Note: This is a collaborative story written by Freyjabee and wordslinger. All of our favorite characters are here.
Fairy Tail belongs to Hiro Mashima
Warnings: Mature themes, sexual content, language
Lies of a Lost Girl
Rain fell through the fog and hit the ground with enough force to send it splashing into Yukino's impractical high heels. Her feet slid around and her ankles tried to twist but she never slowed her steps or walked more carefully. It had taken a lot of courage to walk out of her family's estate home and even more still to navigate Magnolia's streets with only the light of streetlamps to guide her. If she went any slower than she already was, she was afraid she'd lose conviction and turn right back around. She'd go through the front door and no one would ask her why she was tromping through the night with her luggage rolling behind her because no one would have noticed she was gone. Maybe tomorrow morning when breakfast time came and went and she didn't.
You're almost there.
She clenched the grip on her umbrella and fought with a gust of wind. When it eased off again, she was able to tip up the umbrella's edge and see that the buildings had changed. They'd been homes like hers, huge and cold and dark, ostentatious monstrosities that were built to nurture pride, not happiness, and then, as she got further into Magnolia's city center, they'd turned squat, sided with plaster, siding, and logs, not brick and stone. Some lawns were untidy; most were nearly nonexistent.
Voices reached her ear and she felt her heart get gummed up. Two boys came around the side of one of the houses, both retreated into jackets that looked neither waterproof nor warm. They were young, maybe seventeen, and looked at her once and not again. Yukino couldn't risk stopping; she kept her hold on her luggage and pulled her own hood up with the hand that held the umbrella so her face was mostly obscured. Without her umbrella totally covering her head, she was soaked through in no time. Another gust of wind tried to tear her hood off again. She cinched the fabric at her throat and held everything in place.
The street she traversed met another and she went left. Just ahead was an old play theater and on its other side was a decommissioned train station. Train cars all lined up in a row glittered, wet with rainwater and set ablaze by the orange streetlight, beneath which sat a cherry red Buick Skylark. It didn't run silently, the fan was going for the heater and the engine was huge and loud. Its lights made a swath through the darkness; rain drops glittered like diamonds as they cut trails through the glow. The door squealed as it opened and a person stepped out, sheathed in shadow beneath their parka.
Yukino stepped into the light and thought she would have been scared of drawing attention if she wasn't so scared of doing this.
The loft was messy but not filthy. Jellal thought the distinction important. The low table near his front door held a collection of keys, loose change, and the mints he always took from the bar but never popped into his mouth. A coffee table that had seen better days – days which long preceded the one when he'd spotted the thing near a dumpster and hauled it up a flight of rickety stairs to his apartment – held a miniature mess of the one on his dining table. Jellal ignored the scattered stacks of papers and files and sealed envelopes waiting for stamps. He especially ignored the thumb drives still in their packages and the scanner in the box it had been delivered in. Technology irritated him. He needed the mess. He needed to see the papers.
Despite his cluttered living space, the kitchen was immaculate. When the sounds of percolation rumbled softly, Jellal slid open the door leading to a small balcony. With a click of his lighter and a deep draw off a fresh cigarette, his day truly began. Not even coffee could get his mind working the way Turkish tobacco did. He couldn't really afford the specialty smokes but he did skimp on the coffee beans. Store brand... name brand. Who could really tell?
He didn't hear his front door open and shut until he settled back into a plastic chair with a hot mug of cheap coffee. She didn't turn to wave at him as she clicked across the parking lot on her heels much too high for such an early hour. He doubted she cared enough to realize he was even watching. A cream colored Cadillac DeVille just as immaculate as his kitchen sat waiting just where she'd parked it the night before. Jellal finished off his cigarette as she ducked inside. She wasn't a late sleeper. Dreams never did anything for girls like Lisanna.
Jellal left his mug on the edge of the railing and stretched. The day wouldn't wait forever and the calendar he had tacked to the wall proved it. Just as much as he disliked the idea of retrievable cloud files, Jellal hated anything other than seeing his work detailed neatly in color coded lines. No clicking and waiting. He needed it there. Right on the wall. There was a method to his mess and an identical calendar was on the wall behind his desk in the office he rented. He spent a good deal of time making sure everything matched up but he needed it. His head still rang sometimes and dates and such got fuzzy.
