, pushing through the doors and into the night.

“With friends like that, who needs enemies?”  Logan muttered to himself, before his vision was filled with Roman’s frantic face, gently prodding at his head and pleading with Patton to get some ice.

“Logan?  Logan?!”  Roman’s hands fluttered around him like birds – landing on his shoulders, his cheek, the crown of his head.  “You’re alright?  He didn’t knock any teeth or anything?  How do you feel?”

Virgil gently shouldered him out of the way, taking Logan’s head and angling it towards the light.  “No concussion.”

“Here’s the ice!”  Patton yelped, practically tripping over himself to get to the others.

“You’re supposed to put it into a bag first, Patton,” Viper drawled, unwinding a scarf from her hair to catch the droplets.  “Let me.”

She tied the ice up firmly, then crouched down next to Logan, pressing it into his hand and against his cheek.  

“What’s gotten into you, Logan?” she murmured.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, standing too quickly and taking a moment to regain his balance.  “I don’t need any of you fussing over me.  Did I not make my intions clear enough?”

“L, don’t snap your cap.”  Virgil’s mouth twisted into a frown.  “You just gotta tell us what’s going on.”

“Nothing,” Logan huffed, stalking to the coat rack.  “Nothing, but realizing what I should’ve known since the beginning.  These… associations are nothing but harmful for all parties involved.”

“Logan, don’t be like that,” Patton pleaded.  “You know we care about you.”

“That was your first mistake.”  Logan snorted, finding his hat and pulling it low over his face.  “Come now, I should think at least some of you are intelligent enough to discern that the feelings aren’t mutual.”

Patton flinched back, and Logan slipped out into the night without anyone calling after him.

He slumped against the brick building as soon as they couldn’t see him, breathing deep to let the cold air into his burning, fevered insides.  His chest was too warm, too tumultuous, like something was rioting inside him.

He took another deep breath and pushed off.  No one said cauterizations were painless, but everyone agreed they were necessary.

He made it halfway down the street when he heard the second pair of footsteps, heavy and determined, echoing his own.

“Shouldn’t you be inside, Roman?”  Logan asked.  “No reason for you to associate with me now.”

The singer appeared at his side, looking up into his face, but Logan stared straight ahead, stride not faltering.

Roman flashed a smile, searching for his typical seductive smirk but only managing something like fear.  “Surely you know you’ll have to try harder than that to get rid of me, Mr. Sul.”

“Did I fail to express myself clearly enough?  I’m done with the case.  You can all go back to your happy little lives now.”

“My life wouldn’t be happy.  Not without you.  Not now that I know better.”

Logan stopped, then, turning to face Roman.  The fog was thick that night, and the streets were quiet.  It wouldn’t take much of a stretch to think themselves the only people left in the city, in the world.

“You can’t mean that, Roman.  Not really.”

“Logan,” he said, taking the detective’s hand in his own.  “Of course I do.”

There was nothing but honesty in his eyes, in the softness of his voice, but Logan felt panic crawling up his throat, pushing words he never intended out his mouth.

“Come to my office with me.”

Roman blinked.  “What?”

“Come to my office with me,” Logan echoed, a plan snapping into place in his mind as he spoke.  “There’s a few things I want to show you.”

“Alright,” Roman said after a moment, with a short nod.  “Whatever you want.”

They walked in silence through the superficial beauty of New York City after dusk.  Gleaming towers stood shrouded in clouds of cigarette smoke and smog.  Between them, crime festered in cramped, dingy alleyways.  It was the type of city that tourists gawked at and natives walked though suspiciously, shoulders hunched, fingers anxiously hovering over pocket books, and eyes darting from side to side.  Anyone with an ounce of common sense left the city as soon as they could, leaving only the brave, the bold, and the stupid behind.

As much as he tried to dissuade himself, Logan knew he just another one of the stupid.

Logan fished out the keys to his office, swinging open the heavy oak doors and holding them open for Roman.

“Well?”  Roman stood in the center of the room, hands flitting into and out of his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.  “What is it you wanted to show me?”

Silently, Logan slipped past him and pulled open his bottom drawer, taking a hand full of manilla case files and tossing them onto the desk.  “This is all the work I’ve done on the case.  Every alibi, every dirty secret your friends have been hiding, every ounce of shadow hiding behind that shining neon sign.”

He flipped one open, looking down at the black and white photo of Roman that smoldered back out at him.  “It’s all here.”

He snapped it closed, stacked it with the others, and dropped them all into his trash can.

“What on earth was that for?”  Roman asked, eyes wide.

“You failed to believe me when I informed you of my intentions,” Logan said.  “I thought a visual demonstration might assist in your comprehension.  I’m off the case.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Mr. Sul.  That’s my job.”

“Theatricality seems to be the only thing that reaches you, Mr. Torres, and I am nothing but adaptable.”

“Why, then?”  Roman demanded.  “You put all this work, all this effort into this case, into us, and now you’re just going to walk away?  Just like that?”

“I told you all that what any of you feel for me isn’t mutual.”

“But…”  Roman swallowed hard, lips parting.  “That was for them, wasn’t it?  Not me?”

“Oh, Roman,” Logan murmured, lifting a hand to cup his cheek gently.

Roman leaned into it, looking at him with those bejeweled eyes, and Logan leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.  Roman shuddered, or perhaps it was Logan, or perhaps both of them, feeling that inferno blaze wherever their skin touched.

And Logan had always been willing to melt for Roman.

He might as well, one last time.

Roman unwound as soon as their lips touched, pressing against him and letting that comfortable coyness settle back over him.

His arms wrapped around Logan’s neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Roman was color – so bright, so beautiful.  Logan could taste the bright orange joy bubbling in the quirk of his smile, the rich crimson desire dancing in the shift of his hips, the brilliant yellow of contentment singing in the hum at the back of his throat as he curled his fingers through the hair at the nape of Logan's neck and tugged. 

God, Logan didn’t want to stop.  He knew what would happen as soon as they seperated; he knew they’d never meet like this again.  He wondered if Roman could tell, could sense the desperation in the way Logan’s fingers curled around his hips, licked into his mouth, kissed along the slope of his neck.

He must’ve, must’ve been able to tell somehow, because as soon as Logan pulled back, Roman attached himself to his neck, biting at the collar bone and letting his long, clever fingers busy themselves with unwinding Logan’s tie, dropping it onto the floor, and unbuttoning Logan’s shirt.

Logan stopped him before he could get halfway down, gently capturing both of Roman’s hands in one of his own.

He kissed Roman again, soft and chaste even in the face of what Roman was offering, what Roman thought he wanted.

What Logan truly wanted was nothing more than to freeze this moment, crystal-clear and suspended like this forever – the moment before the glass shatters against the floor.

But he couldn’t.

He knew he couldn’t.

Their lips, slick and kiss-swollen, slid against each other one last time.

“Roman,” Logan murmured again, voice achingly gentle.  “What makes you think you, of all people, are special?”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.  Logan saw it – the exact moment when the shine in Roman’s eyes turned to confusion turned to heartbreak.

“What?”  Roman stammered, stumbling back.  “Logan, what are… what are you saying?”

“Of course what I said didn’t exclude you.”  Logan stretched his neck, craning his head one way then the other and not looking at the other man.  “Why wouldn’t it?”

“You’re…”  Roman’s voice was thick, and he had to try again.  “You’re the one who said you could love me.”

“If I wasn’t careful.”  Logan flashed a humorless smile.  “But luckily for both of us, I’m a very cautious man.”

Thomas had died because of Logan.  Because he made a stupid mistake.

But now there was a killer.  Someone who wasn’t striking at random, who didn’t make a mistake.  And Logan was sure they knew he was onto them.

Thomas was gone because he got too close to Logan.  Logan wasn’t going to let that happen again.  Not with Roman, or Viper, or Virgil, or Patton, or even Dorian.

It didn’t matter who it was.  The real danger had been Logan all along.

“You know, I’ve noticed a few things lately.”  Logan neatly stepped away from Roman, dropping into the chair behind his desk.  “A few things concerning you.”

“Oh?”  Roman raised his chin.  “And what would those be, Mr. Sul?”

“You didn’t always hate Remy Salem, didn’t you?  You must’ve liked him at first, thought him charming, even.  Must’ve gotten close enough for him to find out about whatever secret you’ve been keeping so close to your chest.  Can’t imagine how much it shook you when he sidled up to you with a cruel smile and made his demands.”

“There weren’t any,” Roman said, softly.  “He didn’t want anything.  I think he just liked knowing he could ruin me at any second, having me smile at him even when I just wanted to–”  Roman cut himself with a shuddering breath.

“Regardless,” Logan continued, and he found he couldn’t look at Roman, not without giving everything away.  “You had a problem, then.  Someone held everything you had worked for, what you had dedicated your life to, over the fire, and as soon as he got bored, he’d drop it and let it all burn.  You couldn’t let that stand.  So you came up with a plan, didn’t you?”

He let himself smile then, a cold and joyless stretching of lips.  “You’re so clever, Mr. Torres,” he said softly.  “More clever than you ever want anyone to know.  You practice with the band every day, and you can know each and every song they play in advance.  It wasn’t hard to tell which piano keys wouldn’t be pressed.  You play it yourself, after all, so no one would think it strange to see you pouring over the sheet music, slipping your hands beneath the cover.  Or maybe you did it earlier in the day, so no one would even see you.  Either way, there was a string in your pocket, and a neck to twist it around.”

“Logan–” Roman started, helplessly, but Logan barreled on.

“But you knew the police would come if someone like Remy Salem died, and you wouldn’t do that to Patton and Virgil.  So you needed someone else, someone the police had worked with before, someone they would be willing to hoist the case off onto and still placate the media that the case was in good hands.  Maybe you saw me in the newspaper, or heard someone talking about me, but either way, you had that poor sucker you could twist onto his head, until he couldn’t tell left from right.  I don’t know if you knew of my inclinations or not, but by the time you left this office, me trailing behind you, you knew exactly what you do to me.

“You spun a pretty story about a stalker, about how scared you were, how I was the only one who could save you, so by the time I bothered to look past your red lips, I wouldn’t even see how wicked that smile of yours is.  You showed me around, gave me a room full of people I could pretend killed him instead, and in between songs, you slipped through that rusting door.  Maybe you lifted the keys from Patton earlier, or maybe you just used that smile to convince a worker to leave it unlocked, but either way, you had greased the hinges and slipped through.

“Remy was sitting with his back to the door, smoking a cigarette or sipping a glass or whisky and generally looking bored with the world.  The floors were thick carpet, so he didn’t even hear  it when you crept up behind him.  He didn’t realise anything was wrong until you wrapped that wire around his neck and started squeezing.  He tried to scream, but you twisted even tighter.  He struggled to his feet, and that wasn’t part of the plan, at all.  You wrestled with him, but he was so much taller than you, and he staggered out of the chair, crashing into that pretty crystal plate and smashing it against the floor.  But it was too late at that point.  He fell to his knees, and you kept squeezing.

“You didn’t know how long it takes for someone to suffocate.  So you squeezed and squeezed, trembling, just like you are now, until you heard murmuring, and you looked through that one-way mirror to see that you’d been gone for the longest time.  You left him there, slipped the wire back into your pocket, and sped through those twisting, turning corridors until you were back on stage.  Smiling and beautiful and a killer.”

“Are you quite done?”  Roman snapped, arms crossed over his chest.  “Because if you are, I’d appreciate you actually hearing me when I tell you how insane you sound.”

“Oh?”  Logan smiled a shark’s grin.  “Then why don’t you still me where you really were during that impromptu intermission?”

Roman, trembling, dropped into the chair across the leather chair across from Logan.  His eyes were obscured by a mass of dark brown hair and his hands were shaking.

He said nothing.

“Look at us.  It’s just like the first time you came here, isn’t it?”  Logan smiled at him, a bittersweet flickering of the lips.  “We were talking about your ‘stalker’, only I was thinking of your lips, and you were thinking of murder.”

Roman was simply a mess of cell and tissue and bone; a disease vector; heat and mass, Logan reminded himself, but it was a lie.

He was everything Logan could’ve dreamed of.

He was sun and stardust and screaming light.

He was divine.

That, even, was woefully inadequate.

“I wasn’t,” he protested, trembling.  “Logan, for the love of God, you have to trust me!  I know what it– but I didn’t, I swear to you!”

Logan turned and stared at the framed headlines on his wall – Missing Goldblum Diamond Recovered, British Heiress Louisa Wright Saved, Body of Missing Oil Worker Located.

“I don’t have to trust you.  I just have to do what’s right.”

It was too much.

“Still?!”  Roman cried, fire and pain burning in his eyes.  “After everything you still can’t-!”  He cut himself off, clamping his jaw shut.  He turned his head.  “I’m leaving.”

Roman stalked off into the night, door slamming behind him, and Logan flinched at the crack.  Roman, the spot of red in his monochrome world, was buckled by the thick, warped glass until he was swallowed by the blackness of the night.

Logan was left, hair ruffled and shirt halfway undone, head heavy and chest too tight.  His lips tingled with the ghost of Roman, the memory of him pressed against Logan until he was sure he would burn.

Slowly, Logan buttoned up his shirt with trembling hands.  He stood and opened the cabinet, fingers finding a cool glass bottle. 

The scotch burned on the way down.

Not nearly enough.

Chapter Text

Logan got whisky.  Scotch hadn't been doing him any favors lately.  Just another liquor where the burn was mostly regret.  

“You know what your problem is, Logan?”  Picani sighed, wiping down his scarred bartop.

“Men.”  Logan groaned, tapping his glass for another finger of scotch and pretending he didn’t notice when Picani filled it with water.

“You hate to think you need anyone,” Picani continued, ignoring him entirely, “and this whole thing is just eating you up inside because it turns out you do.”

