Death Note Fan Fiction / Pet Shop Of Horrors Fan Fiction ❯ Chapter 1
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
Petshop of Horrors is created my Matsuri Akino. Death Note belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. All rights reserved.
Notes: firstly, I have this bad habit (although maybe if I start calling it a “quirk” it can just be one of those eccentric writerly things?) of swapping from past to present tense for no real reason. I’ve tried to correct such mistakes, but I’m sure I missed some and will continue to do so forever. So, just be aware that if such a thing occurs, it’s not actually part of the story, so don’t be confused. Let me know if there is a place where it gets too ridiculous.
Also, there is one additional crossover character contained ahead, because damned if She doesn’t appear in almost all of my storytelling to date. She’s just so… universal. You’ll spot her when you get to her, unless for some awful reason you haven’t read Sandman. If this is true, I cannot help you.
Everything was different now, very subtly. Leon wasn’t entirely sure of what the feeling was, or what exactly about it bothered him (other than everything) but he knew he wasn’t the only one to feel the changes. Maybe it was only in the judicial system, or maybe it was in the entire world. If it wasn’t now, it would be soon.
It was quieter.
Not at first, of course. For a long time it had been all noise, everywhere you looked; on the streets, in the bars and shops and – especially – in his office. New things are happening. People are dying. Someone has arrived. It hit the papers, and Leon was a little nonplussed at the moniker. “Kira” didn’t sound menacing, it sounded girly. He was positive he’d seen a porn actress that went by Kira. It just didn’t sound like the name of a mass murderer.
Which is what it was, of course. He listened to the news, and to the chatter of his coworkers, and heard all the debates, many different opinions. There was credence to the idea that “Kira” was governmental, simply a quiet method of extermination of imprisoned criminals, to eliminate the cost of keeping them. Prisons were very, very pricey. Many, if not most, people still believed that was the case, but it was Leon who pointed out the flaw – globalization. Kira was everywhere. There was no worldwide governmental force, and certainly not one with the resources or collected manpower to make a movement like this. The world powers would never, ever agree on shit. That was just the nature of politics.
There was the pandemic theory, another popular one, even less likely but still possible, he guessed. It seemed awfully selective for a contagion, but Leon hadn’t really paid much attention in that one medical sciences course he took in college. It still seemed stupid to him, but his brain was permanently geared toward things like common factors (all victims linked by the fact that they were in prison; that was a pretty sizeable clue), so he didn’t scoff too loudly.
And then there was the inevitable bullshit arena, in which “Kira” was all flavors of deity, holy or unholy, wreaking vengeance upon the evils of man. Damn, Leon was getting sick of listening to that. Other crowd favorites included aliens, the imminent arrival of Christ, and mass suicide as every scumbag asshole in jail simultaneously decided to turn over a new, deader, leaf.
No, Kira was human. Likely a bunch of humans working in renegade tandem. That made the most sense, what with the scale, but Leon, privately, couldn’t shake the idea that Kira was just one guy. Just one brilliant, powerful, batshit guy who knew how to get his ass around, and decided that justice was in his court now and no one else’s. Prick.
But all things considered, none of that had really messed with Leon too much – yeah it was wild, and he took his part in the sick giddiness of conspiring over the causes of this tragedy, but his job wasn’t much different. He caught the bad guys. And he was used to handing them over and letting their fates lie with a higher power, only now he had to deal with the possibility that the power was a different, spookier one. Still, that was the process.
But then things had changed, slowly, quietly, and all throughout the department individual realizations arrived that the process was warping. At first, and for a long time, Kira killed the true baddies, the ones locked away and forgotten, never to be released, for their crimes had marked them unfit to emerge into the light. That changed nothing – no one felt those losses, they were gone already. All criminals with life terms got the wipe.
But it was getting to the point where there were no forgotten ones left, and the sickness spread. Slowly, the less bad went down; those with long, but not life, terms. And the list got longer, and then down went some guys who were out on parole, and then, slowly, Kira started killing people who hadn’t been legally convicted yet.
And that, Leon reflected, was around the time the station started to get quiet.
He was pissed, he really was. He was as indignant as anyone, more because he was a cop, and this was the law being dicked around with. That wasn’t just his life, it was the core of everyone’s life, a solid beam in the stable, if creaking, foundations of America. No, goddamn it, the justice system wasn’t perfect, far the hell from it – but it had to stay untouched, because it was the world’s hugest necessary evil, and everything would break without its support. “Kira” was just a name, it wasn’t something anyone could trust, and who the hell was this guy who thought he was bad enough to replace a whole civilization’s worth of trust?
