Fic: MSPA - In Which DD Has Tea with Various Entities, Real or Imagined
Title: In Which DD Has Tea with Various Entities, Real or Imagined
Fandom: MSPA - Problem Sleuth + elements of Homestuck
Pairings: DD/PI
Description: Seven tea parties, several with godlike entities, that a particular Dersite has had the pleasure to attend.
Rating: T - themes of death
i.
“Dignitary, get the hell up here! It’s another God!”
The Draconic Dignitary is running up to Jack Noir’s office almost as fast as he can think. It isn’t as though this isn’t a fairly common occurrence - living out on the edge of the Furthest Ring has its thousand-eyed, betentacled annoyances, much the same as any other home does. And it’s not as if the gods are trying to ruin the bureaucracy of Derse with their meddling, usually; sometimes smaller ones get lost traveling through the dark, and latch onto Derse out of confusion or desperation.
However, it’s rare that one of them would manage to worm its way into the Archagent’s office; and as common as this is, these errant gods, emissaries, and others tend to cause a great deal of chaos that takes a great deal of work to clean up with every visit they make, which is why Jack is throwing such a shitfit over the radio.
This is why Dignitary is genuinely shocked to see that Jack’s office is not a war zone. Normally, the whole room would be an uncharted sea of paperwork, ink, purple stone, various flailing limbs (some Dersite and some cephalopodiform) and fractured Wall fragments. This is not what he sees at all; the only thing reminiscent of former scenes is the fact that Jack is yelling incoherently at one of the four tentacles currently snaking through his office. The small number of appendages, too, is surprising, as is the color - a delicate periwinkle. As one’s searching tip passes in front of the Dignitary’s face, he sees that it has a semblance of a five-fingered hand there, large enough for even the Brute to sit in comfortably. The tip passes peacefully, making its way towards the other end of the room.
“Stop screaming at it, you’ll make it mad,” Dignitary groans, stepping over the tentacle (which is currently investigating Jack’s bookshelf).
Jack pauses briefly in his tirade to the end of another limb. “What took you so fucking long?!”
“I was twenty floors down when you called, Jack. Quit screaming, you’ll make it mad,” Dignitary repeats, eyeing the noodly appendage near them. It waits patiently, looking even more like a gigantic hand and wrist. Interestingly enough, there’s a band of gold around it, like a bracelet.
This is so goddamn weird.
“I think it was in a shitty mood in the first place,” Jack grumbles. “It won’t say a fucking thing to me.”
To this Dignitary simply nudges Jack out of the way, stepping up to the tentacle before them. He is more learned in diplomatic procedures with horrorterrors than Jack. He brings up a hand - a gesture of peace - and speaks.
“How can I help you, O God?”
For a moment Dignitary thinks the god didn’t hear him, as the spindly arm before them makes no sign of motion. Then, all of a sudden, a bubble of soap pops inside his mind with this sound: Goodness, that other fellow was quite rude. You sound much nicer!
Dignitary pauses and blinks. “…Did you hear that, Jack?”
“Hear what?” Jack growls, glowering at the appendages politely exploring his office.
“Never mind,” says Dignitary, but Jack doesn’t listen because the hand - tentacle investigating the bookshelf pulls out some of Jack’s private reading material at the same moment. No one but Jack Noir is ever going to lay eyes on those magazines - and especially not nosey octopodiform gods.
“Excuse my boss, O God,” the Dignitary deadpans, “for his rudeness. What would you like, O God?”
Another bubble pops, bringing the words I don’t hold it against him - I’m not one to hold grudges, forgive and forget you know; and as a matter of fact I was wondering if I could get some directions, and perhaps a refreshment to mind. A following bubble says Of course, if it’s too much of a hassle I can ask elsewhere. I don’t want to intrude. The Dignitary isn’t sure if the god is being sarcastic, and the weirdest part is he’s fairly certain that it is completely and utterly serious right now.
“I… no, it’s no trouble at all, O God,” he says with slight trepidation. “Though, I’m not sure if we have enough in our stores to give you a large enough… refreshment.” Jack quirks his head across the room, having shoved his literature into an unassuming cabinet.
I just wondered if you had any tea, really. But that’s not important - what I want to know is this place’s name, pops a bubble.
“This is Derse, O God,” says the Dignitary. “And… how much tea are we talking about?”
A short discussion and a longer argument later, the Dignitary is carrying a warm, full teapot, a sugar bowl, and a few teacups back to Jack’s office. The Archagent himself has temporarily vacated it, leaving the room empty except for the god’s wayward arms. Entering quietly, Dignitary sets the teapot, sugar bowl, and cups on Jack’s desk with a small, cheerful tinkle of china.
“How much would you like?”
The entire pot would be quite good. But pour some for yourself first, of course!
For what seems like the millionth time, the Dignitary is struck by the strangeness of these proceedings. “…For myself, O God?”
Of course! What is tea time without someone to share it with? The Dignitary could have sworn that there was a hint of a smile in the god’s voice. That is impossible, though - horrorterrors never smile.
“…Of course,” the Dignitary quietly agrees, and pours himself some of the hot green-brown tea. As he puts in two sugar lumps the god waits patiently; then, when Dignitary has finished, its hands move and carefully dump the entire sugar bowl into the teapot. Eventually the teapot goes out the Archagent’s window, gripped delicately between the thumb and forefinger of one of the god’s arms.
Mmm, this is very fine tea, comes another bubble. Might I ask what type it is?
Later on, everyone who served witness to the event agreed never to speak of what happened that day. It was filed as a normal attack, and so went down in history as the least destructive visit a horrorterror had ever paid to Derse.
The Dignitary wouldn’t tell anyone, of course, but he has his doubts that it was a horrorterror.
Horrorterrors never let their voices smile.
ii.
Something is acutely familiar about this situation. Perhaps it is déjà vu, or some half-remembered dream, but Diamonds Droog feels as though he’s done something like this before.
“How much would you like?” he asks, setting the teacups down with a small, cheerful tinkle of china. It’s not one of the Dersite sets - it’s much more pretty and delicate than the sleek and utilitarian designs Derse used to have. There is gold filigree on the edges of the cups and saucers, which are perfect and white.
