Save Tonight - Kradam - NC17
Title: Save Tonight
Author: jeyhawk
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Beta: sbb23! <333
Word Count: ~11,000
Disclaimer: Not true. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.
Warnings: Graphic (but short) descriptions of mutilated bodies. Tense situations. Violence.
Summary: Detective Kris Allen volunteers for an undercover operation ran by FBI agent Adam Lambert. Things don't turn out the way either of them planned…
Notes: A huge thanks goes out to dansetheblues as usual! She tried her hardest to have this fic make sense. If it still doesn't, it's certainly all my fault. <333
Another thanks goes out to elizaria, who read the revised version and assured me it that doesn't suck. If it still does, I suppose it's still all my fault. ;) <333
Also, thanks to teamaims for the title. <333 (Borrowed from an Eagle Eye Cherry song.)
Please note that the entirety of my knowledge about police procedures comes from crime novels, TV shows and Wikipedia. I tried to make it plausible, but I'm certainly not an expert on these things.
The rough hemp of the rope bites into Kris's exposed skin, leaving it raw and reddened, and the filthy bed underneath him stinks of sweat and blood. His shoulders ache with the way his arms are pulled behind his back and every attempt to shift just makes the rope tighten until it feels as if he can't breathe with the way it wraps around him. This is not how it was supposed to go.
*
"No!" Special Agent Lambert's mouth sets into a thin line and he glares at Kris and Chief Cowell across the table. "Detective Allen doesn't have the necessary training."
"And what training would that be?" Chief Cowell asks, raising his eyebrows. "You know as well as I do that all he has to do is stand around looking pretty and unobtrusive. I'm sure even Detective Allen could manage that without special training."
The jab hurts, as does the dismissive look Lambert gives him, but Kris keeps his mouth shut and his hands open against his thighs. He needs this chance to prove himself, or he'll always be a fuck up in Chief Cowell's eyes.
"I want someone else," Lambert says, blue eyes sliding over Kris's face.
"Tough luck," Chief Cowell responds, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't have anyone else."
Lambert's mouth tilts into a sneer and his nostrils flare, he's obviously not used to not getting his way.
"Look," Cowell says, leaning forward. "You asked for tiny, cute and unobtrusive. This is the best I can do."
"I can do it," Kris says, keeping his voice level and his eyes away from Lambert's face. "Just give me a chance."
Lambert stares at him for the longest of whiles, blue eyes hard and unreadable, before nodding curtly.
"Okay," he says and Kris tries to not let his relief show on his face.
*
Within minutes Kris's left thigh starts throbbing with the way his legs are tied together with his hands, and the stiff sheets scrape against the raw surface of his scar. He doesn't need the reminder of another case gone wrong and he shifts slightly to take the pressure off his leg. It makes the rough fibers of the rope eat into the soft skin of his stomach, but it also gives him just the tiniest hint of wiggle room, and he slowly, carefully, starts to move his hands.
*
Special Agent Lambert's briefing is short and to the point. He lines up seven pictures of mutilated young men on the table and points to one in the middle.
"Fuck up and this is you," he says.
Kris studies the picture, taking in the impossible angle of the victims left arm, the unseeing stare of his brown eyes, and the garish rainbow painted on the bruised and bloodied skin of his back, before lifting his eyes to Lambert's face.
"I know."
*
Sweat beads on Kris's forehead and dampens the skin on his back, it makes the sheets feel moist, disgusting, and he presses his mouth tightly shut before attempting another shift. The springs creak under him and somewhere in the distance a door slams shut. He holds his breath, waiting for something - anything - to happen, but everything is quiet save for the thunderous beat of his heart.
*
Kris takes one look at the outfit Lambert picked out for him before spinning on his heel to face the man in question.
"You've got to be kidding me," he says.
Lambert just raises his eyebrows with the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips.
*
The skin on Kris's wrists is rubbed raw, but with every wiggle there's a little more give so he keeps at it, ignoring the way it stings. He doesn't know how long he's been here, or how much time he has left, but he clamps down on the panic and keeps on shifting his hands with tiny precise movements, pretending he can't feel the way they tremble.
*
The leather pants are skin-tight and the billowing shirt tucked into the waistband unlaced down to his belly button, Kris feels like a tool and he's pretty sure he looks one too. The knee-high spiked boots really doesn't help and the tangle of garish necklaces resting against his chest is cold and heavy.
The door opens and Lambert walks in without bothering to knock. He's carrying a wire in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other. He holds the bag up without looking at Kris.
"Do you know where this goes or do I have to draw you a map?"
Kris stares at the small smooth egg in the bag and orders his cheeks not to flush as he reaches out to grab the bag from Lambert's fingers.
"I know where it goes," he mutters.
