A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, Beans! ^-^ Every year, I spend the holiday rushing out some sexy content for you guys because our mind is the only lover we need and indulging in the world of words is always the best way to love your mind. Thus, I present you the AU you guys voted for. It is ridiculous, funny, and absolutely charming.  

Enjoy. 

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In chess, it is considered illegal for a king to capture another king.

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Julian White was not a private investigator; not a private detective with the added title of 'chess grandmaster at the age of thirteen' under his belt, no. The man was a private genius.

"King at C1 was already forced when you moved your knight at D2 to take his queen on F2, which puts your king in check from his bishop on H6, which, ordinarily spotted by the common man, would have made proper sense to move your king to C2, but you did not." He had his eyes closed. "I assume you knew something was wrong when he did not make the next move or simply let the clock run? They usually wait for their opponent to realize their mistake. Sometimes, they're even gracious enough to allow takebacks. You, tunnel-visioning on having taken his queen and not realizing that you were being checked then led to some violence over the thirty grand you loaned from a client of theirs. Thus... the broken arm."

He stared across the table at victim number nine—quite frankly disappointed by the similarity in the stories he'd heard thus far. Yet another wasted opportunity at new and novel information. He extended a hand.

"Thank you for coming."

"You know, being beat at chess actually isn't as bad as being told why I was beaten," snorted victim number nine, flanked by interrogators and watched by several other policemen in the room. He did not take the hand that was offered. "It was just one unlucky day at the casino."

Ex-inspector V. J. White took no offense. He requested for the officers behind the one-way glass of the interrogation room to meet him in the lounge for a short break. Indeed, this had come as quite a relief. White had scheduled for the questioning of twelve respondents over the span of seven, non-stop work hours; recent witnesses involved in money-laundering cases that had eventually led to the losing of an arm and further debt.

The headquarters, having pulled every string within their reach and exhausted all options to crack down on what they referred to as 'The Chess People', had decided to call in the infamous mind for any lead.

Inspector White had just little to work with. All he given by the officers prior to the questioning was the fact that the organization operated on a similar level to mafias and gangs alike. Albeit slightly classier than the usual street fights others tended to pick for no reason at all.

Chess! He'd thought at once, oddly delighted by the request for assistance. Chief officer Chen En had been the one to contact him. Perhaps the most efficient, civil way of humiliating an opponent without having to lift a finger. Crushing the pride of any sane human being!

That was before he was filled in on the money-laundering. The mafia was known for their protection rackets—a deal between a client, often drug lords turn loan sharks, who required additional manpower in the overseeing of illicit cartel agreements or the enforcement of debt collection.

"Those little bastards looking for some play," he'd heard one of the officers say at the coffee machine. Meanwhile, he'd packed himself convenient sachets of chamomile tea. "Fucking around as usual."

"It's an odd business model," said White from his corner of the lounge, lowering his steaming cup of tea just in case it decided to fog up his glasses at the wrong time. "Cheeky. But admittedly ingenious. Plays on the idea of chance a little too well, I might add. Winning the deciding game of chess quadruples the time of your loan while losing merely doubles the interest rates. Though resistance would add a broken arm or two."

"So they're saying people dumb enough to spend their loans on unprofitable businesses or gambling would also be dumb enough to take that game of chess as chance?" A female officer by the name of Gonzales sat across him with a cup of Las Colinas. "Point proven."

White nodded once, closing his eyes to review the gathered information in a mental map. Aside, he was playing the twelve-thousand, three-hundred-and-forty-second game of chess against himself. In his head.

"It certainly acts an attractive incentive for them to play the game. Otherwise, they'd be forced to pay up either way. The business model could also be a major factor in their recent increase in activity and clients. People are contracting them because some customers prefer taking loans from launderers who provide that sort of game service. Victims two, three, five and seven all had some form of knowledge in chess."

How basic familiarity had somehow translated into confidence blown out of proportion, tempted by the prospect of a win, the inspector could not comprehend. To think such people could exist and were practically feeding money to a bunch of chess-playing, genius debt collectors—it intrigued him immensely.

"Aren't we going to engage them for a game? Loan ten grand or something from one of their clients as bait, then sit and wait?"

