Man-Eater 3/? - Pet Shop of Horrors
Apr. 18th, 2005 09:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yellowhordeDisclaimer: I don't own Pet Shop of Horrors and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write.
Pairings: Leon+D
Category: Supernatural/Drama
Rating: R
Warning: Shonen Ai. Language. Violence
Title: Man-Eater
Author: yellowhorde
Status: In Progress
Note: Sequel to 'Denial'. Second story in the Arc.
The apartment building where Leon Orcot lived was old and made up entirely of right angles and sharp edges. Its stark simplicity, which may have once been considered modern, even futuristic almost fifty years ago, now only looked blocky, plain, and tired. No flowing architectural details or tasteful landscaping softened the building's exterior. No special efforts had been made to hide its age or the sense of neglect that hung about it like thick smog. It was, D mentally summed up, graceless and ugly.
Sighing softly, he gripped the tarnished brass handle and pulled open the front entrance door, wrinkling his nose in distaste as flakes of white paint sifted down from the doorframe and settled onto his shoulder. He flicked the particles away impatiently and stepped into the entrance, the paper bag he held in one arm crackling as he gripped it almost protectively to his chest.
He paused for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior then made his way toward the stairwell that would take him to Leon's floor. The interior of the building was just as stark and uninteresting as its exterior, D noted. Tiny square tiles the color of faded Pepto-Bismol stretched out before him, their once white caulking gray and grimy.
'How can he stand living in such a place?' he wondered as he gazed about him with something akin to horror as he noted dust buildup on practically every surface. His nose wrinkled in delicate distaste and he made sure that he didn't trail his hands along the railing as he ascended the steps. 'Heaven knows how many germs a person could pick up in a place like this. It's no wonder he's sick,' he thought, 'I know I certainly would be.'
On Leon's floor, faded sunshine seeped in through a dirty picture window at the end of the hall, casting faint puddles of light on the floor. D wasn't at all surprised to see that there was wire mesh secured over the window. Obviously this was the superintendent's most recent attempts at improving security. This 'improvement' hadn't been here the last time he and Chris had come to call. He didn't know if such measures were effective or not, only that it added to the stifling prison-like feel of the building.
When he finally reached Detective Orcot's apartment, D reached out, pressed the buzzer, and waited a few seconds, half expecting Leon to answer the door. When that failed, he rang the buzzer again. Still no sound of movement from inside the apartment. He decided that perhaps the buzzer was broken and rapped his knuckles smartly against the wood three times. Nothing.
"Detective Orcot?" D called out softly, "Are you home, Detective?"
Only silence from within. Feeling a bit uneasy, D hurriedly reached into the right pocket of his jacket and produced a small set of keys. Their almost merry jingling seemed out of place in such a dreary environment. He picked out the correct one, but when he grabbed the handle to insert it into the lock, the door swung open a fraction of an inch on its own. D flinched back in surprise. Leon was a detective and knew, probably better than any one else, the dangers of leaving the front door unlocked even during broad daylight.
"Hello?" D carefully pushed the door open the rest of the way until it banged gently against the wall confirming that there was no one lying in wait ready to catch him unaware. The low-grade sense of unease that had plagued him since Christmas Eve bumped up a notch as he walked through the apartment. "Is anyone here?"
D had expected the place to be a mess - it certainly had been on every other visit, but today it was simply a shambles. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink; drawers pulled out, clothes, more dishes, and bits of trash scattered haphazardly on the floor. Dust specks danced lazily in the afternoon sun that slanted in through one of the windows and the air was ripe with the scent of garbage.
His unease quickly warped into disgust as he noticed an entirely new batch of posters hanging on the walls, each and every one of them depicting nude and semi-nude women in compromising positions. His fragile control snapped.
"That man is an animal!" D exploded, then, 'No, no, worse than an animal," He glowered at the offending posters and the ghastly mess about him, practically sputtering in outrage. "I have never, never, seen such a mess in my life. This place looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the last time I did it myself. How could it possibly get this bad so fast?"
But even as he made his way through the apartment he sensed that there was something wrong, something different about the place today. D couldn't put his finger on it, but knew instinctively that it was something important. He walked slowly through each room in turn cataloging as many unusual details as his sharp mind could hold. In the kitchenette/living room the couch cushions were yanked askew, and the rest of the shabby furniture moved rather subtly out of their accustomed positions. Cabinets and drawers gaped open, their contents strewn about. The apartment was a total disaster, and though horrible enough, nothing stood out in D's mind as being
totally out of character for the slovenly detective.