The detective sitting at the table nervously bobs his head in thanks. “Y-you pour yourself s-some fi-first.” His light hair is ruffled and sticks out from his hairline; his eyes are dark-rimmed and paranoid; his face is too thin, his clothes don’t fit his ridiculously lanky frame. You don’t like people like him, especially when they are detectives as well as shabby dressers. Yet you have been having afternoon tea with him every week for the past two.
Droog looks at him flatly. “Are you afraid I’m going to poison you?”
“N-n-no!” Pickle Inspector says far too quickly. “I- I just… I f-feel like it w-wouldn’t be… p-polite, t-to impose upon you l-like that.” Droog has observed the nervous detective long enough to tell a lie from a truth, and so he picks up easily on the fact that his hurried denial was a lie and his stuttered reply was a complete truth.
“I believe proper etiquette dictates that the guest be served first, you know,” Droog says drily, pouring the tea - a brew that the Inspector brought, something that smells sweet and flowery - into the two teacups. He hands one to the detective. “Help yourself to the sugar, Inspector.”
“Th-th-thank you, D- …Droog…” the man replies, taking the teacup and saucer with an air of reverence. He judiciously applies a few heaping spoonfuls to his cup and stirs it in, taking a moment afterwards to taste it by sticking the spoon in his mouth.
Droog does not go for the sugar just yet - instead, he sips the unchanged tea. It’s… he doesn’t quite know how to describe it. He’s never really been one for light teas, having grown up and lived with the dark, caffeinated green-brown teas of his old home for so long; but this one is different. There’s an edge of leafy bitterness to the sweet, flowery taste, and it reminds him of his dark and draconic past.
“What kind of tea is this?” he asks, reaching to put one lump into his tea.
“J-jasmine and green tea,” Pickle Inspector replies. His voice takes on a fonder tone. “I- I had it shipped from an appliance- supplier in Cantoun for a sp-… special oc-c-casion…”
Droog pauses as he sips the brew. He doesn’t know what to say for a moment, so he replies after about a minute of cool staring: “…our little tea parties are a special enough occasion to warrant you breaking out such a fancy brew?”
Pickle Inspector looks awkward and embarrassed and a tiny bit shy in that moment, as he fidgets in his chair, and it’s similar to the tea still lingering in Droog’s mouth - it’s somewhat new, but not entirely unfamiliar and certainly not unpleasant.
“…of course,” he finally chokes out, still looking embarrassed. His watery blue eyes dart around and look everywhere except for Droog.
They sip their tea in silence for a while, before Droog says, “I’m glad of that.” Droog does not look at him then, and even so he can feel the man’s ogle on him, looking at him with wide-eyed surprise and maybe even something else.
“…as am I,” he nearly whispers, and goes back to sipping his tea.
iii.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Droog,” says a pleasant, soft voice.
Droog looks around. He’s… it looks like a fancy parlor, mostly. It’s the kind of parlor that Droog would dream of having in his own house, if he could spare a room to furnish as a parlor. He can’t seem to focus on any of it except the middle, though - whenever he tries to look at the paintings on the wall or the beautifully carved furniture or the exotic marble bust on the mantelpiece his eyes always slide back to the coffee table, the two plush seats, and his host.
He assumes that the man is his host, at least. He tips his dark hat to him.
“Have we met before?” Droog asks as he slips into the chair opposite the man - carved redwood, with white upholstery. The man blinks his wide white eyes and smiles in an absentminded fashion.
“How funny - I’m usually the absentminded one, and yet here you are asking if we’ve met before,” he titters, sounding so very amused and kind at the same time as he pours tea with two hands and gestures with the other pair. “Don’t you remember when we first had tea?”
Droog tries to scrutinize the man’s face, but he can’t concentrate. When he tries to analyze where he’s seen that ridiculously unkempt hair or that too-thin face, he keeps on thinking of other things, like how soothing it is to be somewhere completely away from everything else. Wherever this is. “No, I can’t say I can.”
The man frowns a little, making lavender shadows on his delicate periwinkle face. “Oh, well… I suppose I can’t blame you. It was an exceedingly long time ago, anyway.” He picks up the two teacups, one in each pair of blue hands, and offers one to Droog with a jangle of his strange golden jewelry. “Perhaps you’ll remember this tea?”
It took Droog a while to realize, after he woke up, that the man in his dream had been some strange and convoluted version of Pickle Inspector. He hadn’t been able to place his face during the dream. Perhaps it was because everything about him was different - for instance the blue skin, the jingling golden necklaces and bracelets, the multiple limbs, the effortless and relaxed way he handled himself. He was so much looser than the Inspector, so much more tranquil. In the dream it had seemed completely normal.
It was incredibly strange to Droog in the morning, when he woke up and thought he could taste old green-brown tea in his mouth, and remained so for a while. Eventually, though, he decided that if ever such a change came over the Inspector, it would be readily welcomed.
iv.
“You will find that, as hosts go, I am simply the best there is.”
Droog has to agree with this statement, begrudgingly. There’s far too much green here for Droog’s tastes - his tastes include ‘no green ever,’ of course - and the way that Doc Scratch is shimmering in and out before him is a little epileptic, but he has to agree that Scratch is serving him very well. His favorite tea - jasmine and green tea - has been prepared, already with one lump of sugar in it, perfectly warm and delicious; and there are even Swedish fish in a little bowl. For a moment he wonders how Scratch did it, and then the rational piece of him says you know how he did it, you ridiculous idiot.
“Please, help yourself to my setup. I have something to attend to before we begin our discussion,” Scratch says, his words sifting into Droog's mind as he shrugs off his white jacket and saunters to his little typewriter. “This will only take a moment.”
Droog obliges the omnipotent cue and helps himself. He takes a Swedish fish, and then two, and then stuffs a few into a convenient backup hat, and then stuffs a few more in there. Once he’s dumped enough of his favorite candy in there - and popped quite a few into his mouth, god they’re good - he settles back to his tea, more bitter now that his tongue got accustomed to the saccharine of the candy.
