A/N: Finally updating this.


chapter 2

city shades


"I will hurt you if you're playing games with me, Francis," Arthur grumbled as he adjusted the scarf around his neck, side-eyeing (side-glaring) at the French angrily. It was fucking freezing, the temperature being the lowest it had been this time of year yet.

Perhaps he could get away with murder if he spirited himself away afterward. Now, that was a thought worth considering. "I thought you said you needed my help."

Francis's laughter was as cringe-worthy as always. "Now, now, I couldn't talk about something like that on the phone, Arthur dear." The endearment came out with such sarcastic fondness that it made Arthur flush with anger and shove his hands deeper into the pockets of the thick jacket he was wearing.

Nothing had changed since the last time, at least—

The thought was strangely comforting to Arthur, though he'd never admit it to anyone, especially not to the flamboyant police officer beside him.

The sarcasm, the not-so-friendly banter — all of them took Arthur back to old times.

Shit, don't think about that now.

"Just where are we going, anyhow?" Arthur grumbled, flinching as a cold gale struck both their faces. "I can't leave my office for nothing, you imbecile." It was almost wintertime by now; trees had shed their leaves already, the last of greenery dying with each passing day little by little. Fucking foliage.

But streets were as full of life as always, late fall or not, and Arthur found it difficult to hear Francis's next words over the noise the surrounding crowd made.

Not for the first time, he lamented the fact that he had ever moved into the city where people were dumb as bricks and crime more hideous. Just look at Francis; he certainly proved one of these statements correct.

"…here… go in…" Francis's vague gestures to a cafe located in one of the shadiest street corners in the city, and Arthur followed him cautiously but knowing that Francis wouldn't get him into any trouble. Not anymore, anyhow…

He trusted Francis; his agreement to helping Francis ("I'll hear you out, but I can't promise anything") was one that stemmed from this trust.

The relationship they had was one of equality, one of shared years, one of shared hardships. Arthur never thought too deeply about it, but just like with Alfred, Francis was the one that knew him best, inside and out, and it worked both ways.

Still, Arthur gave Francis a critical, grumpy look as they got seated in the farthest corner of the cafe. "I see your tastes have gone to ruin," he criticized, uneasy and stiff as he took off his jacket before rubbing some warmth into his blue-tinted fingers. The cafe was dimly lit, dust hovering in the air like poison, and low chattering filled the air. No one took notice of them, not immediately, and Arthur got a vague feeling that the place was not entirely legal.

Francis waved his glove-covered hand dismissively, eyes darting distractedly towards the counter in the back of the cafe, where some employees rushed about fulfilling orders and two even had the time to gossip something in hushed tones. Not that Arthur would have heard them in the first place; the table was farthest from the front desk, and secluded even from the rest of the round tables people snacked at.

"Stay here for a moment, I'll get us something to drink." Francis' blue eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky, but Arthur thought he saw something darker lurking beneath the shallow surface that the blond usually put up. And just like that, Francis was off before Arthur could huff out a response.

Left alone, he had no choice but to settle down, since he didn't want to cause a scene — the somewhat secretive atmosphere of the cafe was making him tense and queasy, he didn't need to add more fuel to it. He slowly unwrapped the scarf from his neck, placing it quietly on the back of the chair on top of his jacket before turning back to inspect the shadowy cafe and its occupants. Hidden only barely from the main street, the cafe seemed to have an ideal location for business.

The dark forest green eyes darted around the dim room, noting how several customers all had their high-collar jackets on, collars pulled as high as possible, and silent murmurs with not exact words reached Arthur's ears. Eyes narrowing, he wondered once more why Francis had brought him to a shady place like this. Trust or no trust, Francis ought to have known that Arthur would hate this place—

"Here's your cappuccino." A cup of steaming coffee (was it even coffee, Arthur didn't even know— fucking cappuccinos and moccas and modern-day need to give a name to every fucking thing) was set down before him, and Arthur released an annoyed sigh through his nostrils.