The plan was to round them up. Typically, drug-bust style, with a tip or two from a spy they could plant. White remained quiet in his corner. He knew it wasn't going to work.

"Not so easy rookie," the department's head interrogator dismissed with a wave. "You think they'd just agree to a loan without a background check? These people don't go around giving out contacts. And for a game, you don't exactly go to them for one. They come to you."

"Plus, no one's ever won." He heard one of them say something he'd expected as much. "The victims too, are under some code of silence. No one's willing to risk the name of their source."

"Some of 'em slipped up though," said the chief interrogator, flipping through a folder of reports. "So far, victims three, five and six mentioned playing against the same person. They called him 'King'."

"Just King?" Zales, who'd missed out on witnesses before seven for another case she was overseeing. "As in, chess?"

"Yes. Just King."

__________________

It was Ace's turn to speak on behalf of the knights; a daily report for their leader's benefit that mostly consisted of boring new clients and boring new opponents he'd have to waste time on for some boring extra cash.

Ace was new. He'd had a grand total of two conversations with the King; one, over the debate between cold and warm potato salad, and two, if watermelons grew on trees.

"King?" He approached the figure lounging on the room's only furniture: a dark leather couch. "We're here for the daily report."

Their leader spared them one eye. His men—knights, they were called—dressed smartly in suits, stood in a semi-circle behind the new guy. They were assisted by two of the mafia's second-in-command. Dmitri Ford and Raul Dalto. A perfect recipe for chaos. Now with Ace, a grand trinity. His eye returned to its comfortable state of closed.

Ace turned over his shoulder in panic and he need not worry; at once, Dmitri had his back. "There's a dude. He's on us and he's got some brains. Might have to sort things out with him or it'd escalate."

King did not appear very convinced. "Police?"

"No. But Xander found out he's a private inspector they hired for the case or something," Raul chipped in, name-dropping their best hitman for additional effect. He whipped out a folder and emptied the contents on to the coffee table. Photographs. "He quit the force a year ago but is making more progress on sniffing us out in a single day than the bunch of officers going about for weeks. Do we take care of him?"

It was upon hearing about the progress that he decided on a single look at the photographs. And then, to the surprise of every knight in the room, their king rose. Sitting up slowly.

He'd recognized him. Snow for hair, ice for eyes—not quite as forgettable as one would think it be.

He'd played him once. An unforgettable match: his very first. Years ago under leaves of red and chocolate, crisp and warm. It did not come to him as a surprise how good he'd gotten at the game; a grandmaster at the age of thirteen.

He'd seen him in the news. Those eyes, he could never forget.

"How close is he?"

Ace glanced towards the second-in-commands, searching for an answer. "Uh, what do you mean, King?"

Already, Raul was rolling his eyes at the man he called a leader. "He's already figured out one of our clients, dumbass. Now what?"

His high school buddy resumed the very position he started off the conversation in. Lying down. Eyes closed. "Wait."

Ah, the thinking. Indeed, should this person be the one winning all their games and playing like an absolute genius, surely he could come up with the greatest solution ever invented. They waited for it to come. That stroke of intellect. That moment of spectacular thought. The brewing of something ground-breaking. The wait of the century.

They waited.

And then they waited more—

"HELLO?" Raul promptly gave up. "ARE YOU DONE THINKING? WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE WAITING FOR?"

"Waiting for him to come."

"WHAT THE FUCK I THOUGHT YOU MEANT TO WAIT WHILE YOU THINK OF A SOLUTION OR SOMETHING. Fuck I knew it you were playing around. I'm telling Xander."

___________________

Inspector White quite liked spending his Monday evenings alone in the archive section of the national library, browsing databases for unsolved cases and intriguing media articles that had somehow managed to spin a delectable tale out of seemingly mundane occurrences. Tonight, he was searching for something in particular; the names of child prodigies. Grandmasters below the age of fourteen whose names had fallen off the map.

He had a face, no—eyes—in mind. Candles in the dark.

They burned in the back of his mind. At times, in his dreams. In others, on the other end of his mental games; the kind that challenged him the most was when he could see them playing against him, in his head. Those were the games he liked to think of.

He could not put a finger on the sudden instinct that singed the very tips of reason, re-surfacing that one, vivid memory he had of his childhood he could never seem to forget. How this person he knew not the name of could possibly be related to the case at hand, he did not know.

