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sezja · 7 months

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Undercover, Part 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Sanson's as tense as an over-tuned harpstring; Guydelot thinks it's a wonder the man's not vibrating in place. He hasn't so much as touched the small bowl of tropical fruits Myrnarael so lovingly placed before him, and the bard doesn't need to be a mind reader to know his friend's thoughts are a malm away... or perhaps just a few yalms, with the mysterious Miss R'Shenna, and all the answers she may or may not hold. Something here just doesn't add up, Guydelot knows; the question is... how in the world do they go about finding out more information without tipping their hand?

If they push too hard, they risk running her off, missing out on the evidence of her hand in the murders. Without evidence, they're sunk. And if they wait too long... well. Last thing they need is another murder on their hands, knowing they could have done something to prevent it, if they'd only been more aggressive in their pursuit.

So. A balanced approach, then.

Luckily, he and Sanson have always balanced one another well.

"Eat your breakfast, Chief." Guydelot nudges Sanson's foot with his own beneath the table. "We'll need all the strength we can get."

With a guilty start, Sanson surfaces from his thoughts; has he even noticed he's fiddling with that fake wedding ring again? Whose brilliant idea was that, Guydelot wonders: giving Sanson something else to fret with? He supposes with no journal to keep the man's hands busy, he's got to be doing something with them. He'd packed and unpacked a journal and spare quills over and over in the days leading up to their departure, ultimately deciding against it; what if, he'd explained, someone should stumble upon his journal and blow their cover?

Guydelot, who recalls at least two particular occasions where one of Sanson's journals had fallen into the wrong hands (never mind that some of those hands belonged to a meddlesome moogle, and without that particular theft they might still be squabbling in the clouds), couldn't disagree. But it's left Sanson without his usual method of focusing his thoughts, and without that, the man's a mess.

Still, it doesn't mean that sharp mind of his isn't hard at work.

"Strange, is it not," Sanson says, so quietly Guydelot has to lean in. "The owners of the resort knew to expect us, and I can't imagine there are so many Gridanian couples visiting the island that we wouldn't be easily identified... yet they didn't think to tell their own daughter?"

Ah. "You reckon they suspect her?"

A slow, subtle nod. "Or the employees in general, perhaps, and they fear she couldn't keep our presence a secret from the others. The guards aboard the ferry knew, of course-" Otherwise they'd have never gotten their weapons and gear on board, and this isn't a mission to be undertaken unarmed. "-But it would appear few others have been informed, if any." Sanson spears a piece of fruit on his fork at last, and chews thoughtfully, keeping his gaze from drifting toward R'Shenna again with visible effort.

An accomplice among the resort's employees would make some sense, Guydelot thinks, tucking into his own breakfast. Whoever's committing the murders has a working knowledge of the island and its routines: enough to know when, say, a landscaper or housekeeper won't wander inconveniently into the scene. So. A regular patron of the resort - that'd be Miss R'Shenna, like as not, and almost certainly her man, too - and an employee or two, all working together to pick their victims, divest them of their lives and their material goods, and scurry away with the island's security none the wiser? It's a fine scheme, if a bloody one. Guydelot makes a note to himself to see if he can't get to know a few of the island's workers: surely one of them might know if any of their fellows have come into a strange amount of coin of late...

By now, more people have arrived at the restaurant. Most, Guydelot notices, appear to be on the lower end of the income bracket - those, like "themselves," for whom this is a once-in-a-lifetime vacation; an indulgence. They're eager, excited, a little bit giggly. Like kids on a first date.

Maybe he ought to be a little sillier with his stiff husband, eh? For the sake of blending in, if nothing else.

"What are you smiling about?"

He turns his attention back to the man in question. "What's not to smile about? Look at all these fine people, madly in love." Grinning, Guydelot pops a grape into his mouth. R'Shenna's also been keeping a hawk's eye on the new arrivals, he observes; if she's sizing them up as potential targets, she'll be disappointed, like as not. The wealthier sorts will have their meals delivered to their cabins... or they'll have brought their own staff, not trusting to the quality of the isle's fare. But then, seeing as she's a regular, she ought to know that, right? So what is she looking for...

Bah. They should've sent a proper inspector for a job like this. Too late to worry about that now, he supposes.

Instead, he stands, stretching. "How about a walk?"

"A walk?" Sanson blinks up at him, surprised. "But-"

"Aye, a walk. A little romantic stroll, you and I." He can't help smiling; can't help teasing. Especially not when it turns the tips of Sanson's ears pink. He offers a little bow, holding out a hand. "See the sights, learn our way around the island? This early in the morning, we might find some quiet, private spots-"

Hastily, ignoring his offered hand, Sanson rises to his feet; his face looks a touch pink now, too. "You are absurd-"

"That's why you married me, dear heart." Oh, this is fun. Guydelot never gets to flirt with Sanson; the man's staunch propriety would never allow it, not with Sanson being his commanding officer and all. Never mind that there's nothing behind it; nothing meant. What's a little flirting between friends every now and then? "So! A walk, right?"