Scratch returns and sits himself down across from Droog, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Now, shall we begin?”
“Begin what?” Droog asks, sipping his tea. As he sets it down, he reaches up and loosens his collar - the heat of the fireplace is getting to him, in his proper black suit.
“Begin our discussion of why you are here, Diamonds Droog,” Scratch replies, folding his hands together. “Surely you must be wondering?”
“I had started to think about that, I will admit,” Droog says.
“I know you did.”
“So why am I here?”
“It’s very simple.” Doc Scratch stands up again, folding his arms behind his back, and begins to pace on the rug. “I simply have something of a message for you to give our dear old friend, Slick.”
Droog’s hands tighten on his teacup. “I’m not going to turn traitor on him.” His hands are trembling with anger, or maybe something else entirely.
“I’m not asking you to turn traitor,” Scratch qualifies, turning back to the Dersite. “Treachery will play no part in this operation, except for the initial stage, of course.”
“I’m not going to turn traitor on him.” Droog blinks a drop of sweat out of his eye. When did it get so warm in here?
“Like I said, no treachery will be performed on your part,” Scratch replies. Suddenly, he changes his demeanor. “How are you enjoying your tea?”
“I… I think I’d like it better if… if it wasn’t a furnace in here,” Droog says, and his voice almost shakes, and suddenly he knows something Very Bad is going on here. Immediately he reaches for his cards - but all of his weapons are on the other side of the room, placed neatly in the pocket of his jacket hanging on the coat rack. Droog sways and balls his hands into fists.
“A furnace? Really, now. It’s not that hot,” Scratch says, and now there are dots appearing in Droog’s vision. Something feels like it’s burning inside his body, deep in the pit of his stomach. “You’re imagining things, I believe.”
“Feels pretty real t’me,” Droog slurs, and then he tries to lurch up from his seat but just ends up doubling over in fiery pain.
Scratch leans down to look at Droog; if he had possessed eyes, he would have been staring Droog right in his at this point. He scrutinizes the Dersite, shaking and squinting and hissing in pain, a bubble of blood from a bitten tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth and a fierce white-hot glare showing in his glazing eyes. And all Scratch says is:
“Oh, excuse me. I’m afraid that I’ve poisoned you. That is the deception, you see.”
Later on, the Midnight Crew receives a crumpled notice from the mortuary, asking them curtly if they would like to write a few words about their dearly departed friend, Diamonds Droog.
v.
“Is this Darjeeling?” Droog asks curtly.
The figure across from him nods, and sips from his own cup with skinless lips. Leaning against the table is his scythe; on the table are a fancy little tin teapot and its accoutrements. The teacup in Droog’s hands is almost burning hot and made of tin, but he doesn’t mind the sensation. It’s one of the only sensations in this blank place.
“So… you’re Death,” Droog says.
The man across from him nods again, looking up with his hollow eyes.
“What is the job like?” Droog asks him.
Death looks off into the distance for a moment, as if puzzling out how to word his answer. Then he replies in a voice like the whisper of dead grass: “Repetitive.”
Droog pauses for a moment, and then goes back to sipping his tea. “Sounds like my job.” It’s white and soundless and sterile, and above them there is a pattern of curling stems and geometric art where their perch swirls off into infinity. Almost nothing has given him much stimulation, apart from the tea and a rather charming game of chess the two had played a little while ago. Death managed to win, of course.
Death puts his teacup down and reaches underneath the table, pulling out the chessboard again. He gestures to it.
“Sure,” Droog replies.
They don’t get halfway through setting up the board when, suddenly, a door opens where it hadn’t been before, and a rumpled, ill-dressed detective stumbles through.
Pickle Inspector looks like shit. His dark-rimmed eyes are darker, his gaunt face thinner. He looks as if he hasn’t slept, and to make up for it has been running purely on adrenaline, coffee, sugar, and booze. Four major food groups for one of Team Sleuth. In any case, he looks more terrible than he usually does.
This means nothing, though, when he catches sight of Droog seated at Death’s table. “D-Droog! Diamonds Droog!” he nearly squeaks, his voice cracking from exhaustion. A relieved smile pulls his mouth wide and shows his teeth. “O-oh, thank goodness y-you’re here!”
“…Pickle Inspector?” Droog asks, somewhat surprised at his sudden appearance. “How did you get here? …You’re not dead, are you?”
Pickle Inspector shakes his head rapidly. “No, no, no, not dead, n-not dead at all! And I intend t-to stay that way. But. Enough talking about th-that. You!” He suddenly points a bony finger at Death. “Y-you remember me, right?”
Death blinks, and suddenly his eyes go wide and dark. “…Th-the master of the Sudocube… yes, yes, I r-remember you… what do you wish?”
“Bargaining,” the Inspector says. “I want to b-bring Diamonds Droog back to the land of the living.”
Death pauses for a moment, and then looks at Droog. Then he looks back to the Inspector, then back to Droog, and then back to the Inspector.
“…are you serious? B-but… he’s one of the M…”
“Y-yes, yes, yes, I know! I know he’s one of the M-Midnight Crew!” Pickle Inspector says, and Droog isn’t sure if he should be scared of how manic the Inspector is being. “I- I just… I just w-want him back. I p-promise I won’t ask a-anything else of you, b-bu-but… I… I need him back.”’
In that moment Droog realizes that there are quite a few things that have apparently been left unsaid between the two of them. He doesn’t really know what things they are and doesn’t have time to ponder them, however, because it seems that Death has given the signal to let Pickle Inspector scurry over and tug at Droog’s shoulder ineffectually. Droog looks up at the detective’s wide, blue eyes.
“Follow me,” the Inspector says.
Droog gets up from his chair, following the Inspector’s teetering path obligingly. He glances back to Death for a moment, and after a second of deliberation waves to him. He waves back, and begins to put away the chess board.
There’s a tug on Droog’s shoulder again, and he steps away, turning into the wide whiteness.