"Francis, I only drink tea, you-"

Francis shrugged, lips in an infuriatingly light smile. "I don't care, Eyebrows."

"You little-!"

Francis waved his hand dismissively as he sat down with his own steaming cup of coffee (Mocca? Cappuccino? Who the fuck knows). "You're as short-tempered as always, Arthur." Was it just Arthur or did Francis smile almost fondly just then?

…must have been his imagination, though Francis did smile at the oddest times.

Back in high school, as well…

Taking a deep breath and a sip from his coffee (cappuccino, was it?), Arthur calmed his nerves. "Why this place, Francis?" he asked, almost inaudibly, as he glanced at the other's serene (but was that uneasiness he detected in that smile?) expression. "This place doesn't seem like… your style."

The idiot had the gall to chuckle like Arthur had just cracked a joke. "No, I guess it's not," he admitted, fingers trailing the side of the porcelain cup, and the smile on his lips softened as the blue eyes gazed down at the cup. "It's just… this is 'Toni's cafe."

'Toni… Tonio… Antonio?

"Antonio…?" Arthur voiced his question, brows wrinkled. "I thought he was still a police inspector last year?" Surely, it couldn't be that Toni…

Francis nodded, eyes glazing over as he stirred his coffee and dropped a sugar cube into the cup. "He was, but… a certain case made him resign from the job." The words that Francis didn't say were painfully obvious as they hung between the two, Arthur taking the information in and Francis silently eyeing Arthur.

Antonio Carriedo… had been one of Arthur's co-workers, once upon a time. A friendly man with brains emptier than Alfred's fridge on weekends.

Even Arthur had liked him well enough, though Antonio's gullible nature was sometimes a big hindrance and an even bigger annoyance.

"I… see," he murmured, deciding to leave the matter of Antonio's career-ending case alone. Francis's sudden apprehension concerning the subject had said more than enough to the former police detective about its severity. And, well, Antonio's nature taking into account, it would have had to have been something huge.

"Okay, that's that," he nodded decisively, leaning back as he gave Francis a look. "I don't have too much time to waste, you know." Hint hint, get to the point, fucking frogface. Francis seemed to get the hint, if that obnoxiously amused face was anything to go by.

"My oh my, and here I thought we could catch up and so on, Arthur."

Twitch. "Don't test my patience, frog."

"It's not like you have anything better to do anyway, oui?"

"…Francis."

"You still have no sense of humor, I see." Francis tutted, flicking his wrist arrogantly before quieting down as a contemplative look crossed his face - that look was enough for Arthur to keep another fiery retort to himself. For now. Francis eventually gave a sigh while staring down at his coffee.

"I don't know how I should word this exactly, Arthur."

Arthur sipped his coffee silently, patiently waiting for Francis to continue though with a touch of apprehension creeping up to his mind. When Francis was at a loss for words, situation tended to be rather… serious, and for the briefest of moments Arthur allowed himself to consider the possibility that maybe this was about that case… but Francis hadn't been involved, had he? Impossible, it was very improbable…

"You remember Vash Zwingli, right?"

The question was so abrupt, so unexpected, that Arthur nearly dropped the cup from his hands that had twitched from the surprise. Green eyes widened, Adam's apple bobbed; all this in a fraction of a moment before the former police detective regained his composure.

"Yes, I remember him," Arthur said, fingers cradling the cup with more care now, "Zwingli was a police officer, about to get promoted but then he passed away…" His heart beat loudly against his ribcage; there was a thunderstorm inside him - but at the same time he felt as cold as Antarctica. He stared at the warm color of the coffee contemplatively. "What about him?"

Cold numbness prickled him from the inside, wriggling and poking around until sitting still became a task for Arthur.

Vash Zwingli….

He hadn't heard that name in a while.

"Well, not technically about him…" Francis trailed off uneasily, eyes averted (uncharacteristic, Arthur noted) and lips tucked together in slight frown. "His little sister, Lili, has been murdered."