With some good-natured grumbling, Sanson follows him out into the bright island sunshine once more, pausing only briefly to offer a polite farewell to Myrnarael. She urges them to return for luncheon and dinner, and bids them not to stray far from the beach.

She won't say why. That flicker of fear is in her eyes once more.

Not for the first time, Guydelot wishes they weren't undercover. The woman knows something; he'd bet his left arm on it. Staying on the beach is safe: it'll be busy, come mid-day. Lots of eyes, lots of people around to ward off would-be murderers. The victims thus far had all been slain in their cabins or otherwise well off the beaten path, away from watchful eyes; aye, Myrnarael has every reason to encourage patrons to stay where it's likely to be safest. What else might she know? Something about their asking after R'Shenna had the owners' daughter on edge; she knows something about the miqo'te woman with the ill-matched jewels. Something that frightens her. She didn't want the "nice Gridanian boys" prying too deep into the fancy lass's sordid history.

What Guydelot wouldn't give to be able to ask her outright what she knew! They can't go about telling all of the employees what they're about, fair enough, but surely the owners' daughter...

And then again, were it safe to tell her, surely her parents would've told her themselves.

"I hate this," he says aloud once they're safely out of earshot of the restaurant, his tone mild. "I hate all of this. All the second-guessing."

Sanson nods his agreement, frowning. "Aye, but at least we've somewhere to start." He peers up at Guydelot, sidelong. "A walk?"

Ah. Right. "Reckon we can take a walk through the rest of the cabins," he says, quiet, but conversational. "See what we can see. Who we can see." If there is a killer on the prowl, after all, they'll also be casing out the place, Guydelot reasons. "Then we can poke our way around the island, I reckon. If our man - or woman - ain't a patron after all, they'll need a cave or something to hide out in, or to stash their goods."

"These islands are full of hidden caverns," Sanson agrees, as they turn their steps toward the path leading back up into the cabins. "And few of the stolen goods have surfaced on the black market, according to the Yellowjackets." He'd spoken at length on the case with Limsa's local law enforcement - none of whom were keen to see Gridanians handling their work, but then, Sanson's an old hand by now at wrestling cooperation out of men who'd just as soon see him fail.

He's a wonder, he is.

I've got to set him up with someone, he reminds himself, as they walk, settling into a familiar companionable silence. He'd suggested that very thing on the way down, he recalls, and he means it. Sanson's too good a man to be spending all his nights alone.

Well, he amends, alone apart from me. But Guydelot crashing on Sanson's couch night after night's not really the same thing as having someone to love, is it? He needs someone to do all the silly little romantic things people in love do. Not that Guydelot knows what that's like, necessarily, but then, Guydelot's never been interested in the long game, settling down. Sanson, though, Sanson is the sort to want a house, a family, a ring on his finger; all those nice forever and always things. They don't talk about it - they've talked about a lot of things, but romance seldom comes up - but Guydelot knows Sanson; he knows Sanson'd like to come home to a spouse and hearth and home someday. And if he won't find that spouse himself, well, what's a best friend for, eh?

For now, though, it's fun to pretend he can fill that role.

"Do you think we ought to hold hands?" he asks, innocently. "After all, we are meant to be on a romantic stroll."

Sanson elbows him, instead. "You are enjoying this far too much."

"You could stand to enjoy it a little more!" He winds an arm around Sanson's shoulders, drawing him a little too close for friendly. "C'mon, Chief, I'm starting to feel insulted," he says, playfully wounded. "Anyone'd think you don't like being my husband."

He gets another elbow in his ribs for his teasing, but Sanson laughs, too. "Then no one will be shocked when we divorce at the end of this vacation. Come, now," he says, smiling. "Keep your eyes open; remember why we're here."

"Couldn't possibly forget."

"Good." After a moment's hesitation, Sanson carefully winds his own arm around Guydelot's back, letting a hand rest on the bard's hip. "Is this-"

Did his heart just flutter a little? Silly thing. "Look at you," he purrs, giving the man's shoulder a little squeeze. "We'll have you holding my hand by the end of the day, you'll see."

"Eyes open, Guydelot."

"Heartbreaker," he teases. "Fine. Let's see what we can see."

#sanson smyth #guydelot thildonnet #my writing #undercover fic #FINALLYYYYYYYYY #IT'S SHORT #next time: Things Start Happening

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