He brushes past Lambert, intent on heading towards the men's room, but Lambert stops him with a hand to his shoulder.
"You might want this," he says, holding out a small plastic tube of lubricant and Kris's cheeks stop following orders all together.
The tube is still warm from Lambert's body, but Kris doesn't stop to wonder where he might have kept it; it's bad enough to know Lambert had it to begin with. The blush doesn't fade for the next ten minutes.
*
Kris can still feel the egg within him, small and unyielding. It should be broadcasting his position to the Feds, it should have had Lambert sweeping in to save the day hours ago, but the house, if it is a house, is silent around him. He's alone.
*
Kris comes back into the briefing room to find the table lined with makeup. He eyes the glittery explosion dubiously, hoping that no one expects him to actually know what to do with it, while he settles down into one of the chairs to wait for Lambert's return. Somewhere inside him the egg shifts, bringing a renewed burst of color to his cheeks. Naturally, that's when Lambert walks in again.
"Everything okay?" he asks blithely, but the too-innocent look on his face betrays his amusement.
"Fine," Kris says curtly, holding out the lube for Lambert.
Lambert smirks as he takes it from Kris's fingers, making it disappear into a pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, but he thankfully refrains from further comments.
"I checked with the techs," he says instead, taking a seat next to Kris. "They're picking up the signal loud and clear."
"Good," Kris mutters, determined not to think about the egg again until he has to.
*
Whatever the Rainbow Man used to drug Kris is wearing off fully, leaving him with a throbbing headache and heightened senses. He's hyperaware of every sound, every creak and whine echoing likea shout, and even the slightest shift of the air leaves goose-bumps in their wake. Stabbing pains shoot through his joints with even his tiniest movement and his mouth tastes like something died in it. He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps twisting his hands. It's the only thing he can do.
*
Lambert knows his way around makeup, sorting the various containers and pens with practiced ease. Kris doesn't know why he's surprised, the eyeliner alone should have clued him in.
"How do you feel about blue?" Lambert asks, brow knitted as if it's a serious concern. "With your coloring I'd normally go for gold with a hint of brown maybe, but that would clash horribly with the jewelry."
Kris just stares at him with his mouth hanging open. Lambert might just be the oddest Fed Kris ever had the misfortune of meeting.
*
The skin on Kris's wrists breaks, adding the slickness of blood to his unrelenting movement. It burns, hot and raw, but it lifts the fog from his head and it makes the rope slide easier, slowly slipping down over his hand. It gives him hope where there was none and he keeps on working, eyes shut and ears open. He'll find a way out.
*
Lambert's skin is pockmarked under the many layers of concealer covering his face and there's the barest hint of ginger at the roots of his raven hair. It's startling, somehow, to realize that Lambert is no more than human and Kris keeps his eyes on Lambert's hair as the agent reaches out to grab Kris's chin again with a brush poised in his hand.
There's something almost too intimate about the way Lambert applies makeup, his blue eyes sharp and attentive, while his hands are whisper-soft and gentle. Kris finds himself responding to the intimacy, the closeness, and his pulse picks up speed without asking.
Kris prefers his guys small and wiry rather than big and bulky, gentle rather than assertive, but it's hard to remember why when Lambert starts running his hands over Kris's skin, as self assured and confident with makeup as he was facing Chief Cowell down.
"Open up," Lambert murmurs, and Kris opens his eyes, not even aware that he let them fall shut.
For a moment they stare at each other, before Lambert's eyes drop to Kris's lips making Kris's stomach clench in anticipation. Then the door is thrown open and Chief Cowell barges in to chew Lambert out for commandeering two of his cars and the moment shatters into pieces so tiny Kris thinks he imagined the whole thing. It's probably for the best.
*
Kris's mind drifts in the darkness, taking him for an unwanted trip down memory lane. It's not quite his life flashing before his eyes, but it's not far from it, and he doesn't want to know what that means.
*
Kris stares at himself in the mirror. The makeup is subtle, the barest hint of shimmer across his lids, soft black lines around his eyes, and shiny gloss plumping his lips, yet he looks brand new. It should look garish on him, weird, but it just looks different, as if he doesn't really know the person staring back at him in the mirror, and considering he's lived with the guy for the past twenty-five years it makes him feel unsettled.
Anoop whistles when Kris walks out of the bathroom, waggling his eyebrows in a way that is probably meant to be suggestive but that just looks funny. Kris flips him off and slides back into the briefing room where Lambert and Chief Cowell are still yelling at each other. Kris isn't the slightest bit surprised that Lambert seems to be winning.
Naturally that makes Chief Cowell turn his attention to Kris, lips pulling back from his teeth in something that resembles a snarl.
"You look like a prostitute," he says.