Only it’s not white anymore - it’s black and gray and iridescent puddles of leaked oil and grime, and there are two moons in the star-peppered night sky. All of a sudden Droog’s limbs are so stiff, and through the rigidness of his body he feels so, so tired. The only thing he wants to do is to sink to the ground and die again.
Somehow he keeps standing, though, and the Inspector regards him with his high-strung ogle. “I-I’ll imagine you’re feeling pretty t-terrible. P-p-probably want to guh-go h… home now. Shshould. Should I…?”
“…no,” Droog says, his mouth dry as paper. It almost hurts to move his lips. “No… I don’t think you should.”
“O-okay,” Pickle Inspector concedes, and suddenly blinks a few too many times before giving a sigh and falling over, completely unconscious.
Droog glances around the alley they’re in, and the door that they just walked out of (somehow blocked by a bassoon wedged between the narrow walls), and the comatose detective at his feet. Then he sighs and, straining with even the light weight, carefully begins to drag Pickle Inspector back to his office.
vi.
The first day Diamonds Droog is back is utter chaos. Deuce bawls into his shoulder, Boxcars pulls him into a bone-breaking embrace; Slick just growls so that he doesn’t have to let on how haggard and frazzled he is. There’s a lot of shit to clean up, as well - Droog kept the Crew organized, and two weeks without his judicious eye has turned the hideout into the nightmare bachelor pad it should have been two years ago. It takes three days alone just to clear the main room of trash and debris.
This is why Droog sneaks off as soon as he can. Yes, he did miss his friends and he did nearly have a heart attack when he saw the state of the main room, but there’s only so much idiocy and garbage a formerly dead man can take. So five days after Pickle Inspector led him back to the land of the living, Droog goes to pay him a visit.
He thinks about going to his apartment, but then decides to visit Team Sleuth’s offices first.
Droog walks somewhat stiffly up the stairs. He’s been sore and stiff for days - he wonders if it’s from some rapidly diminishing rigor mortis. In any case, it makes even the simplest moving annoying and painfully slow. Droog practically moves at a snail’s pace, which is how he finds himself blocked by none other than Problem Sleuth.
“What are you doing here?” he says, a little darkly. It’s a well-known fact that he doesn’t like Droog on the best of days.
“It’s Wednesday,” Droog replies simply. “I’m just going to see if the Inspector is in. This is just tea, by the way,” he supplies to Sleuth’s scrutinizing glance at the neatly packaged box under Droog’s arm.
The detective stares at Droog, and Droog bores right back. Then Sleuth says: “He’s at his apartment, sleeping off that stunt he pulled. You had better make the interruption worth his time.”
There’s much more meaning there than Droog was cognizant of before, and somehow he’s glad he knows about it now. “Don’t you worry… I certainly will. Thank you.” Then Droog turns and walks stiffly back down the stairs.
Half an hour later Droog is in the Inspector’s kitchen, boiling water for the tea as the detective wakes up and sorts himself out. A sweet scent is lingering in the air. It’s nice and somehow familiar in Pickle Inspector’s apartment, even though Droog has never been here for more than five minutes before. Some of the man’s furniture, which is any and everywhere between ragged and rich, reminds him of a dream he had a long, long time ago. In particular, there is a chair made of carved redwood, with white upholstery in the living room which Droog could swear he’d seen before.
Pickle Inspector shuffles in, barefoot on the tiles and pajamas falling short. He blinks, sees Droog, and smiles an exhausted smile.
“You look terrible,” Droog says.
“I c-could say the s-s-same t-to you,” the Inspector returns slowly, good-naturedly.
They sit side by side at the Inspector’s tiny kitchen table, run-down and peaceful, once their tea is ready. In the air between them hang thanks and, when Pickle Inspector puts an arm around Droog’s shoulder, even more.
vii.
He is a Dignitary again, running up the hall to find Jack’s office full of delicate periwinkle arms. One grasps him around the middle - he cannot move; it carries him out the window and into the black of the Furthest Ring, and then further and further. The black gains stars and turns purple, and then blue; the arm gains definition and carries him gently. Its huge golden bracelet jangles around its thin wrist. He’s Diamonds Droog, of course he is. The blue hand reaches its home point - a giant man, dripping with golden jewelry and delicate fabrics, seated in the Lotus position on an enormous pink lily.
He smiles at Droog, his wide white eyes turning into half-moons, and doffs his huge bowler hat politely. “Good evening, Droog.”
“…Inspector?” Droog gapes. He’s sitting in the gigantic god-detective’s hand, cradled there comfortably.
“Almost,” the god laughs. “I’m him, but at the same time, not. We began at the same point but as time has gone by and come back we’ve changed quite a bit. So much that I was never him at all, and he was never me.”
“…What should I call you, if you’re not him?” Droog asks carefully, looking over the edge of the god’s hand. It’s a long way down, and he thinks he can see a world or two in the distance.
“Godhead, or just God if that’s too long,” his host says cheerfully. “Now, then. Would you like some tea?”
There is jasmine-and-green-tea already prepared in a gigantic teapot resting somewhere nearby, possibly on a cloud, and the god pours Droog a thimbleful of it. “You can probably conjure yourself some sugar if you need it.” Droog blithely thinks about it, and before he knows it there’s a packet in midair, which he grabs and empties into the drink.
They each sip their tea - Droog in his giant thimble and the god in his scaled-up teacup - and look around. Droog finds himself looking at the god’s other possessions - a strange, clover-like flower in one hand, and in the opposite a gleaming bronze sword. He idly wonders if he’s ever used the weapon for anything other than opening letters.
Suddenly, the god puts his teacup down and waves off to the distance. “Oh! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”
Droog looks in the direction that the god waved and sees, flying tranquilly through the sky, Pickle Inspector. He looks better than he did the last time he’d paid a visit, especially because of the smile on his face as he grows nearer and nearer to his godly doppelganger. He floats down easily, landing gracefully on the hand Droog is seated in.
“G-good evening,” he says to them both, smiling broadly. “I-I hope I’m not t-too late to j-join in…?”
Droog looks up at him, emotionless for a moment. Then the edge of his mouth quirks up, and he pats the god’s hand directly beside him.