On this particular day, he thought himself in working order. He had a date with a woman uptown who sported a neck brace her insurance company thought unnecessary. The SIM card in his camera held hundreds of pictures of her watering plants and walking her dogs but so far, nothing damning. But it was a Thursday. Jellal felt lucky on Thursdays.
He dressed in a typical pair of trousers and almost didn't roll his sleeves up but a morning of sitting in his car, bending his arms to hold a camera to his eye, and hoping he wouldn't have to piss in a bottle made the decision for him. On his way out the door, his eye strayed to the line of photo frames collecting dust on the only table not cluttered with his work. He'd never have dared to roll up his sleeves back then. Instead of regret, he felt a smirk. It was okay to look on Thursdays.
Thursdays were lucky.
A blast of cold air greeted him when he pulled open the door of his office. The shirt that had been clean when he'd left home was now damp with sweat and stuck to his back. He was grateful the air conditioning had been fixed but now he was cold or maybe just irritable. Jellal fell into his leather desk chair – the only part of his office setup he'd splurged on – and sighed. His eyes fell to the closed laptop on his desk and he reminded himself this one bit of technology couldn't be avoided. In his line of work, proper high-quality photo processing was important.
Within an hour he'd picked out ten good shots of the woman uptown lugging bags of potting soil from her car to her front door sans neck brace. Lots of heavy lifting. Surely a woman with a significant injury wouldn't be able to perform such a task. Jellal had no love for bureaucratic agencies like insurance companies but the woman was a fraud and he did have bills to pay. There were only so many jilted husbands and wives looking for confirmation of an affair who could afford him.
The email to his contact at the insurance company was sent just as the sun creeped across the floor of his office. He hated the berber carpet. Jellal liked soft things underfoot but this office was cheap for the area. He stuck around until the bank transfer went through and then snapped his laptop shut. Before taking off he visited the wall calendar and crossed off the day. He'd do the same thing at home before bed. The ritual kept him on track.
Across the hall from his office, the massage parlor's lights were already off. Had they been on when he'd come in? Jellal stared at the door for a full ten seconds before shaking his head. Of course they had been. He'd seen the young woman's car in the parking lot. Jellal's jaw hurt for the pressure in the clench. Thursday wasn't even over yet and he could feel Friday creeping.
Mira's was a bar on the south side of town. The outside brick had been whitewashed more than once but if a person knew where to look they could still see the old Satan Soul mural beneath. Bright colors like those didn't disappear so easily. Jellal knew Elfman kept a store room full of white paint in the back. Didn't matter. Just like Jellal's fuzzy head, some things could never be fixed.
Inside, the crowd was tame. Weeknights were mostly blue collar stiffs, like himself, looking for a drink and pub food. Fridays and Saturdays Elfman could be found prowling looking for troublemakers amongst a very different crowd. The hunched shoulders of a man in a tan trench coat at the bar caught his eye and Jellal damn near spun on his heel and walked right back out. But he didn't. Mirajane winked at him and laid out a napkin and a lowball filled with something she knew he liked. The man in the trench coat didn't bother to turn around even when Jellal took a seat one stool down.
"I can't believe you'd show up here on a Thursday," Jellal muttered appraising the glass. Perfect. Mirajane never served anything other than perfection in a glass. If he played nice she'd feed him, too.
"Doesn't matter what day it is," Laxus muttered. "You know I don't buy into that superstitious shit."
"So you're an equal opportunity day ruiner?" Jellal glanced over and found Laxus grinning. The scar on his cheek wrinkled.
"I am. It's my special talent."
"Asshole," Jellal said around the rim of his glass. Mirajane appeared with a basket containing the best cheeseburger and fries south of the highway.
"Get along, boys, or I'll kick you both out on your ass."
"You're a doll, Mira," Jellal said, smiling.
"You're just predictable." She refilled his glass and turned to leave.
"Nothing for me?" Laxus asked in an offended tone. Mirajane stared at him blankly.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
Jellal stuffed his mouth with cheeseburger and kept his eyes down. He'd enjoy his food before Laxus pissed her off enough to take it away.