'But the way those drawers and cabinets are hanging open...' D mused, making his way towards the bedroom. 'It's almost as if someone had been here... searching for something...' He uttered a short humorless laugh. It seemed very loud in the silence of the apartment. 'That's ridiculous. No one in their right mind would be able to find anything in this mess. And who would want to?'
And yet, beneath the disgust, the unease lingered.
D picked his way along the short hall leading to Leon's bedroom and pushed open the door unceremoniously. He crossed over the room and found the detective sprawled out on his back across the bed, the sheets and blankets tangled about his body. His unshaven face was unusually pale. D sank slowly to his knees beside the bed, set the paper bag aside, and pressed one palm against the sleeping man's forehead. It was hot to the touch.
"Oh, Detective..." he sighed.
Leon shifted ever so slightly and mumbled something incoherent. Then his eyes slid open and he blinked blearily up at D as if he were having trouble focusing.
"D...?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse. He attempted to pull himself into a semi-reclining position but D placed one restraining hand on his shoulder. He tried to shrug it off but D wouldn't budge. He just stared at him, his strange eyes filled with concern. 'I must be sicker than I thought,' he thought tiredly as he settled back against his sweat-dampened pillow. 'No way D's that strong.'
"Why are you-" Leon began hoarsely, but found it difficult to gather his thoughts. He stopped and tried again, "How did you-"
D hushed him with one finger to his lips. "I stopped by the station today," he explained and brushed aside some of the fine hairs that clung to Leon's sweaty brow. "Miss Jill told me you were sick. So I decided to stop and make sure you weren't faking it." His lips crinkled into the tiniest smile at this small attempt at humor but the smile faded quickly. "But I can see for myself that you are genuinely sick."
"But how did you get in?"
D smirked at the detective's confusion. "With these, Detective," he said, dangling the keys between thumb and forefinger. "You gave me an extra set just in case you or Chris lost yours, remember?" his smirk deepened and he couldn't help but add, "Though heaven forbid Chris should ever actually want to visit with the place being in such a condition."
Leon nodded his understanding. "Makes sense, I guess."
D cupped the side of his face with one hand and it was so cool against his skin ... almost cold. And it felt so good. But instead of leaning into that touch, as he wanted to, he forced himself to turn his face away. He simply couldn't allow himself to take even the smallest comfort or pleasure, yes, he admitted to himself after a startled pause, pleasure at the touch of another man. Especially when he was feeling so weak and... well, needy. Real men didn't need to be comforted or coddled. Real men sucked it up and suffered in manly silence no matter how shitty they felt. And he, Leon Orcot, was, without any doubt and by his own definition, a real man.
Or so he kept telling himself. But sometimes he wasn't so sure.
All of his life Leon had been generally healthy. Sure, he'd occasionally swap around whatever cold bug was hitting the precinct, and even more rarely he would catch the flu or something, but it was never anything serious. All he had to do was pop a few pills and he'd be right as rain. He had never had to call in sick to work. Not once since he had joined the force. Hell, since he had been in the Academy. So he hadn't really noticed anything out of the ordinary when the first cold-like symptoms had made themselves known a few days ago. Unfortunately, the usual 'coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever' bullshit had taken a completely different turn. For the worse.
This cold, flu, whatever the hell he had caught had just come out of nowhere and knocked him on his ass. His head ached; his throat was a scratchy agony. He was burning up and felt fucking miserable. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, what he wanted more than anything in the whole world right now was for someone to take care of him, to pamper him just as his own mother had done whenever he had got sick as a child.
And that someone who showed up when he was like this was... D… the very man that had kissed him so passionately less than two weeks before.
'No,' some small outspoken part of Leon's mind argued stubbornly, 'Let's be honest here. You were kissing him as much as he was kissing you
Without meaning to Leon flashed back to that night and it was as if he were reliving the moment all over again. With perfect clarity he recalled the taste of D's lips, the feel of his body pressed against him, the scent of his hair... the gasp the smaller man had given when he had slid his big hands down his narrow back and squeezed his-
'Shit!' Leon quickly derailed that line of thought, or tried to. But it was getting harder and harder to send it packing with each passing day. And the fucking bastard kept coming back!
Ever since that night he found himself drifting off at odd moments - filling out reports, watching TV, taking his morning shower, any time, any place. He daydreamed about that kiss, hell, fantasized about it. He gloated over that kiss the same way he imagined some nut ball collector would gloat over some ultra rare coin or stamp or something equally fucking stupid. Because it was a very special thing, he admitted to himself, albeit however reluctantly. Precious and above all, secret.