He'd never played a beginner his age. Let alone, a beginner who'd come close to beating him. True enough, it had been a casual matter on a bench mere feet away from the slides and sandboxes where the rest of the children were but good god, were the black and white squares between them far more exciting than any other dollhouse, toy car. Never again did a match quite warm the very tips of his fingers and ripple his surface more than that single instance. No official game, no round of speed chess, no nothing. Back then, he thought, was his moment—electrified.

If possible, he'd perhaps laid his soul on the board and there, in black and white, it stayed.

Of course, he retired soon after to pursue several other interests like criminal psychology, forensics and classic literature in Ivy League universities. At present, he was some kind of a floating existence; having achieved much of his plans at an early age. It had been long since he'd played a good match.

"We had a chess enthusiast club or something in a local uni," said the librarian in charge of newspaper archives. "They donated a whole collection of cutouts. You looking for... ten years ago?"

"That would do," White acknowledged with a polite nod of his head. "Preferably eleven to twelve. The range works."

He was handed a well-kept, leather-bound scrapbook of yellowed pages; greyed bits of paper sticking out every now and then. This, he took his time to sift through, recognizing familiar faces he'd faced in the past. Adults he'd gone up against and checked in less than twenty moves. Ex-champions he'd gone on to beat... and there it was.

UNNAMED CHILD PRODIGY WINS UPPER BRACKET IN LOCAL CHESS COMPETITION

White did not recall attending local chess competitions by the time he was ten. He'd often played on an international level and had even moved to Washington with his Aunt and Uncle. Either way, he would certainly not be 'unnamed' in any form of publication, which was true as prideful as it may sound.

The grayscale photograph did not do justice to candle eyes. With colour, it would have burned a hole through papers and minds and so it had taken the inspector a minute to recognize him. As stated in the article, the boy was unnamed. He was new blood; did not appear to possess much experience in the game, but had the board in his hands like the pieces were made for him to move.

Producing his phone, White snapped a quick picture of the photograph and the article before heading home for further scouring of the net, and perhaps a look at the criminal database he was given access to.

When the time for bed came around, he spent drowsy minutes analyzing the games recounted by the twelve victims he questioned—all from memory. Yet, in the very end, he could not escape the one true match he always seemed to be playing. The one with candles on the other end.

*

It had been a week since the police had sent undercover agents to the client list their private investigator had come up with. Deadlines for debt collection exceeded by a day or two, they were expecting, very soon, an encounter. What they did not expect, however, was an invitation.

Want to play?

17 Industrial Road, 712-251

Even a fool would not value his life at such a lowly state enough to abandon all reason and wander straight into the lion's den for mere play. The trap was all-too-obvious and this blatant invitation; this beckoning in broad daylight; this blunt seduction of a challenge—good god was it working wonders and almost at once, the inspector felt the mild, unnerving concern of going up against someone who knew exactly where his switches were.

"A confrontation?" Zales was the first to speak, looking up from the letter written in the penmanship of a chicken scrawl. "Wait, you were found out?"

Needless to say, White was severely disappointed in himself, having established a flawless reputation in his work ethic; one that promised no mistakes. Suppose this was a game of chess. What would be his next move?

"It appears that is the case," the inspector admitted. Tight-lipped. "Do not follow up. Playing into their hands would be a foolish mistake and clearly, they must've been tipped-off. This is strange. The signs... their clients do not seem to be aware."

He did not come into this without safety nets and pre-emptive warnings. The inspector was known for setting up layers of security that would have re-directed hostile informants or sounded off before a direct attack. This confrontation was completely unwarranted.

"Chief!" A man, breathless and pale, had nearly split the doors to the conference room into half at the speed he was running. "It's Violet. She hasn't been contactable since last evening before the deadline."

"She's established contact?" The chief stood and looked around the room for answers. White stared in return, waiting as well. "Violet's an agent. She's one of the three we sent undercover. Have you tracked her device?"

"We have her coordinates," an officer got to it at once, angling the screen of his laptop towards the chief. "It says he's been in the same area for eleven hours." A single glance: 17 Industrial Road.

"Ah fuck," Zales threw her hands up in the air, standing to pace around the room. "What, they have her hostage?"