And so the Exile, the Thinker, and the Creator had their tea. And the Creator looked upon it all and smiled, and it was Good.
Fandom: MSPA - Problem Sleuth + elements of Homestuck
Pairings: DD/PI
Description: Seven tea parties, several with godlike entities, that a particular Dersite has had the pleasure to attend.
Rating: T - themes of death
i.
“Dignitary, get the hell up here! It’s another God!”
The Draconic Dignitary is running up to Jack Noir’s office almost as fast as he can think. It isn’t as though this isn’t a fairly common occurrence - living out on the edge of the Furthest Ring has its thousand-eyed, betentacled annoyances, much the same as any other home does. And it’s not as if the gods are trying to ruin the bureaucracy of Derse with their meddling, usually; sometimes smaller ones get lost traveling through the dark, and latch onto Derse out of confusion or desperation.
However, it’s rare that one of them would manage to worm its way into the Archagent’s office; and as common as this is, these errant gods, emissaries, and others tend to cause a great deal of chaos that takes a great deal of work to clean up with every visit they make, which is why Jack is throwing such a shitfit over the radio.
This is why Dignitary is genuinely shocked to see that Jack’s office is not a war zone. Normally, the whole room would be an uncharted sea of paperwork, ink, purple stone, various flailing limbs (some Dersite and some cephalopodiform) and fractured Wall fragments. This is not what he sees at all; the only thing reminiscent of former scenes is the fact that Jack is yelling incoherently at one of the four tentacles currently snaking through his office. The small number of appendages, too, is surprising, as is the color - a delicate periwinkle. As one’s searching tip passes in front of the Dignitary’s face, he sees that it has a semblance of a five-fingered hand there, large enough for even the Brute to sit in comfortably. The tip passes peacefully, making its way towards the other end of the room.
“Stop screaming at it, you’ll make it mad,” Dignitary groans, stepping over the tentacle (which is currently investigating Jack’s bookshelf).
Jack pauses briefly in his tirade to the end of another limb. “What took you so fucking long?!”
“I was twenty floors down when you called, Jack. Quit screaming, you’ll make it mad,” Dignitary repeats, eyeing the noodly appendage near them. It waits patiently, looking even more like a gigantic hand and wrist. Interestingly enough, there’s a band of gold around it, like a bracelet.
This is so goddamn weird.
“I think it was in a shitty mood in the first place,” Jack grumbles. “It won’t say a fucking thing to me.”
To this Dignitary simply nudges Jack out of the way, stepping up to the tentacle before them. He is more learned in diplomatic procedures with horrorterrors than Jack. He brings up a hand - a gesture of peace - and speaks.
“How can I help you, O God?”
For a moment Dignitary thinks the god didn’t hear him, as the spindly arm before them makes no sign of motion. Then, all of a sudden, a bubble of soap pops inside his mind with this sound: Goodness, that other fellow was quite rude. You sound much nicer!
Dignitary pauses and blinks. “…Did you hear that, Jack?”
“Hear what?” Jack growls, glowering at the appendages politely exploring his office.
“Never mind,” says Dignitary, but Jack doesn’t listen because the hand - tentacle investigating the bookshelf pulls out some of Jack’s private reading material at the same moment. No one but Jack Noir is ever going to lay eyes on those magazines - and especially not nosey octopodiform gods.
“Excuse my boss, O God,” the Dignitary deadpans, “for his rudeness. What would you like, O God?”
Another bubble pops, bringing the words I don’t hold it against him - I’m not one to hold grudges, forgive and forget you know; and as a matter of fact I was wondering if I could get some directions, and perhaps a refreshment to mind. A following bubble says Of course, if it’s too much of a hassle I can ask elsewhere. I don’t want to intrude. The Dignitary isn’t sure if the god is being sarcastic, and the weirdest part is he’s fairly certain that it is completely and utterly serious right now.
“I… no, it’s no trouble at all, O God,” he says with slight trepidation. “Though, I’m not sure if we have enough in our stores to give you a large enough… refreshment.” Jack quirks his head across the room, having shoved his literature into an unassuming cabinet.
I just wondered if you had any tea, really. But that’s not important - what I want to know is this place’s name, pops a bubble.
“This is Derse, O God,” says the Dignitary. “And… how much tea are we talking about?”
A short discussion and a longer argument later, the Dignitary is carrying a warm, full teapot, a sugar bowl, and a few teacups back to Jack’s office. The Archagent himself has temporarily vacated it, leaving the room empty except for the god’s wayward arms. Entering quietly, Dignitary sets the teapot, sugar bowl, and cups on Jack’s desk with a small, cheerful tinkle of china.
“How much would you like?”
The entire pot would be quite good. But pour some for yourself first, of course!
For what seems like the millionth time, the Dignitary is struck by the strangeness of these proceedings. “…For myself, O God?”
Of course! What is tea time without someone to share it with? The Dignitary could have sworn that there was a hint of a smile in the god’s voice. That is impossible, though - horrorterrors never smile.
“…Of course,” the Dignitary quietly agrees, and pours himself some of the hot green-brown tea. As he puts in two sugar lumps the god waits patiently; then, when Dignitary has finished, its hands move and carefully dump the entire sugar bowl into the teapot. Eventually the teapot goes out the Archagent’s window, gripped delicately between the thumb and forefinger of one of the god’s arms.
Mmm, this is very fine tea, comes another bubble. Might I ask what type it is?
Later on, everyone who served witness to the event agreed never to speak of what happened that day. It was filed as a normal attack, and so went down in history as the least destructive visit a horrorterror had ever paid to Derse.
The Dignitary wouldn’t tell anyone, of course, but he has his doubts that it was a horrorterror.
Horrorterrors never let their voices smile.
ii.
Something is acutely familiar about this situation. Perhaps it is déjà vu, or some half-remembered dream, but Diamonds Droog feels as though he’s done something like this before.
“How much would you like?” he asks, setting the teacups down with a small, cheerful tinkle of china. It’s not one of the Dersite sets - it’s much more pretty and delicate than the sleek and utilitarian designs Derse used to have. There is gold filigree on the edges of the cups and saucers, which are perfect and white.