Kris regales him calmly, ignoring Lambert's shocked gasp. "That's kind of the point."
Chief Cowell huffs, and pivots on his heel, stalking out of the room without closing the door behind him.
"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," Lambert says.
Kris thinks that's kind of rich coming from someone who's been talking to him like that since the moment they met.
"I can handle him," Kris says, as he moves over to close the door. "He barks worse than he bites. Mostly."
He's not going to get into office politics with Lambert. It's hard to explain what it's like to be the youngest detective at the station, the newest detective at the station, the only gay detective at the station and a transfer from rural Arkansas at that, without having it come off like a woe-is-me story, because it isn't.
Sure, Kris has to fight tooth and nail for respect, but that goes for everyone, gay or straight, old or new. You're only as good as your last case and considering how Kris's last case went, it's a wonder people are still talking to him.
"For the record," Lambert says. "I don't think you look like a prostitute at all."
There's something in his voice that makes Kris shiver and when he looks up Lambert's eyes are heavy and dark, focused on the generous strip of skin visible through the open laces of Kris's shirt. Kris suppresses his need to pull the shirt closed and gives Lambert a pointed look. Nothing about their dynamic makes sense.
*
Whenever Kris's mind drifts away from the past, he sees the pictures Lambert showed him. Broken, battered bodies, empty eyes, garish bright rainbows. He sees the bruises and the patches of raw skin, matched now by marks on his own body, and somehow that gives him the strength to keep on pushing, twisting his hands and pulling on the ropes, with his breath stuck painfully in his throat.
*
Lambert is an asshole. Kris silently fumes in a corner while Lambert goes over the plan with the five federal agents in club gear that just arrived, looking a lot more sparkly and suave than Kris could ever manage. Lambert's plan references Kris as The Civilian. It also makes it clear that The Civilian is most likely of less than average intelligence and is probably plotting his own demise by means of torture as they speak.
It isn't his own demise Kris is plotting, as Lambert goes on and on about how Kris is to be protected at all costs, as if he's five years old and incapable of taking care of himself. It takes considerable willpower to stay quiet and unobtrusive in the corner when they only thing he really wants to do is kick Lambert in the nuts. Hard.
People underestimate Kris all the time. He's short, and cute, and has those nice Southern manners, and somehow they think that means he's weak. Kris isn't weak, he just lets people think that he is right up until he socks them in the eye, but he also knows how to bide his time and Lambert will get what he's due. Later.
*
Kris's last case ended with him getting shot in the thigh by an eighty-five year old grandma with a urinary tract infection. He's been back on active duty for a week and he's already trussed up like a Christmas turkey in a serial killer's lair. It's almost funny that he has the energy to be embarrassed about that even in a life or death situation.
*
Kris has every intention of telling Lambert off as soon as they're left alone again, but then Lambert brings him coffee and three different kinds of sandwiches and Kris swallows his anger together with the first few sips of blessed black gold.
"I didn't know what you like," Lambert says, laying the sandwiches out for Kris to pick one. "You look like a ham-and-mustard guy, but looks can be deceiving."
Kris picks the one with chicken breast and mango-garlic spread, he's so not a ham-and-mustard guy whatever that means. Lambert grins and takes the one with tuna for himself, settling down on the other side of the table.
"Black coffee and chicken," he says, as if this is vital information. "I'll remember."
Kris snorts, but he does take a peek into Lambert's cup, it looks like he prefers his coffee white. Lambert kicks his feet up on one of the empty chairs, crossing them at the ankle, and Kris spends a moment contemplating his boots. They're huge, and black, and very much not a part of federal regulation, much like the hint of eyeliner around Lambert's eyes and the chipped black polish on his nails.
Kris finds himself wondering what Lambert dresses like when he's out of his suit and quickly banishes the thought from his mind. It seems like this whole day is messing with his mind in ways he never expected.
*
The house is old and the bed is rusty, it feels like everything around him creaks and shifts, a constant cacophony of sound beating against his eardrums. Kris wishes he could just shut the world out and focus on freeing his hands, but he has to stay alert, awake, preparing himself for whatever happens next.
*
Kris is not the club going type, but he's pretty sure that The Rainbow Room is obnoxious by anyone's standards. The music is too loud and too cheery, reducing Lambert's tinny voice in his ear to barely there whispers, and the color scheme would make a paint shop jealous. Every wall is a different color and with the multi colored flashing lights it makes Kris feels as if he's caught in someone else's acid trip.
"This place is weird," he says, to the yellow wall he's been snuggling up to for the last few minutes, trying to avoid the overzealous advances of a ten- feet- tall drag queen.
He doesn't think Lambert will hear him over the din, but his voice creeps into Kris's brain.
"I think you have to be drunk to enjoy it," he says. "Now mingle."