"This is insane," warned the inspector under his breath. "It is quite clearly a trap. You know how they are like with the authorities—these people will not go down without a fight! There is absolutely no reason for them to be giving away coordinates and and and inviting officers into their premises by god, this is practically suicide. We cannot possibly..."

"So you'd leave an agent to fend for herself?" One of the officers challenged with a raised brow and already, it appalled him how slow ordinary human beings could be at times.

"Do not speak to me about ethics. Offer solutions, officer," he snapped. Irate. But oddly ablaze. "The opponent wants a game, not some measly dinner of cops."

Almost at once, they hated him for that. It was no surprise. The inspector's controversial honesty was the very thing that got him out of the field in the first place, though effective, nevertheless. And so he began to explain what had to be done.

*

The plan was to go in alone.

White was not unacquainted with missions of such caliber. More often than so, he was valued for his ability to come up with split-second solutions and calculating the best-weighed options for optimal decision-making, and though these were very much non-physical traits, these attributes made him out to be as suitable a front-liner as the rest of the officers were.

That, and he had a feeling the letter was meant for a single person alone.

How he managed to arrive at the conclusion that the invitation was meant for him and him only, the inspector did not know. It was one of those 'gut-feelings' he'd entertain from time to time, absent of the ice-cold reason and rationality he was so used to following. The game was not one he could play alone.

"White. In twenty feet, you'd be in front of the building's only known entrance." He heard through the receiver in his ear. The entrance they were referring to appeared nothing more than an old-fashioned garage door that matched the exterior of the building's brick-and-mortar industrial getup.

Speaking to him was the captain of the team's special ops first squadron, Jeremiah Reyes. "What do you see?"

Two men. He could not respond verbally in the proximity he was approaching and they'd spotted him at once. He tapped the side of his ear twice to create a sound of disturbance. At once, the team was on high alert.

"I believe I received an invitation?" He said to the men smoking before the garage door. Their eyes never left his.

A look was exchanged and they seemed to size him up, concluding the man's lithe figure to pose little threat before appearing genuinely confused. "You're the guy?" One of them said in a heavy accent and the inspector could not help but reflect the confusion in his eyes.

"Well." He sounded perfectly puzzled. An obnoxious horn signaled the opening of the garage doors that rolled up to a height just enough for the three to pass through. The voice in the receiver cracked just as he stepped in and White was at once aware of the static interference preventing two-way communication between the inside and the outside of the building.

"So, uh, what's your name again?" The man with a heavy Italian accent surprised him by striking up conversation while the garage doors were closing behind them. The men led him past a collection of fancy rides: Ferraris, Jaguars, McLarens, Maseratis. And then, an even bigger collection of motor bikes.

There were men and women dressed in the same manner—suited up in black—standing around, seemingly going about ordinary, relaxed routines over casual conversation and cups of coffee. Everything fell short of the inspector's expectations. An underground contract debt collector that operated like a typical mafia would have had guns and cigars, booze and gold. Albeit, the collection of vehicles did imply some form of riches.

"He's the guy?" A handsome man, tall and dark as every other teen fiction male protagonist would've been described as approached the three. "You look... friendlier in real life."

"Do I." White was thin-lipped. There was no comprehending his current situation and he struggled to respond appropriately. "So? Where are you taking me."

"Relax," laughed the Italian, showing him through double doors that led to an empty lobby with a single elevator. Their voices bounced off undecorated walls and a completely unfurnished room. "You'll see soon. Oh yeah, mind if we...?" He gestured at his coat and pockets.

He had two guns. One in the inner pocket of his coat and another by his hip. He handed over the latter but the seemingly casual nature of the suited men was by no means an indication of their work ethic. All three stood their ground in a triangular formation, hands behind their backs in a stance that did not allow the inspector a glimpse of a weapon in their hands, present or not.

"Fine." He gave in, raising his hands slightly. They searched, and naturally came across the second gun and then, the hidden blade at his wrist, the needle in his watch, a swiss knife behind the buckle of his belt and of course, the receiver in his ear. Those aside, there was the question of handcuffs in his back pocket.