The detective sitting at the table nervously bobs his head in thanks. “Y-you pour yourself s-some fi-first.” His light hair is ruffled and sticks out from his hairline; his eyes are dark-rimmed and paranoid; his face is too thin, his clothes don’t fit his ridiculously lanky frame. You don’t like people like him, especially when they are detectives as well as shabby dressers. Yet you have been having afternoon tea with him every week for the past two.
Droog looks at him flatly. “Are you afraid I’m going to poison you?”
“N-n-no!” Pickle Inspector says far too quickly. “I- I just… I f-feel like it w-wouldn’t be… p-polite, t-to impose upon you l-like that.” Droog has observed the nervous detective long enough to tell a lie from a truth, and so he picks up easily on the fact that his hurried denial was a lie and his stuttered reply was a complete truth.
“I believe proper etiquette dictates that the guest be served first, you know,” Droog says drily, pouring the tea - a brew that the Inspector brought, something that smells sweet and flowery - into the two teacups. He hands one to the detective. “Help yourself to the sugar, Inspector.”
“Th-th-thank you, D- …Droog…” the man replies, taking the teacup and saucer with an air of reverence. He judiciously applies a few heaping spoonfuls to his cup and stirs it in, taking a moment afterwards to taste it by sticking the spoon in his mouth.
Droog does not go for the sugar just yet - instead, he sips the unchanged tea. It’s… he doesn’t quite know how to describe it. He’s never really been one for light teas, having grown up and lived with the dark, caffeinated green-brown teas of his old home for so long; but this one is different. There’s an edge of leafy bitterness to the sweet, flowery taste, and it reminds him of his dark and draconic past.
“What kind of tea is this?” he asks, reaching to put one lump into his tea.
“J-jasmine and green tea,” Pickle Inspector replies. His voice takes on a fonder tone. “I- I had it shipped from an appliance- supplier in Cantoun for a sp-… special oc-c-casion…”
Droog pauses as he sips the brew. He doesn’t know what to say for a moment, so he replies after about a minute of cool staring: “…our little tea parties are a special enough occasion to warrant you breaking out such a fancy brew?”
Pickle Inspector looks awkward and embarrassed and a tiny bit shy in that moment, as he fidgets in his chair, and it’s similar to the tea still lingering in Droog’s mouth - it’s somewhat new, but not entirely unfamiliar and certainly not unpleasant.
“…of course,” he finally chokes out, still looking embarrassed. His watery blue eyes dart around and look everywhere except for Droog.
They sip their tea in silence for a while, before Droog says, “I’m glad of that.” Droog does not look at him then, and even so he can feel the man’s ogle on him, looking at him with wide-eyed surprise and maybe even something else.
“…as am I,” he nearly whispers, and goes back to sipping his tea.
iii.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Droog,” says a pleasant, soft voice.
Droog looks around. He’s… it looks like a fancy parlor, mostly. It’s the kind of parlor that Droog would dream of having in his own house, if he could spare a room to furnish as a parlor. He can’t seem to focus on any of it except the middle, though - whenever he tries to look at the paintings on the wall or the beautifully carved furniture or the exotic marble bust on the mantelpiece his eyes always slide back to the coffee table, the two plush seats, and his host.
He assumes that the man is his host, at least. He tips his dark hat to him.
“Have we met before?” Droog asks as he slips into the chair opposite the man - carved redwood, with white upholstery. The man blinks his wide white eyes and smiles in an absentminded fashion.
“How funny - I’m usually the absentminded one, and yet here you are asking if we’ve met before,” he titters, sounding so very amused and kind at the same time as he pours tea with two hands and gestures with the other pair. “Don’t you remember when we first had tea?”
Droog tries to scrutinize the man’s face, but he can’t concentrate. When he tries to analyze where he’s seen that ridiculously unkempt hair or that too-thin face, he keeps on thinking of other things, like how soothing it is to be somewhere completely away from everything else. Wherever this is. “No, I can’t say I can.”
The man frowns a little, making lavender shadows on his delicate periwinkle face. “Oh, well… I suppose I can’t blame you. It was an exceedingly long time ago, anyway.” He picks up the two teacups, one in each pair of blue hands, and offers one to Droog with a jangle of his strange golden jewelry. “Perhaps you’ll remember this tea?”
It took Droog a while to realize, after he woke up, that the man in his dream had been some strange and convoluted version of Pickle Inspector. He hadn’t been able to place his face during the dream. Perhaps it was because everything about him was different - for instance the blue skin, the jingling golden necklaces and bracelets, the multiple limbs, the effortless and relaxed way he handled himself. He was so much looser than the Inspector, so much more tranquil. In the dream it had seemed completely normal.
It was incredibly strange to Droog in the morning, when he woke up and thought he could taste old green-brown tea in his mouth, and remained so for a while. Eventually, though, he decided that if ever such a change came over the Inspector, it would be readily welcomed.
iv.
“You will find that, as hosts go, I am simply the best there is.”
Droog has to agree with this statement, begrudgingly. There’s far too much green here for Droog’s tastes - his tastes include ‘no green ever,’ of course - and the way that Doc Scratch is shimmering in and out before him is a little epileptic, but he has to agree that Scratch is serving him very well. His favorite tea - jasmine and green tea - has been prepared, already with one lump of sugar in it, perfectly warm and delicious; and there are even Swedish fish in a little bowl. For a moment he wonders how Scratch did it, and then the rational piece of him says you know how he did it, you ridiculous idiot.
“Please, help yourself to my setup. I have something to attend to before we begin our discussion,” Scratch says, his words sifting into Droog's mind as he shrugs off his white jacket and saunters to his little typewriter. “This will only take a moment.”
Droog obliges the omnipotent cue and helps himself. He takes a Swedish fish, and then two, and then stuffs a few into a convenient backup hat, and then stuffs a few more in there. Once he’s dumped enough of his favorite candy in there - and popped quite a few into his mouth, god they’re good - he settles back to his tea, more bitter now that his tongue got accustomed to the saccharine of the candy.
Scratch returns and sits himself down across from Droog, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Now, shall we begin?”