So fuck him, asserted Leon, and scowled at the people around him who were actually getting into it, who thought that Kira was a good idea for succeeding where the government failed. They didn’t get it. Fuck them too.
And then Drury Hemmer died while he was talking to her, her face blossoming red and her eyes tight in surprise as she held her chest, and Leon lost every ounce of his nerve.
Drury was a bitch, just a fucking bitch, and he’d spent too much time bringing her in, always too much. She’d beaten a kid to death, at least one and probably more, in the back hall of the daycare she volunteered at. She was a drugged out, bitter freaking sociopath, and snapping the cuffs on her had given him as much satisfaction as he could hope for, and he’d been in her interrogation room informing her of the details of her arraignment when she’d died, right there, right in fucking front of him.
It’s not like she hadn’t deserved it. She did. Leon was not forgiving, and he was no bleeding heart like some of his coworkers – the bitch had deserved to die. And it wasn’t like there was any doubt of her guilt, the evidence was massive, and she was only a short trial and some paperwork away from the kind of Kira-worthy prison sentence that he’d hauled in dozens of already, but she hadn’t been convicted yet, and that was what was wrong.
Leon, who’d sweat and pushed and bled and watched the victims cry, had his prize when Drury was sitting in jail. That was his absolution, and that was all he got for what he did. Justice, or a hollow mirror of it.
He watched a team wheel Drury out of the interrogation room, cold and unrepentant, and went home feeling really, really hollow.
He’d watched the tape from Interpol. It was played and replayed everywhere. It was wrong. Kira distributed punishment, swift and cruel, but he knew nothing – nothing – about justice.
He didn’t want to talk about it, so he wasn’t going to.
And Count D wasn’t going to sit there all expectant like he thought he was going to, because he’d already said he wasn’t, and screw him anyway. Leon was determined to hold on to his foul mood.
“What?!” He exploded after ten straight minutes of patient silence, spooking the birds. “What the shit are you staring at?”
Count D looked at him out of his airy reverie, all innocence. “Sorry? Oh, forgive me Detective. I was wondering if Celia there was not taking well to the recent change in feed.” He indicated a sleek red and green parrot in a low-hanging cage. “She seems dim tonight, does she not?”
Leon looked. “It’s a bird. They always look dim. Their entire being revolves around their dimness. Dim looks and feathers make a bird,” he ranted moodily, chewing on some icky sticky baklava thing and steadfastly being annoyed. Count D didn’t so much as squint as he gave his default unassuming smile, returning his attention to his neat spread of account book and receipts. He could tell when Leon was in the mood to pick a fight, and expertly played his role by refusing to be bugged, and then Leon had to pretend that didn’t bug him, and oh, but this was a hell of a game. He might have to crack a teacup or go step in some mud just so he can set his dirty boots on the table.
But it was comfortable, the easy tension of plotting out ways to get D to throw things at him, when it wasn’t so long ago that nights like this would have him working the beat with a bottle of whiskey in his car, hunting for heads to bash. Leon has no delusions about why he became a police officer. Protect and serve. And beat up assholes. If he had to be a violent drunk, better to do it with a badge.
It’s also expectant, although Leon pointedly avoided this thought. He hung out, he kept an eye on D and generally made a nuisance of himself, and most nights it’s nothing more than D doing accounts and taking care of his pets, but some nights it got a lot more interesting than that, and those nights made Leon stick around.
And then he thought about the point of it all, and felt a little twist in his guts. His attitude resurfaced.
He stares distantly at D’s books, thinking that he has no idea how to bring it up, or if he should. He probably shouldn’t.
“So what do you think about Kira?”
It’s an echo. That very question is its own tagline nowadays, right up there with “what’s your sign?” and “share the road, asshole”. Opinions about Kira are the new political leanings. But he’s curious, and he’s sure D knows all about the changes, because he watches the news like it’s freaking God, and he’ll surely jump at the chance to preach about justice.
“Hmm,” says D, helpfully, over his notes. It takes him several minutes to devote himself to the question. “Oh… my. It’s an impressive series of events, certainly.”
“That’s very insightful.”