“I do not,” Logan muttered morosely, grimacing as the water hit his mostly-empty stomach.  “All I need is you and another bottle of scotch.”

“Charming.” Picani grinned. “And here I thought you weren’t a romantic.”

“Just for you, darling.”  Logan laid his head back on the bar and tried to blink away the spots in his vision.

“Tragically, I’ve seen you sauced one too many times to fall for that.”  Picani winked, wiping down another glass.  “In another life, perhaps.”

Logan snorted, raising his face.  “Another life? Why on earth would I care for another life? This damn one is already fraught with misery and wretchedness.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong.”  Picani tapped his nose lightly.  “If everything is so bad, why did that Walt Disney fella come out with that deer movie last year?”

“Forgive me for not having hope in humanity because of a single cartoon deer.”

“You’re forgiven.”  Picani refilled the glass straight from the sink, and Logan scowled.  

“Cut it with the water, Picani.”

“Cut it with the self-pity, Sul.”

“It isn’t pity,” Logan snapped, face flushing.  “It’s a realization that nothing in life is worth a damn because I always fuck it up in the end.”

“And there it is!”  Picani cheered, throwing his towel over his shoulder.  “We’re having a breakthrough, folks!”

The other patrons of the bar, immune to Picani’s antics by this point, grunted vaguely and went back to nursing burning liquor in smoky corners.

“For the first time forever, you have something you care about, Logan.”  Picani grinned.  “For the first time in forever, you don’t want to be alone.”

“I do if it means that damn man will stop tormenting me.”

Picani sighed, putting down his glass with a sharp click.  “Do you know why I work here when I don't, under my faith, drink alcohol, Sul?”

Logan squinted up at him.  “Money can be exchanged for goods and services?”

“Because” - Picani rolled his eyes - “I’m saving up. I want to open my own therapist’s office. I figured talking to you all would be good enough practice.”

“And by ‘you all’ you mean we, the miserable drunks?” Logan nursed another shot of water.

Picani grinned.  “You, alone, have given me enough material for my senior thesis.”

“Glad to be of service,” Logan snorted, resting his foggy head in the cradle of his arms.

“So am I,” Picani said, gently pushing another glass of water to him.  “Drink up.”

“Why do you keep giving me booze, if you’re so concerned about me, hm?”  Logan snapped, shoving the glass back.  His hands were heavy, unwildly, and it tipped over, spilling water and ice across the scuffed counter.

Picani’s eyes darkened.  “I’d stop serving you entirely if I didn’t know that you’d just wander into the next run-down joint, where the owner would just let you drink yourself to death, as long as it would line their pockets.”

Logan pushed back from the bar sharply, stool screeching across the scuffed floor.  “Then I suppose I’d better find one of those joints.”

“Logan,” Picani said, with something like pity, then again, colored with alarm as Logan stumbled his way towards the door.  “Logan?!”

“I’d say I’ll see you in hell, Picani” – Logan touched the brim of his hat – “but we both know I’m the only one heading there.”

“Logan!”  Picani called after him, voice sharp and clear in the smoke-choked air.  “Logan, please!”

But Logan turned up his collar and kept walking.  Picani was the last of them.  After ending the case, shoving Roman’s affections back in his face – there was no one left to get a chest full of shrapnel when he self-destructed.

The New York air was heavy with the lingering dampness that came after a hot rain, sticky and cloying.  The wet pavement reflected the neon glow of signs, set like jewels into the dark night.

He’d thought he could fill his head with enough fog to obscure his thoughts, but they were just disguised – some distant silhouettes and others looming out at him when he least suspected it.  It wasn’t fair.  He’d done what he should’ve.  He got rid of them before he could hurt anyone.

So why did he want to sit in the passenger seat of a silver car like a comet?  Why did he want to hear snark dripping from a barbed tongue?  Why did he want to be wrapped up in a hug that smelled like fresh-baked cookies?  Why did he want to smell cigarette smoke, the glowing tip reflecting in mismatched eyes?

Why did he want to tell Roman the thought that had been quietly growing in the back of his mind since the star stepped foot in his office?

Logan said it, quietly, as he stumbled through those dully glowing streets, through the sticky night of New York City.  He just wanted to test them out, to taste them on his tongue.  Maybe if he did, they’d stop building in his throat, beating at the inside of his rib cage.  Just a little relief of pressure, maybe just enough to let him sleep at night.

I love you.

They drifted from his lips and settled in the air around him, painting him red.  His skin jittered over his bones, and he laughed bitterly; it was too much for him to bear.

It wasn’t enough for him to be satisfied.

He loved Roman and damn if that wasn't the scariest thing that had ever happened to him.  Logan brought murderers to justice, faced cartels and came out on top, fought through a war and lived, but in loving him, Logan held a knife to Roman’s throat.  

And if Roman ever dared love him back, he would show Logan just where to cut.

“You look like you need to get away.”

A voice shattered his illusion of privacy, and Logan startled, whipping his fogged head around to see a man leaning against the building by his left.

“Away?”  Logan’s words were weighted, unwieldy.  “Away from what?”

Anyone else would’ve thought him handsome, especially with the way his mouth curled into a smile, but Logan couldn’t help but find his shoulders too wide, eyes too light, lips too colorless.

“Away from the world.”

The stranger pulled a paper bag from his coat, taking a swig from the bottle inside.  He waved it, voice lilting.  “Surely you a gentleman like you wouldn’t make me drink alone?”

Logan snorted, finding himself taking a step forward.  “I’m no gentleman.”

The stranger’s eyes shone as he slipped backwards, into the dark alley.  “Good.”

Logan couldn’t help but slide into the darkness after him.

As soon as the shadows cloaked them, he found lips mouthing at his neck, a large hand grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head.  The stranger grinned against him, nipping at Logan’s bottom lip, deepening the kiss as one hand drew a line down Logan’s chest.  Logan hissed as the weight of the stranger settled against him, trapping him in place.

Under any other circumstances, he’d be afraid – afraid of someone passing them by, afraid of being caught, afraid and cowardly as always – but his mind was too fogged with the drink and the touch of skin, of a body pressed against him.

He relaxed into the pressure, eyes fluttering shut, only for them to shoot open when something cool nudged itself under his chin.

The handsome stranger flashed a roguish grin, pressing the gun deeper into the soft flesh.  “Sorry about that, doll.  After you took out our last guy, I figured I better get a little clever.”  He lidded his eyes, purring.  “For what it’s worth, I was quite enjoying myself.”

Logan jerked against his hold, but the hands holding his wrists were steady, vice-strong.

“I would’ve had a bit more fun, but,” he sighed, “we’ve got some company.”

Other figures, at least five, materialized from the shadows.  Perhaps if he hadn’t been so addled with drink, he would’ve seen their shadows, have noticed the sly edge in the smile of the man holding him, would’ve felt the gun where it must’ve been hidden in his jacket.

“Thanks for not subjecting us to that,” a woman said, wryly.

“Anything for you, dear,” the man said.

“Your group still hasn't given up?”  Logan found his tongue, turning narrowed eyes on his assailants.  “I’d be tempted to admire your persistence if it weren’t so hindersome.”

“You’ve made yourself into a pretty little nuisance, haven’t you?”  The stranger cooed, running his thumb thoughtfully over the pulse in Logan’s wrist.  “First Fontane, then Salem… you’ve made a nasty habit of killing our people off.”

Logan kept his expression still.  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I didn’t know Salem was one of yours.”

The gun cocked.  “No.”

“And If I said I didn’t kill him?”

The stranger smiled, voice low and purring.  “I’d have to laugh.”

“Let’s run through our options here, then,” Logan said.  “You’ve got a gun to my chin.  My legs are free, so presumably I could lash out, break free, but even if I wrested it away from you, you’ve got more than enough company on all sides to ensure I don’t try anything clever.  Yet, still, you haven’t made any aggressive moves.”

The stranger arched an eyebrow, hands squeezing around Logan’s wrists.

“Lethal moves,” Logan amended.  “This isn't an execution.  It’s a show of force.  So I’d suggest you do your very best to intimidate me and we can both go our not-so merry ways.”

The stranger laughed, low and throaty.  “I thought he was making stuff up again when he said you’ve got a mouth on you.”

Logan blinked.  “I’m given to believe that everyone possesses some sort of oral cavity.”

“Could you shut him the hell up already?”  The woman snapped, suspicious eyes trained on the entrance to the alley.  “Street’s just busy enough to make me itchy.”

“Right then.”  The stranger flashed a smile at Logan, all saccharine warmth.  “Here’s the deal, Mr. Sul.  You’re a clever man.  We’ve got two bodies and a man on the inside attesting to that.  So I’m sure it won’t take that rugged little head of yours that much deliberation to agree when we tell you to knock it off.  Don’t mess with us or our people anymore, and these dingy chats can stop.”

“The boss seems to like you for some reason,” the woman said, scorn curdling her words.  “If it was up to me, this conversation wouldn’t be so pleasant.”

“Send my regards, then,” Logan said, dryly.  “Should I add him to the Christmas card list?”

The stranger chuckled.  “God,” he breathed, smiling.  “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“I’ll make sure she knows,” the woman said, and knocked Logan out in one punch.

When he came to, Logan saw they had left the bottle of booze behind.

It was daylight.  Night.  Daylight again, or maybe that was just the yellow lamplight slanting in through his blinds, a false sun in the dreary gray night.  Night, maybe.  Day, possibly.

Logan tried to look at the clock, but the numbers swam before his eyes, running over each other and dripping down the walls.  He closed his eyes and let his head fall backwards.  It’d be so easy for someone to come in and cut his throat.

He took another drink.

Something like day.  What could’ve been a night.

He tried to write, but the letters came out scrambled, slanted.  He crumpled the page with thick, unwieldy hands and tried again.

The letter came out wrong.  He sent it off anyway.

He was hungry, or something like it.  There was an aching, an absence in his stomach.  He tried to drown it.  It didn’t work.  He didn’t stop trying.

He blinked, and the false sun shone inside, faintly yellow and loathsome.

He didn’t need color anymore.  Didn’t deserve it.

Logan got up, to seal the blinds even tighter.

He collapsed before he took two steps.

“Of fucking course.”

A heavy sigh.  Shuffling.  Running water.  Something cool pressed against his lips.

“Hey, hey, slow down there, L.  You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

Logan pried his eyes open, finding Virgil Avery’s face staring back down.

“I thought I told you,” he rasped.  “None of you need to bother with me anymore.”

They sighed.  “Yeah, you did.”

Strong arms tucked around his torso, slowly pulling him up.  “Come on.”

Virgil carefully maneuvered him to his tiny kitchen counter, setting another glass of water before him.  “Slowly,” they said, eyes stern.

Logan sipped at it, feeling the worst of the cotton in his head drift away.  Slowly, he became aware of the stiffness of his clothes, reeking of dried sweat, the griminess of his hair, the claiminess of his skin.  By the time it was gone, he felt almost human – enough to speak again.

“How’d you get in?”

“Viper.”  Virgil hooked their thumbs through their belt loops.  “You’re not the only one who can pick locks.”

“She didn’t degin to stay?”  Logan slumped at his counter, roughly dragging a hand down his face.

“She wanted to,” Virgil said, evenly.  “I thought it would be smart if she waited, until I knew it was safe.”

Logan bared his teeth.  “Afraid of me, Mx. Avery?”

A wry smile touched the edge of their lips.  “I’ll let you in on a secret, Mr. Sul: I’m afraid of everything.”

Logan huffed out a laugh, then screwed his eyes shut.  “Why are you here?”

“We haven’t seen you in a few days,” Virgil said.  “Thought I’d drop by to make sure you weren’t on another bender.”

“Can’t imagine Roman was overly concerned,” Logan muttered.

They winced, impercibily.  “You could say that.”

Logan snorted.  “Can’t say I blame him.”

“You did put your foot in it there, Mac.”  They shrugged at his confused glance.  “He already told me everything.”

“Of course.”  Logan rubbed his temple.  “Heaven forbid anything be private at that damned club.”

Virgil snorted, resting on their forearms against the cracking counter.  “The rumor mill is alive and thriving, to say the least.”

“And I’m sure we have your contributions to thank for that.”  Logan gestured for more water.

They took his cup, frowning as they turned to the sink.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you are the reason Mr. Salem found out about Roman’s…”  Logan bit his lip, searching.  “Secret.”

Virgil stilled, hands freezing over the faucet before they jerked back into motion, eyes averted.  “I think the giggle water isn’t quite out of your system, Mac.”  They pushed the water at him, jaw working.  “You aren’t making any sense.”

“Relax, Virgil.”  Logan sighed, arms pillowing on the counter, cheek rested atop.  “I’m not going to say anything to him.”

“You say that now,” they countered, dryly, “but you also said you’d stop investigating.  Yet here you are, trying to untangle things, like always.”

Logan shot them something that could’ve passed for a grin.  “Can’t quite help it.  I see a loose thread and I just have to… pull.”

“You’ll unravel yourself like that.”

Logan just laughed, closing his eyes.  “I think I already have.”

There was silence for a long moment, broken only by the tick, tick, tick of Logan’s clock, whiling away what little time they had left, bit by bit.

“I didn’t mean to tell him,” they said, eventually.  Their fingers were twisted around each other, face drawn.  “Remy just… he made me angry, like no one else ever could.  If there was any other to forget about Patton, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat, but nothing else worked.  And I tried.  Believe me, I tried.  Nothing else worked.”

They tugged on one of their clock-spring curls.  “I get why Dorian hates me, sometimes.  Remy gave me so much of his attention, so much of what Dorian wanted, and I resented every second of it.”

Logan bit back the questions that piled against the back of his teeth, drowning them with another gulp of water.

