Man on the Inside

5

It cannot be this easy.

Brontë doesn't want it to be this easy. This is meant to be Artemy Volkov. Brontë's not disappointed that he's just a normal guy, but he will be disappointed if this is the end of it all. If Nimm's little plan was just that perfect that it solved the years-long search in less than a week. She'll certainly be excited, and Brontë imagines for a moment the look on her face when he tells her about this on Thursday. He supposes he could call her about it, but he kind of wants to see her face. He imagines the smugness, and to be honest, he'd let her have this one. She'd deserve it.

Still, he's sitting in this situation, and the smile he's imagining on her face isn't all that different than the smile Art is giving him now- although his is slightly more polite, less smug, although just as knowing. He doesn't seem to know the one thing Brontë's praying he doesn't.

"What kind of business?" Brontë asks, and he keeps an eye on Art as two glasses of wine are poured- just in case. His suspicion feels like it's written on his face, and it feels shameful when Art hands him one and he doesn't sip until Art does. Just in case it can't be that easy.

"As I said, I can help you," is what Art says, as Brontë sits himself on the couch. The alcohol is starting to blur things, and he looks at the white-gold depths of his glass and wonders if he's going to be able to handle himself. Because it cannot be this easy. "It's going to take some time, but I can give you what you need to stay here."

Brontë doesn't know this is Artemy Volkov, even though he does know exactly that. The thing is, it's not a problem. He can arrest him on suspicion of being the man he's looking for. He can arrest him without proving he's a cop, without ever telling him he was. He can arrest him without any proof of his crimes, as long as he doesn't charge him without that proof. The toughest barrier is physical- he'd have to hold Art here and call for backup, for someone with actual handcuffs and an actual police car, but he's sure he could do it. This might be Art's house, or at least where he's staying for now, but Art is almost a foot shorter than him, and seemingly unsuspecting. Brontë could do it.

"How so?" Brontë asks. He's not sure why he isn't doing it. Instead of reading Art his rights, he's swirling around this wine, looking at Art with subtle desperation. Maybe he's just in character, and waiting on his answer.

Art maintains eye contact as he takes a long sip of his own wine. "I can get you the documents you need, that's all."

Artemy Volkov, the master forger Brontë is looking for- why is he doing nothing? Why is he sitting and staring instead of leaping forward and making an arrest?

"And you want a favour?" he finds himself asking. He's sure there's a reason, somewhere underneath the heavy thoughts that press everything down, why he isn't doing it. He always has a reason. He just doesn't always know what it is. "What kind of favour?"

Art watches him carefully, and Brontë downs the rest of his drink, because fuck it. "That depends on what you can do for me. Human relationships are built on helping each other out, aren't they? I've made so, so many friends this way, and I'd love to add you to the list."

There. Brontë raises his hand, stops himself, because he was about to point at Art, like, right there- because right there was the reason he didn't arrest him yet. "Actual friends, or they work for you?"

Art narrows his eyes a little. He walks slowly, hands behind his back, like he's thinking. "We work for one another, I'd say. I help people, they help me, I help them help one another. I don't see what's confusing about this."

Of course Art has people working for him, or something along those lines. People who would defend Art, if Brontë tried to take action- directly or not. People who might want revenge if Art was taken from them. "What does that mean, exactly, though?"