He would lie awake in his bed late at night and recall that kiss in all its glorious detail. His body responded willingly enough to this mental stimulation. Then, trapped between feelings of lust and self-loathing, he would pleasure himself to a lonely climax all the while imagining what might have happened if things could have been different. If he hadn't had to work that night... If D hadn't gently pushed him away... If he wasn't such a fucking coward...if...if...
If only.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Leon was jolted out of his tumbling thoughts by this simple question. He cast a wide eyed glance at D, confused at first and more than a little afraid that the slender Chinese man had somehow managed to pick up the course of his traitorous thoughts...feelings. "Tell you what?" he asked somewhat defensively.
"That you were sick."
Oh. Right.
"I didn't want you to worry-" At D's sudden look of surprise, Leon quickly continued, "or Chris.." His voice came out sounding thick and scratchy. It hurt something fierce when he swallowed and he only just stopped himself from wincing in pain. He was, after all, still a man, a real man whose thought and feelings were sometimes a little confused, that’s all.
D looked at silently for several long moments and he met that gold and purple stare with no small amount of defiance. Eventually D turned away and down towards the nightstand. There wasn't anything of real interest lying there, an old brass lamp, the clock radio, and his watch. D unerringly reached over and picked up a digital thermometer from amongst a slew of crumpled tissues. He tweezed it between his fingers and carried it from the room; his fine featured chiseled into a mask of distaste.
Leon dimly heard the sound of running water from the general direction of the kitchen. The bathroom was closer, he knew, but for some reason D seemed reluctant to enter that room. He snorted contemptuously despite the pain. 'There really was no reason for him to act all prissy,' he thought, 'I'm already sick, for Christ's sake. A few more germs won't hurt me any. Won't help,' he conceded after a moments consideration, 'but definitely won't hurt. Besides, the place isn't that big of a mess. I've just slacked off a little in the housework that’s all. Can't a guy be a slob when he's on his deathbed? Sheesh!'
The sound of water cut off and soon D was in his room again carrying the thermometer, a washcloth, probably taken from the linen closet, and a glass of water. Beads of condensation were already starting to form on the glass. Ice cubes bobbed near the surface like tiny icebergs and they tinkled gentle laughter with each step the Count took. Leon's tongue darted out and licked at his dry lips. He hadn't even realized how thirsty he was and now he couldn't draw his eyes away from the glass in D's hand.
D knelt gracefully besides his bed, cleared a small spot on top of the nightstand, and set down everything but the thermometer. That he held out to Leon. "Open your mouth, Detective."
Leon was too listless to resist or argue. He merely dropped open his mouth and shut it obediently after D inserted the thermometer under his tongue. He desperately wanted to ask for a sip of water, but he couldn't with this thing wedged under his tongue. So he waited as patiently as he was able while D hovered anxiously nearby. When the tiny device finally beeped, he removed it promptly and stared at the digital readout, his brows knitted into a small frown.
"This reads 101.5 degrees Fahrenheit." D stated, shaking the thermometer briskly with small snaps of his wrist. It wasn't necessary that he do so, and Leon thought of telling him that, but he simply figured that it was a habitual gesture from the olden days when thermometers were made of glass and depended on a thin columns of mercury to convey one's temperature. "How long have you been running a fever, Detective?"
Leon thought for a moment, but it was difficult. His mind was foggy and his throat was hurting even more from all the talking he'd been doing. Why couldn't D just shut up and leave him alone to die in peace? "Since night before last," he finally croaked. "And it was a lot higher then, around 103 or so."
D glanced back at the nightstand but didn't see any medicine bottles or used packages there or scattered on the floor with all the rest of the junk. "What have you been taking to reduce the fever?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" D echoed in astonishment.
"It's just a fever," Leon snapped, "As long as they doesn't get too high, I just let 'em burn." He winced at the pain in his throat. "Besides, I don't have anything here and I didn't exactly feel like stopping at the store."
"A fever is the body's way of defending itself against intruders," D murmured almost to himself. "If you do not wish to take any medicine, I will not force you. But still..." He plucked up the washcloth, folded it neatly, and placed it onto Leon's forehead.
Leon's body jerked as the wet washcloth came into contact with his skin. "Jesus, that's cold!"
"This won't interfere with your body's attempts at ridding you of whatever bug you've managed to catch, but it should help you feel a little more comfortable," D said, then smirked and held out the water glass.
Leon glared at him for a moment before finally accepting it without a word. He helped himself to a long drink. It hurt like hell going down, but at least he wasn't as thirsty anymore. "Thanks," he mumbled begrudgingly, handing back the glass and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Another small smirk. "You're quite welcome, Detective."