“Begin what?” Droog asks, sipping his tea. As he sets it down, he reaches up and loosens his collar - the heat of the fireplace is getting to him, in his proper black suit.
“Begin our discussion of why you are here, Diamonds Droog,” Scratch replies, folding his hands together. “Surely you must be wondering?”
“I had started to think about that, I will admit,” Droog says.
“I know you did.”
“So why am I here?”
“It’s very simple.” Doc Scratch stands up again, folding his arms behind his back, and begins to pace on the rug. “I simply have something of a message for you to give our dear old friend, Slick.”
Droog’s hands tighten on his teacup. “I’m not going to turn traitor on him.” His hands are trembling with anger, or maybe something else entirely.
“I’m not asking you to turn traitor,” Scratch qualifies, turning back to the Dersite. “Treachery will play no part in this operation, except for the initial stage, of course.”
“I’m not going to turn traitor on him.” Droog blinks a drop of sweat out of his eye. When did it get so warm in here?
“Like I said, no treachery will be performed on your part,” Scratch replies. Suddenly, he changes his demeanor. “How are you enjoying your tea?”
“I… I think I’d like it better if… if it wasn’t a furnace in here,” Droog says, and his voice almost shakes, and suddenly he knows something Very Bad is going on here. Immediately he reaches for his cards - but all of his weapons are on the other side of the room, placed neatly in the pocket of his jacket hanging on the coat rack. Droog sways and balls his hands into fists.
“A furnace? Really, now. It’s not that hot,” Scratch says, and now there are dots appearing in Droog’s vision. Something feels like it’s burning inside his body, deep in the pit of his stomach. “You’re imagining things, I believe.”
“Feels pretty real t’me,” Droog slurs, and then he tries to lurch up from his seat but just ends up doubling over in fiery pain.
Scratch leans down to look at Droog; if he had possessed eyes, he would have been staring Droog right in his at this point. He scrutinizes the Dersite, shaking and squinting and hissing in pain, a bubble of blood from a bitten tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth and a fierce white-hot glare showing in his glazing eyes. And all Scratch says is:
“Oh, excuse me. I’m afraid that I’ve poisoned you. That is the deception, you see.”
Later on, the Midnight Crew receives a crumpled notice from the mortuary, asking them curtly if they would like to write a few words about their dearly departed friend, Diamonds Droog.
v.
“Is this Darjeeling?” Droog asks curtly.
The figure across from him nods, and sips from his own cup with skinless lips. Leaning against the table is his scythe; on the table are a fancy little tin teapot and its accoutrements. The teacup in Droog’s hands is almost burning hot and made of tin, but he doesn’t mind the sensation. It’s one of the only sensations in this blank place.
“So… you’re Death,” Droog says.
The man across from him nods again, looking up with his hollow eyes.
“What is the job like?” Droog asks him.
Death looks off into the distance for a moment, as if puzzling out how to word his answer. Then he replies in a voice like the whisper of dead grass: “Repetitive.”
Droog pauses for a moment, and then goes back to sipping his tea. “Sounds like my job.” It’s white and soundless and sterile, and above them there is a pattern of curling stems and geometric art where their perch swirls off into infinity. Almost nothing has given him much stimulation, apart from the tea and a rather charming game of chess the two had played a little while ago. Death managed to win, of course.
Death puts his teacup down and reaches underneath the table, pulling out the chessboard again. He gestures to it.
“Sure,” Droog replies.
They don’t get halfway through setting up the board when, suddenly, a door opens where it hadn’t been before, and a rumpled, ill-dressed detective stumbles through.
Pickle Inspector looks like shit. His dark-rimmed eyes are darker, his gaunt face thinner. He looks as if he hasn’t slept, and to make up for it has been running purely on adrenaline, coffee, sugar, and booze. Four major food groups for one of Team Sleuth. In any case, he looks more terrible than he usually does.
This means nothing, though, when he catches sight of Droog seated at Death’s table. “D-Droog! Diamonds Droog!” he nearly squeaks, his voice cracking from exhaustion. A relieved smile pulls his mouth wide and shows his teeth. “O-oh, thank goodness y-you’re here!”
“…Pickle Inspector?” Droog asks, somewhat surprised at his sudden appearance. “How did you get here? …You’re not dead, are you?”
Pickle Inspector shakes his head rapidly. “No, no, no, not dead, n-not dead at all! And I intend t-to stay that way. But. Enough talking about th-that. You!” He suddenly points a bony finger at Death. “Y-you remember me, right?”
Death blinks, and suddenly his eyes go wide and dark. “…Th-the master of the Sudocube… yes, yes, I r-remember you… what do you wish?”
“Bargaining,” the Inspector says. “I want to b-bring Diamonds Droog back to the land of the living.”
Death pauses for a moment, and then looks at Droog. Then he looks back to the Inspector, then back to Droog, and then back to the Inspector.
“…are you serious? B-but… he’s one of the M…”
“Y-yes, yes, yes, I know! I know he’s one of the M-Midnight Crew!” Pickle Inspector says, and Droog isn’t sure if he should be scared of how manic the Inspector is being. “I- I just… I just w-want him back. I p-promise I won’t ask a-anything else of you, b-bu-but… I… I need him back.”’
In that moment Droog realizes that there are quite a few things that have apparently been left unsaid between the two of them. He doesn’t really know what things they are and doesn’t have time to ponder them, however, because it seems that Death has given the signal to let Pickle Inspector scurry over and tug at Droog’s shoulder ineffectually. Droog looks up at the detective’s wide, blue eyes.
“Follow me,” the Inspector says.
Droog gets up from his chair, following the Inspector’s teetering path obligingly. He glances back to Death for a moment, and after a second of deliberation waves to him. He waves back, and begins to put away the chess board.
There’s a tug on Droog’s shoulder again, and he steps away, turning into the wide whiteness.
Only it’s not white anymore - it’s black and gray and iridescent puddles of leaked oil and grime, and there are two moons in the star-peppered night sky. All of a sudden Droog’s limbs are so stiff, and through the rigidness of his body he feels so, so tired. The only thing he wants to do is to sink to the ground and die again.