“I don’t even remember what he said.”  Virgil’s mouth twisted.  “Isn’t that awful?  I ruined my best friend’s life, made him so desperate he hired you, and I don’t even remember what made me do it.  Something about how…”  They swallowed, hard.  “I was a man.  It’s what I was born as, it’s what I always will be, biologically, so that’s all I was.”  They laughed, bitterly.  “You know I’m not good at managing my temper.  I saw red, and by the time I was done ripping him a new one, I’d already shouted something about how he had no problem seeing Roman as a man.”

“You never told him?”

“Roman?”  Virgil shook their head.  “I… I just couldn’t.  He’d hate me.  He’s a dreamer, you know?  He’s always talking about how me and Patton are going to be his dates for his first big red carpet event, once he makes it big.  If everyone knew, if my temper was what ruined that for him… I don’t know if he could ever forgive me.”

“I thought you had more sense than that, Mx. Avery.”  Logan snorted, despite himself.  “He loves you.”

“You say you’re not a romantic, but you make me wonder sometimes, Mr. Sul.”  Virgil smiled, and it was only a bit sad.  “Love doesn’t always mean things are going to turn up roses.”

Logan felt the water, sloshing around in his stomach, and suddenly felt quite cold.  “I know.”

Not for the first time, Logan wished he was better at reading moods, at deciphering what hid in Virgil’s dark eyes every time he pretended he wasn’t looking Logan over.  His throat burned, limbs unwieldy, skin clammy, but he kept his own face carefully neutral.

“The cavalry has arrived.” The door swung open, revealing Viper, emerging from her hurricane of silk skirts, head held high and arms laden with covered trays of something that smelled delicious.

Virgil’s mouth twisted.  “Thought I told you to wait.”

She bustled past them, airily.  “I don’t take well to directions, Mx. Avery.”

“Ms. Salem.”  Logan felt the corners of his mouth tug into a smile despite himself.  “Radiant as ever.”

“Mr. Sul.”  She flashed him a wry grin.  “You’ve seen better days.”  She uncovered the tray with a flourish, revealing fried eggs and hash browns and fresh bacon.  “I told the diner a few blocks down to make something good and greasy.”

Logan’s stomach roared like the firing of a gatling gun , but he forced himself to stand, lips twisting into a snarl.  “I think the two of you have made a mistake,” he said, clipped.  “There is no further reason to associate with me.  I’d thank you to leave.”

Viper, munching on a hash brown, and Virgil, opening the window to let some fresh air in, glanced at each other.

“No,” they said, simultaneously.

Virgil tied the blinds out of the way.  Viper dabbed at her mouth, delicately.

“I…”  Logan blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Pardon granted,” Viper said, smug.  “We’re not leaving.”

“Eat your eggs,” Virgil said, sticking a fork in his hand.

Logan sat and began to eat, almost mechanically.

He waited for them to do something, to say something, want something from him, but they just stayed – busied themselves with stealing his food or straightening his apartment or flipping through the books stacked on his side table.

It wasn’t until Viper crawled under his sink to examine the plumbing with unabashed interest that Logan roused himself enough to stand, snapping out a: “what do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”  She retorted, tightening the tail piece.  “Last I checked, liquid diets were more my sort of fad.”

“There’s no reason for you to be here!”  He snapped, gesturing furiously.  “You don’t need anything from me!  I’m done with the case!  Neither of you will be arrested!  So why won’t you just leave me alone?!”

“Don’t feel like it.”  Virgil stole his last strip of bacon and munched on it.  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you’re not that bad when you set aside the alcoholic dick persona.”

“I like you,” Viper volunteered, sliding out from under Logan’s sink and casually pouring the silver flask she found there down the sink.  “Can’t sob on someone in a dirty old bathroom without growing at least a bit fond of them.”

Virgil blinked.  “What now?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Logan said, not returning the smile Viper shot his way.  “Thank you for your attentions, as unnecessary as they were.  Now, I’d greatly appreciate it if you allowed me to recuperate from my… spell in private.”

“Oh?”  Viper propped her chin on her hand, blinking at Logan.  “And how will you be ‘recuperating’, Mr. Sul?  A nice hot shower?  A scotch, neat?  A round of whisky, just to top it off?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“When you care about someone, making sure they’re okay becomes part of your business.”  Virgil shrugged.  “That’s just how it is, L.”

“Why are you so insistent on keeping me around?”  Logan demanded.  “I’ve done nothing but be rude to you, nothing but push you away.  There’s no logical reason!”

Virgil clucked, lips twisting into a half-smile.  “That’s your problem, Lo,” they said, gently.  “People aren’t always logical.  There is no rationale for why we care.  We just… do.”

Logan’s eyes burned, and he turned away, digging his nails into the palm of his hand.  “That’s foolish of you.”

Viper snorted. “People tend to be foolish, sometimes, as well.”  She winked. “Not me, of course, but some people.”

“We’re all fools in love, isn’t that what they say?”  Virgil shot him a wry grin, even as Viper’s face shuttered closed, hands fisting in the folds of her dress.  “You must have more love in you than most, Mr. Sul.”

“Hardly complementary, Mx. Avery.”   Logan didn’t quite look at either of them.  “Besides, it’s an absurd, unfair conjecture to say everyone is subject to the whims of that sort of ‘love’.”

“Well, sure.”  They shrugged.  “It’s not whacko to think some people aren’t, but–“

“It’s not?”  Viper said, quietly.  Her hands were twisted in her lap, far too tightly to tell if they were shaking, but the lines of her lips were done up, tremulous.

Logan made a small noise – of protest or alarm, even he wasn’t sure – and Virgil drew back, mouth opening into a soft ‘o’ of surprise.

“No,” they said, an endless moment later; they looked as if they wanted to put a hand on her shoulder but held back with something between decorum and uncertainty.  “It’s not.”

“Considering the population of the planet is two thousand, three hundred million, it’s an unfathomable, ridiculous notion to claim otherwise,” Logan said, shifting so his knee was within brushing distance of hers.  “Even if less than one half of one percent share that particular proclivity –er, or lack thereof – that’s still over eleven million people.  In a world as large as this one, it’s foolhardy to think one is alone.”

Viper released a shaking breath and adjusted herself, skirts crinkling against Logan’s knee.  He wasn’t close enough to feel her warmth, but there was something almost comforting about the cool brush of silk.

“Well, then, Mr. Sul,” she said, clearing her throat and squaring her shoulders.  “If I’m– if I’m not alone, how on Earth could you ever assume you are?”

“You–I–“ Logan sputtered.

“Jeeze!”  Virgil half-laughed, an incredulous smile taking over their face.  “Ms. Salem, I dare say I’m impressed.”

She simpered, fooling exactly no one what with the way she smirked.  “A gal does what she can.”

“That’s not fair,” Logan protested, hotly.  “You’re not alone by statistics.  I am alone by nece– by choice.”

“Is this you being up in a huff about Roman not being concerned?”  Virgil drawled.  “Because, let me tell you, the man can hold a grudge, but he hardly ever means it.  This one time, I ripped one of his special undershirts, and he didn’t talk to me for a–“

“This is me limiting the casualties,” Logan snapped.  “This is me keeping him and you at arms length, because you’re better off without me.  Because Roman’s too good for me.  Because I’m going to ruin him, just like I ruin everything else.”

“Roman was a lot happier with you than I’ve seen him be in a long time,” Virgil said, quietly.  “I… I think you’re good for him.”

“I’m not!  Virgil, I’m sorry, but I’m not whatever you’ve all tricked yourselves into thinking I can be.  I’m not a poor, innocent guy with a tragic backstory that will calm down and be alright as soon as I get a hug and sober.”  Logan pushed his gnarled, scarred hands through his hair, feeling a hysterical laugh bubble up in the back of his throat.  “I’ve killed people.  I’ve ruined lives.  I destroy good things.  You think you care about Roman?  Then keep him the hell away from me.”

Virgil snorted, softly.  “You seem to be doing a fine job of driving him off by yourself.”

“Good.”  Logan swallowed hard, crossing his arms across his chest.  “Let’s keep it that way.”

“Have you considered that isn’t your decision to make?”  Viper demanded, lips twisted up into a scowl.  “It’s none of ours.  Mr. Torres is a grown man, Mr. Sul.  It isn’t your place to tell him what he can and can’t do.  If you’re going to shove him aside, at least have the decency to acknowledge he could dare have a wish that goes against yours.”

“I’m not lording over him, I’m helping him,” Logan snapped.  “You want to know the difference between you and I, Ms. Salem?  It’s quite simple really.  You don’t deserve to be alone.”   Logan ran a scarred hand through his limp, grimy hair.  “And I do.”

“How?”  She demanded, eyes steady.  “I pursued Mr. Torres to the point he was uncomfortable, just to try and convince myself I wanted something I hated.  I stayed married to a man I couldn’t make up my mind if I hated or not, just to abandon my friends and family.  I escaped .  I clawed my way into a life where I’m spoiled and pampered, by no merit of my own, and I haven’t done an ounce of good with it.  I’m not a good person, Mr. Sul.  I know I’m not.  But you know what?” 

She stabbed a manicured finger at Virgil.  “Neither are they.”  

“Neither are you.”  She shifted forward, knee pressing against his.  “So, Mr. Sul, if you are to lambast yourself as a demon, at least acknowledge that hell is far from empty.”

Viper lifted her chin, bold, cruel eyes flashing.  “So tell me, Mr. Sul, if your sins are so great, how they outweigh mine.”

“I killed him,” Logan said, softly.  “I was young, and I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together.  I was going to marry him on the beach, and we were going to be happy.  But he didn’t make it.  And it was my fault.”

There was a moment of silence, thick and physical, like a heavy coat of smog.  Logan huffed out a laugh, turning.

“Right.”  He clenched his hand, like he could feel another palm – warm and calloused – against his own.  “That’s what I thought.  There’s the door; I believe the two of you can figure out how to use–”

“I killed my sister,” Virgil said.

Logan’s head snapped to them, quick as a gunshot, and Viper froze, lips parted and forehead creased.

“You… You what?”

“We’re the same age, Mr. Sul.”  Virgil laughed, bitterly.  “Different colors, but same level of disposability.  Never wondered why you got drafted and I didn’t?”

“I– I never really considered–” Logan stammered.

“I never went,” they continued, heedless.  “As soon as I got the letter, she snatched it from my hand with that gleam in her eyes.”  The corner of their mouth lifted in a bittersweet smile.  “I was a twin, you know.  It was one of the first things Ro and I bonded over.  We looked the same, but she was always so much braver than me.  I barely put up a fight when she said she was going instead.  We both knew I couldn’t survive out there.  She cut her hair and reported for the front lines two weeks later.”  

They looked away, voice tight.  “They didn’t even bother sending me a flag when she… Isn’t that nuts?  They’re… they’re supposed to send you something.”

They scrubbed at their eyes, shaking their head at Viper’s soft ‘Virgil’.

“You know, I used to think like you did, Mr. Sul,” Virgil said; their dark eyes were like magnets in an electric storm, restless and uncertain.  “I think that’s why you snapped my cap so much at first.  I’ve done things I’m not proud of.  No one much likes the skeletons in their closet shoved in their face, dressed in a blue tie and square glasses.  But I found Patton, and Roman, and the club.  I got better, Logan.  You can get better.”

“I…”  Logan’s voice was raw, weak.  “I don’t know if I can.”

“Do I deserve to be alone, Mr. Sul?”  Virgil said, softly.  “Do I deserve to never have another family?”

“No.”   Logan clenched his hands into fists.  “You don’t.”

They smiled, sad.  “Then why do you?”

“Well…”  Logan took a deep breath.  “Off the top of my head, because I’ve got an entire criminal network coming to kill me any day now.”

Viper blinked, delicately touching the edge of her ear.  “Mr. Sul, I’m afraid the engine of the Daimler DE-36 I was running earlier might’ve been a bit loud.  My hearing must be on the fritz, otherwise I could’ve sworn you said you’re about to be murdered.”

Logan winced.  “I may have done something stupid.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I may have written a letter to the newspaper detailing the actions of a local gambling ring slash black market smuggling operation.”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”  Virgil’s eyes went huge.

Viper’s expression darkened.  “So that’s what Dorian was going on about.”

“In my defense,” Logan said, a bit sheepishly, “I was three bottles deep and convinced I had thoroughly rebuked anyone that cared about me.”

“Right.”  Viper took a deep breath, then winced.  “Your first order of business is a shower, Mr. Sul, then we’ll sort this out.”

Logan stared at her, incredulously, then turned his gaze onto an equally determined Virgil.

“I almost don’t believe you two,” he half-laughed, shaking his head.  “What would it take to run you off?”

“Hell of a lot more than a little death threat.”  Viper smiled, eyes bright.

“I lost one family member,” Virgil said, softly.  “I’m not losing you too.”

“You’re not my family,” Logan said, hoarsely.

“I know.”  Virgil gave him a sad, tired sort of smile.  “But you’re already mine.”

A shower, a few dozen glasses of water, and a good night’s sleep later found Logan Sul, scarred and sullen but perhaps a little less jaded, standing in the slanting lights of his office.

He’d pulled out the old files out of the trash despite himself.  He stood above them, tracing the printed curve of Roman’s smile.

Scratches around a keyhole.  A piano wire secreted down the back of a chair.  An impromptu intermission.

There was something there, itching right at the edge of Logan’s mind, like a buzzing gnat he could hear and swat at, but never quite grasp.  But he was almost there–

The door to Logan’s office flew open, revealing Dorian Arya, mouth running a mile a minute as he slithered in like he owned the place.

“Things are about to get hairy in here, Mr. Sul, but I’m going to have to ask that you remain calm.”

“Easier said than done.”  Logan’s hand crept towards the gun he kept strapped towards the bottom of his desk.  “Might I inquire as to the cause of my non-existent alarm?”