D rummaged through the paper bag he had brought with him and produced four small brass incense burners, quite possibly the same ones he had used on his little rendezvous to the museum all those long months ago. Leon watched with mild curiosity as D placed some sort of incense into the burners. The slender man then arranged them at various points around the bedroom, produced a pack of matches from one of his pockets, and then lit the incense. Thin whiffs of smoke began to float lazily to the ceiling. Leon breathed in as deeply as he dared and wrinkled his nose at the slightly bitter aroma. On his second inhalation he caught the faintest hint of mint.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
D glanced over at him and smiled. "Burning incense, Detective."
"What the hell for?"
D blinked at Leon's sharp tone then smiled indulgently. "Why, to help you with your cold, of course."
"How is burning some sort of weed going to help me feel better?"
"This incense, Detective," D began, "is made primarily from a sage-like herb gathered near the Garden Monastery, some thirty kilometers outside Lhasa, Tibet. Its medicinal properties are well known in many parts of the world and it is said to be an effective remedy for colds and flu."
His smile and voice both took on a teasing quality. "This herb is burnt by Tibetans both indoors and out for ritual purification. It is also excellent for purifying polluted atmosphere and freshening the home by eliminating domestic smells, cigarette smoke and all manner of unpleasant things."
He crossed over to Leon and offered him the water glass again. "A most useful herb, wouldn't you agree?"
"Whatever."
"Have you had anything to eat or drink today?" D asked, his voice carrying light concern.
"Not hungry," Leon muttered as he settled wearily back against his pillow.
D sighed. "You may not be hungry but you need to eat something. Your body needs proper nutrients or you won't get any better." He stood and took a smaller bag from the paper one he had set upon the floor earlier. "I've brought some supplies with me that may help. You stay here. I'll be back shortly."
With that he leaned over and placed a tiny kiss on Leon's forehead. This shocked him for a moment for the action had come without any thought on his part. And, to his bigger surprise, the detective didn't stir or protest, or even blink. On closer inspection, he saw that his eyes were glazed and his cheeks flushed with the fever that raged through his body. Silently he made his way to the bedroom door thinking how the chicken broth he brought would do a world of good for the poor man, but Leon's voice, weak, heavy, and on the verge of sleep, stopped him.
"Don't make so much noise this time, 'kay?"
"I beg your pardon?" D asked, half turning towards the bed.
"You were making all kinds of racket earlier," Leon mumbled. "I thought you were cleaning or something, so I didn't say anything. Besides... I'm so tired..." He shifted his position and pulled the covers up to his chin. "Don't be so loud..." he continued thickly, "I'm sick, you know... not dead."
D stood in the door, his heart racing in his chest. He waited for Leon to say something else but, no, his breathing had evened out and now he was snoring quietly. Troubled, he turned and made his way to the kitchen, with its mess and its drawers and cupboards so carelessly hanging open. He recalled how easily the front door had swung open on its own, how the furniture had seemed so subtly out of place. As if someone had been searching for something...
"Someone has been in this apartment," D whispered softly as if afraid he would be overheard. "But who were they? And what were they looking for?"
D hurried to the front door and double checked the locks and shot the deadbolt. But it didn't make him feel any better. 'Leon is a homicide detective,' he thought, 'and as such he always makes sure he locks his door. It's not like him to be so careless. Not even when he's sick. The habit is simply too ingrained. And yet someone had managed to break into the apartment...'
This worried him more than he would care to admit because over the course of time Leon had somehow managed to become very important to him. Yes, he was a trained police officer and yes, he was more than capable of taking care of himself... but still, he worried. There were so many things that he didn't understand…so many things that didn't make any sense.
'What had the intruders wanted?' D asked himself as he struggled to control his turbulent thoughts. In an effort to distract himself, he began cleaning the apartment, setting to rights everything that was not as it should be. But still the questions buzzed, endlessly. 'How long had they been in the apartment? Had they decided to give up their search once they realized it wasn't as empty as it was supposed to be? Did they find whatever it was they had been searching for? Who were they?'
The unease welled up again and this time it enveloped him like a tide of black water, strangling him, causing his breath to falter and his heart to race. It chilled him to the bone with all of its unknown implications. He tried to tell himself that the intruder had just been another burglar looking for anything of value that could be pawned in an effort to support their drug addiction. Or perhaps it had been just a random break in, one of dozens that happened every day in the big city. But somehow he didn't believe that. His instincts told him that there was danger all around. Not only for himself, but also for those he cared for... looked after... protected.
A question rose in D's mind, dark and stealthy as whispers in a deserted ally. "What if they aren't gone? What if they decide to come back?"