Whether he was surprised or disappointed by this news, Arthur couldn't even tell himself. Instead, he took another sip to calm his constantly strained nerves, allowing himself some time to consider the meaning of Francis's words. Lili, the green-eyed young university student he had once met, has been murdered. How and when, he'd find out later. But…

"Why are you bringing this up - to me? I retired ages ago, Francis." Arthur placed the cup down, fingers lingering on its edges for a while. "Or is it connected to Vash?" If it was, then…

"Well," Francis threw a sheepish look at him, "it's not, as far as I can tell. But there's something about this case that seems a bit off."

"Something… off?"

"Yeah. Can't put my finger on exactly what it is, but…" Francis mused as he stirred his coffee absentmindedly. "For one, I suppose, is that the girl was loved by everyone, so there is no apparent motive we can find." A pause. "And considering the brutal way she was killed…"

"You thought there must have been someone that hated her," Arthur concluded, "but your investigations, as you said, proved otherwise. At least for the time being."

"Or something recent that had brought up the murderous intention," Francis added, eyes dark and distant. "But mademoiselle Zwingly was too innocent for anything of the sort to have happened. She was popular, of course, but no one seemed jealous of her - she was poor, clinging to the inheritance received from her brother. She was single, as well; there were possible suitors, but each had been rejected with kindness you and I don't get to see often in this world."

Arthur took this in with elegance of a former officer, fingers drumming against the table as he mulled over this information. "Then… then what exactly could it be…" he murmured to himself. "There are bloody mad people out there, that's for sure." An inkling of a thought had been growing inside his head, but Arthur felt reluctant to accept the thought as nothing but lunacy. It would be so very ludicrous— no, it was not possible…

Or was it?

"…Can you show me photos of the crime scene or is that too much to ask, Francis?" Francis had been carrying a large - but fashionable, as always - bag around, which Arthur thought must have some photos and files within. "It's difficult to give any suggestion when I don't even know precisely the scene nor how she was killed."

Lili Zwingli's face came to his mind as he spoke: a sweet-natured teenager with golden blond hair cut short to match her brother's and eyes greener than most precious jewels in any gallery; with quivering lips and frail facial structure she was someone that forced emotion out of people.

Francis stayed silent for a moment, eyes on Arthur for a little longer than what was appropriate, before nodding his consent. "Of course; obviously I brought them with me for your minimalistic brain's sake," he joked with an annoying smirk glued to his face before diving in to get the files from the bag. Arthur merely huffed irritably - Francis and his blasted (and out-of-place!) teasing.

"Just get on with it," he demanded, "or else I'll check whether this cafe has any English muffins."

"Yes, yes," Francis laughed as he leaned down, emphasizing his French accent as much as he could with each syllable since he knew it to annoy Arthur the most.

What an arse.

He controlled himself, though, especially since Francis was now laying the files on the table while inconspicuously glancing around them to make sure they weren't being watched. Arthur's thick eyebrows knit together when he saw that there was more than one file - had Francis brought every witness statement with him as well? That was more thorough than he had expected; Francis must also have been very sure that Arthur would agree to mull over this case.

Well, it was Lili Zwingli… Arthur felt a twinge of guilt in his heart at the thought of the girl - and her big brother. Vash wouldn't have forgiven him; in fact, Arthur figured that he'd be dead by now if the all-too trigger-happy officer were alive. Lili had been the most important person to the blond, and Arthur felt a shudder go through him as he realized that he had, inadvertently, let Vash down.

What an irrational thought that was! It was not like they hadn't kept surveillance on Lili for weeks, months after the incident just in case something were to happen - but nothing ever had. She had not witnessed her brother's death; there had never been any indication that she feared for her own safety because of that case. Anything more than a few weeks of casual surveillance would have been harassment - and Lili had graciously accepted the surveillance with a soft, resigned smile of a person whose world had crumbled into tiny particles of dust.

Arthur didn't have a sister — but he had understood how much Vash must have wanted to protect Lili then when that precarious, breakable smile emerged on Lili's pale, thin lips as he broke the news of having no idea who had murdered her brother.