Kris wants to protest that he sucks at mingling, but he's supposed to act normal and not like a crazy person talking to walls, so he reluctantly pushes away from his safe corner. He spots one of the Feds through the crowd on the dance floor, he looks like he's enjoying himself, swaying to the beat with his head thrown back and sweat glittering on his exposed chest.
Kris idly wonders where he keeps his gun as he makes his way towards the bar, where another one of the Feds is busy chatting up the bartender. He's sure they're professional, but their behavior isn't exactly confidence inspiring. Kris could get lost in the crowd and he's pretty sure they wouldn't even notice.
"You disappeared."
It's the drag queen again, her voice booming across the bar when she spots Kris. Kris tries for a smile and desperately signals the bartender.
"Bathroom," he explains vaguely, when the drag queen sidles up to him again, throwing one hairy arm across Kris's shoulders.
He's pretty sure he can hear Lambert laughing at him.
*
Who was it? The thought keeps running through Kris's mind, making him replay every second of interaction he had over the course of the evening, but hours later he's no closer to an answer. It could have been anyone.
*
Running into Andrew is unexpected and extremely awkward. They parted ways on amiable terms and at times Kris finds that he misses Andrew's easy friendship, but running into him at a club that is most definitely a gay meat market certainly puts a strain on both the amiable and the easy parts.
"You look…" Andrew frowns, obviously searching for the right word to describe Kris's ready-and-willing outfit without being offensive.
"Different?" Kris suggests, trying to convince the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
"Uh… yeah." Andrew licks his lips. "Different."
Andrew looks as he always does, calm and composed, in skinny jeans and a simple band shirt. He's sweaty along the hair line and his cheeks look flushed as if he just took a turn on the dance floor. As far as Kris knows, Andrew doesn't dance. Ever.
They're saved, if that's the right word, from the extremely awkward silence by the arrival of Andrew's date, or boyfriend, or whatever. A skinny little thing with sweeping blond bangs and more eyeliner than Lambert, he wraps himself around Andrew as if he has the right to, and gives Kris a pointed look.
"Who's your friend?" he asks.
"Uhm…" Andrew has the decency to lose his cool for a moment, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "This is Kris. Kris, this is Tommy."
"Having fun are we?" Lambert asks, in Kris's ear. He sounds as if he's just barely holding back laughter. Lambert sucks and he's probably watching them right now through one of the hidden cameras.
"Hi Tommy," Kris says, trying for a smile. "Nice to meet you."
"Same," Tommy says, but his eyes are still cool.
"Well, I better get going," Kris says, scrubbing a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. "People to see and all that."
"Yeah," Andrew says, reaching out to clasp Kris's shoulder. "Call me sometime."
He has the nerve to look worried. If anyone should be worried it's Kris; since when does Andrew hang out with skinny rocker boys and dance? He's obviously on something.
"Jealousy is so unbecoming, don't you think?" Lambert murmurs in his ear and Kris realizes he's glaring daggers at Tommy's back from the hidden corner where he retreated to sulk.
"Fuck you," Kris mutters, and this time he's almost glad when Mona's booming yell of Kris rings out across the room, at least someone likes him.
*
It could be Lambert, Kris's mind whispers, dark and treacherous. He didn't tell you to get out before it was already too late. What did he see on his cameras? What did he hear? How did he know?
Kris pulls hard on the rope to push the thought out of his mind, ignoring the way the hemp claws at his bruised skin - he has to believe Lambert is coming for him. He has to. It's quite the surprise when his hand suddenly slips free, flopping down useless and aching against the filthy bed.
*
Kris thinks that maybe he could enjoy clubbing if he always had Lambert talking his ear off. As the night goes on the commentary gets more and more rambunctious and Kris constantly has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. He wishes he could talk back, but he can only hide in the corner so often without drawing attention to himself.
The big garish clock above the bar reads 2am when the speaker suddenly stops working, cutting Lambert off mid rant (it's amazing that anyone can have that much to say on the subject of shoes), and Kris looks around furtively, resisting the urge to reach up and adjust the tiny earpiece. He spots Terrance, the Fed he saw dancing earlier, who frowns at him, glancing meaningfully towards the entrance.
Kris takes that to mean Terrance wants him to leave, but suddenly he's not feeling so well, so he sets out for the bathroom instead. His head is oddly heavy and his lids scrape across his eyeballs, scratchy from too many hours awake.
The earpiece crackles, but Kris can't really make out what Lambert is saying. Something about an egg maybe. Whatever it is it makes no sense.
"Abort, abort, abort," Lambert shouts, his words suddenly coming in loud and clear in a way that makes Kris's head spin. "Don't make me come in there and get you."
"That would be nice," Kris says to no one in particular, just as the floor comes up to meet him.
