The Detectives Meet

Vincent Barlowe sipped his fancy champagne, leaning against the nice white walls. Though this home was much nicer than his, the owner was a personal acquaintance.

People chit-chatted around him, but people seemed to avoid approaching him directly; he could hear his name being whispered in the throng.

"That's Vincent Barlowe. The detective."

It gave him a small feeling of satisfaction; he was well known for his skills of deduction. The Maple Street burglaries, his latest case, had been no cakewalk to solve, but he had done it single-handedly. Luck had little to do with his fame.

When he finally saw the man he had been meaning to speak to all evening, he beamed and interrupted his conversation with a well-dressed older lady.

"Jack Huddleson! Nice to see you again, so lovely of you to invite me--we haven't spoken in years, right? What's the occasion?"

"Ah, Vincent!" Jack exclaimed, almost literally shoving his wife out of the way. "My boy, where did he run off to, he's becoming a detective! Finally, he should be smart enough to have been accepted when he was sixteen, but, regulations, you know."

He laughed heartily, but it was obvious his heart was not in it.

"Sherlock? Where are you??" he bellowed. Everyone at the party looked around, until the culprit was found.

Poor Sherlock Huddleson was cowering in the corner, petting his beloved bloodhound, John. He visibly cringed when his father's gaze fell upon him. He wasn't even facing his father, but he knew that his father was looking at him.

"Sherlock, my boy, come and meet this wonderful detective!" he snapped.

Reluctantly, the tall boy stood up. His dark hair was dyed a dark silvery blond, and he ran his fingers through it. He took out a cigarette and lit it, and though it looked cool, it was to calm his nerves. He strutted over to his father, and while his heart was pounding in his chest, he acted as cool as he possibly could.

"Hello, my name is Fox," he said pointedly, absolutely daring the other detective to call him by his real name.

Upon seeing him, Vincent grinned, perhaps too broadly. He extended his hand, bowing his torso respectfully.

"Nice to meet ya, kid. The name's Vincent Barlowe, detective. Fox is a more interesting name, though--you've got wit, huh?" His laugh was loud and deep, but not obnoxious.

"If you do, I'll bet it's enough to match your pretty mug. I'm envious, I have to say--sometimes the scars keep the ladies at bay, you know?"

"I'd think it was your age and stupid hair that kept them away," he replied, and his father gasped.

"Sherlock! What did I tell you about being kind to the detectives? They are your colleagues! You are going to be working with them for a very long time, boy," he crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at his son. "Apologize."

Fox narrowed his eyes.

"Don't compliment me and I won't insult you," he told the detective, beginning to feel much less nervous. He took a drag on his cigarette. "I don't need you to tell me what I'm good at and what I'm not."

Vincent chuckled, his smile not fading in the slightest. He slicked his hair out of his face; a boy this pretty was worth a better view.

"Cheeky, eh? I don't mind it, you've got spirit, kid--I think I like you. Fox is a good name for you, know that?"

"So, Jack, now that I've met your kid, what's your game, here? Want me to give him some insider tips? I thought his old man'd have that covered." He laughed, patting Jack's back.

"Ah, but this old man's retired, you see," Jack replied, grinning. "I thought you could let my boy come with you, let him see how a real, on the job detective does things. Right before he starts his job, you see?"

His smile suggested that it was not something that could be turned down.

Fox, on the other hand, snarled. The very thought of going anywhere with the stupid detective made him anxious. Though, he supposed that if he could take John he wouldn't mind as much.

"You mean, you're offering me the opportunity to break in a fresh, wide-eyed new detective? The son of one of the best? How can I say no?"

He grabbed Fox by the shoulder, pulling him uncomfortably close.

"Looks like you and me are gonna be buddies, Fox. Vincent and Fox even has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I don't want you calling me Detective Barlowe, either, I'm Vincent to you--that's how your old man knows me, it only makes sense." He patted Fox on the back as though he had known him for a lifetime.

"I promise I'll take you out the next time I get a job, and you'll get to solve something with me. How does that sound, kid--exciting?"

Fox glared at him.

"It sounds horribly boring, just like you do," he replied simply. He debated about putting out his cigarette on the detective, before he shoved him away and put it out on a nearby ashtray, instead. Better to only inflict pain upon the detective when his father wasn't around.

"John and I are going hunting," he replied abruptly, leaving before anything else could be said.

Vincent laughed and playfully punched Jack in the shoulder.

"That kid sure is a kick in the pants--I'll take him!"

-x-

A few days later, Vincent waited at the front door of the Huddleson home. He had called ahead, telling Fox to be ready when he arrived--there was a fresh case waiting for them today.

Normally, he didn't mind waiting, but with a new case to solve he felt antsy. He paced on the front porch, his hands fidgeting in the pockets of his damp trench coat. It was drizzling out, but he hardly noticed; all he could think about was the new case. Was it a murder? Suicide? Bank robbery?

He reached absently into his chest pocket for a cigarette before remembering that there were none there--he was trying to quit. God fucking dammit.

"Cigarette?" Fox offered, as he walked out of the house. John followed him, and he didn't tell him to go back inside. He pulled out a cigarette and offered it to Vincent, lighting one for himself.