“Simple really.”  Dorian smiled thinly.  “I’m going to kill you.”

“Hope that isn’t too much of a problem,” a familiar voice purred.

Logan’s chest seized, but he stood as he gazed at familiar jeweled eyes, red-painted lips, that face made entirely of angles.

“Put that thing down,” he said, staring down the barrel of a gun leveled straight at his forehead. “you’re going to hurt my feelings, Roman.”  

He blinked.  “And what the hell happened to your hair?”

Chapter Text

Fear has an acrid sort of smell.  Corrosive.

It’ll eat away at you if you’re not careful; burn you even if you are.

It was an August night, a cold chill sweeping away the last of the city’s heat wave, when Logan Sul, private eye, stared at a stranger who looked like Roman Torres, and wondered if they could smell his fear, bitter and caustic in the air.

“Oh, by all means, come in,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.  “Haven't you heard of science’s newest triumph: the doorbell?”

Logan smoothly tucked his shaking hands behind his back, tiny snub-nose pistol concealed in the broad plane of his palm.

“Really, Roman,” he continued, heart in his throat, “I expected better of you.”

“Roman?”  The figure in Logan’s doorway, gun trained on him, trilled, mouth twisting up.  “I thought you were supposed to be observant, detective.”

They stalked into the room, looking for all the world like new-age royalty in that tight, dark suit, however grimy the cuffs and red-stained the undershirt.  A fresh-printed newspaper crinkled under their vice grip.

“Dorian,” they said, clipped, “you haven’t been lying to me again, have you?  I thought the hair would give me away.”

Dorian flashed that snake’s smile.  “I’ve never lied once in my entire life ever.”

Logan took a sharp breath in, then turned a glower on Dorian.  “So, you weren’t being sarcastic when asking if I’d found Roman’s evil twin?”

He just quirked an eyebrow, mouth flirting with amusement.

“Evil twin?!”  the stranger gasped, long, jagged fingernails pressing against their lips.  “Ugh, people are so sensitive nowadays.  Kill a few people, drain a few of their life savings, and build a criminal empire, and suddenly they’re all ‘what the fuck, no, Remus, that’s illegal’ and ‘hey, lady, I don’t think arson is the answer to all your problems’.”

She turned a serious look onto Logan.  “Arson is always the answer, by the way.”

“Ms. Remus Torres, then?”  Logan asked, trying to keep his expression still.

“Arson,” she said, airily, then laughed – high and shrill, but with undertones so similar to another laugh, one he was intimately acquainted with.  “See, I told you arson was always the answer!”

“Hilarious,” Dorian said, dryly.

“But no,” Remus continued, languidly dropping into the chair across from Logan, gun steady, “you, Mr. Sul, don’t get to call me anything!  No need.”

She bared her teeth.  “Because I’m going to blow your fucking brains out for what you did to me.”

The newspaper smacked down on Logan’s desk, headline bold and brash – Private Eye Exposes Crime Ring; Arrests Made.

“Look at this fucking mess,” she snapped, jabbing a crooked finger at it.  “Doesn’t help a god damn thing paying off the NYPD when everyone can tell they don’t do anything.  You wouldn’t believe how much I had to shell out just to get my neck off the chopping block.”

“I take it the press liked my letter,” he said, mildly, scanning the article.  Several underground locations, key personnel, and trading posts had been busted.  “I’m shocked they got anything coherent out of it.  I think I was about seven bottles of scotch in at the time.”

“Do you ever shut up,” she snapped.  “God damn, Sul, I actually liked you!  You got grit, and from what Dorian’s said, Roman likes you.  Sure, it was annoying as fuck when you got rid of Fontane, but he was easy enough to replace.  And, yeah, you offed Salem, but he was just a disposable money sack!”

Dorian set his jaw, eyed dropping to the floor.

“I was just going to take off your leg or something for that, but this?  Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Sent you straight back to hell?”

“Worse!”  She threw a hand up.  “New Jersey!  I’ve hardly got any people left in this damn state, and now you’re my last stop before I jump the state lines entirely.”

“Tragic,” Logan drawled, “I’m sure you’ll be– “

He paused.

Blinked.

“I’m sorry, what was that about Mr. Salem?”

“Coy isn’t cute on you, Sul.”  Remus picked a long, jagged fingernail between her teeth.  “Dorian told me what you did.  Don’t play innocent.”

“To tell the truth,” Logan sighed, “I’ve been harboring a whimsical hope it was your group.”

“What?  Why would I kill one of my best customers?  That’s like using a croissant as a dildo,” Remus snorted.  “It doesn’t do the job and it makes a fucking mess.”

Logan grimaced.  “Charming.”

Remus flashed a sharp-toothed grin.  “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”

“I always did know Dorian was a liar.”

Remus cackled.  “Oh, he did say you were a funny one.”

“Maybe not a complete liar then.”

“And when I tell Ms. Torres you were the one that killed Mr. Salem,” Dorian interrupted, mismatched eyes fixed on Logan, “what am I then?”

Logan squeezed his hand around that concealed pistol until the edges of it bit into his skin.  “A liar.”

Dorian smiled, thin-lipped.  “I’m afraid I have to disagree with you there, Mr. Sul.”

He crossed the room, languid, and rested his hip against Logan’s desk, long gloved fingers dancing along the scuffed surface.

“You see, Mr. Sul, you’ve done quite a few things that my employer and I, unfortunately, take an issue with.”

“You’re welcome to file a formal complaint,” Logan said, blank faced.  “HR will be back to you in three to five business days.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be breathing in three to five business days,” Remus clucked.  “I’ll give your body to Roman, don’t worry.  I don’t know if he’s into that, but hey, people do some weird stuff when you brutally slaughter their loved ones.”

“Dorian, did you really find it necessary to tell Ms. Torres every single of her fraternal twin’s…  romantic entanglements?”

“Identical.”  Remus snorted.  “Besides, it’s not like Roro was keeping me updated.  He hasn’t talked to me in years.  A lady’s gotta keep tabs somehow.”

“So, it’s no coincidence that Mr. Arya was assigned to shadow Ego.”

“What, you think I’m going to leave my ro-bro alo?”  Remus grinned, languidly crossing her legs.  “I’m a good big sis.  Gotta get my best man to keep a good eye on him.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere,” Dorian said.  “But as I was saying, Mr. Sul, I noticed something strange about you from the moment you set foot into Ego.  I’m no stranger to the charms of a pretty man, but there was something… possessive about the way you looked at Roman.  He told you he was being stalked, yes?”

He tapped his gloved fingers against the table, mismatched eyes boring into Logan’s.  “Let’s set the scene, shall we?  An ex-military private eye, with a penchant for bloodshed and a hero complex the size of Texas meets a beautiful singer, tears in his eyes, spinning a yarn about how he’s in danger.  About how our detective is the only one who can help.  He’s so wrapped up in looking at that pretty smile, he doesn’t even bother asking for payment.  He goes to where the singer works, gets a lay of the land, and takes it upon himself to meet this so-called stalker.  He goes through a shadowy hallway and into a private booth where he meets-“

Dorian’s voice snagged in his throat.

“A man,” he said, softly.  “Not a monster or a saint or a crazed stalker or even a terribly good person.  He was just a man, with blue eyes and the kind of smile that could carve your heart out.  Not a good one, but… there aren’t any, not in this story.”

He cleared his throat.  Shook his head.

“Regardless, he met the man.  And now he had a face – a face to put to the dark thoughts of another man coveting what he had already come to think of as his.  Who our detective had already come to think so as his.  He went to a bar, bought a drink for a half-faced stranger, and brooded, sipping at his whiskey, and thought and thought and thought all those jealous thoughts until he felt like he was burning alive.  He went back to the club, and oh!  There was his pretty little singer, crooning away and flirting with other men.  And if our detective couldn’t even stand to think about it, how on Earth do you think he reacted to seeing it?”

Dorian smiled, thin lipped.  “Poorly, let’s say.  So poorly, he probably didn’t even realize what he was doing until he had slipped down the hallway, jimmied open the door, and picked up a curtain tie.  And, well, since he was already there…”

Dorian danced his fingers up to Logan’s neck, pressing them against his windpipe.  “Why not take the opportunity and just” – he pressed in – “squeeze.”

Logan stood there, staring into Dorian’s mismatched eyes, helpless as his fingers reduced his breath to just the thinnest whisper of air. 

Remus let out a low whistle.  “Damn, Arya, if the whole criminal thing doesn’t work out, storytelling might just be calling your name.”

Dorian pulled back, face impassible, and Logan let a hand fly to his throat, rubbing.

“Luckily for you, I love what I do.”  He pulled a handgun from the inside of his jacket.  Pointed it directly at Logan’s head.  “May I, Ms. Torres?”

“Such a lot of guns,” Logan sighed, “and so few brains.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer the witty comments to come at a time when your life isn’t on the line, Mr. Sul?”  Dorian arched an eyebrow.

“Then I’d never get to use them, Mr. Arya.”

“Blah blah blah, you two have definitely thought about each other naked at some point, I get it,” Remus huffed, waving a hand.  “I think this is the point where I kill you.”

She fired.

Logan fell backwards with a half-choked scream, and Dorian clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

“Oh, boo.”  Remus frowned at the hole in the wall, then her snub-nosed pistol.  “I’ve never been that good of a shot.”

“Thank God for that.” Logan, shaking, crawled out from behind his desk.

“I-” Dorian cleared his throat, flexing his yellow-gloved hands.  “I thought you were going to let me do it, Ms. Torres.”

“I was bored,” she said, and fired again.

“Do you mind?!”   Logan snapped, sequestered beneath his desk once more.  The bullet hole in the ceiling delicately snowed white plaster, landing in his black hair.

“Nope!”  She chirped.  “Dorian, kill him.”

His expression stayed carefully still.  “Ms. Torres, forgive me, but wouldn’t it be prudent–”

“Dorian,” she said, smiling.  “There’s going to be blood shed in this room sometime soon, and the longer you waste my time, the less I care about who’s it’s going to be.”

A beat of silence as Dorian’s mismatched eyes took in that sharp, sharp smile.

“Right,” he said.

He lifted his gun and aimed with steady hands at the thin wooden barrier between him and Logan.

“Don’t you want to know how I did it?”  Logan asked.

Remus tilted her head.

“What’s that?”

“I said-” Logan swallowed, hard.  “Don’t you want to know how I killed Mr. Salem?”

Remus cackled, pressing her hands to her cheeks.  “Oh, I knew it!  Snakey, you did it again.”

He discreetly holstered his gun beneath his jacket.  “I live to serve, Ms. Torres.”

“Alright then, Lolo.”  Remus perched on the edge of his desk, banging the front with her heels.  “Spill the deets.  What happened?”

‘What the fuck is a deet?’ Logan mouthed to himself before shaking his head.  “Let me come out from under here unharmed, and I’ll do you one better.  I’ll show you how I killed him, and how I killed Mr. Fontaine.”

Remus hummed tunelessly, tilting her head.

“Deal.”

Cautiously, Logan crept out, then straightened – clearing his throat and brushing plaster from his shoulders.

“You’ll recall I poisoned Mr. Fontane, correct?”

“That is what the mortician I bribed said, yes.”

Logan blinked.  “...right.  Well, I had to convince Mr. Fontane to ingest the toxin first, didn’t I?”

She leaned forward, gaze unwavering.  “You didn’t just drop it in his drink?”

He risked a smile.  “Where’s the fun in that?”

She cackled.  “You’re a riot, Sul.”

Logan pulled out a small tube, a white powder inside.  He held it up, the mockery of a toast. “I have in here soluble, odorless, tasteless Thallium salt.  One singular teaspoon, to be precise.  That’s enough to kill thirty-four men.”  He smiled.  “Or one man in a matter of minutes.”

He glanced up.  “Mr. Arya, would you be kind enough to fetch me that serving tray of scotch?”

“Anything else you require, Sir?”   He drawled, venomously, but acquiesced.

Remus watched with narrow-eyed intensity as Logan poured two glasses.

Logan held his, unsure if it was bile or ravenous longing that crept up his throat.

“Mr. Sul?”  Dorian prompted.

Snapping back into animation, Logan cleared his throat, uncapping the vial.

“No peeking now,” he muttered, wryly, and turned his back.  A soft tapping of glass on glass came, then Logan turned again, vial tucked safely away.

He put one glass before Remus, and one before himself.

“Mr. Fontane killed himself because he chose wrong,” Logan said.  “I killed Mr. Salem because I didn’t give him the choice.”

He leaned back, steepling his fingers.  “There’s only one question now, Ms. Torres.”

“Being, Mr. Sul?”

Logan gestured towards the glasses.  “Which one are you going to choose?”

Remus startled, then laughed – an unruly snorting thing.  “Ah, you’re cute.  Why the hell would I do a thing like that?”

“Same reason you decided to take care of me, nothing more than a minor annoyance to someone as powerful as you, personally.  Same reason you keep tabs on your twin.  Same reason you shot at me.”  Logan smiled, thin-lipped.  “You, Ms. Torres, are chronically and incurably bored.”

Remus startled back, lips parted.

“It’s to be expected, really,” Logan said with a shrug.  “You’re rich, powerful, and you’ve got more than a few of New York’s least finest boys in blue on your payroll.  What is there now but cheap, momentary thrills? I guarantee you, Ms. Torres, there’s nothing momentary about a game of life and death.”

He ran a finger around the rim of his glass, sending a faint ringing into the air.  “Besides, death or New Jersey?  I’d say the options are evenly weighted.”

Logan’s pulse roared in his ears as Remus looked back at him, eyes narrowed.