The Italian, who'd produced the handcuffs after a pat-down, exchanged a look with his colleagues before, quite oddly, returning them to their rightful position. This confused the inspector immensely and he'd even stared at the man for a good ten seconds before receiving a shocking: "That one should be okay."

It was absolutely ludicrous how the entire thing was going. White could very well think himself in the middle of a dream.

He was then ushered into the elevator and made to ride it up to the top floor alone. Naturally, he spent the time drawing up every single possible scenario, mapping out the various determinants and bracing himself for the encounter with 'King', whoever it was. Needless to say, his expectations were high.

The first and most ordinary course of nature would be witnessing Violet with a gun to her head, either pointed by the King himself or perhaps some other pawn, surrounded by an army of knights, rooks and bishops for maximum protection. It would not come to him as a surprise to see the mafia boss in the middle of it all. Then, the doors slide open.

Empty.

It was an empty floor—void of walls or doors or any other obstruction, partitioning of the industrial level. Raw, brick-and-mortar pillars aside, there was a single couch in the middle of the room. In front of it was a coffee table. On the coffee table, a chessboard and a bottle of whiskey. Two glasses.

A man; lounging on the couch with his eyes closed.

His first of instincts was to run. Nerves on fire, it distorted his sense of space and gave the impression of heat despite the knowledge of a mid-February breeze. Nothing made any sense. Not the temperature of the room; not the fact that there was no one else but the two of them, rendering the King (if that was, indeed, the King) entirely defenseless; and certainly not him in a state of sleep.

Rationally speaking, no one would be in the right mind to leave their King unprotected. Not on the board and not in reality but the inspector did not wish to leave opportunities unentertained. He reached behind his back, fingers running over the chilled metal clasp. He muted the clinking of chains, readying the cuffs as he approached the figure.

It was upon being close enough to observe the features of the man that he found himself looking into the center of a flame. Naturally, they burned.

He nearly stopped functioning.

"You into that?"

The words snapped him into reboot—startling his nerves as he glanced down at the handcuffs and then back up at the man still lounging on the couch. Taking a step back, he stood at a distance.

"I don't know what you mean." White watched as the man whose very presence confirmed his identity as the mafia's leader rose into a seated position. Their movements, both his and his opponents, seemed to slow. Relish in the moment of fire and ice, red and blue.

King had his fingertips steepled before his lips, which then began to point at the board. The inspector followed his gaze.

"We're playing chess. Over a glass of whiskey." He could not tell if this was a joke. Not a single muscle in his body thought of taking the seat across the man. Every guard of his was up and the chill in his eyes spoke of wariness and suspicion.

The very attractive man was very attractive when he shrugged.

"What else?"

"Well." The inspector's lips thinned as he looked around. "An oddly empty room to play chess in."

The candle flickered. It resembled a wink. "All you need is two players."

Indeed. There was no refusing this matter of fact that gave one possible account for their present circumstance but did nothing to erase the doubt in the inspector's mind. He stared across the table, standing still without an inch of movement while King held his gaze from his seated position, criminally confident in the way he had his feet rooted to the ground, the way his fingertips hid the hint of a smirk on the edge of his lips and the way those candles remained still even against the cold winter breeze.

King did not mind the staring thing. Admittedly, he did note that it was a long fucking minute. But it gave him ample time to take in the man he'd been waiting for. Back then, all he remembered was the ice in his eyes but gradually, over years of seeing him in the papers and just, well, the occasional night-time-fantasy, he'd come to appreciate the outer as much as he did with the inner. The little snowflake had grown into a sexy mf.

"And how would I know if you have a gun in your pocket? That you called me here for murder in broad daylight?"

The man snorted, loosening his tie and glancing at the board. Pausing. As though genuinely thinking of a solution.

"I could strip...?" He ended up with, gaze returning to meet the inspector's. The latter was flabbergasted beyond belief.

"That—that would not... that would not be necessary."

King was liking this. He liked the feeling of running his fingers, skimming the surface of still and untouched waters. Creating ripples. "I don't use guns," he said, turned the board so that white faced his opponent. "Fair game."

The look on the inspector's face amuses him greatly.

"I wonder why that doesn't make me feel the least bit comforted," White muttered under his breath while King laughed low. "So you kill with your bare hands?"

"Sometimes," he teased, hiding behind steepled fingers. "We starting?"