"I want this to be over with quickly," he said bluntly. "You'll solve the case, I'll go home, and we'll never discuss this embarrassing event ever again. Deal?"

"No thanks, I'm trying to quit," said Vincent, conspicuously snorting the smoke from Fox's cigarette.

"Anyway, I want to get to know you. I don't want this to be quick at all. I find you very...captivating, fox. I would enjoy becoming very close friends." He beamed, patting him on the back.

Something sniffed at his trouser leg; he looked down and laughed when he realized it was the dog. He patted him on the head, speaking in high-pitched baby-talk.

"There's a good boy, who's a good boy...what's your dog's name, kid? Rover? Fido?"

"John," he snapped angrily, stepping away from him. "Do not touch me, and do not touch John."

The bloodhound seemed conflicted. He looked to Fox, who glared at him. He wanted to enjoy being pet, though. But Fox was so angry. Attempting to be a good dog, he snapped at Vincent's hands.

Fox pet John, smiling to himself.

"Let's go, old man."

"John? How funny, that's a man's name." He laughed, long and hard.

"Ah, in any case, let's get down to the scene of the crime, shall we? I predict today will be very fun." He grabbed Fox by the arm, steering him toward his car.

"If the pooch is coming, he's sitting in the back--make sure he doesn't ruin anything, or you're cleaning it."

He pried himself away, straightening out his trenchcoat.

"What did I just say about touching me, you half-rate detective?!" he snapped, and John barked shortly after.

He opened the car for John, who laid down on the back seat. Then, he got in himself and irritably slammed his door.

Vincent slid into the front seat, still grinning. Moving some wrappers out of his way, he slid a hand over Fox's thigh.

"There, there, now--no need to be fussy. I'm a good enough detective for you, and that's all that matters. Besides, soon we'll just be friends.

"You eat breakfast, son? I'm afraid I skipped without thinking, so we should probably pick something up...there's a McDonalds not too far from here."

He started the car and pushed a cassette tape into his outdated player; decades-old rock began blasting from his speakers. He hummed along, bobbing his head absentmindedly as he pulled into the street, almost hitting a streetlight.

He shrieked without meaning to, scooting over to the door. "W-wait! I've changed my mind, I'd like to sit in the backseat with John, you handsy bastard!!"

Fox slowly felt his composure melt away. Suddenly, he wasn't so confident.

Vincent laughed heartily.

"'Handsy bastard'? Can't believe I haven't been called that one before, I don't think it's come up--most people prefer more vulgar words!" He slapped his knee, barely avoiding the sidewalk as he turned.

"Sorry, kid, it's not my fault you've got a pretty--well, a pretty everything. Nice view and all that--trust me when I say the pleasure's all mine, bringing you along." He chuckled and skipped forward to a different song on the cassette. "Normally I get stuck with gruff ugly old suits like me, eh?

"You shouldn't worry, though--I'm pretty docile when I'm on the job. I get very focused, you see. Your ass is safe for a while."

"Wh...what?!" he exclaimed, his voice so incredibly high pitched John whined, covering his ears. "How...how dare you insinuate something so...so horrible!"

Fox hated his father now more than ever before. Why would he send him with this disgusting old man?!

"Once we get to the crime scene, I am leaving! I am going home, and I hope you die!"

"You don't have many friends, do you?" he asked bluntly, though his tone was more curious than cruel. "Go on, admit it. You don't have anywhere else to be with anyone else today."

Fox glared at him, refusing to admit that it was true. He didn't want to think it was true.

"I have John. We're going hunting," he replied, turning up his nose. "You wouldn't understand."

"You're going hunting with me, too!" he said brightly. "Only, we're going hunting for something very useful--a criminal. And when we find him, we'll have benefited society. That's the job of a detective."

He pulled into the the drive through of a McDonalds, glancing at the neon menu and rolling down his window. A voice crackled through the ancient speaker.

"What can I get you today?"

He paused his music and glanced at Fox.

"Let's see, I'll have a McSkillet Burrito and a Sausage McMuffin, and a coffee." He turned to Fox and said in a low voice, "What do you want?"

"I will not eat your disgusting, lowclass filth!" he shouted angrily. "I will have nothing!"

He hesitated slightly, before he mumbled, "John would like something, though. Some biscuits."

He grinned and turned to the speaker again, which was emitting quiet static.

"I'll take four Sausage Biscuits and an orange juice. And that's all I want."

"Pull up to the window," replied the droning voice.

As soon as he was handed their food, Vincent tossed the bag into Fox's lap and drove away, sipping his coffee as he almost destroyed a bush with his tires.

"So, want me to park so we can munch on this? Got you a smoothie."

Fox fed the biscuits to John, who happily took them, munching.

"I don't want anything from you!" he snapped angrily, even as he fed hiss beloved pet the biscuits. "You and your disgusting, lowly food!"

He sipped his coffee, parking outside of another restaurant.

"You can have some of my coffee, if you like that better. I know I like something to wake me up...and there were no scantily-clad sex slaves at my house this morning." He took another sip, his face straight.

"You sure you don't want this smoothie? They're damn good."