D glowers. Leon has a brief vision of the pet shop owner wearing tiny half-moon spectacles and glaring over them like a stern librarian. “Kira is a phenomenon, and like any other I cannot form opinions on events without details,” he parried smoothly. Leon cocked a dubious eyebrow
“D, you always have opinions. Loud ones.” And the hell he didn’t know details, D knew everything about everything, and if he didn’t he’d make something up and Leon would never know the difference. “What, do you think it’s an act of God?”
“Of a kind.” D tilted his neck, brushed a few of his ebony strands behind one studded ear. “And only by way of resources, I’m sure.” Leon rolled his eyes; could the dude even speak straight English? “Why? I sense that you disapprove.”
Leon scowled powerfully. “Yeah, I disapprove. That’s a lot of dead bodies.”
“Oh yes,” D agreed dismissively. Right. D didn’t give a smack about human life, and was fond of saying so. “Quite a sensation among the judicial system, I imagine. Are the police handling their new developments?”
“Not much to handle. Bigger guys than me are still running around trying to figure it out, but it’s not slowing down any.” He shrugged, looking into his cup of too-sweet coffee with a frown. “It sucks, though. The cells are awfully empty.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Asked D with a saccharine brightness, looking at him from under the perfectly-styled fringe. “Less criminals, less crime?”
“Not if I want to hold a job,” griped Leon. “And there’s no less crime, just more scared people.”
He’d made arrests over the past weeks that had ended in bad boys – the real tough ones whose type he knew, the ones who’d never bow their heads for anyone – crying like women and begging on their lives for his mercy. Leon’s mercy. Begging for Leon not to take them and place them in Kira’s grasp. He thought about Drury Hemmer.
D closed his books, circling around his low desk and moving to look at the dim bird he’d mentioned, brushing her feathers through the cage with a finger. He looked like the topic disinterested him, and something about that set off tiny, distant dings in Leon’s head. “I am sure I don’t know, detective. People are creatures I can’t claim to understand.” The bird, stirred from dozing, rattled its feathers and tucked more securely into itself. “But I am sorry that the situation is taxing to you. It must be very difficult, delivering the marked men to their executioners, but I’m sure you are good at it.”
He did smile there, just a little, that uncaring little smirk that made Leon suddenly remember that he hated this man.
He glowered darkly at the back of D’s head, wanting to growl out something harsh enough to actually get his attention, but knowing that nothing he could come up with would make Count D give a crap. So he stood up instead, pulling his jacket on over his head and making for the door. D looked up as he passed, appearing to snap out of his malicious little reverie. “Oh dear. Oh, I am sorry, Leon, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
He actually did look sorry, damn him, and all Leon’s fire was gone just like that no matter how hard he tried to keep it. “Yeah… well. Whatever. I gotta go, it’s pretty late.” It wasn’t late. “Later, D.”
On the walk back to his car – Jesus parking in Chinatown was crappy, he always had to park at the subway station four blocks away – he spotted no less than three Kira-related bits of graffiti on the streets, and those were only the ones in English.
Times like this, he hoped to god that this fad would pass. He hoped somebody would catch the murdering nut sooner rather than later, because the man was a stain, black and spreading, and Leon didn’t need any more dirt on his streets than they already damn had.
One afternoon, Count D got a visit from Death. He was delighted.
“Hello and welcome to our shop; are you looking for – oh!” And he couldn’t stop the smile that hit his lips at the sight of his old… well, “friend” might have been pushing it. She tipped her hat at him.
The animals felt uneasy, and let him know through their questioning glances. They weren’t afraid – they were too clever for that – but they had a sense for the potentially unsafe, and seemed confused that she didn’t seem unsafe at all. One of the sparrows, feeling brave, even alighted on her jacket sleeve and chirped at her questioningly. She agreed, and they had a brief conversation about D while his back was turned, ending in shared giggles. D gave the bird a dirty glance as it fluttered back to its family, looking pleased with itself.
“I like the new look,” she said, referring to the interior of the shop. “Very Arabian gothic. You have the best design sense in the family, bar none.” He smiles, a little tightly. She notices, of course, but goes on. “Business must be booming.”
D gave a gracious shrug. “Little has changed. Humanity through the years purchases my services in largely the same ways.”