"And what is the purpose of this game?" The inspector insisted, pushing the limits for information. He needed to know as much as he could.

By now, King was rolling his eyes and impatient in his wait. He wanted the game. In fact, his guest was in every figurative manner cockblocking the excitement, the adrenaline of a good match. Unsurprisingly, King could smell a challenge a mile away and this one... this one whet his appetite.

"Fun?"

"Oh don't be ridiculous."

Fuck, he knew exactly how to make him wait. "Your name."

"Sorry?"

"I get your name if I win," he popped open the bottle of whiskey, dropping a couple of rocks into each lowball glass before serving the rich, golden heat. "You get mine if you do."

"I cannot quite tell if you are being serious with me. Are there cameras? Is this some kind of joke? You know my name." White was sure. Their information would have comprised of that, at the very least. As a grandmaster, his name was splayed across every competition he'd won and every article ever written about... unless...

"Not the real one." King slid a glass towards him. Candleflames flickering.

All of a sudden, the inspector was very much aware of the exact source of heat he'd been tying to identify all this while; removing his coat and re-adjusting his tie, he proceeded to take the seat across the host and ready himself for the match.

The latter could feel a tug on the corners of his lips. The game was on.

"Coin flip?"

"You play white." King nodded at the board that was turned the right way—black towards him, and white at his guest.

He's letting me go first, thought the inspector, mildly offended by the criminal's ability to provoke him into emotions. God, he was a master at humiliation and White wanted so bad to wipe that smirk off his face. He wanted to win. Goodness, he never wanted to win so badly in his entire life.

"And why is that so?"

"I always play black," King stared.

"I'd very much like to make you regret it."

Alas, neither could control the smile—a result of an electricity, a chemistry between fire and ice—that threatened to surface and stay throughout the entire match.

*

It had been nearly twenty minutes since the entire squad witnessed their private investigator disappear through the entrance of 17 Industrial Road and it was upon the re-appearance of the two men smoking by the road that they decided it was time.

Jeremiah Reyes and the Chief Officer who'd contracted the inspector had been attempting to reach their front-liner through radio for ages without a response and naturally, things were getting urgent and out of hand. This was the moment they were ordered to arm and ready force.

"—keep that. I'm coming back tomorrow." Lo and behold, out comes their man, emerging from the garage doors with the most irate expression on his face. The police froze, back-tracking with their weapons and equipment. So brash the inspector was that he'd even forgotten about his receiver and only recalled upon turning the bend and running into the chief.

"White—what in the... we radio-ed you for—" He was not given the opportunity to finish.

"Oh you'll get used to it," the inspector nearly snarled in response. He was in a bad, no, the worst mood. "We're coming back tomorrow."

"What? What the hell are you talking about? Where's Violet?"

"She's on the fourth floor trying to beat the third-in-command. Apparently, she hates losing."

"Ye... hold up. You mean... but how did they just let you go like that?"

Quite frankly, the chief had never seen White so entirely triggered. Tilted. As though he'd completely lost it. "It was a draw. We had bare kings. Tomorrow's the rematch."

Most men in the vicinity who'd heard his explanation, including the backline squad on the radio and the offices on standby, had absolutely no clue what the inspector was going on about and the man himself was very clearly not in the mood to explain. The further they left 17 Industrial Street and made their way down the empty road, the more the extent of police forces he'd been allocated to 'round up' a notorious mafia became apparent to the inspector.

The whole squadron of armed officers, cars, complete with two ambulances and a... firetruck.

"... I'm sorry, did you... is that...?"

______________

[Extra]

"We should fuck," concludes Leroy, King, on their seventh rematch. After their second dinner and third accidental conversation. Vanilla, the inspector who'd eventually given in to having his name revealed, did not appear very fazed by this rude awakening of... of, um... desires. Apparently, this thought had crossed his mind as well—albeit in a less vulgar, more refined manner.

He places his lowball glass of whiskey down on the coffee table, leaning in and setting the game clock to a nice little ten. Then, starts it in a single motion and picks up his E2 pawn. "You'll have whatever's left to do what you like."

"I'll end this in two."

The inspector smiles wryly. "You need eight whole minutes to take me there?" Bold.

"Three times, maybe." Bolder.

A/N: ;))))