*
Next...
Author: jeyhawk
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Beta: sbb23! <333
Word Count: ~11,000
Disclaimer: Not true. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.
Warnings: Graphic (but short) descriptions of mutilated bodies. Tense situations. Violence.
Summary: Detective Kris Allen volunteers for an undercover operation ran by FBI agent Adam Lambert. Things don't turn out the way either of them planned…
Notes: A huge thanks goes out to dansetheblues as usual! She tried her hardest to have this fic make sense. If it still doesn't, it's certainly all my fault. <333
Another thanks goes out to elizaria, who read the revised version and assured me it that doesn't suck. If it still does, I suppose it's still all my fault. ;) <333
Also, thanks to teamaims for the title. <333 (Borrowed from an Eagle Eye Cherry song.)
Please note that the entirety of my knowledge about police procedures comes from crime novels, TV shows and Wikipedia. I tried to make it plausible, but I'm certainly not an expert on these things.
The rough hemp of the rope bites into Kris's exposed skin, leaving it raw and reddened, and the filthy bed underneath him stinks of sweat and blood. His shoulders ache with the way his arms are pulled behind his back and every attempt to shift just makes the rope tighten until it feels as if he can't breathe with the way it wraps around him. This is not how it was supposed to go.
*
"No!" Special Agent Lambert's mouth sets into a thin line and he glares at Kris and Chief Cowell across the table. "Detective Allen doesn't have the necessary training."
"And what training would that be?" Chief Cowell asks, raising his eyebrows. "You know as well as I do that all he has to do is stand around looking pretty and unobtrusive. I'm sure even Detective Allen could manage that without special training."
The jab hurts, as does the dismissive look Lambert gives him, but Kris keeps his mouth shut and his hands open against his thighs. He needs this chance to prove himself, or he'll always be a fuck up in Chief Cowell's eyes.
"I want someone else," Lambert says, blue eyes sliding over Kris's face.
"Tough luck," Chief Cowell responds, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't have anyone else."
Lambert's mouth tilts into a sneer and his nostrils flare, he's obviously not used to not getting his way.
"Look," Cowell says, leaning forward. "You asked for tiny, cute and unobtrusive. This is the best I can do."
"I can do it," Kris says, keeping his voice level and his eyes away from Lambert's face. "Just give me a chance."
Lambert stares at him for the longest of whiles, blue eyes hard and unreadable, before nodding curtly.
"Okay," he says and Kris tries to not let his relief show on his face.
*
Within minutes Kris's left thigh starts throbbing with the way his legs are tied together with his hands, and the stiff sheets scrape against the raw surface of his scar. He doesn't need the reminder of another case gone wrong and he shifts slightly to take the pressure off his leg. It makes the rough fibers of the rope eat into the soft skin of his stomach, but it also gives him just the tiniest hint of wiggle room, and he slowly, carefully, starts to move his hands.
*
Special Agent Lambert's briefing is short and to the point. He lines up seven pictures of mutilated young men on the table and points to one in the middle.
"Fuck up and this is you," he says.
Kris studies the picture, taking in the impossible angle of the victims left arm, the unseeing stare of his brown eyes, and the garish rainbow painted on the bruised and bloodied skin of his back, before lifting his eyes to Lambert's face.
"I know."
*
Sweat beads on Kris's forehead and dampens the skin on his back, it makes the sheets feel moist, disgusting, and he presses his mouth tightly shut before attempting another shift. The springs creak under him and somewhere in the distance a door slams shut. He holds his breath, waiting for something - anything - to happen, but everything is quiet save for the thunderous beat of his heart.
*
Kris takes one look at the outfit Lambert picked out for him before spinning on his heel to face the man in question.
"You've got to be kidding me," he says.
Lambert just raises his eyebrows with the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips.
*
The skin on Kris's wrists is rubbed raw, but with every wiggle there's a little more give so he keeps at it, ignoring the way it stings. He doesn't know how long he's been here, or how much time he has left, but he clamps down on the panic and keeps on shifting his hands with tiny precise movements, pretending he can't feel the way they tremble.
*
The leather pants are skin-tight and the billowing shirt tucked into the waistband unlaced down to his belly button, Kris feels like a tool and he's pretty sure he looks one too. The knee-high spiked boots really doesn't help and the tangle of garish necklaces resting against his chest is cold and heavy.
The door opens and Lambert walks in without bothering to knock. He's carrying a wire in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other. He holds the bag up without looking at Kris.
"Do you know where this goes or do I have to draw you a map?"
Kris stares at the small smooth egg in the bag and orders his cheeks not to flush as he reaches out to grab the bag from Lambert's fingers.
"I know where it goes," he mutters.