Death smiled at him. D thought, as he always did when speaking to her, of how bored she must feel. Not a single word he says is anything she doesn’t already know. But he’d mentioned it to her once before, and she’d simply laughed and shook her head and told him he was always interesting. Everything was always interesting. “Maybe you’re just a good salesman. Have you thought about expanding? You could make a fine turn selling jewelry.” And there was a sparkle in her gaze as she reminded him of the last time they met, and, again, he had to smile… although he wasn’t sure if the twist in his stomach was from something other than fine memories.
They chatted for a while. D, for his part, had forgotten how pleasant it was to simply talk to a being who could truly listen, even about things as domestic as the current marital affairs between two particularly dramatic forest sprites. It brought his isolation into sharp contrast, that he rarely got to speak as a friend, about things that weren’t either contracts or apologizing for his father.
And the humans, of course. As if anyone could get them to listen.
So he found Death’s company a welcome change, and he felt genuinely fond of the girl. But he never made the mistake of thinking that he was her equal; oh, he’d seen where those thoughts led.
The sun had begun to set outside the shop by the time his guest stretched her arms, the metal bracelets on her wrists clinking musically. The pet shop had been notably absent of customers that evening. “Alright,” Death said with a sigh. “Do you have a plan for what’s going on?”
D allowed a beat to pass. Perhaps now they come to the reason for this unexpected visit. “I’m sorry?”
She looks at him then, dark eyes unfathomable. They made him ache in forgotten memories, those eyes. “In Japan. You know you have to do something eventually.”
“I had hoped…” He shakes his head, abandoning that thought. The fact that she is here makes the problem quite clear. “Yes, I suppose I must. Have you come to make a suggestion?”
She quirks an eyebrow at him, curling her knees into her chair and peering at him over the rim of her teacup. “Oh, D. You don’t need my help. It’s just a shinigami, yeah?”
“Yes.” Admitting it made the truth of his duty sink deeper into his chest. He had hoped to avoid the scenario entirely. What did he care how many humans this “Kira” disposed of? “Although I cannot imagine what has it behaving in this manner. Their kind have been largely reclusive for…” centuries. “… some time.” He worries his lip, suddenly anxious, and glances into the shadowed interior of the shop. “I thought perhaps my grandfather would return to… attend to it.”
“He won’t, I’m afraid.” Death clinks her spoon on the side of her teacup, appearing to be mystified at the patterns of tea leaves on the porcelain. “Probably thinks it’ll be a good character building exercise for you. The youngest of the flock off soldiering the many-sided war…” she shrugs. “It’s all a little outside my area. You lot hold a lot of grudges, do you know?”
“Yes,” D says again, darkly. He does.
“But I do want to share something,” Death went on, and abandons the teacup in favor of watching him intently. She uncurls her legs and then recurls them in a different position. He’d be angry with anyone else for placing their boots in his cushions, but hers won’t leave so much as a scuff. “Because you, you’re no soldier, D. For as long as you keep fighting other people’s fights? You need all the help you can get.”
In his mind, D protests. His battles are his own; his duty is the duty of his lineage, his blood, his very purpose, D’s family is everything to him – but she knows, of course. “I would be honored to accept your advice,” he says carefully.
She looks distant for a moment. “Remember that everything dies, D. And everything kills.” The metal on her wrists clicks as she moves, offering him an unreadable smile. “Not to toot my own horn or anything, but you lot aren’t done with me yet.”
D considers this – considers all the creatures in his care. His kind do not kill, could never stomach the taking of another life. She must know this. So why…?
“Gotta be off. People to see,” says Death, hopping from the smooth brocade, boots silent on the floor. Her smile is genuine now. “Really good to see you, D the youngest. Be meeting you soon,” she adds with a grin. D archs an eyebrow.
“Not too soon, I hope.”
Death winks at him, tipping her tall black hat and jingling metallically as she leaves through the front door. The animals seem to release held breaths, shuffling around in their cages to rid themselves of the not-quite discomfort.
Count D rises, feeling heavy. He brushes the feathers of the sparrow that befriended Death.
“Well,” he says to the quiet air. “It seems that I shall be making a journey.”
The shop is quiet, his pets looking at him expectantly. He allows himself another petulant moment of wishing that this could all be avoided, and then turns to the labyrinthine interior of the pet shop. He should leave now, really, close the shop indefinitely until he returned. He’d earned the time off by now, surely. The sparrow taps its head on his fingers, worried about the look on his face.