“I’m not going to fall–”

“Remus,” Dorian interjected, a tinge of genuine worry in his tone, “you can’t seriously be considering–”

“Last time I checked, I’m the boss here,” Remus snapped.  “You don’t tell me what to do.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Dorian hissed.  “You can’t–”

“You know what, Mr. Sul?”  Remus spun the tray and grabbed the one Logan had placed before himself.  “You’re fucking on.”

Logan picked up his glass.

“Right,” he said and tried to keep his voice steady.

“Remus,” Dorian hissed.  “This is a bad id–”

“Shut the hell up, Snakey.  I keep you around because you fuck people over, not for your sage advice.”  Remus looked at Logan, with jeweled eyes, familiar and perverse all at once.  “Ready when you are, Mr. Sul.”

“Right, yes, I just…”  He huffed out a laugh and rose, moving to stand before her, back to the window.  “I don’t remember being this scared last time.”

Her eyes danced.  “Backing out, Mr. Sul?”

Behind her, Dorian’s gaze caught his own.

“No,” Logan breathed.  “I’m not.”

The con man gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Then I’ll let you choose the toast.”  Remus grinned.  “What’ll it be?  Health?  Wealth?  Men?” 

“The end of a life,” Logan said, as Dorian came forward to stand by her side.  “The end of an old, lonely life.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”  Remus clinked her glass with his.  “You weren’t entirely pathetic, from what I've heard.  Only sixty-nine percent pathetic.”

“Generous,” Logan said and drank.

It burned.

That familiar, aching pain – like digging his fingers into an old bruise, just to remind himself he could still bleed.

He rubbed his throat, one handed, when he was done and wondered if he’d be able to feel poison leaching into his veins, dark and vicious.

“How long?”  Remus breathed, eyes dark and shining.  Her empty glass was clutched in her hand as she trembled with a savage sort of joy.

“Shouldn’t be more than a minute.”  Logan checked his watch.  His tongue felt bulky, unwieldy in his mouth.

Behind his back, he gripped that tiny gun.

“No one told me there’d be any waiting involved,” Remus groaned, flopping so her legs dangled over the chair’s armrest.

“You’ll have to forgive the poison for not working on your schedule,” Logan said, dryly.  “Next time, I’m sure you can persuade it to-”

His voice stuck in his throat.  “To–” He cut himself off with a dry cough.  “Forgive me, I seem to be–”  He coughed again, the force of it sending him back.  “My, ah–”  His breaths came, short and heavy.  “Collar feels…”

“Mr. Sul?”  Dorian took a half-step towards him, hand outstretched, but Logan shook his head, stumbling backwards.

“I can’t– I need–” He gasped, hand clawing at his collar.

“Look at how red he is!”  Remus trilled, jumping up and hopping on her toes.

“I can’t–” Logan choked.  “I–” He shook furiously, hand uselessly grappling with his tie.

“Mr. Sul, sit down,” Dorian hissed.

He reached for Logan, but Logan wrenched himself away, back slamming against the window.

A sharp, ear-splitting crack.

The glass shattered.

Logan Sul fell three stories.

“Holy shit!”  Remus stumbled forward, only to sprawl over the dingy carpet.  “God damn it, Snakey, get your fat foot out of my way!”

“Apologies.” Dorian – hands shaking impercibly – hauled her up, hand tight on her arm as he brushed her off.

“Let go,” she hissed, wrenching away, and rushed to the window, sticking her head between the wickedly sharp glass fragments.

“Holy shit,” she said, then again, more emphatically.  “Shit!  He’s dead!”

“Was it the poison or the thirty-foot drop that tipped you off?”  Dorian said, dryly, shouldering beside her and looking down into the street.

The still body of Logan Sul lay on the cracked pavement, something dark and viscous pooling out from under his head.

The two criminals looked down at it, so small and still from where they lorded above him.

“See now,” Dorian said, “wasn’t that so much more fun than shooting him?”

He pulled back and offered his arm.

“You didn’t even want me to do it, Arya,” she retorted dryly, taking it.

“Can’t blame a man for being cautious,” he responded smoothly, sweeping them from the office and into the dingy stairwell.  A woman with her hair in rollers peaked out, cautiously, and slammed her door shut as soon as she saw the savage shine in Remus’ eyes.  “One wrong choice and you’d be lying in the street, and then where would I be?”

“Sitting on the private dick’s private parts, likely,” she said, flashing a lecherous smile.

“A win-win for me, then,” he mused, smiling when she cackled.

“This is why you’re my favorite,” she said, as they reached the exit.

“A position I hold with all due reverence.”

He pushed the door open, and they escaped into the dark of another smoky New York night.

The body of Logan Sul lay ten feet away, heat sapping away into the oncoming cold.  August was nearly over.

“Wonder if we could burn it,” Remus hummed, making her way over, but Dorian held her back.

“No time.  Police are already on their way.”  He clicked his tongue, ear tilted.  

She frowned.  “What?  I don’t hear anything.”

He sighed.  “I take it you didn’t go to that hearing appointment I suggested.”

“What’s that?  Can’t hear your incoming scolding.”  Remus detached herself, speed walking to the jet-black Streamliner they had driven here in.  “Coming?  Jersey’s calling our name.”

He shrugged, lazily.  “I’ll stick around.”  He settled a cigarette between his lips and lit it, taking a drag.  “Make sure no one… saw anything.”

He flicked his lighter closed meaningfully.

“You know my name; you’ll find me eventually.”

“Arson,” Remus sighed, happily, sliding into the car.  “The answer to everything.”

Dorian watched, sucking down nicotine, as her car melted into the murky darkness, until the taillights were swallowed by smog and cigarette smoke.

He took a final drag, red tip the only spot of color in that monochrome night, then dropped the butt, crushing it into the cracked pavement beneath his patented leather loafers.  He breathed out a long, cool stream of smoke.

“Well,” he said, dryly.  “That was fun.  Same time next week?”

The body of Logan Sul opened its eyes.

“Roman,” he sighed.  “I thought you said you didn’t have any siblings.”

“Did you really expect an impromptu pulse reading while I was sitting on your lap to be any sort of scientifically accurate method of interrogation?”  Roman Torres, star and singer extraordinaire, slipped out of the shadows, wrapped up in a dark trench coat.

“I’m sorry, you did what now!?”

The bewildered exclamation of one Mr. Patton Parker rang out as he and one Mx. Virgil Avery materialized behind Roman, looking scandalized and repulsed, respectively.

“Princey,” Virgil said, wearily.  “If you could stop reminding me you have a sex life, I’d be extremely grateful.”

“I second the motion.”  Viper Salem stepped out of a doorway, shrouded in cigarette smoke and smog.  “Except everyone has to stop doing it.”

“Wow, great acting, Dorian,” the con man said wryly.  “Good job saving Logan’s life, Dorian.  We’re going to do anything but banter about the second most obvious couple here, Dorian.”

Patton and Virgil sputtered in indignation, and Roman flashed that soft, honest smile onto Logan – too wide, too sincere to be alluring, but so achingly real it was beautiful.

“Besides,” Roman said, reaching out a hand to help him up.  “Family isn’t the ones you share blood with.”  Logan stood, and Roman smiled up at him, squeezing his hand.  “They’re the ones you’d shed blood for.”

Logan laughed, despite himself, rubbing at his hair, clumping together with sweetness.  “Or Hersey’s chocolate syrup, in this case?”

“it’s what they use in all the moves!” Patton defended.  “Better consistency, and it looks the same in black and white.”

“Or the dark, in this case,” Viper said, pulling an oversized tarp out from where it had been hastily shoved into a dumpster.  “Is someone going to help me with this, or do I have to bring what we caught Logan with and put it up by myself?”

“I still think that was dangerous,” Virgil clucked, gingerly handing Logan back his snub-nosed pistol as Patton bustled to her side.  “Bad enough you jumped while holding onto this thing.”

“Only way he could’ve broken through the window first was to shoot it.”  Dorian shrugged.  “Strong as our dear private eye may be, I’m not sure his poor back could break a window at such a low speed.”

Roman flashed a small smile at Logan.  “If he could take down an entire gambling ring while sloshed out of his mind, I’m sure he’d have found a way.”

“Not gone,” Logan brushed it off, unsure what to do with the way his chest went warm and soft in the face of that smile.  “Just relocated.”

“Either way,” Patton said, firmly.  “Even if they find out what we did, they can’t get to any of us now.”

“Hopefully,” Dorian sighed, scrubbing at his face.  “They’ll find out eventually, though.”

Logan grimaced at him, contrite.  “You’re sure they won't put their ire on you now?”

“Please,” Dorian snorted, rolling his shoulders and pasting on a smirk.  “Those idiots will never find me.  They still think my real name is actually Dorian Arya.”

Logan blinked.  “What?”

“What?”  Dorian smiled, pseudo-innocent.  “Nothing.”

“We’re circling back to that later,” Virgil said, ignoring Dorian’s scoff, “but more importantly…”

They took a deep breath.  “I think I need to apologize.  And to say thank you, Ar- Dorian.”

Everyone’s heads whipped to Virgil, who coughed, scuffing their toe against the ground.

“I know we’ve been at each other’s throats, and I think I know why.  I’m not saying I forgive you for always snapping your cap at me, but… I should have known better than to snap back.  I know why you did it.  I don’t really forgive you, yet, but… I understand.  And that’s the first step, I guess.

“We seriously couldn’t have done any of this without you.  You deceived your employer for us; you’re risking your life, just to help us save Logan, so… Thank you.”  They looked up, flashing him a small half-smile.  “Great acting, Dorian.  Good job saving Logan’s life.”

Dorian swallowed hard, gloved fingers tapping against his leg.  “I won’t pretend I wasn’t jealous of you for… obvious reasons.  But… thank you.  You’re… right.  I acted harshly over something you didn’t control.  I shouldn’t have.”

Virgil nodded, once, and Dorian lifted the corner of his mouth.

“I still can’t believe you all did this for me,” Logan confessed, quietly.  “I don’t… it’s hard.  To believe I did anything that could make you think I deserve this.”

“That’s because you didn’t,” Virgil said.

Roman reached out and smacked the back of their head.

“Hey!”  They ducked away.  “I mean, he didn’t!  He didn’t have to!  There isn’t a magic benchmark that suddenly makes you worthy of good things.  Worthy of people caring about you.”

“I always thought there was,” Logan said, hoarsely, sinking to sit on the concrete stairs.  “I always thought I had to be the hero of everyone’s story when I’m not even the hero of my own.”

Quietly, Patton sat beside him; he didn’t reach out, didn’t force that contact Logan was still getting used to, but he leaned into him – still close enough that Logan could feel the warmth of him in the cold night.

“Nobody needs you to be a hero, Mr. Sul.”  Patton didn’t look at him, smiling with something like sadness into the darkness.  “None of us are, either.  If we rescue each other, when it counts… that’s enough.  It has to be.”

“You’re all such sappy idiots,” Dorian drawled, and sat down with them, leaning against Logan’s other side.

“Hell of a night, huh?”  Viper half-laughed, sitting a stair up and reaching out to squeeze Logan’s shoulder.  “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yes,” Logan said, then, “no.”  

Logan Sul, the man with all the answers, laughed softly.  “I don’t know.”

He breathed out, slowly, as Roman and Virgil sat, a stair down.  Virgil leaned against his leg.  Roman reached up and took his hand.

“I won’t be, if I stay like…”  Logan sighed.  “If I don’t make a few adjustments.”

Logan sat there, surrounded by the people who called themselves a family – unrelated, uncooperative, unremarkable to any passers by.  But passersby didn’t know about a person who had so deeply loved someone they lost, they would protect the ones they chose to their dying breath.  They didn’t know about a woman who had spent her life playing into what other people thought she was, finally letting herself breathe.  They didn’t know about a man who spent his life fighting to smile though gray days, just to make the world a little brighter.  They didn’t know about a criminal who had loved despite himself, who hid his genuine smiles behind yellow-gloved hands and lied through his teeth for what he deemed right.  They didn’t know about the brightest star in Logan’s sky – about the sly seductive mask he wore, and the man beneath, who smiled too widely and felt too deeply.

And Logan realized he could hardly feel the cold of the night for the warmth they gave him.

It was still there, still nipped at his exposed nose, reddened his cheeks, but Virgil and Viper and Patton and Dorian and Roman were there, at his side.  And, somehow, that made it all so much more bearable.

“But I want to,” Logan confessed, quietly.  “I want to get better.”

“We’ll help you, as much as you want,” Roman promised.  “Every step of the way.”

“Why don’t we start now,” Dorian drawled, dryly, “my am'mā always said cold concrete steps at three am was the best place to work on your personal issues.”

Patton giggled, placing a hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn.  “I think you’ve got a point.”

Everyone stood but Logan, flexing numb limbs and patting the wrinkles from their clothes.

“Mr. Torres,” Logan said, softly, hesitantly reaching out until his fingertips barely skimmed the other man’s cuffs.

Roman turned and flashed that tired, honestly sort of smile.  “Mr. Sul.”

“I was wondering if… well.”  Logan cleared his throat, adjusting his rumpled tie.  “I do not truly want to– and I was quite hopeful that you would be inclined to–”

“Logan,” Roman said, gently, laying a hand on his arm.

“Right.”  Logan took a deep breath, and looked up at the other man, running his fingers against the rough, dirty pavement of the New York streets.  “Walk me home?”

Roman softened, held out a hand.  “I’d be delighted to, Mr. Sul.”

Logan took it, standing, and for a moment, they stood there.  Roman’s smile was like a shape in fire – flickering, uncertain, but brilliantly bright and warm.  Logan held his breath, lest a stray exhalation would put it out.

Dorian wolf-whistled, and they leapt apart, faces flaming.

“It was just getting good,” Viper hissed, swatting at him.