He brushes past Lambert, intent on heading towards the men's room, but Lambert stops him with a hand to his shoulder.
"You might want this," he says, holding out a small plastic tube of lubricant and Kris's cheeks stop following orders all together.
The tube is still warm from Lambert's body, but Kris doesn't stop to wonder where he might have kept it; it's bad enough to know Lambert had it to begin with. The blush doesn't fade for the next ten minutes.
*
Kris can still feel the egg within him, small and unyielding. It should be broadcasting his position to the Feds, it should have had Lambert sweeping in to save the day hours ago, but the house, if it is a house, is silent around him. He's alone.
*
Kris comes back into the briefing room to find the table lined with makeup. He eyes the glittery explosion dubiously, hoping that no one expects him to actually know what to do with it, while he settles down into one of the chairs to wait for Lambert's return. Somewhere inside him the egg shifts, bringing a renewed burst of color to his cheeks. Naturally, that's when Lambert walks in again.
"Everything okay?" he asks blithely, but the too-innocent look on his face betrays his amusement.
"Fine," Kris says curtly, holding out the lube for Lambert.
Lambert smirks as he takes it from Kris's fingers, making it disappear into a pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, but he thankfully refrains from further comments.
"I checked with the techs," he says instead, taking a seat next to Kris. "They're picking up the signal loud and clear."
"Good," Kris mutters, determined not to think about the egg again until he has to.
*
Whatever the Rainbow Man used to drug Kris is wearing off fully, leaving him with a throbbing headache and heightened senses. He's hyperaware of every sound, every creak and whine echoing likea shout, and even the slightest shift of the air leaves goose-bumps in their wake. Stabbing pains shoot through his joints with even his tiniest movement and his mouth tastes like something died in it. He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps twisting his hands. It's the only thing he can do.
*
Lambert knows his way around makeup, sorting the various containers and pens with practiced ease. Kris doesn't know why he's surprised, the eyeliner alone should have clued him in.
"How do you feel about blue?" Lambert asks, brow knitted as if it's a serious concern. "With your coloring I'd normally go for gold with a hint of brown maybe, but that would clash horribly with the jewelry."
Kris just stares at him with his mouth hanging open. Lambert might just be the oddest Fed Kris ever had the misfortune of meeting.
*
The skin on Kris's wrists breaks, adding the slickness of blood to his unrelenting movement. It burns, hot and raw, but it lifts the fog from his head and it makes the rope slide easier, slowly slipping down over his hand. It gives him hope where there was none and he keeps on working, eyes shut and ears open. He'll find a way out.
*
Lambert's skin is pockmarked under the many layers of concealer covering his face and there's the barest hint of ginger at the roots of his raven hair. It's startling, somehow, to realize that Lambert is no more than human and Kris keeps his eyes on Lambert's hair as the agent reaches out to grab Kris's chin again with a brush poised in his hand.
There's something almost too intimate about the way Lambert applies makeup, his blue eyes sharp and attentive, while his hands are whisper-soft and gentle. Kris finds himself responding to the intimacy, the closeness, and his pulse picks up speed without asking.
Kris prefers his guys small and wiry rather than big and bulky, gentle rather than assertive, but it's hard to remember why when Lambert starts running his hands over Kris's skin, as self assured and confident with makeup as he was facing Chief Cowell down.
"Open up," Lambert murmurs, and Kris opens his eyes, not even aware that he let them fall shut.
For a moment they stare at each other, before Lambert's eyes drop to Kris's lips making Kris's stomach clench in anticipation. Then the door is thrown open and Chief Cowell barges in to chew Lambert out for commandeering two of his cars and the moment shatters into pieces so tiny Kris thinks he imagined the whole thing. It's probably for the best.
*
Kris's mind drifts in the darkness, taking him for an unwanted trip down memory lane. It's not quite his life flashing before his eyes, but it's not far from it, and he doesn't want to know what that means.
*
Kris stares at himself in the mirror. The makeup is subtle, the barest hint of shimmer across his lids, soft black lines around his eyes, and shiny gloss plumping his lips, yet he looks brand new. It should look garish on him, weird, but it just looks different, as if he doesn't really know the person staring back at him in the mirror, and considering he's lived with the guy for the past twenty-five years it makes him feel unsettled.
Anoop whistles when Kris walks out of the bathroom, waggling his eyebrows in a way that is probably meant to be suggestive but that just looks funny. Kris flips him off and slides back into the briefing room where Lambert and Chief Cowell are still yelling at each other. Kris isn't the slightest bit surprised that Lambert seems to be winning.
Naturally that makes Chief Cowell turn his attention to Kris, lips pulling back from his teeth in something that resembles a snarl.
"You look like a prostitute," he says.
Kris regales him calmly, ignoring Lambert's shocked gasp. "That's kind of the point."
