23: Through a song + 24: Without really meaning it
Thank you for the prompt! This… is probably not what you wanted, but I couldn’t figure out other ways to make it work aside from this, and then I got carried away and incorporated this amazing au by @requiemofkings – thank you for letting me write a fic based on your au!! – and so here we are. I hope you enjoy ❤
CW: implied self-harm/suicide attempt, references to child trafficking, implied/mentions of violence
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The strobe lights paint the night club in a throbbing mass of purple and blue, the dancing bodies pulsing in and out of the darkness with each flash of light. Techno music pounds in Andrew’s ears like a mallet as he shoulders his way across the dance floor towards the bar, sleek dark wood that curves along two adjacent walls, stocked from floor to ceiling with alcohol.
Even with his athletic build, Kevin struggles to keep up with Andrew’s exodus from the crowd. The air-conditioning does very little to stop beads of perspiration from forming along Andrew’s hairline. Trapped in a mass of dancing humans and suffocated by body heat, he is reminded of why he has stopped visiting these types of establishments. The long hours and unending pile of cases courtesy of his job only made the decision easier.
When they’re finally freed from the masses, they keep to the outskirts of the dancefloor and walk along the bar. Andrew flags down one of the bartenders, a petite woman with light brown hair, bright red lipstick, a mini black dress, and a placid expression.
“What can I get you?”
Before Kevin can open his mouth, Andrew says, “A ginger highball.”
“Got it.”
As the woman prepares the drink, Kevin hisses, “What are you doing?”
“Ordering a drink,” Andrew answers in a bored tone, leaning against the bar.
“We’re on duty!”
Andrew flicks his fingers up at Kevin as if to say so?
Kevin puffs out his chest, a sign that he is about to unleash a winded lecture on Andrew’s work ethics. Andrew cleaves this chance off with a calm, “Is that him?”
Kevin’s mouth clicks shut as he looks to where Andrew’s eyes are focused on: a stoop-shouldered man clad in all black, standing at the other end of the bar with a broody expression on his face. He looks like the grim reaper if the grim reaper was a lanky man with pale skin, jet-black hair, and knobbly hands that can whip up drinks at an efficient speed.
“No, that’s not him,” Kevin says, unexpectedly solemn. Andrew lifts an eyebrow at the hard line of Kevin’s lips. There’s a story there somewhere, but Andrew won’t make it easy for him by asking what it is.
The drink arrives as Andrew scans the club. It’s a snazzy two-storey establishment with tasteful decor and tight security; the bouncers at the entrance only let them in because Kevin had muttered a Japanese phrase, some sort of code that let them know that Kevin was on the inside. Until three days ago, Andrew didn’t even know that Kevin was on the inside. In a drunken stupor, Kevin had proposed they go to La Tanière to break through the dead-end in their most recent case.
“I know somebody there. He could – he could help us out,” he had slurred, slumped against the toilet bowl in Andrew’s bathroom.
Andrew had been mildly skeptical and mostly incensed, the former due to a couple of incidents where they had been misled by anonymous tip-offs and the latter due to the revelation that Kevin is still in contact with Moriyama people. He shouldn’t really care; their deal ended a while ago and he isn’t responsible for Kevin’s safety anymore.
At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.
But Andrew had acknowledged that they were running in circles, stuck inside a quagmire of a maze, and they had brought the idea to Wymack, the captain of their precinct. His face had hardened, so much so that Andrew had pondered over the possibility of it being stuck that way, but in the end, he had granted them permission to go on with the plan.
With his gaze flitting over the faces on the dancefloor, Kevin says, “It shouldn’t be too hard to find him, since he’s -”
The music cuts off and a high-pitched squeal erupts from the microphone in the middle of the stage. Instinctively, all eyes travel to the stage on the opposite side of the club, Andrew’s included. A dark-haired woman in a long black dress has the mic, smiling broadly as the dancing ceases. Her voice, when she speaks, is low and calm like an untouched pond.
“Esteemed guests, I present you to tonight’s scheduled performance.”
With that brief introduction, the overhead lights dim. There’s a ripple of murmur, the sound loud without the music to drown them out. Andrew is taking a slow sip of his drink when a spotlight beams onto a figure at the center of the stage, their top hat obscuring their face. With a gloved finger to their smiling lips, curled like a secret, they tip their head up, the scars on their cheeks made stark by the glaring spotlight. A hands-free microphone curves over their defined jaw.
“That’s him,” Kevin says, but Andrew barely hears him.
Keep reading
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Buy me a coffee
Nothing but My Aching Soul 