“I get the feeling,” Dorian said, as Logan and Roman linked arms, disappearing into the darkness, “it’ll take more than me to ruin their mood.  This seems to be the night to do something crazy.”

“Yeah,” Virgil’s shaking exhalation was the last thing Logan heard.  “I think you’re right.  Hey, uh, Pat?  There’s something I’ve been meaning to…”

As they rounded the corner, Roman rested his head on Logan’s shoulder, and smiled.

They didn’t bother with dithering on Logan’s doorstep, making polite noises about how late it was, what a gentleman Roman was for walking Logan home, if Logan could tempt him inside for a nightcap.

By some unspoken agreement, they pushed through the door to Logan’s tiny, shitty apartment together, Roman half-way collapsing on the couch as Logan trudged into the kitchen.

“How about a drink?”  he asked, rummaging around in his cupboards.

Roman's mouth twisted; he sat up.  “Logan, I know it’s been a stressful night, but I’m not sure-” 

He stopped short as he saw what was in Logan's hands.

“Yes?”  Logan blinked at him, holding out the box of tea.  “Is something amiss?”

Roman held his gaze for a long moment before a smile crept across his face.  “Nothing,” he said, something like pride in his voice.  “Nothing at all.”

He collapsed back, eyes fluttering shut.  “Two sugars, no milk, please.”

“Whatever you want,” Logan said, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about tea.

Anticipation simmered in the air, slow and steady as an oncoming thunderstorm, as Logan leaned against the counters, waiting for the water to boil.  Roman rested his cheek against the couch’s arm, eyes lidded, and neither bothered pretending they weren’t watching the other.

Logan’s hands were unsteady as he steeped the tea, poured it onto his two least grungy cups, and, finally, joined Roman in the living room, sliding his mug over.

“Careful,” he said, “the rim’s got a chip.”

“I’ll be fine.”  Roman took a sip, those dark eyes trained on Logan.  “You’re shaking.”

“I–” Logan looked down at his own mug, drink ripping with the minute tremors of his hands.  “I’m scared.”  He looked up, laughed.  “Isn’t that inane?  I quite literally was looking down the barrel of a gun all evening, and just sitting here with you… I’m more nervous than I’ve been all evening.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Don’t know if I can help it.”

“Well,” Roman said with a ghost of his coy smile.  “I think that depends on what you plan to say.”

“How about ‘I’m sorry’?”  Logan offered, the corner of his mouth twitching up.  “Because I am.  Roman, I’m so, terribly, desperately sorry.  I’ve been awful to you, for absolutely no foible of your own; just because I still can’t release my own vices.  What I said… Roman.” 

Logan set his glass aside, leaning forward until his knees pressed against Roman’s.  “You are special, Roman.  You’re the most brilliant, most incredible, most creative person I’ve ever met.  I’m ashamed of what I said to you.  I just… I’m scared.  I’ve been so damn terrified, because the last time I felt like this, I-”

Logan’s breath hitched, and he realized he was crying, glasses blurry, and hot tears pooling down his cheeks.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Roman,” he choked out.  “God, that’s the last thing I ever want to do, but I will; I know I will if I let you get close to me.  I’m falling in love with you, and I can’t–”

Roman surged forward and wrapped his arms around the other man.  Logan crumpled, sobbing into his shoulder.

“He died,” Logan hiccupped, “he died, and it was all my fault.”

“I’m right here, Logan,” Roman soothed, sliding off his glasses and wiping away tears.  “I’m not going anywhere; I promise.”

“But how do you know?”  Logan demanded, voice thick.

“I don’t,” Roman said, quietly.  “I won’t pretend I do.  The phrase ‘anything could happen’ is just as terrifying as thrilling.  But I can promise, Logan.  I can promise I’ll do everything I can to stay with you, as long as you’ll have me.”

He took a deep breath as Logan slid his glasses on again, tears abating and a sheepish expression taking over.

“Apologies,” Logan said, adjusting his rims.  “I… don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright,” Roman said, then, swallowing hard: “I have to tell you something.”

“A-alright?”

“The night of… the night of the show, during intermission, I was–”

“Roman,” Logan interrupted, softly.  “You don’t have to tell me.  I trust you.”

“No.”  Roman shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I want to, I just…”

His voice was shaking; he couldn’t look at Logan directly.

“I passed out,” Roman said.  “I had… overdone it.”  His mouth lifted in a wry smile.  “I wanted to impress you.  So I pushed myself a little too much.  Both with the performance and with…”  His voice caught in his throat.  “I wear undershirts that press in on me.  They keep my chest flat because it isn’t, naturally.  I had it too tight and wore it too long, and I passed out.  I just lay there, in the hallway, dazed, and I saw…”  He shook his head.  “The intermission went on so long because Virgil didn’t want me going back out when I was still recovering.”

He turned to Logan, eyes hollow.  “That's why I couldn't tell you, Mr. S- Logan. If word ever got out that I'm… that my body is wrong …”

He shook his head, arms tightening over his chest.

“My career would be over.  I couldn’t take that risk.”  He forced out a laugh.  “That’s what started all this, you know?  Remy found out.  I don’t know how.  But I saw something in the papers about a case you had done, and I thought, well, if someone like Detective Sul thinks he’s dangerous, if there was even the slightest chance you could keep him away from me…”  Roman swallowed, hard.  “I just couldn’t risk it getting it out.”

“Oh,” Logan said softly.  “You said Cesario was your favorite,” he murmured in recollection.

“He was the closest to anyone like me I ever saw, growing up,” Roman agreed with a wavering smile.  “I figured if someone once called Viola could change how everyone saw them, then…”

He shook his head, clearing his throat and quickly wiping his eyes as he stood.  “Right, well, I’ll just be leaving then–”

Logan stopped him with a soft touch on his arm.  “Why?”

“Don’t–”  Roman snapped, then stopped himself, taking a deep breath.  “Don’t pity me, Mr. Sul.  There’s no reason to soften the blow.  I know how this ends, so let me just skip over it.  You’ll pretend to be fine with it, but you won’t kiss me again.  Then you’ll explain that you’re not actually interested in women and I’ll smile and say I understand,” Roman said, voice icy.  “Does that sound right?”

“Roman–” Logan started, but the singer wrenched away, jaw working.

“Logan, please.  Don’t pity me.  I could stand it if you hated me, but not if you pitied me.  I know how this goes.  You’re bent, and I’m not…”  He released a slow, shaking breath, looking up at him with eyes that tried too hard to be placid.  “I’m not exactly what you want.”

Logan had never put thought into brown eyes before, never found them outstanding.  Now he thought they just might be his favorite color.

Except for, maybe, the red of painted lips curled into a smile, or the white of his clothes, or the pink of his cheeks, flushed with emotion -

But, no.  None of that was it.  Logan didn't truly have an inclination for any color.  He had a liking to this world, now; a new appreciation for his world - colored completely and fully by one Mr. Roman Torres.

“Factually incorrect,” Logan said softly.  He reached out and took Roman's hand, looking into those brown eyes.  “You're everything I want.”

Roman trembled, cracked and open in a way Logan had never seen before.  He took one step forward.  Another.  Then Roman was in his arms, shaking and sobbing and laughing, his face buried in Logan's shoulder.  

“I’m absolutely dizzy with you, Roman Torres,” Logan whispered, tucking a curl behind Roman’s ear.  “I even double-checked my slang with Virgil, that’s how dizzy I am.”

“With Virgil?”  Roman laughed, stopping Logan’s hand there, cupping his cheek, with a soft touch.  “Oh, you must be absolutely gone.”

“They laughed at me for a solid ten minutes,” Logan confirmed wryly.  “I don’t think I can ever face them again.”

“It’s okay?”  Roman said, soft and tremulous.  “Really?”

“Really,” Logan said, and kissed his forehead.  “Truly.”  His nose.  “Absolutely.”  His cheek.  “I’ll say it as often as you like.”  His other cheek.  “However you want.”  His eyelid.  “Until you believe me.”  The corner of his mouth.  “Jeongmal.”   

Roman laughed like the popping of a champagne bottle – light, bubbling, and intoxicating.

“Logan,” he breathed, warmly, like it was all he ever needed to say, and kissed him.

Logan could die happy like this, burning alive in Roman’s arms.  But for the first time in a long while, the one coherent scrap of his brain thought it would be much, much better to live happy like this, at Roman’s side.

Roman’s legs were wrapped around his waist, fingers buried in his hair, throat already blossoming with red.

“I believe you,” Roman murmured, lips grazing Logan’s.  “But I wouldn’t be opposed to… further persuasion.”

He took Logan’s hand from his waist and laid it on the buttons of his shirt.

“Are… are you sure?”  Logan asked, not daring to even twitch.

“Yes,” Roman said immediately, fingers skimming beneath the edge of Logan’s shirt.  “If it’s what you want then – god, yes, Logan. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something, but please, please, just hurry up.”  

His hands felt clumsy, arms crossed with Roman’s as crisp white cotton gave way to smooth brown skin.

Roman made a triumphant noise as Logan’s shirt slipped off his shoulders, but he paused, tracing the spider web of scars across Logan’s chest with something akin to reverence.  “What are these?”

“Stories for another time.”  Logan kissed him again, thoroughly enough to make their toes curl.  “I’ve wanted you since you set foot in my office,” Logan breathed between increasingly feverish kisses.

“Should’ve said something.”  Roman grinned wolfishly, latching himself onto Logan’s neck.  “Couldn’t you tell just how excited I was to meet you, detective?”

With that, Logan really had no choice but to pick him up – Roman’s legs around his waist – walk them into the bedroom, lay Roman, a spot of gorgeous red and brown against the white sheets, down, and… 

Well.

Every noir needs a fade to black.

They lay there together afterwards, bodies cooling and skin sticky with sweat.  Still, they were pressed together, so close that maybe, just maybe, nothing could come between.

“What did my fingers do before they held him?”  Roman recited drowsily, idly running his hands across the sharp planes of Logan's chest.

Logan kissed the top of his head, smiling into those curls.  “What did my heart do with its love?”

Roman sighed as Logan curled up in the crook of his arm.  “And you know Sylvia Plath, too. I'll get you one day, Logan.”

“Too much out there,” Logan yawned, lacing his fingers through Roman's.  “I highly doubt you'll find someone so obscure.”

“Not enough.”  Roman shook his head, squeezing Logan's hand.  “There's never enough for me.”

Logan hummed – low and gravely in the back of his throat.

“Of all the mysteries that have plagued mankind since the beginning,” he said, as much rasp as word.  “Of the pyramids and the place the sun goes at night and the hand that plucked stars from the sky and put them in your eyes…  Of every mystery in the world, I do believe you’re my favorite.”

“I…”  Roman blinked.  “I don’t think I know that one.  Who said that?”

Logan smiled, softly, and put his hand on the curve of Roman’s cheek.  “I did.”

The sun was rising, and for once, the almost-memory of a wedding, of the sunset on a beach, was the furthest thing from Logan’s mind. 

(Roman snored.

Logan really shouldn’t have found that adorable.)

In a happy story, that would’ve been the ending.

In a happy story, there wouldn’t have been a murder, or a drowining, or a killer.

But this wasn’t a story – it was a case.  And Logan Sul, private eye, hadn’t failed a case yet.

Logan growled, running his fingers over his files.  A night club.  A millionaire.  A piano wire.  A missing handkerchief.

The facts were before him, but something still eluded him.

“I got worried when you weren’t there.”  The door to Logan’s bedroom clicked closed softly behind Roman, wrapped up in one of Logan’s old shirts.  “Thought you’d run off on me.”

“My apologies.”  Logan was hunched over the cracks of his kitchen counter, scattered pages lit by a yellowing lamp.  “I… I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s alright,” Roman said, softly, wrapping his arms around Logan, chin resting on his shoulder.

“It just… it doesn’t make sense,” he said, leaning his cheek against Roman’s, staring up at the darkness of his ceiling.

“What doesn’t?”  That low, thrilling voice responded, soft in the cool shadows of Logan’s apartment.

“Roman, I just don’t understand.”  Logan paged through his scattered notes, chest aching.  “I’m missing something, I know it.  Why’d they do it?  Why after all this time?  Why that night?  Rationally, logically, it just… doesn’t follow.”

Roman was silent for long enough that Logan would’ve thought he was gone, if not for the soft hands against his torso, tracing mindless, abstract shapes on his sides.  

“People aren’t always as logical as you’d want them to be, Logan,” he said, eventually.  “We just… don’t operate that way.”

“I used to think I did,” Logan murmured, “for a long time before I met you.”

He sighed, leaning into the warmth of the other man.  “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Logan just shook his head.  “Just… thank you.  All of you helped, of course, but you, Roman…”  He toyed with the other man’s hand, gently smoothing his scarred fingers up and down the unblemished skin.

“You helped me feel again.  In a way I was never sure I’d be able to.”

Roman let out an almost shy sort of laugh, hiding his face in Logan’s hair.

“I get it, Lo,” he said, softly.  “Hurt doesn’t just go away.”

Something in Logan’s head clicked into place.  

“Oh,” he said, then repeated it with something like heartbreak.  “Oh.”

He gathered them all in the showroom of Ego, for one last time.

“Salutations– er.”  He swallowed hard, rocking back on his heels.  “Hello, everyone.  I’m afraid I have… news.”

“That’s okay, kiddo!”  Patton flashed a smile at him.  “You can tell us anything.”

“I…”  Logan breathed out, sharp.  “I never stopped working on the case, not really.”

Dorian leaned forward, eyes sharp.  “Is that right?” 

“Yes, well, partially.”  Logan tugged at the end of his tie, expression tight.  “I… I believe I’m finished.  All that’s left is the presentation of my theory.”

“You mean you know who did it?”  Virgil asked, stiffening.

“Yes”  Logan smiled, slow and joyless.  “I’m afraid I do.”