He just wasn’t ready yet.
The day that L addressed the L.A.P.D. was the day the earth stood still. Damn near the entire department was gathered in a conference room to hear the screen speak at them – Leon happened to have been off duty that day, so he watched the recording later – and issued his instructions. There’d been an earlier broadcast issued to the police force nationwide a few months back, but the specific address generated heat in L.A.
Which was a shame, because he really didn’t say anything interesting, Leon thought as he listened to the garbled machinery tone. He and a dedicated team were personally on task to discover the identity of Kira and put a stop to him, the investigation was progressing, blah blah blah – but keep up the good work, investigators, and contact this anonymous source with any and all information regarding the murders.
Booooring. If anything, that hinted that L was closing in on the case and didn’t need a lick of help from anybody else. The whole thing was a jab for public relations, and masterfully done – L was the talk of the town, at least for an afternoon in L.A. headquarters, and suddenly he was the Superman of policework. Leon had heard of officers contacting the “anonymous source” for no reason other than to beg to be a part of L’s elite team, and had been briskly, if politely, turned down – and then fired, probably.
Leon thought the guy was a dick on principle. State detectives don’t tend to appreciate private detectives, especially when they commando state resources and steal major cases. Leon had never personally felt like Kira was his jurisdiction, but he still didn’t like up-high assholes effectively telling him not to bother. It made him wish he had some intel on the case, just for the pleasure of keeping it to himself.
He does a little poking around online, wondering if any of the propaganda about L has a shred of truth to it. He could probably ask somebody for the more official police records of his cases, but he doesn’t care that much. He reads up on some news reports, some rumors, all very shadowy and hard to swallow; typical L. One case in particular is splattered across the news, a mass murder that had been located, crap, right here in L.A. He hadn’t even heard of the B.B. case. That wasn’t too outrageous… it’d been a few years ago, around the time Leon had only just graduated from the academy, and was several grids away from his division to boot. But… still, he suddenly didn’t like the idea that L had been putting away bad guys right in Leon’s backyard. That felt a little closer than the whole Kira thing, a little more invasive. He told himself not to feel outclassed. He was a street cop, and he did street cop stuff, while L did world famous Sherlock Holmes type stuff. Not everybody can be a superstar. Leon was perfectly satisfied with his job.
He just really didn’t like P.I.s. He wondered if the guy was even licensed.
When he got home that night, he read some more. He wasn’t much of a web surfer – his laptop had a thin coat of dust on it – but he remembered the tricks, hunting through the old forgotten notes and files. Most of the L information was just a loop of rumor, although he found some clips of the times when L had addressed the police that matched the one he saw at the P.D. He listened to the mechanical voice and tried to imagine the man behind it; L, with his patently condescending tones and instructions which seemed, mostly, to be variations on “sit tight and let me handle it.” Leon’s gut heated.
He read up on Kira, too, statistical analysis of the killings from start to finish. He was surprised to find such a set of dedicated civilian minds on the project. For every loony fool who thought this deathwave was cool, there were more who were thrilled by the puzzle of figuring it all out. He could kind of understand that.
It kind of felt good that so many people wanted Kira gone, even if they were in the minority. Sometimes he felt like there was hope for mankind after all.
The next night, Leon ran into D at a pub of all places.
“The entire state of Los Angeles!” He complained, quite buzzed, although he meant to say “California” or “city,” whichever was right. “This whole big ol’ place but you gotta follow me around. You’re creepy, is what you are, Jesus, if you wanted an autograph all you had to do was – stop shushing me!” Because he was earning quite a few looks from annoyed patrons, and belatedly he realized that he was all up in the face of some guy who looked like a girl and this wasn’t really that kind of bar. He backed off abruptly.
“Then calm yourself, detective,” said D loudly, straightening his dress thing, and intentionally drawing attention to the fact that Leon was a cop. The shaded glares intensified. “This meeting is quite by coincidence, unless you can possibly imagine that I am interested in watching you drink yourself silly.” He gave a disgusted look at the dark and somewhat smelly stain on Leon’s jeans. Man that hadn’t even been his fault, some guy had bumped him, holy shit what a self-righteous –
“What are you doing here?”
D sighed, glancing at the door pointedly. “Business. And my business is now completed. I will see you some other time, detective,” another haughty up-and-down glance at the state of Leon. “Perhaps.”