All of these questions alarmed D because he simply didn't have an answer to any of them. Not a single one.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Pairings: Leon+D
Category: Supernatural/Drama
Rating: R
Warning: Shonen Ai. Language. Violence
Title: Man-Eater
Author: yellowhorde
Status: In Progress
Note: Sequel to 'Denial'. Second story in the Arc.
The apartment building where Leon Orcot lived was old and made up entirely of right angles and sharp edges. Its stark simplicity, which may have once been considered modern, even futuristic almost fifty years ago, now only looked blocky, plain, and tired. No flowing architectural details or tasteful landscaping softened the building's exterior. No special efforts had been made to hide its age or the sense of neglect that hung about it like thick smog. It was, D mentally summed up, graceless and ugly.
Sighing softly, he gripped the tarnished brass handle and pulled open the front entrance door, wrinkling his nose in distaste as flakes of white paint sifted down from the doorframe and settled onto his shoulder. He flicked the particles away impatiently and stepped into the entrance, the paper bag he held in one arm crackling as he gripped it almost protectively to his chest.
He paused for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior then made his way toward the stairwell that would take him to Leon's floor. The interior of the building was just as stark and uninteresting as its exterior, D noted. Tiny square tiles the color of faded Pepto-Bismol stretched out before him, their once white caulking gray and grimy.
'How can he stand living in such a place?' he wondered as he gazed about him with something akin to horror as he noted dust buildup on practically every surface. His nose wrinkled in delicate distaste and he made sure that he didn't trail his hands along the railing as he ascended the steps. 'Heaven knows how many germs a person could pick up in a place like this. It's no wonder he's sick,' he thought, 'I know I certainly would be.'
On Leon's floor, faded sunshine seeped in through a dirty picture window at the end of the hall, casting faint puddles of light on the floor. D wasn't at all surprised to see that there was wire mesh secured over the window. Obviously this was the superintendent's most recent attempts at improving security. This 'improvement' hadn't been here the last time he and Chris had come to call. He didn't know if such measures were effective or not, only that it added to the stifling prison-like feel of the building.
When he finally reached Detective Orcot's apartment, D reached out, pressed the buzzer, and waited a few seconds, half expecting Leon to answer the door. When that failed, he rang the buzzer again. Still no sound of movement from inside the apartment. He decided that perhaps the buzzer was broken and rapped his knuckles smartly against the wood three times. Nothing.
"Detective Orcot?" D called out softly, "Are you home, Detective?"
Only silence from within. Feeling a bit uneasy, D hurriedly reached into the right pocket of his jacket and produced a small set of keys. Their almost merry jingling seemed out of place in such a dreary environment. He picked out the correct one, but when he grabbed the handle to insert it into the lock, the door swung open a fraction of an inch on its own. D flinched back in surprise. Leon was a detective and knew, probably better than any one else, the dangers of leaving the front door unlocked even during broad daylight.
"Hello?" D carefully pushed the door open the rest of the way until it banged gently against the wall confirming that there was no one lying in wait ready to catch him unaware. The low-grade sense of unease that had plagued him since Christmas Eve bumped up a notch as he walked through the apartment. "Is anyone here?"
D had expected the place to be a mess - it certainly had been on every other visit, but today it was simply a shambles. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink; drawers pulled out, clothes, more dishes, and bits of trash scattered haphazardly on the floor. Dust specks danced lazily in the afternoon sun that slanted in through one of the windows and the air was ripe with the scent of garbage.
His unease quickly warped into disgust as he noticed an entirely new batch of posters hanging on the walls, each and every one of them depicting nude and semi-nude women in compromising positions. His fragile control snapped.
"That man is an animal!" D exploded, then, 'No, no, worse than an animal," He glowered at the offending posters and the ghastly mess about him, practically sputtering in outrage. "I have never, never, seen such a mess in my life. This place looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the last time I did it myself. How could it possibly get this bad so fast?"
But even as he made his way through the apartment he sensed that there was something wrong, something different about the place today. D couldn't put his finger on it, but knew instinctively that it was something important. He walked slowly through each room in turn cataloging as many unusual details as his sharp mind could hold. In the kitchenette/living room the couch cushions were yanked askew, and the rest of the shabby furniture moved rather subtly out of their accustomed positions. Cabinets and drawers gaped open, their contents strewn about. The apartment was a total disaster, and though horrible enough, nothing stood out in D's mind as being
totally out of character for the slovenly detective.
'But the way those drawers and cabinets are hanging open...' D mused, making his way towards the bedroom. 'It's almost as if someone had been here... searching for something...' He uttered a short humorless laugh. It seemed very loud in the silence of the apartment. 'That's ridiculous. No one in their right mind would be able to find anything in this mess. And who would want to?'