Chapter Text

Logan Sul, private eye, never felt better than when he solved a case – standing before his suspects, amber eyes blazing and mouth twisted up into a cocky smirk.

He didn’t feel like that this time.  He didn’t quite know how he felt, besides sick to his stomach, as he stood before them all.

Virgil Avery, the paranoid security guard – standing with their hands clenched tight on the back of Patton’s seat.

Patton Parker, the far too-cheerful nightclub owner – broad face and gray eyes worried.

Roman Torres, the high-strung star – sitting in the first row before the stage he usually commanded, with a kiss on his neck Logan had left and fear in his eyes Logan hadn’t meant to put there.

Viper Salem, the obsessive widow – jaw tight and eyes hard.

Dorian Arya, the mysterious ex-business partner – face impassive as always but lines of his body drawn tight with tension.

“I… I’ve been looking at this the wrong way,” Logan said, and his voice was weak, even to his own ears.  “I always prided myself on being logical, rational, but… this wasn’t a case of rationality.  That’s the thing.  It didn’t – I couldn't find a way for it to make sense, if it was one of you.  I thought, for a moment, hoped, really, that–”  He cut himself off with a laugh.  “Well, you’ll see.”

“Logan,” Virgil said, low and soft – as much a reassurance as a warning.

“I’m well aware.”  Logan tugged at the end of his tie, eyes fixed on the floor.  “I… I don’t want to do this,” he said, softly.

“And I don’t want the man I’m– I was in love with to be dead, but things don’t always work out, now do they?”  Dorian snapped, shrugging off the hand Viper tried to place on his arm.

“Hey–” Roman began, heated, before Logan waved him off, resigned.

“No, he’s… Dorian’s right.”  The private eye took a deep breath and drew himself up.  His amber eyes were steady but distant as he met their gazes for the first time that night.  “You deserve the truth, Mr. Arya.  You all do.”

“Didn’t take Mr. Not-Arya as an advocate for all things truth and justice,” Virgil said, not as tart as it could’ve been.  Then:  “Ever going to tell us who you are, anyway?”

“Names mean something,” Dorian snorted.  “You really think I’d give mine out to anyone?”

“That’s kinda how they work,” Patton said.

Dorian hummed, inspecting his gloves.  “Sounds dreadfully dull.”

Roman laughed, softly.  “Not always.”

“I’d appreciate a lack of interruptions,” Logan said, clipped.  His hands were clasped behind his back, so tightly his knuckles shone white.  “I’ve got quite a lot to get though.”

They were quiet, still for a moment, before Patton nodded.  “Okay, kiddo.  Whatever you need.”

“Thank you.”

The private eye took a deep breath, forcing his expression into neutrality.

“The way I see it,” the detective said, fingers drumming against the stage, “there are two distinct ways the night in question could have gone.

“Our first is, perhaps, more convoluted, but I do hope you’ll indulge me.  On the night in question, we were all here – six people with our own connections to the late Mr. Salem.”  He huffed out something that could’ve been a laugh.  “Known or not.”

Virgil’s eyebrows drew together.  “What’s that supposed to–”

“Please, Mx. Avery.  I need to make it through this uninterrupted.”  Logan shook his head, refocused.

“The path of our killer won’t surprise you; we’ve been through it enough.  Some time during the show, though I have reason to believe it was just before our impromptu intermission, they took the piano wire they had filched from the band earlier and slipped back stage.  Now, of those gathered here today, a not insignificant number have either the ability to pick locks” – his eyes flicked over Viper and Dorian – “or access to the keys” – over Patton, Virgil, and Roman – “so we’ll be ignoring that factor.  They moved though that maze, proving a solid familiarity of Ego’s layout, and found the door.  They had primed it earlier, and it slid open soundlessly.  From there, it was a simple matter of sneaking up on the late Mr. Salem, and, well… We all know what happened there.”

“We do,” Dorian said, tartly.  “So I’ll confess, Mr. Sul, I don’t understand why you’re wasting our time with things we all already know.”

“Simple,” Logan replied.  “After committing the deed, they had to make their exit, but not before smashing a crystal plate against the ground.”

“You don’t think it happened in a struggle?”  Virgil asked, leaning forward.

“I know it didn’t.  The carpet was perfectly clean, perfectly undisturbed, save for that single plate.  It was likely meant to serve as some sort of red herring, to suggest there was a fight.  So, assuming that this was meant as a clumsy distraction, it lends itself into a snapshot of our killer’s mindset – absolutely panicked.”

Logan inclined his head.  “This trek leads us to several questions that, ultimately, lead me to my final conclusion – who had access to the keys?  Why did they smash the plate?  And, most importantly, why that day?

“You see, out of everything, that was the one thing I couldn’t rationalize.  Why this, of all days?  Why on Earth would any rational person choose the day a Private Eye darkened their door to strike?  It’s, perhaps, the most illogical move that anyone could make.”  Logan pushed a hand through his hair.  “But people aren’t always logical, now are we?

“At first, I was convinced that our perpetrator had simply decided on this as their day of action, and refused to be swayed, but once again, any rational human would clearly see that this was a poor decision.  So, we are to conclude that our murderer wasn’t thinking rationally in the slightest.  They were… overcome, somehow.”

Logan looked up, caught Roman’s eye.  “Hurt doesn’t just go away.  It took me long enough to learn that, but it doesn’t make it any less true.  It’s like… like the ocean.  Ebs and falls, draws nearer and further, but sometimes, something can cause a tsunami to crash over you.”

His voice grew thick, and he took a moment to breathe, trying to steady the shake of his hands. 

“So there was something different this day.  An anomaly from each day before.  Something that caused a years-old pain to rear its ugly head.”

Dorian leaned forward, eyes narrowed.  “What?”

Logan huffed out a bitter sort of laugh, tugging at the end of his tie.

“Me,” he said, softly.  His nails dug into his palm.  “I… I’m what set all this off.”

“Logan, that doesn’t make any sense!”  Viper protested.  “You hadn’t met any of us before this.  How on Earth could you dredge up a hurt that big?”

“I lived in Florida, before New York,” Logan said.  “On the coast line, a few miles out of Alachua county.  I was, ah… different then.  I… I had a fiancé.  Thomas.  I didn’t know it at the time, but Mr. Salem owned the oil rigs that ran up and down the area.  The same ones Thomas worked at.  He went missing, and turned up… his body washed up on shore.  His family and I were told it was an accident, but I never… I never knew for sure.”

“Oh, Logan,” Roman breathed, struck.  “I can’t imagine.”

Logan shook his head.  “I’m not sharing this for your sympathy.”

“Well, it’s fascinating,” Dorian drawled, “but unless this is a very convoluted confession, I fail to see how this little autobiography is relevant.” 

“Because,” Logan said.  “I’m not the only one who knew Thomas.  I’m not the only one from Alachua county, Florida.  I’m not the only one who still gets letters from Christian and Shea, his brothers.”

His amber eyes narrowed.

“Am I, Patton?”

And Patton Parker, pale and quiet, looked up with red-rimmed eyes.  “No, you aren’t.”

“Wait.”  Roman sat up, ram-rod straight.  “Logan’s Thomas… Patton, that’s the same Thomas you lost?  You always said he drowned.”

“He did!  Or he might’ve.  We never knew for sure, and he just…”  Patton, shaking, scrubbed at his eyes.  “I’m sorry, I…” 

“So what?”  Virgil snapped.  “Whoop-de-do, you two are trauma buddies.  That doesn’t prove a damn thing.”

“It proves I’m what set you off.”  Logan ran a hand up and down his tie.  “You’re not cruel, Patton.  You don’t hold grudges.  But you hurt, and you don’t let any of it out.  You had seven years of hurt bottled up inside, and suddenly I came along, your godson’s fiancè, and popped the stopper right off.”

“Logan, stop it!”  Virgil snarled.

“I’m going to need a clear answer one way or the other,” Dorian said, voice clipped, hands tight on his seat’s armrests.  “So I’d let the detective finish his little monologue, if I were you.”

“But Patton’s not–” Virgil protested.  “He wouldn’t–”

“Virgil.”  Patton put a hand on their arm.  “Just let him talk.”

Virgil jerked back, as if electrocuted.  “Patton?”

Patton’s hands laced together in his lap.  “Let him talk.”

“You saw me, and you remembered.   You remembered those days of waiting, of not knowing, and you remembered just who the man who rented out box number five was.  

“You took a wire from the piano.  I saw you fussing over the instruments when I left for Picani’s bar that afternoon.  You waited, all the hatred and pain you had been repressing ravaged through you, and you couldn’t think of anything but how much it hurt.  And there, alone and vulnerable was the man who owned the rig your godson died on.

“He struggled,” Logan continued, “scratching and clawing at the rope until he went limp and you tied his hands behind his back with the golden rope from Roman’s costume.  It wasn’t needed, wasn’t necessary, but in your mind it was.  You needed to make him feel just as helpless as he had made you.  As helpless as you felt in those days when you found out that your godson, a member of your family, someone you loved fiercely, was missing.  As helpless as you still feel, because we still don’t know what happened.  And we’re never going to get to know, Patton.”

Logan’s voice broke.  “Patton, we don’t know what happened.”

“I know,” Patton said, softly.

“We don’t know if Salem had anything to do with it at all.  He was just the owner.”

“I know,” Patton repeated.

“But Salem was there, wasn’t he?  He was your clearest link, the easiest one to blame, and you needed someone to blame.  Someone to let all that hurt out on before it destroyed you.”

“You still don’t have any proof,” Virgil snarled.  “You can’t just hurl around baseless accusations–” 

“Virgil,” Patton said, voice breaking.  “Please, just let him talk.”

“It was the hottest August day on record,” Logan said, softly.  “I was sweating at my desk and debating heading home for the day when Roman walked in and turned my life upside down.”  He managed to spare a smile.  “I’m not sure where I’d be if he hadn’t.”

“What’s your point?”  Virgil snapped.

But Logan ignored them, fixing those predator’s amber eyes on Patton.  “Hottest August day in a hundred years,” he said, once more.  “Anyone with any good sense had as few layers on as possible.”

“I heard you the first time,” Patton said, quietly.

Logan smiled, thinly.  “So why were you wearing gloves?”

“Well.”  Patton exhaled, shakily, those gray eyes, trained on his hands, fogging over.  “I couldn’t get rope burn, now could I?”

The air left the room.

Dorian stood, sharply, but didn’t move, hands clenching against the back of his chair.  His breaths – laborious and shaking – were painfully audible in the stunned silence.

“You…”  His voice was shaking; he couldn’t find anything further to say.  “You?”

All eyes were on him – the cold fury of Dorian’s, the shocked betrayal of Viper, the frantic confusion of Virgil and Roman, the quiet resignation of Logan.

“No,” Roman choked out.  “No, this…”  He forced out a laugh.  “Logan, dear, you’re mistaken.  And, Padre!  You shouldn’t just go along with it.  You’re not– you wouldn’t–”

“I’m sorry,” Patton breathed, tears falling into his hands – folded as if in supplication.  “I’m… I’m so sorry.  I didn’t… I tried so hard, not to blame him.  Not to be angry.  To be good.  And I did it!  For seven years, I did it, but then I saw Logan, and I…”  His voice broke.  “I just couldn’t anymore.”

“Easier than you’d think,” Dorian said, lowly.  “I get through just about every damn day without killing anyone.”  His gloved hands flexed.  “I’m willing to make an exception, though.”

Virgil had been still, frozen in shock, but at this they narrowed their eyes, moving between him and Patton.  “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Dorian, sit down,” Viper hissed, “before you do something we all regret.”

He laughed – dark and ugly.  “It seems like I’d just be joining the club.”

“He… he wasn’t a good person, Dorian,” Patton offered, weakly.

“Neither are any of us.”  Dorian scoffed.  “Who’s next on the chopping block – Mr. Sul?  Torres?  Viper?  Go ahead, I’m dying to hear.  If Remy was the first, who’s next?”

“Thomas was,” Logan said, quietly.

“What?”

“Remy wasn’t the first in this chain,” Logan clarified.  “Thomas was.  And he…”  He swallowed, hard.  “He was good.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone?  The only one who’s had that kind of hurt?”  Viper let out a bitter sort of laugh.  “We all have.  Your Thomas, and my home, and Virgil’s sister, and Roman’s family, and Dorian’s beau – we’ve all lost something.  Doesn’t matter how good.  You don’t see any of us crushing windpipes for it.”

“Then you’re all stronger than I am,” Patton said.  “Because I… I couldn’t.  I was so proud when his parents asked me to be his godfather.  It was silly, I know.  I was only a few years older than him, but I decided he was my kiddo.  I was the first one he came out to, you know?  He knew I was like him, and had me talk him though how he was going to tell everyone else.  

“And after, everything just felt… gray.  We used to have Sunday dinners, you know?  Used to sit around and bicker and tease and laugh together, as a family.  Thomas was… he was so bright.  He smiled wider, laughed louder, spoke more sincerely than anyone you’ve ever met.  After he… after, we tried to eat together again, but we just… couldn’t.  Everything tasted like ash.  No one knew what to say.  And I wanted, more than anything, to keep us together, to stay how we were, but there was something looming, like a weight in the air, and every time we were together, we could hardly breathe for the weight of it.  After a while, we stopped trying.”  

He laughed, bitterly.  “I don’t even know how long it was before they even noticed I had moved to New York.  I didn't just lose Thomas.  He was gone quickly, and it burned like nothing else ever had, but I lost the rest of them – Christian and Shea and everyone I had loved.  But I lost them slowly, and I could feel it the whole time, like I was bleeding out and could feel every single beat of my heart driving me closer and closer to the edge.  But I wasn’t dying, even though I felt like I was, because there was no end.  Because there’s never going to be an end, and I’m going to have to live, every day, with this gray.