Shaking that memory away, Arthur tugged at the corner of one of the files - the main file, the thickest one - and opened it silently. The usual case description was the first of many pages, naturally, which Arthur read fully as it wasn't very long to begin with.

Name of the Victim: Lili Zwingli
Time of Death: October 27th, between 8 pm and 12 am
Cause of Death: severe blood loss caused by a stabbing in the chest
Number of Stabs: at least fifteen; great rage as a motivator?
Other Notes: no visible defense wounds on victim

Additional Notes (post-autopsy): traces of sleeping pills found in her system among with other unrecognizable drugs, possibly opiates.

"Opiates?" Arthur muttered in hushed tones, abruptly raising his head towards Francis. "Was she using recreational drugs?" The thought was absurd to him; of all the people, Lili Zwingly was hardly the type to get into anything illegal.

Things could change in two years' time, however…

"We have been trying to find that out," Francis said slowly, just as reluctant as Arthur was to believe that Miss Zwingli was taking part in something illegal. "Her friends deny it firmly - she has never appeared before them drunk or high or in any indecent state in general." Francis paused. "We have, frankly speaking, no idea what the opiates in her system mean."

Arthur sighed, nostrils flaring, as he glanced the rest of the paper before getting to the crime scene photographs.

The two years away from the police force had done their job in killing some of the ghosts he had - and certainly, he couldn't not flinch at the gruesomeness of the crime, despite knowing he had seen even worse things during his time. He swallowed, thickly, slowly taking a deep breath before starting a more analytical inspection of the photos at hand.

The amount of blood made his stomach roll nastily, but he persevered and took notice of the stab wounds on the body in the picture, of the fact that no murder weapon could not be found, and of the glaring fact that Lili Zwingli, the poor lass, had been dumped into a dumpster. Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"The crime did not occur there, did it?" he muttered to himself, eyelids flickering shut for a second as he worked his little grey brain cells. "There's no blood on the trash bags, only on the victim and her clothes." So, the actual crime scene was somewhere else…Arthur frowned. Could the murderer have gone into panic? If the killing hadn't been premeditated, but done out of some indescribably overwhelming emotion… then there should be some evidence the murdered could have overlooked.

Had it been premeditated, surely she would have been hidden better - perhaps she wouldn't have ever been found, if the killer had enough wits on their persona.

"Oui," Francis agreed, stroking at his stubble of a beard with slow movements. "We came to the same conclusion - however, the actual scene is yet to be found." The Frenchman's expression darkened - lips curled down, eyebrows furrowed, eyes tightened - and a sigh came out of his mouth. "There's a list of her friends somewhere there, beneath those horrid photos. I thought you'd want to talk to them on your own."

"This is all friendly of you," Arthur muttered as he searched for the mentioned page. Ah, there - a list of addresses, names and phone numbers…"Why are you doing this again, Francis? To go so far as to let me investigate on my own, without your 'quality' supervision." There was bite in his tone; bitterness, but also challenge - and genuine wonder…

Francis started at the question; a flinch that vanished the next moment. "My dear-" Arthur scoffed, bristling at the false endearment. "Fine, fine, you insensitive buffoon," Francis huffed then, clear blue eyes rolling as he settled back on the chair. "You pride yourself to be a gentleman, yet you bristle at endearments." With a swipe of his hand, the Frenchman dropped the issue, and heaved out a sigh. "It's embarrassing, truly; but I believe it's going to be difficult to get to the bottom of this without some… extraordinary means, if you know what I mean."

"You're really counting on me in this one?" Arthur's frown deepened. This was all too suspicious — Francis was a proud man himself, maybe not as much as Arthur but it was inconceivable that the other would ask Arthur for help without some pressure from above or around him.

"We are old friends, non?" Francis's smile widened in amusement, eyes twinkling like stars on the night sky as they teased the onlooker. "Am I not allowed to ask for favours anymore, mon ami?"