"Aw come on," he pleaded. "It's been a day."
"I suppose I can whip you up something." Mirajane whirled around and made her way back to the kitchen. Jellal rolled his eyes at the way she swayed her hips. The game they played irritated him more than it should, long-standing as it was. Laxus's food was served with less sweetness than Jellal's and he finished off the burger before ruining it.
"Why're you here?" Jellal asked picking through the remainder of his fries and knocking back the rest of the glass.
"I can't come here now? Are we not friends anymore? I'm hurt, Fernandes."
"Fuck off and tell me."
"Which do you want first? You want me to fuck off or tell you?" Jellal spun on his stool and glared. Laxus laughed. "I'm just checking up on you. Just making sure everything's above water."
"I'm fine. I do better than you." Jellal watched him finish off his food and wipe his hands on a napkin.
"I'm just here for shits and giggles, Fernandes, you don't need to get tetchy. Not everything's official business all the time." Mirajane swished by to grab their empty baskets and replace them with cold beers. Jellal took a long pull and dug into his pocket for his cigarettes. "You still smoke that expensive shit?"
"I do what I want." He sucked on the cherry and grinned. "I saw the news on Monday. Looks like you've managed to piss off Eustacio Agria. Nice work." Laxus scowled.
"The Captain chewed my ass over that but I'm a cop, not a magician."
Jellal shrugged. "I had a good laugh over it." Laxus eyed him closely and finished his beer. Jellal hadn't been out of the game so long he'd forgotten Laxus's expressions. "What?"
"Nothing." Laxus stood and adjusted the lapels of his coat. "I'll see you around."
Jellal watched him go and as the door swung shut behind him, a throb between his temples took up a familiar residency.
"You okay?" Mirajane asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket. Jellal could feel another set of blue eyes on his back as he left the bar but he didn't turn. Neither of them ever turned. Thursday was on its way out and he wanted to get home.
Jellal's loft apartment used to be an industrial mill until the city bought it up and rezoned it as residential. They did the bear minimum to make it livable, meaning that they installed proper plumbing and over the stained concrete floor, they laid wood. As a perk and to encourage tenants, the city installed balconies. Aside from his kitchen, that was the nicest part of the place. And that was okay. Thirty years had passed since the building's rebirth and it was showing signs of age but that's what Jellal loved about it. It was unique, right down to the two steel poles that still occupied the apartment's center. He furnished around them—a single flat screen TV he never turned on (it wasn't the best money could buy but it was pretty damn good) a leather couch that Jellal considered throwing out any time he used it for things it was never meant to be used for (who knew that a person could stick so much with their clothes off?) and a plain rectangular table that he'd found in the same alley he'd lugged his coffee table out of. The chairs around it didn't match—those he got out of a garage sale for twenty-five cents each. Laxus used to mock him for it, back in the days when he'd stop by and they'd drink some beers and watch some trashy movie. He could afford better so why didn't he have better?
They were just things. Things to get used and worn out, and he didn't care.
The parking lot was larger than it needed to be. The mill had been segmented into four apartments and the lot could have fit twenty cars. When Lisanna's DeVille wasn't parked lopsidedly beside Jellal's black Roadmaster, the lot only had two other vehicles in it. A cranberry coloured Mustang and a huge lifted pickup belonging to the man that rented the apartment directly below. That vehicle was consistently parked across three spaces. He was living on inheritance and soon enough, his money would run out. Jellal knew; he'd checked. There were only so many nights a man could listen to Kanye West blaring all the way until eleven, when the noise bylaw took effect, before he started to think about doing something rash. The music always turned off when it was supposed to, though, so there was nothing Jellal could say.
Today when Jellal pulled into his apartment's lot, there was another car, too, this one silver. He read the back, Jaguar XK120. It looked very out of place. He parked his car in his usual spot and got out his keys before he fumbled in the growing dark, missing the lock because the light over the apartment doors was busted and he was too stubborn to get out his phone and use it as a flashlight.