“And I didn’t want to.  I tried, so hard, to be kind to Remy.  I tried, so hard, not to feel how the gray crept up around me whenever I remembered who he was.  Because he was the one who built that rig.  It was him who put the gray in my life.  I tried, so hard, to push it away, but I saw Logan, and it just… swallowed me whole.”

Patton looked up, helpless.  “Dorian, the way you feel right now?  That’s how I’ve felt for seven years.”

“What do you expect me to say?”  Dorian laughed, bitterly.  “That I’m sorry?  That I didn’t know?  That I forgive you?  Because I am, and I didn’t, and I don’t.  I get it, but that doesn’t mean…”  He broke off, shaking his head.  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” Patton said, softly.  Then: “So… What next, Logan?”

“I’ve already called the police,” Logan said, quietly.  “They’ll be here at any moment.”

“Right,” Patton exhaled, shakily, looking down at his wrists as if trying to picture them in handcuffs.

“I didn’t know Remy was the one who…”  Virgil shook their hand.  “After everything with Thomas, I can’t… I just wish–”

Patton cut them off with a squeeze of their hand.

“Don't wish too hard, Virge.”  He smiled, weakly.  “There's no limit to how much it can hurt.”

“I just told you,” Virgil said, voice breaking.  “Patton, I’ve loved you for so long, and I just got to have you, for what? One night?  You didn’t…”  Their hand shook where it cupped Patton’s cheek.  “You couldn’t help it, you…”  They were nearly sobbing, even as Patton shushed them, wiping their eyes.  “We were supposed to get a happy ending.”

“I know,” he said, softly.  “I know, love.”

They sat there, in the heaviness of grief, preemptive and not – for two relationships ended by death and one soon to be by separation; for a broken heart that couldn’t help how his jagged edges cut; for something that could’ve been a family, if only it could’ve settled down and remained, a moment longer.

“What was the other one?”

Their heads all snapped towards Dorian, jaw tight and gloved hands fisted together.

“I…”  Logan blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t act deaf and dumb now, Mr. Sul,” Dorian said, not meeting any of their eyes.  “You said there were two ways the night could’ve gone, back when you started this little mess.  We’ve heard one… rendition.  What was the other?”

“Mr. Salem was a known associate of a criminal ring recently exposed to the public eye,” Logan said.  “An… upstanding citizen like him was likely to be the loose lips that sunk the ship, so to speak.  An associate slipped in while everyone was busy with the show, strangled him with a wire they’d brought and tied him with rope they found on the way.  They slipped back out before anyone was the wiser.”

Logan paused, taking a deep breath.  “No one… no one knows about the rest of it but the people in this room.”

Viper’s lips parted, brow furrowing.  “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Ms. Salem,” he said, carefully.  “I’m merely stating the facts.”

“You never gave the pigs any updates,” Roman realized, blinking.  “If we all agreed what had happened that night…”

“No one could prove otherwise,” Virgil finished, swallowing hard.

“Stop arguing over hypotheticals when we know what really happened.”  Dorian rose to his feet, flashing lights streaming in through the frosted doors throwing his face into shadow.

He stared at Patton, skin ashen and eyes red-rimmed, for a long moment.

“It’s no surprise that ring did off with Remy anyway.”  His mouth did something bitter.  “Anyone who gets mixed up with them is bad business anyway.”

Virgil inhaled, sharply; Roman’s eyes widened.

“Dorian?”  Viper said, but he just shook his head.

“Don’t look at me like that, Parker.”  Dorian’s voice was thick.  “I just got Avery off my tail.  I throw you under the bus, and they’re back on it like white on rice.”

“Thank you,” Patton breathed, softly.

“Ugh, that face is even worse.”  Dorian scoffed, shoving his trembling hands in his pockets.  “We know what really happened.  Let’s leave it at that, right?”

He tilted his head at Viper.

Her face was stony, still as their eyes turned onto her – awaiting the final verdict.

She gave a small, shallow nod.  “Right.”

From outside, the screaming of sirens crescendoed; red and blue lights streamed in through the frosted glass windows, staining the room.

“Police!”  A voice, distorted by the honk of a bullhorn, crackled through the air.  “Get the hell out here, and explain yourself, Sul.”

Roman shot a glance at him.  “You didn’t–”

“No.”  Logan shook his head.  “I just told them to get here if they wanted their mystery solved.”

“Well then.”  Dorian shook himself, smoothing his lapels and adjusting his hat.  “We’d better let them know.”

He started to stroll out, smooth and graceful as ever before he glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the room.  “Coming?”

“I think they need a minute,” Logan said.  “I’ll walk you out.”

Logan could see Dorian’s second skin settle over him as soon as they passed through the door between the showroom and atrium – it wasn’t a change of posture or expression so much as if a different light had been flipped behind his features, casting him as someone different entirely.  Dorian Arya, instead of the man that just called himself that.

“Are you going to be alright?”

“I always am.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”  Logan stopped him before the frosted glass doors.  “I want to help you, Dorian, if you’ll let me.  We all do.”

Dorian smiled, only a touch sadly.  “I…”

He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder and through the showroom door at Patton, who had buried his face in Virgil’s chest, shaking, as they murmured into his hair.

“I don’t know if I…”  His mouth twisted into something bitter.  “I don’t know how I’d be able to handle it.”

“Dorian,” Logan said, gently, placing a hand on his arm.  “If there’s anyone who understands, it’s me.”

“You understand a lot more than you let on, Mr. Sul, but you were wrong about one thing.”

“Oh?”

“People like us don’t get happy endings.”  Behind him, Virgil said something soft to Patton, who laughed, watery, and nodded, cradling their face in his hands.  

“They aren’t just given to us.  We have to fight, tooth and nail, for them.  And I think…”  Dorian scratched at his eczema, gaze dropping to the floor.  “My decision was entirely selfish, Mr. Sul.  It’ll be… nice for me.  To know that there are at least a few people like us, who fought for their happy ending.”

“I know you’ll be fighting a little while longer before you’re ready, but… maybe someday, some way, in some less miserable time, we can all meet again.”

Dorian laughed, low in his throat, and Logan saw that second skin fall away.  

The man who wasn’t Dorian Arya took one step forward, then another.

He kissed Logan, gently, chasetly, glowing with red and blue flashing lights and the knowledge that it was all over now.  His lips were softer than Logan had thought they’d be.

“Yes,” he murmured when he pulled back, mismatched eyes dark and melancholic, “it’s pretty to pretend so, isn’t it?”

He took a step through the door, then hesitated, half-turned with his golden eye fixed on his hand, resting against the doorframe.  “And by the way,” he said, so quietly Logan had to strain to hear, “my name is Janus.”

He left without another word, swallowed by the fog and the darkness of the hungry beast of New York City.

Logan couldn't help but hope, as he walked off, that he would be okay.

“Don't look so dower, Logan.”  Viper derailed his train of thought, sauntering up with her hands stuck in the pockets of her worn-out trousers.  “He’ll be fine; he’s just got to be dramatic first.  I'll keep an eye on him.”

Logan snorted.  “You might need both.”  

“I’ve got to admit, I’m…”  She flicked the clasp on her earrings, absentmindedly.  “Surprised. By what you did in there.  Glad, but… surprised.” 

He breathed out, slowly.  “I… understand it.  That sort of heartbreak.”

He eyed her appraisingly.  “Nice hair, by the way.  I meant to say something earlier, but it didn’t seem appropriate, at the time.”

“What, this?”  She patted her halo of thick, natural curls.  “Strictly professional.  Turns out relaxed hair gets everywhere when you're under the hood of a sweet new cruiser.”

He smiled, an unsure, flickering thing.  “You got the job, then?”

She grinned in return.  “Pretending to be a white man for the phone interview really does wonders for your job prospects.  By the time they muster up the nerve to kick you out, you've fixed the misaligned wheel bearings that have been stumping them for weeks.”

“Well then, I suppose I know where to find the best mechanic in New York City, should I ever need her.”

Viper snorted.  “Keep the flattery to yourself, Mr. Sul.”  

“You're a charmer as always, Ms. Salem.”  He held the door open for her.

“Just Viper, actually,” she corrected. “I think it's just about time I make a name for myself, even if I don't know what it will be.”  She took a step through the doors then paused, turned.  “Why don’t I pick you up for a cruise sometime soon?”

“Should I pack lunch for us?  Otherwise I’m afraid I might lose mine,” he drawled.

“I’ll grab us something nice,”  She winked.  “Besides, I still owe you one for that time in the bathrooms.”

He arched an eyebrow.  “I hardly did a thing.”

She just shook her head, melancholy flickering at the edges of her mouth.  “Sometimes, you need someone to help you know you're real.”

“You always were,” Logan said, then: “Saturday, then?”

She smiled.  “You’re on, Sul.”

And then she was gone.

“You’re sure you’re alright to go out?”  Virgil was asking as Logan reentered the show room.

“We can slip you out the back, no problem,” Roman added.

“I’m okay,” Patton said, taking a deep breath.  “Do I look alright?”

“A bit red, but nothing damning,” Logan said.

“Guess that’s the best we can hope for.”  Patton smiled at him, softly.  “Thank you, Logan.  For everything.”

“I think I was right about you, Sul.”  Virgil punched his shoulder.  “Not as much of a dick as you pretend to be.”

“Don’t tell,” Logan laughed.  “My reputation would be in tatters.”

Patton winked.  “It’ll be our little secret.”

He looked up at Virgil, smiled.  “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” they said, and took his hand.

“See you on the other side.”  They flashed a two-fingered salute, and then the two of them were gone.

It was just them now – Roman and Logan, alone, as so often Logan had wished to be with the star.

Roman had been gorgeous when Logan first saw him – all tight suits and long legs red-painted lips.  He looked like a bonfire, felt like one, too, when Roman first kissed him – like the raging inferno that called itself Ego’s prince would catch on the alcohol coursing through Logan’s veins and burn him alive, and he would like it.

He didn’t look like that now – brown skin blotchy from barely-contained emotion and red lipstick chewed away with anxiety.  When Logan silently opened his arms, Roman fell into them gratefully, hiding his face in Logan’s chest.  He was warm, still.  Still as beautiful and brilliant as flickering flames, but Logan wasn’t worried about that.  He knew, in a way he once never would’ve let himself, that Roman would never burn him.

Logan sighed, feeling the weight of everything, hanging heavy on his bones.  “Is it strange I want to sleep for a week?”

“Is it strange to say I’d join you?”  Roman wrapped his arms around Logan’s waist, exhaling.  “We’ve been through quite a bit, Mr. Sul.”

“Indeed.”  Logan wiped at his eyes.  “I dare say we have.”

Roman drew back, blinking.  “Logan, are you crying?”

Logan laughed bitterly, wiping away tears before they could fall.  “You do have a habit of bringing out the worst in me.”

“Is that really what you think emotions are?”  Roman asked softly.  “The worst of you?”

Logan swallowed hard, looking at Roman with tear-rimmed eyes.  “Not anymore.”

Roman melted, gathering Logan into a hug so deep he could feel it in his bones.

“I need you,” Logan mumbled into his hair.  “Roman, I need you.”

“For what?”  Roman teased, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  “For an enemy? For a lover? For a partner? I think we’ve proven I fit into all of those categories neatly.”

“Well, ideally,” Logan sniffed and pulled back, capturing both of Roman's hands, “forever.”

“Sap,” Roman said, and there was that smile – too wide, too sincere to be beautiful.  There was the smile Logan had fallen in love with.  “I was led to believe you don’t believe in forever.”

“As long as we can, then,” Logan breathed, pressing their foreheads together.  “For as long as we can, I want to watch you sing, I want to reassure you that you'll do marvelously before every audition, and feel terribly smug when I turn out to be right.  I want to leave all my things in your apartment, and have you call and complain when I stay at the office too late.  I want to finally find a quote you don’t know–”

“–you won’t,” Roman interjected, laughing.

“–oh, I will.  But then you’ll find one I don’t know, and the cycle will start over.  I want to be with you, Roman, as long as we can.  As long as we can, I want to wake up next to you.”

“Logan,” Roman breathed, brushing his thumb over Logan’s cheek.

“What?”  Logan smiled.  “Too much?”

“Waking up to you every day?”  Roman kissed him, softly.  “Mr. Sul, I dare say that’s perfectly enough.”

And he, too, was gone.

Without a hint of sadness, Logan looked around – at the red carpet worn thin with foot traffic, at the dull gleam of the stage without spotlights, at the darkened hallways and open atrium – at a place that had become so familiar to him.

He’d be back, just as soon as he wanted to, and they’d be ready to welcome him with open arms.

Logan flipped a switch and killed the lights.

He left, stepping out of the place Roman had led him, out of where Virgil first had regarded him with cold suspicion, where Viper had sat with a husband she didn’t love and Dorian, a man he did, the first time Logan saw them.  Where Patton Parker had smiled at him and offered a gloved handshake at first sight. 

But that was the thing, wasn’t it?

Patton, with the stack of newspapers in his apartment, so easy to leave scattered around for Roman to pick up and see a headline with Logan’s name.  Patton, who had smiled and simpered and flattered Remy Salem for seven years, rage simmering beneath his skin.

Patton, who had been wearing gloves before he had ever seen Logan.

A crime of passion could be forgiven, after all.  Everyone could excuse a broken heart.

Patton was tearfully giving a statement to an unfamiliar police officer, dabbing at the fog in his eyes.  The officer was nodding, sympathetically, scribbling something down in his notepad.  It was hard to tell, with the gloom of the night and the flashes of siren lights, but Logan knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that the handkerchief Patton held in his hand was green.

From across the broken pavement, Patton met his eyes and smiled.

Red light washing over them both, Logan smiled back.