"I didn't say that!" Arthur retorted as his face grew hot with a furious blush. "Just…" What are you after? "We haven't talked in months, and now you ask me to do your investigations for you."

"Non, non," Francis denied, frowning at him. "Just hoping for a fresh perspective for this case, is all."


Arthur wandered aimlessly around the city, mulling over his meeting with Francis. He couldn't quite get the thought of something being wrong out of his mind, though he knew it was possibly unnecessary anxiety, a result from his last client's insufferable nature and overbearing emotionality.

But to bring files of the case with him… Arthur guiltily glanced down at the bag he had shoved the files in — apparently copies, since taking originals out was an absolute no-no; as was taking copies, a fact which Francis had decidedly ignored or conveniently forgotten.

The list of addresses he had shoved into the pocket of his coat, which he now fished out. Where should he start…?

Emil Steilsson… his address isn't too far. A couple of blocks.

He soon got himself into a bus, paid the fare and needed formalities with the driver, and relapsed into a different train of thought as he watched the streets buzz with life — life that he felt disconnected to, he realized not for the first time.

Absentmindedly he shifted when someone came to sit down next to him. Another necessary empty word or two was exchanged— "such dreadful weather today" "indeed, ma'am" — and Arthur touched his pocket tentatively. The list was still there. Good. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that this Emil had something enlightening to say about Lili Zwingli's last days… if not the very last one. He envisioned the murder scene again - the real scene — and tried to pinpoint…

It must have been an underground club, to his mind. Sex and drugs — cannabis, amphetamine, crack, ecstasy, LSD. Those sold. What was money as a compensation for the drug-induced peace and stillness? There would always be people relying on substances to reach the so-called nirvana.

What was the connection to the victim and the scene of crime, though? That was the issue here.

Arthur heaved out a sigh as he climbed out from the bus, thanking the driver with an absentminded nod of his head, before looking around for the apartment building with that familiar address — but he couldn't remember why it was so familiar. The building itself looked forlorn and cheap — clearly in need to renovation, if cracks and dulled colours were anything to go by — and Arthur got the impression that it was either for poor university students or… well, now he was just being judgmental. Inner-city hadn't kept with the times, really; it was apparent in the atmosphere as well.

Nostalgia was the last emotion he had expected to experience, yet that's how he felt as he knocked on the door of the apartment of Emil Steilsson, who apparently had only started living there a few weeks before the murder.

Arthur rang the doorbell, wincing at the shrill sound that rang through the air with ear-piercing quality. It was difficult to believe Lili Zwingli, a relatively well-off girl, would have associated herself with people living there, but… she had been too kind for the world, as much as he could tell.

The door creaked open…

"Arthur? Arthur Kirkland?"

Blood instantly ran cold in his veins. That voice… Arthur's eyes widened as the door opened more, revealing a man with broad shoulders and a face dumber than that of Alfred F. Jones. Well, he had to admit, objectively speaking Matthias Jensen had a nicely curved face - strong jawline, high cheekbones, almost model-like nose and then lips that were often curved up in a mischievous grin that no doubt charmed the more naive ones.

It was the character of Matthias that ruined the beautiful pretty boy image the half-Dane had going on for him.

"…Jensen," Arthur said stiffly, shoulders tensing as Matthias's expression lit up like a Christmas tree. "I thought this was a familiar address…" he mumbled more to himself, glaring down at the slip of paper he had been holding in his hand.

"Oh, man… I haven't seen you in bars for so long, I thought you had died or something!"

"I have a job, unlike you, Jensen."

"I have a boyfriend, unlike you, Kirkland."

"Thanks for proving me that you're still a leech," Arthur said, nose wrinkling in mild disgust, though mildly amused that his assumption had been proved correct.

Matthias merely laughed; a full-hearted laugh that came deep from his throat. Then he made way for Arthur. "Come in, you lousy Englishman," he teased with a twinkle in his eyes. "You look like you have something interesting to talk about."