Perfume came to him when Jellal was finally ready to get out of his car. It was pungent but didn't make his nose burn like some other stuff might. He had to assume that meant it was expensive stuff. He searched for the wearer and found her where she hadn't been moments before, leaning against the bumper of her Jaguar. She had a phone in her hand and it lit up her face when the approaching night tried to hide it. Her hair was as silver as her car and her face was smoothed in makeup. Jellal recognized her immediately, though not because she was an acquaintance. It seemed he saw her every time he turned on the news lately. There was no doubt in his mind that she was there for him.
Lucky Thursdays, he thought as he crossed his parking lot. Every test he'd ever aced was on a Thursday, he lost his virginity on a Thursday. He'd found his treasured coffee table one Thursday night wandering past an alley on a street he usually never would have taken. He'd survived being shot in the head on a Thursday, too, and now only had a thin scar that ran down the side of his temple to show for it. Sometimes, life was rough, but he always came out on top on Thursdays.
She looked up and the very last rays of sunlight, weak rods that reached over the top of his apartment building, made her matted lips look dark like cherries left too long to ripen. She sized him up in a snap and Jellal wondered if he looked dishevelled with his sleeves rolled up and his hair messy from pushing it back from his face too many times.
"Mister Fernandes?" She said his name with a healthy amount of scorn and Jellal, who always felt like he was in control, faltered. He recovered.
"Can I help you?"
"I want to speak with you. Privately."
If it were anyone other than Sorano Agria, on any other day, he would have given her a business card with his phone number, home and cell, and his office address on it. He suspected that she hadn't gotten his home address by any traditional methods, though, and Thursday had brought her to him. How could he ignore her?
"If you want, we can go to my office—"
She spoke over him like she spoke over many people. "If I wanted to meet in your office, I would have contacted you there, wouldn't I? Your apartment will do."
Right. Jellal said, "Follow me, Miss Agria."
Sorano wasn't even surprised that he knew who she was. She was a woman who was known everywhere she went. Jellal supposed she'd be more surprised if he couldn't bring up her name. She walked at his side and her high heels sang out a symphony. Her ankles never wobbled and her heels never got stuck in the cracks of the sidewalk. Nor in the grates in the stairs leading into his apartment.
The apartment door opened below them and Truck Boy appeared. Kanye followed him out; it was the same old tracks he'd been listening to yesterday and the day before that. He looked up through the grates and Jellal was sure he was peeking up Sorano's skirt because he whistled low and appreciatively. Sorano looked over the edge of the metal bannister and the look she had primed was man-eating. She didn't have to say a word and the Kanye wannabe sank back into his apartment. The music turned down after that. Jellal wondered what it would be like to be gifted, as Sorano was, with the ability to belittle someone with just a glance. It was a talent that extended to her assessment of places. Jellal knew his apartment didn't stand a chance of withstanding her scrutiny as soon as the lock stuck as it had every day since he signed his lease. He leaned his weight back, pulling the door tight into the frame, and turned the key. It came open with a groan and a gasp and Sorano did exactly as he expected. She curled her nose. It didn't stop her from twitching by him and parting with the fur scarf she had around her neck. That went on the coatrack beside the door, her purse she kept in her hand.
Jellal closed the door and kept it unlocked to keep them both comfortable.
"Thanks for seeing me."
"You didn't give me much of a choice."
"The media has been following me for days," Sorano said and her voice echoed off the concrete walls. "I didn't want to be seen at your office."
Jellal went to his kitchen and felt more at ease there. He knew that while the rest of the apartment was a bit of a write-off, this part at least was above and beyond his own standards of perfection. It smelled like that morning's coffee but that was okay. Sorano followed him in like he hoped she would and put her hip against his counter. Jellal asked, "How did you get my home address?"
She didn't even try to protect her source. "The detective that was handling Yukino's case told me that it didn't have to end there, that you were the best."
Laxus Dreyar. Why hadn't he said anything? Maybe he was going to. Maybe that's what that look was before he stood, adjusted his lapels and left Mira's. Jellal's annoyance was soothed by one thought: there was no way in hell Laxus wanted Sorano to repeat those words to his old partner. The best. He was. He knew that. He even knew that Laxus knew that. It was still satisfying to hear him admit it. "I don't work cheap."
"If you did, I wouldn't be here."
"I just wanted to make sure we were clear on that."