And yet, beneath the disgust, the unease lingered.
D picked his way along the short hall leading to Leon's bedroom and pushed open the door unceremoniously. He crossed over the room and found the detective sprawled out on his back across the bed, the sheets and blankets tangled about his body. His unshaven face was unusually pale. D sank slowly to his knees beside the bed, set the paper bag aside, and pressed one palm against the sleeping man's forehead. It was hot to the touch.
"Oh, Detective..." he sighed.
Leon shifted ever so slightly and mumbled something incoherent. Then his eyes slid open and he blinked blearily up at D as if he were having trouble focusing.
"D...?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse. He attempted to pull himself into a semi-reclining position but D placed one restraining hand on his shoulder. He tried to shrug it off but D wouldn't budge. He just stared at him, his strange eyes filled with concern. 'I must be sicker than I thought,' he thought tiredly as he settled back against his sweat-dampened pillow. 'No way D's that strong.'
"Why are you-" Leon began hoarsely, but found it difficult to gather his thoughts. He stopped and tried again, "How did you-"
D hushed him with one finger to his lips. "I stopped by the station today," he explained and brushed aside some of the fine hairs that clung to Leon's sweaty brow. "Miss Jill told me you were sick. So I decided to stop and make sure you weren't faking it." His lips crinkled into the tiniest smile at this small attempt at humor but the smile faded quickly. "But I can see for myself that you are genuinely sick."
"But how did you get in?"
D smirked at the detective's confusion. "With these, Detective," he said, dangling the keys between thumb and forefinger. "You gave me an extra set just in case you or Chris lost yours, remember?" his smirk deepened and he couldn't help but add, "Though heaven forbid Chris should ever actually want to visit with the place being in such a condition."
Leon nodded his understanding. "Makes sense, I guess."
D cupped the side of his face with one hand and it was so cool against his skin ... almost cold. And it felt so good. But instead of leaning into that touch, as he wanted to, he forced himself to turn his face away. He simply couldn't allow himself to take even the smallest comfort or pleasure, yes, he admitted to himself after a startled pause, pleasure at the touch of another man. Especially when he was feeling so weak and... well, needy. Real men didn't need to be comforted or coddled. Real men sucked it up and suffered in manly silence no matter how shitty they felt. And he, Leon Orcot, was, without any doubt and by his own definition, a real man.
Or so he kept telling himself. But sometimes he wasn't so sure.
All of his life Leon had been generally healthy. Sure, he'd occasionally swap around whatever cold bug was hitting the precinct, and even more rarely he would catch the flu or something, but it was never anything serious. All he had to do was pop a few pills and he'd be right as rain. He had never had to call in sick to work. Not once since he had joined the force. Hell, since he had been in the Academy. So he hadn't really noticed anything out of the ordinary when the first cold-like symptoms had made themselves known a few days ago. Unfortunately, the usual 'coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever' bullshit had taken a completely different turn. For the worse.
This cold, flu, whatever the hell he had caught had just come out of nowhere and knocked him on his ass. His head ached; his throat was a scratchy agony. He was burning up and felt fucking miserable. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, what he wanted more than anything in the whole world right now was for someone to take care of him, to pamper him just as his own mother had done whenever he had got sick as a child.
And that someone who showed up when he was like this was... D… the very man that had kissed him so passionately less than two weeks before.
'No,' some small outspoken part of Leon's mind argued stubbornly, 'Let's be honest here. You were kissing him as much as he was kissing you
Without meaning to Leon flashed back to that night and it was as if he were reliving the moment all over again. With perfect clarity he recalled the taste of D's lips, the feel of his body pressed against him, the scent of his hair... the gasp the smaller man had given when he had slid his big hands down his narrow back and squeezed his-
'Shit!' Leon quickly derailed that line of thought, or tried to. But it was getting harder and harder to send it packing with each passing day. And the fucking bastard kept coming back!
Ever since that night he found himself drifting off at odd moments - filling out reports, watching TV, taking his morning shower, any time, any place. He daydreamed about that kiss, hell, fantasized about it. He gloated over that kiss the same way he imagined some nut ball collector would gloat over some ultra rare coin or stamp or something equally fucking stupid. Because it was a very special thing, he admitted to himself, albeit however reluctantly. Precious and above all, secret.
He would lie awake in his bed late at night and recall that kiss in all its glorious detail. His body responded willingly enough to this mental stimulation. Then, trapped between feelings of lust and self-loathing, he would pleasure himself to a lonely climax all the while imagining what might have happened if things could have been different. If he hadn't had to work that night... If D hadn't gently pushed him away... If he wasn't such a fucking coward...if...if...