Arthur stepped in with precarious steps, taking in the claustrophobic feeling the tall walls and numerous small corners in the small apartment gave him. An apartment clearly for two, and yet three were living there — Arthur noticed the three pairs of shoes near the entrance, one which was a pair of Adidas. Undoubtedly Matthias's, if the Dane's sense of fashion hadn't changed.

"I was actually coming over for Emil Steilsson," Arthur said as he took his coat off and put it on the coat rack. "I thought the address sounded familiar…"

Matthias paused. "About the Zwingli girl?"

"Yes."

"Emil's not here right now, though. You sure you didn't just wanna see me?"

"There are three pairs of shoes at the entrance, Matthias," Arthur retorted, choosing to go back to first-name basis as the other was already acting buddy-buddy with him again, despite them not having seen each other in almost a year now.

Matthias's expression changed into one of the most peculiar expressions Arthur had ever seen — that of sudden wariness, of inexplicable caution.

Then, as soon as it had appeared, it was gone, and Matthias laughed sheepishly. "Well, yeah… Guess that wasn't a smart thing to lie about. But you know, Emil has talked to the police a lot, and Lukas would kick my sorry butt if Emil's pestered more than necessary…"

"So, you two did end up together," Arthur mused, a side-thought that he had been wondering. "Congratulations."

Matthias's grin widened into a more natural one. "Yeah, we're engaged and all." Arthur sputtered in response, but he didn't get the chance to express his surprise in other ways when one of the doors in the small hallway opened. A young man, university student if Arthur had to hazard a guess, with pale face and pale hair stepped out. The most striking feature on him was the violet eyes that shone dimly in the right light. His face was devoid of any emotion — it was a blank canvas, but unlike with some other people, Arthur didn't find the blankness sinister at all.

The boy's lips curled down slightly and the dark eyes widened at the sight of the visitor, and now Arthur noticed the dark bags beneath the amethystine eyes that spoke of several badly slept nights, due to either university or the recent stress which Lili Zwingli's untimely death must have caused.

"Emil Steilsson?" he inquired, though there was hardly any doubt.

Thin lips pursed even further, violet eyes throwing a cursory glance to Matthias, who simply shook his head.

"…Yes," the pale boy — really now, did every teenage boy aim to get into the Next Edward Cullen show or something — murmured. "…This is about Lili again?" Emil emphasized the last word slightly, enough for Arthur to distinguish the slight tone of annoyance that had been creeping up to the boy's voice.

"Uh," Matthias made an unintelligent sound, and Arthur intervened. "Yes, it is. If it's alright with you, Mr Steilsson?"

Emil's eyes slid shut for a few seconds. "You don't look like a police officer."

"I'm not," Arthur admitted tersely, "which is why you can tell anything you can't tell the police to me."

Emil's lips thinned even further as his hands adjusted the bag on his shoulders jerkily. "I have lectures to go to."

"I may not be an officer, but I am a detective and I have been asked to investigate this case," Arthur said slowly, his own patience running low as he frowned at the obstinate young man. He then dug out his business card from the abyss of his trousers' pocket, and held it for Emil to take. "Call me if you want to talk about Lili Zwingli."

Emil gave a sigh. "If you insist," he said sulkily, very much like a teenager who was forced to go on a road trip with his parents. "I'm off now, Matthias." Emil took the card with visible reluctance — though Arthur didn't miss the look of contemplation that crossed Emil's face — before wandering off, stopping only to get a coat and put his shoes on before his exit.

Matthias cleared his throat. Awkward. "Well, Lukas is sleeping, so… wanna go out? For old time's sake. I can tell as much about Emil's side of the story as Emil himself, y'know."

"Might as well," Arthur nodded in acceptance. "On your tab, Matthias," he added with a smirk as he took his coat again. Matthias, to his credit, merely grinned and no protest left his lips.

"Still as sly as ever, eh, Arthur?"

Arthur managed to return to smile, his temper soothed. "Someone has to keep their wits with them when others grow dim," he commented with pretended bite to his tone, though it fell flat, and Matthias only laughed heartily.