Somehow he keeps standing, though, and the Inspector regards him with his high-strung ogle. “I-I’ll imagine you’re feeling pretty t-terrible. P-p-probably want to guh-go h… home now. Shshould. Should I…?”
“…no,” Droog says, his mouth dry as paper. It almost hurts to move his lips. “No… I don’t think you should.”
“O-okay,” Pickle Inspector concedes, and suddenly blinks a few too many times before giving a sigh and falling over, completely unconscious.
Droog glances around the alley they’re in, and the door that they just walked out of (somehow blocked by a bassoon wedged between the narrow walls), and the comatose detective at his feet. Then he sighs and, straining with even the light weight, carefully begins to drag Pickle Inspector back to his office.
vi.
The first day Diamonds Droog is back is utter chaos. Deuce bawls into his shoulder, Boxcars pulls him into a bone-breaking embrace; Slick just growls so that he doesn’t have to let on how haggard and frazzled he is. There’s a lot of shit to clean up, as well - Droog kept the Crew organized, and two weeks without his judicious eye has turned the hideout into the nightmare bachelor pad it should have been two years ago. It takes three days alone just to clear the main room of trash and debris.
This is why Droog sneaks off as soon as he can. Yes, he did miss his friends and he did nearly have a heart attack when he saw the state of the main room, but there’s only so much idiocy and garbage a formerly dead man can take. So five days after Pickle Inspector led him back to the land of the living, Droog goes to pay him a visit.
He thinks about going to his apartment, but then decides to visit Team Sleuth’s offices first.
Droog walks somewhat stiffly up the stairs. He’s been sore and stiff for days - he wonders if it’s from some rapidly diminishing rigor mortis. In any case, it makes even the simplest moving annoying and painfully slow. Droog practically moves at a snail’s pace, which is how he finds himself blocked by none other than Problem Sleuth.
“What are you doing here?” he says, a little darkly. It’s a well-known fact that he doesn’t like Droog on the best of days.
“It’s Wednesday,” Droog replies simply. “I’m just going to see if the Inspector is in. This is just tea, by the way,” he supplies to Sleuth’s scrutinizing glance at the neatly packaged box under Droog’s arm.
The detective stares at Droog, and Droog bores right back. Then Sleuth says: “He’s at his apartment, sleeping off that stunt he pulled. You had better make the interruption worth his time.”
There’s much more meaning there than Droog was cognizant of before, and somehow he’s glad he knows about it now. “Don’t you worry… I certainly will. Thank you.” Then Droog turns and walks stiffly back down the stairs.
Half an hour later Droog is in the Inspector’s kitchen, boiling water for the tea as the detective wakes up and sorts himself out. A sweet scent is lingering in the air. It’s nice and somehow familiar in Pickle Inspector’s apartment, even though Droog has never been here for more than five minutes before. Some of the man’s furniture, which is any and everywhere between ragged and rich, reminds him of a dream he had a long, long time ago. In particular, there is a chair made of carved redwood, with white upholstery in the living room which Droog could swear he’d seen before.
Pickle Inspector shuffles in, barefoot on the tiles and pajamas falling short. He blinks, sees Droog, and smiles an exhausted smile.
“You look terrible,” Droog says.
“I c-could say the s-s-same t-to you,” the Inspector returns slowly, good-naturedly.
They sit side by side at the Inspector’s tiny kitchen table, run-down and peaceful, once their tea is ready. In the air between them hang thanks and, when Pickle Inspector puts an arm around Droog’s shoulder, even more.
vii.
He is a Dignitary again, running up the hall to find Jack’s office full of delicate periwinkle arms. One grasps him around the middle - he cannot move; it carries him out the window and into the black of the Furthest Ring, and then further and further. The black gains stars and turns purple, and then blue; the arm gains definition and carries him gently. Its huge golden bracelet jangles around its thin wrist. He’s Diamonds Droog, of course he is. The blue hand reaches its home point - a giant man, dripping with golden jewelry and delicate fabrics, seated in the Lotus position on an enormous pink lily.
He smiles at Droog, his wide white eyes turning into half-moons, and doffs his huge bowler hat politely. “Good evening, Droog.”
“…Inspector?” Droog gapes. He’s sitting in the gigantic god-detective’s hand, cradled there comfortably.
“Almost,” the god laughs. “I’m him, but at the same time, not. We began at the same point but as time has gone by and come back we’ve changed quite a bit. So much that I was never him at all, and he was never me.”
“…What should I call you, if you’re not him?” Droog asks carefully, looking over the edge of the god’s hand. It’s a long way down, and he thinks he can see a world or two in the distance.
“Godhead, or just God if that’s too long,” his host says cheerfully. “Now, then. Would you like some tea?”
There is jasmine-and-green-tea already prepared in a gigantic teapot resting somewhere nearby, possibly on a cloud, and the god pours Droog a thimbleful of it. “You can probably conjure yourself some sugar if you need it.” Droog blithely thinks about it, and before he knows it there’s a packet in midair, which he grabs and empties into the drink.
They each sip their tea - Droog in his giant thimble and the god in his scaled-up teacup - and look around. Droog finds himself looking at the god’s other possessions - a strange, clover-like flower in one hand, and in the opposite a gleaming bronze sword. He idly wonders if he’s ever used the weapon for anything other than opening letters.
Suddenly, the god puts his teacup down and waves off to the distance. “Oh! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”
Droog looks in the direction that the god waved and sees, flying tranquilly through the sky, Pickle Inspector. He looks better than he did the last time he’d paid a visit, especially because of the smile on his face as he grows nearer and nearer to his godly doppelganger. He floats down easily, landing gracefully on the hand Droog is seated in.
“G-good evening,” he says to them both, smiling broadly. “I-I hope I’m not t-too late to j-join in…?”
Droog looks up at him, emotionless for a moment. Then the edge of his mouth quirks up, and he pats the god’s hand directly beside him.
And so the Exile, the Thinker, and the Creator had their tea. And the Creator looked upon it all and smiled, and it was Good.