Chief Cowell huffs, and pivots on his heel, stalking out of the room without closing the door behind him.
"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," Lambert says.
Kris thinks that's kind of rich coming from someone who's been talking to him like that since the moment they met.
"I can handle him," Kris says, as he moves over to close the door. "He barks worse than he bites. Mostly."
He's not going to get into office politics with Lambert. It's hard to explain what it's like to be the youngest detective at the station, the newest detective at the station, the only gay detective at the station and a transfer from rural Arkansas at that, without having it come off like a woe-is-me story, because it isn't.
Sure, Kris has to fight tooth and nail for respect, but that goes for everyone, gay or straight, old or new. You're only as good as your last case and considering how Kris's last case went, it's a wonder people are still talking to him.
"For the record," Lambert says. "I don't think you look like a prostitute at all."
There's something in his voice that makes Kris shiver and when he looks up Lambert's eyes are heavy and dark, focused on the generous strip of skin visible through the open laces of Kris's shirt. Kris suppresses his need to pull the shirt closed and gives Lambert a pointed look. Nothing about their dynamic makes sense.
*
Whenever Kris's mind drifts away from the past, he sees the pictures Lambert showed him. Broken, battered bodies, empty eyes, garish bright rainbows. He sees the bruises and the patches of raw skin, matched now by marks on his own body, and somehow that gives him the strength to keep on pushing, twisting his hands and pulling on the ropes, with his breath stuck painfully in his throat.
*
Lambert is an asshole. Kris silently fumes in a corner while Lambert goes over the plan with the five federal agents in club gear that just arrived, looking a lot more sparkly and suave than Kris could ever manage. Lambert's plan references Kris as The Civilian. It also makes it clear that The Civilian is most likely of less than average intelligence and is probably plotting his own demise by means of torture as they speak.
It isn't his own demise Kris is plotting, as Lambert goes on and on about how Kris is to be protected at all costs, as if he's five years old and incapable of taking care of himself. It takes considerable willpower to stay quiet and unobtrusive in the corner when they only thing he really wants to do is kick Lambert in the nuts. Hard.
People underestimate Kris all the time. He's short, and cute, and has those nice Southern manners, and somehow they think that means he's weak. Kris isn't weak, he just lets people think that he is right up until he socks them in the eye, but he also knows how to bide his time and Lambert will get what he's due. Later.
*
Kris's last case ended with him getting shot in the thigh by an eighty-five year old grandma with a urinary tract infection. He's been back on active duty for a week and he's already trussed up like a Christmas turkey in a serial killer's lair. It's almost funny that he has the energy to be embarrassed about that even in a life or death situation.
*
Kris has every intention of telling Lambert off as soon as they're left alone again, but then Lambert brings him coffee and three different kinds of sandwiches and Kris swallows his anger together with the first few sips of blessed black gold.
"I didn't know what you like," Lambert says, laying the sandwiches out for Kris to pick one. "You look like a ham-and-mustard guy, but looks can be deceiving."
Kris picks the one with chicken breast and mango-garlic spread, he's so not a ham-and-mustard guy whatever that means. Lambert grins and takes the one with tuna for himself, settling down on the other side of the table.
"Black coffee and chicken," he says, as if this is vital information. "I'll remember."
Kris snorts, but he does take a peek into Lambert's cup, it looks like he prefers his coffee white. Lambert kicks his feet up on one of the empty chairs, crossing them at the ankle, and Kris spends a moment contemplating his boots. They're huge, and black, and very much not a part of federal regulation, much like the hint of eyeliner around Lambert's eyes and the chipped black polish on his nails.
Kris finds himself wondering what Lambert dresses like when he's out of his suit and quickly banishes the thought from his mind. It seems like this whole day is messing with his mind in ways he never expected.
*
The house is old and the bed is rusty, it feels like everything around him creaks and shifts, a constant cacophony of sound beating against his eardrums. Kris wishes he could just shut the world out and focus on freeing his hands, but he has to stay alert, awake, preparing himself for whatever happens next.
*
Kris is not the club going type, but he's pretty sure that The Rainbow Room is obnoxious by anyone's standards. The music is too loud and too cheery, reducing Lambert's tinny voice in his ear to barely there whispers, and the color scheme would make a paint shop jealous. Every wall is a different color and with the multi colored flashing lights it makes Kris feels as if he's caught in someone else's acid trip.
"This place is weird," he says, to the yellow wall he's been snuggling up to for the last few minutes, trying to avoid the overzealous advances of a ten- feet- tall drag queen.
He doesn't think Lambert will hear him over the din, but his voice creeps into Kris's brain.
"I think you have to be drunk to enjoy it," he says. "Now mingle."