If only.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Leon was jolted out of his tumbling thoughts by this simple question. He cast a wide eyed glance at D, confused at first and more than a little afraid that the slender Chinese man had somehow managed to pick up the course of his traitorous thoughts...feelings. "Tell you what?" he asked somewhat defensively.
"That you were sick."
Oh. Right.
"I didn't want you to worry-" At D's sudden look of surprise, Leon quickly continued, "or Chris.." His voice came out sounding thick and scratchy. It hurt something fierce when he swallowed and he only just stopped himself from wincing in pain. He was, after all, still a man, a real man whose thought and feelings were sometimes a little confused, that’s all.
D looked at silently for several long moments and he met that gold and purple stare with no small amount of defiance. Eventually D turned away and down towards the nightstand. There wasn't anything of real interest lying there, an old brass lamp, the clock radio, and his watch. D unerringly reached over and picked up a digital thermometer from amongst a slew of crumpled tissues. He tweezed it between his fingers and carried it from the room; his fine featured chiseled into a mask of distaste.
Leon dimly heard the sound of running water from the general direction of the kitchen. The bathroom was closer, he knew, but for some reason D seemed reluctant to enter that room. He snorted contemptuously despite the pain. 'There really was no reason for him to act all prissy,' he thought, 'I'm already sick, for Christ's sake. A few more germs won't hurt me any. Won't help,' he conceded after a moments consideration, 'but definitely won't hurt. Besides, the place isn't that big of a mess. I've just slacked off a little in the housework that’s all. Can't a guy be a slob when he's on his deathbed? Sheesh!'
The sound of water cut off and soon D was in his room again carrying the thermometer, a washcloth, probably taken from the linen closet, and a glass of water. Beads of condensation were already starting to form on the glass. Ice cubes bobbed near the surface like tiny icebergs and they tinkled gentle laughter with each step the Count took. Leon's tongue darted out and licked at his dry lips. He hadn't even realized how thirsty he was and now he couldn't draw his eyes away from the glass in D's hand.
D knelt gracefully besides his bed, cleared a small spot on top of the nightstand, and set down everything but the thermometer. That he held out to Leon. "Open your mouth, Detective."
Leon was too listless to resist or argue. He merely dropped open his mouth and shut it obediently after D inserted the thermometer under his tongue. He desperately wanted to ask for a sip of water, but he couldn't with this thing wedged under his tongue. So he waited as patiently as he was able while D hovered anxiously nearby. When the tiny device finally beeped, he removed it promptly and stared at the digital readout, his brows knitted into a small frown.
"This reads 101.5 degrees Fahrenheit." D stated, shaking the thermometer briskly with small snaps of his wrist. It wasn't necessary that he do so, and Leon thought of telling him that, but he simply figured that it was a habitual gesture from the olden days when thermometers were made of glass and depended on a thin columns of mercury to convey one's temperature. "How long have you been running a fever, Detective?"
Leon thought for a moment, but it was difficult. His mind was foggy and his throat was hurting even more from all the talking he'd been doing. Why couldn't D just shut up and leave him alone to die in peace? "Since night before last," he finally croaked. "And it was a lot higher then, around 103 or so."
D glanced back at the nightstand but didn't see any medicine bottles or used packages there or scattered on the floor with all the rest of the junk. "What have you been taking to reduce the fever?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" D echoed in astonishment.
"It's just a fever," Leon snapped, "As long as they doesn't get too high, I just let 'em burn." He winced at the pain in his throat. "Besides, I don't have anything here and I didn't exactly feel like stopping at the store."
"A fever is the body's way of defending itself against intruders," D murmured almost to himself. "If you do not wish to take any medicine, I will not force you. But still..." He plucked up the washcloth, folded it neatly, and placed it onto Leon's forehead.
Leon's body jerked as the wet washcloth came into contact with his skin. "Jesus, that's cold!"
"This won't interfere with your body's attempts at ridding you of whatever bug you've managed to catch, but it should help you feel a little more comfortable," D said, then smirked and held out the water glass.
Leon glared at him for a moment before finally accepting it without a word. He helped himself to a long drink. It hurt like hell going down, but at least he wasn't as thirsty anymore. "Thanks," he mumbled begrudgingly, handing back the glass and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Another small smirk. "You're quite welcome, Detective."