"I can pay," she assured him and Jellal rhymed off a ridiculous number to see if she'd flinch. Not even an ounce. "I want my sister home and not in a box." This was the first time she'd displayed any emotion other than curtness. Her cheeks were pink and it was with worry, her eyes were just this side of glossy. She kept her stuff together. That was good. He kept Kleenex at his office for emotional breakdowns but at home? He'd be breaking out the toilet paper and it wasn't the nice stuff.
"Let's start by you telling me everything you know." He kept a pad of paper in the drawer beneath his utensils. It was unfortunate that it was covered in blue flowers, a gift from Wendy three birthdays ago. Jellal was pretty sure it was regifted. He appreciated the effort so much he still had it. Or he kept forgetting to give it back to her on her birthday. He made a mental note to write it down on his calendar. The thought was gone almost as soon as it was birthed.
Sorano eyed the paper and Jellal saw the uncertainty in her eyes. "From the beginning," Jellal prodded.
"I can only tell you what I told the police, which isn't much. She was supposed to have breakfast with the family on the morning of the eighteenth. She'd gotten engaged and was going to officially announce it with her fiancé. She didn't show. I checked her room and it was empty. The only thing I could tell was missing was her diary."
"Clothes?"
Sorano shook her head. "I can't say. Yukino had a lot."
She would. Eustacio Agria seemed like the type of man to gift his two beloved daughters with chiffon and silks.
"I can say that she left all of her cards and her driver's license. And, I found this on her floor." She pulled out a golden necklace from her pocket and Jellal recognized the symbol of Pisces. The chain had been broken.
"Does that mean something to you?"
Sorano said, "It came in the mail two weeks ago. When I asked her about it, she seemed shaken."
Jellal lifted his brow. "Shaken?"
"She didn't like talking about it. She was scared," Sorano added for emphasis when she feared that Jellal wasn't getting it. "Some creep was obviously stalking her," she blurted. "And now he's kidnapped her and she's gone and she's—" She cut herself off all on her own and sucked in a deep, deep breath. Composure came when she exhaled.
"You're worried but we hardly have any of the facts," Jellal said. "Is it possible the necklace could have been from her fiancé?"
"I asked him after Yukino went missing; he knew nothing about it."
Jellal grabbed a sandwich bag from one of his drawers and held it out. Sorano seemed reluctant to part with the necklace but she did eventually drop it inside. It pooled like molten gold at the bottom of the bag and Jellal thought that little piece of metal had some answers for his curious mind. "Anything else you know?"
Sorano shook her head. "Her phone was left. Her laptop, her car."
Anything he could have used to track her. "I assume the police took all that stuff into evidence?"
"Yes," Sorano said.
That didn't make things impossible but he definitely had to work a little harder for his exorbitant pay. "Anything else?"
"That's all I know," Sorano said.
She was right, that wasn't much to go on. Jellal wasn't surprised. If the police hit a dead end, there was a reason. "Miss Agria, I typically ask for an advance—"
Sorano was already digging through her purse. She had come prepared with a chequebook and wrote out a third of his overall asking price. "You'll get the rest when I have my sister."
Jellal took the cheque with only a moment's hesitation. Usually, he wanted ten percent, not thirty-five but who the hell was he to complain? "Is there a number where I can contact you?"
Sorano plucked the paper and the pen out of his hands and scrawled down some digits. Her writing was small and curly and neat, exactly like he'd expect from a woman like her. When she was through, she gave it back to him and made sure never to touch his hands, like she thought it was below her.
"We'll be in touch," Jellal said.
"Don't come by the house. I don't want to answer any more questions from the media. Call and we'll meet somewhere."
"Sure." Jellal took his card from the pile he kept on the microwave and handed it to her. She took it up with her manicured nails much like she handed over the pen, carefully. Jellal suppressed an eye roll. "Call me anytime, if you have any other information or if someone who does contacts you." He let his hand hover over her shoulder and guided her through his kitchen. "I'll keep you updated on my progress."
Sorano stepped out of his range near the door and gathered up her furs. "Are you sure you're the best?"
"I will find your sister, Miss Agria."
She didn't say thank you and he wasn't surprised. When the door closed behind her, he went for his cigarettes and had one lit before he'd even made it to the balcony.