Kris wants to protest that he sucks at mingling, but he's supposed to act normal and not like a crazy person talking to walls, so he reluctantly pushes away from his safe corner. He spots one of the Feds through the crowd on the dance floor, he looks like he's enjoying himself, swaying to the beat with his head thrown back and sweat glittering on his exposed chest.
Kris idly wonders where he keeps his gun as he makes his way towards the bar, where another one of the Feds is busy chatting up the bartender. He's sure they're professional, but their behavior isn't exactly confidence inspiring. Kris could get lost in the crowd and he's pretty sure they wouldn't even notice.
"You disappeared."
It's the drag queen again, her voice booming across the bar when she spots Kris. Kris tries for a smile and desperately signals the bartender.
"Bathroom," he explains vaguely, when the drag queen sidles up to him again, throwing one hairy arm across Kris's shoulders.
He's pretty sure he can hear Lambert laughing at him.
*
Who was it? The thought keeps running through Kris's mind, making him replay every second of interaction he had over the course of the evening, but hours later he's no closer to an answer. It could have been anyone.
*
Running into Andrew is unexpected and extremely awkward. They parted ways on amiable terms and at times Kris finds that he misses Andrew's easy friendship, but running into him at a club that is most definitely a gay meat market certainly puts a strain on both the amiable and the easy parts.
"You look…" Andrew frowns, obviously searching for the right word to describe Kris's ready-and-willing outfit without being offensive.
"Different?" Kris suggests, trying to convince the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
"Uh… yeah." Andrew licks his lips. "Different."
Andrew looks as he always does, calm and composed, in skinny jeans and a simple band shirt. He's sweaty along the hair line and his cheeks look flushed as if he just took a turn on the dance floor. As far as Kris knows, Andrew doesn't dance. Ever.
They're saved, if that's the right word, from the extremely awkward silence by the arrival of Andrew's date, or boyfriend, or whatever. A skinny little thing with sweeping blond bangs and more eyeliner than Lambert, he wraps himself around Andrew as if he has the right to, and gives Kris a pointed look.
"Who's your friend?" he asks.
"Uhm…" Andrew has the decency to lose his cool for a moment, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "This is Kris. Kris, this is Tommy."
"Having fun are we?" Lambert asks, in Kris's ear. He sounds as if he's just barely holding back laughter. Lambert sucks and he's probably watching them right now through one of the hidden cameras.
"Hi Tommy," Kris says, trying for a smile. "Nice to meet you."
"Same," Tommy says, but his eyes are still cool.
"Well, I better get going," Kris says, scrubbing a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. "People to see and all that."
"Yeah," Andrew says, reaching out to clasp Kris's shoulder. "Call me sometime."
He has the nerve to look worried. If anyone should be worried it's Kris; since when does Andrew hang out with skinny rocker boys and dance? He's obviously on something.
"Jealousy is so unbecoming, don't you think?" Lambert murmurs in his ear and Kris realizes he's glaring daggers at Tommy's back from the hidden corner where he retreated to sulk.
"Fuck you," Kris mutters, and this time he's almost glad when Mona's booming yell of Kris rings out across the room, at least someone likes him.
*
It could be Lambert, Kris's mind whispers, dark and treacherous. He didn't tell you to get out before it was already too late. What did he see on his cameras? What did he hear? How did he know?
Kris pulls hard on the rope to push the thought out of his mind, ignoring the way the hemp claws at his bruised skin - he has to believe Lambert is coming for him. He has to. It's quite the surprise when his hand suddenly slips free, flopping down useless and aching against the filthy bed.
*
Kris thinks that maybe he could enjoy clubbing if he always had Lambert talking his ear off. As the night goes on the commentary gets more and more rambunctious and Kris constantly has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. He wishes he could talk back, but he can only hide in the corner so often without drawing attention to himself.
The big garish clock above the bar reads 2am when the speaker suddenly stops working, cutting Lambert off mid rant (it's amazing that anyone can have that much to say on the subject of shoes), and Kris looks around furtively, resisting the urge to reach up and adjust the tiny earpiece. He spots Terrance, the Fed he saw dancing earlier, who frowns at him, glancing meaningfully towards the entrance.
Kris takes that to mean Terrance wants him to leave, but suddenly he's not feeling so well, so he sets out for the bathroom instead. His head is oddly heavy and his lids scrape across his eyeballs, scratchy from too many hours awake.
The earpiece crackles, but Kris can't really make out what Lambert is saying. Something about an egg maybe. Whatever it is it makes no sense.
"Abort, abort, abort," Lambert shouts, his words suddenly coming in loud and clear in a way that makes Kris's head spin. "Don't make me come in there and get you."
"That would be nice," Kris says to no one in particular, just as the floor comes up to meet him.
*
Next...