D rummaged through the paper bag he had brought with him and produced four small brass incense burners, quite possibly the same ones he had used on his little rendezvous to the museum all those long months ago. Leon watched with mild curiosity as D placed some sort of incense into the burners. The slender man then arranged them at various points around the bedroom, produced a pack of matches from one of his pockets, and then lit the incense. Thin whiffs of smoke began to float lazily to the ceiling. Leon breathed in as deeply as he dared and wrinkled his nose at the slightly bitter aroma. On his second inhalation he caught the faintest hint of mint.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
D glanced over at him and smiled. "Burning incense, Detective."
"What the hell for?"
D blinked at Leon's sharp tone then smiled indulgently. "Why, to help you with your cold, of course."
"How is burning some sort of weed going to help me feel better?"
"This incense, Detective," D began, "is made primarily from a sage-like herb gathered near the Garden Monastery, some thirty kilometers outside Lhasa, Tibet. Its medicinal properties are well known in many parts of the world and it is said to be an effective remedy for colds and flu."
His smile and voice both took on a teasing quality. "This herb is burnt by Tibetans both indoors and out for ritual purification. It is also excellent for purifying polluted atmosphere and freshening the home by eliminating domestic smells, cigarette smoke and all manner of unpleasant things."
He crossed over to Leon and offered him the water glass again. "A most useful herb, wouldn't you agree?"
"Whatever."
"Have you had anything to eat or drink today?" D asked, his voice carrying light concern.
"Not hungry," Leon muttered as he settled wearily back against his pillow.
D sighed. "You may not be hungry but you need to eat something. Your body needs proper nutrients or you won't get any better." He stood and took a smaller bag from the paper one he had set upon the floor earlier. "I've brought some supplies with me that may help. You stay here. I'll be back shortly."
With that he leaned over and placed a tiny kiss on Leon's forehead. This shocked him for a moment for the action had come without any thought on his part. And, to his bigger surprise, the detective didn't stir or protest, or even blink. On closer inspection, he saw that his eyes were glazed and his cheeks flushed with the fever that raged through his body. Silently he made his way to the bedroom door thinking how the chicken broth he brought would do a world of good for the poor man, but Leon's voice, weak, heavy, and on the verge of sleep, stopped him.
"Don't make so much noise this time, 'kay?"
"I beg your pardon?" D asked, half turning towards the bed.
"You were making all kinds of racket earlier," Leon mumbled. "I thought you were cleaning or something, so I didn't say anything. Besides... I'm so tired..." He shifted his position and pulled the covers up to his chin. "Don't be so loud..." he continued thickly, "I'm sick, you know... not dead."
D stood in the door, his heart racing in his chest. He waited for Leon to say something else but, no, his breathing had evened out and now he was snoring quietly. Troubled, he turned and made his way to the kitchen, with its mess and its drawers and cupboards so carelessly hanging open. He recalled how easily the front door had swung open on its own, how the furniture had seemed so subtly out of place. As if someone had been searching for something...
"Someone has been in this apartment," D whispered softly as if afraid he would be overheard. "But who were they? And what were they looking for?"
D hurried to the front door and double checked the locks and shot the deadbolt. But it didn't make him feel any better. 'Leon is a homicide detective,' he thought, 'and as such he always makes sure he locks his door. It's not like him to be so careless. Not even when he's sick. The habit is simply too ingrained. And yet someone had managed to break into the apartment...'
This worried him more than he would care to admit because over the course of time Leon had somehow managed to become very important to him. Yes, he was a trained police officer and yes, he was more than capable of taking care of himself... but still, he worried. There were so many things that he didn't understand…so many things that didn't make any sense.
'What had the intruders wanted?' D asked himself as he struggled to control his turbulent thoughts. In an effort to distract himself, he began cleaning the apartment, setting to rights everything that was not as it should be. But still the questions buzzed, endlessly. 'How long had they been in the apartment? Had they decided to give up their search once they realized it wasn't as empty as it was supposed to be? Did they find whatever it was they had been searching for? Who were they?'
The unease welled up again and this time it enveloped him like a tide of black water, strangling him, causing his breath to falter and his heart to race. It chilled him to the bone with all of its unknown implications. He tried to tell himself that the intruder had just been another burglar looking for anything of value that could be pawned in an effort to support their drug addiction. Or perhaps it had been just a random break in, one of dozens that happened every day in the big city. But somehow he didn't believe that. His instincts told him that there was danger all around. Not only for himself, but also for those he cared for... looked after... protected.
A question rose in D's mind, dark and stealthy as whispers in a deserted ally. "What if they aren't gone? What if they decide to come back?"
All of these questions alarmed D because he simply didn't have an answer to any of them. Not a single one.
TO BE CONTINUED.