Leon caught his wrist. “Siddown. I wanna hear about this business.”
“I really don’t…” but Leon had already pulled him to an empty table, dark and near the corner. He really liked this place; it had the rustic tavern thing going on, none of the glitzy neon crap. The table had a little brass lantern. D should have looked enormously out of place in his crazy geisha getup, but he didn’t. The soft red glow made him look a lot different than he looked in the shop. Warmer.
“D’you drink?” Leon asked. He got the feeling that was probably something he should know by now, with all his time snooping around D’s place.
D looked like he’d just asked him to lick his foot. “I do not drink anything that can be found in this establishment.”
“Pffft,” Leon snorted. “Will you knock it off? It’s a bar, it’s not a septic tank. Quit acting like I’m gross.” He got up again and ordered something from the bartender, leaving D blinking at the table. He didn’t quite know what was up with himself. He felt uninhibited all of a sudden, which was worrying because he really hadn’t had that much. Less because some dude had spilled his first beer. Maybe it was just the appeal of interrogating Count D in a setting that wasn’t the pet shop, with its head-fuzzying smells and sounds. With a drink that wasn’t tea.
Count D looked a little worried when he got back. Leon handed him a tall, graceful glass of the most expensive white wine he’d spotted on the menu. “Posh enough for ya?”
D looked at the glass, then back at Leon, looking quite bewildered at this whole event. “Thank you,” he said, and finally smiled, sipping at the glass. He only blanched a little. Leon grinned.
“Shouldn’t you be at the shop? It’s still open hours,” he plopped in the booth across from the Count with his own dark brew in hand. D looked at him for a while.
“What about you? Alone at a bar on a weeknight?”
Leon felt himself color. “Well, I was here with some people… they went somewhere, I dunno.” He tries not to outright lie to the Count often, or face the knowing smirk that he’s getting now. “The Lakers are playing tonight and my TV’s small.” D looks at the television mounted on the far wall. It is switched off. Leon is in the middle of thinking of another justification for his lack of social graces, but D shrugs.
“I certainly cannot pass judgment. I don’t often have time to socialize.” True. He’s at the pet shop night and day. Speaking of which.
“So, on business, huh? Anything I should know about?”
“Oh, yes,” says D smoothly. “I have just organized the shipment of several tons of illegal narcotics to be delivered to my shop tomorrow. Would you like to help me unpack them?”
“Funny,” Leon glowers, although it doesn’t come off just right. The giddy feeling in his stomach is less exuberant now, and he realizes how damn weird this feels – having a drink with Count D, in a bar, and D just made a joke. Jesus.
It went on like that for a while. Later, Leon didn’t remember exactly what they talked about, although the catty sniping didn’t slow down. He knocked back four or five beers, and D polished off his wine and actually started in on a second, and by the time Leon checked his watch, he’d missed the basketball game entirely.
After a while they lapsed into silence. D sat back against the wooden booth, looking into his glass. That worried look was back again, an actual expression, and twice in one night. Leon was about to comment on it when D spoke up; “I have to leave.”
“Oh.” Leon took a moment to let that sink in, feeling a little shot down. “Ah, yeah. Okay. See you tomorrow, then.”
D didn’t move, and the way he was looking at Leon was… worrying. Okay, so maybe it was a little presumptuous to assume he’d drop by the next day. But it was a Wednesday; Leon got off early on Wednesdays, D knew that, so why…
He got the feeling this was some important moment he was missing the point of. He was used to that feeling. But he still hated it.
The Count sighed and looked as if he wanted to say something else, but the moment passed, and he got up with a graceful swish. Leon stood with him. “Do you want a ride or anything?”
D looked at him icily. “Detective, you have had quite a lot to drink. I can manage,” he added over Leon’s protest, and his gaze shifted. “Stay here. Do not follow me.”
Damn it, there it was again, something he wasn’t totally grasping. He wasn’t that drunk, for chrissakes. But maybe he was.
He left through the side door, the one that led to the balcony, not the front. Well. He probably had a damn limo waiting for him, all special privileges and classy suits. Leon was left blinking in the mostly-emptied pub, his confusion giving way to irritation the longer he stood there like an idiot. So he left too, after a minute of skulking to make it look like he and D hadn’t left at the same time. Nobody was watching but he didn’t care.
When he stopped to pay his tab he had to stop a yelp at how much the wine had ended up costing.