Police fic, Chapter five!!

[scacao]

Here is chapter five. Warning, this one has a lemon :D


Chapter Five

Heero and Duo’s first patrol was later that same night.

Une had agreed to a heavier presence in the Drain without much of an argument. Pragmatically, it would look terrible for the police if word got out about a child murderer roaming the streets of Sanc City. Appearing proactive on that front was as much a public relations move as it was one of actual concern for the citizens of the Drain. Une already had the Winner clusterfuck on her plate; another high-profile fiasco was the last thing she was looking to acquire.

Their route took them past the alley on Hart Street, around Browning, cutting a swath across the deepest part of the projects. These were the parts of the Drain where commerce only started after dark. They passed so many prostitutes and drug dealers, defiantly plying their trade despite the conspicuous passing of their car, that Heero had to wonder if they even recognized police vehicles in this part of town. They certainly were not afraid of getting taken in.

They returned to the station after three, the radio quiet all night. A good sign, but it was too early to tell whether the killer was just lying low or if he had gotten the message their presence was meant to send.

“I’ll take the keys inside, you can go home,” Heero said in the garage. “Dr. G’s report should be ready tomorrow.”

“Better get a good night’s sleep tonight, then,” Duo said, walking away toward his car, “because I sure won’t be getting it tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

“Night.”

Heero finished up his business and hurried home, collapsing straight into bed when he arrived. The clock on the nightstand said four o’clock. He fell into dreamless sleep and felt no more rested when he awoke hours later.

The next morning found them cradling coffees in Dr. G’s basement office, waiting for him to return from the autopsy. Duo had unsurprisingly turned down the offer to take a look at the body himself.

The door creaked open and the ME shuffled in, still clad in his scrubs, their case file in his hands.

“Sorry for the wait, gentlemen,” G said, taking a seat at his desk.

He pulled out the autopsy report and offered it to them. Duo grabbed it and quickly scanned over it, expression darkening as he took in the information.

“Jesus...”

“It’s not pretty,” G said.

Duo read from the paper, eyes hard.

“‘Evidence of assault twelve to twenty-four hours prior to death’... ‘marks consistent with a flat, broad object’...” He quickly handed the paper over to Heero. “I can’t read any more of this, it makes me fucking sick.”

“Duo...”

Duo turned to G. “So the guy had him for a full day before he killed him?”

“At least. The toxicology report is not finished, but I assume we will find trace amounts of chloroform, consistent with exposure twenty-four to forty-eight hours before death. The cause of death is asphyxiation caused by acute strangulation, like the other victims.”

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, it is rather gruesome.”

“It’s fucking evil, is what it is,” Duo muttered.

He stood up abruptly.

“Thanks, doctor. We’ll be in touch for the tox report.”

They left the basement and returned to their desk. Heero went back to typing his summary of their uneventful patrol, watching Duo out of the corner of his eye. His partner sat quietly, his chair turned away, lost in thought.

It was a half-hour later before he spoke.

“He takes them somewhere and tortures them.”

Heero’s fingers stilled on the keyboard as Duo continued.

“Sally was right on the money with the serial killer thing, you know. He’s got a whole ritual laid out. Knocks them out, keeps them somewhere for a day or two, then strangles them and dumps them like trash.” Duo’s hands were tight fists in his lap.

“If it’s a ritual, he probably takes them to the same place.”

“His house? A storage space? An abandoned building?”

“It could be any of those.”

“We need to find out which one it is, then.”

Heero shook his head. “There are hundreds of abandoned buildings in the Drain. It would take months to search them all.”

Duo’s expression was tight. “We have as long as it takes.”

“Duo, it’s an impossible task.”

Heero watched the anger flush Duo’s face as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

“I never thought I’d hear that kind of half-assed desk jockey shit from you, Yuy.”

“I’m not saying it because I don’t want to go investigate--”

“Just spare me, Heero. I’m trying to find the guy, and you’re making excuses.”

“You’re not finding anyone if you send us on a goddamn wild goose chase around the Drain!”

“Oh yeah? So instead, we should just wait around for Dr. G to wheel in the next kid?”

Heero’s temper flared, but he attempted to keep his voice level.

“Listen, I am just as upset about the autopsy results as you are--”

“--Really?” Duo snapped back. “Because it sounds like you’d rather sit on your ass than do some goddamn police work.”

With that, he grabbed his coat and stomped off toward the elevators, leaving Heero to fume alone.

Police work? He was doing fucking police work, the kind of work that was apparently below his partner’s threshold for qualification.

He attacked his report with renewed ferocity, taking his anger out on his computer keys. What the hell was Duo’s problem? What did he think Une would do if she found out about him storming out of the station like that? Whatever she did, it was his own damn fault. If he thought his partner was going to bail him out of yet another tight squeeze, he was in for a surprise.

He glared at the screen for another minute before throwing his hands up and grabbing his coat. He’d probably have to rewrite the whole damn thing later, when his temper had cooled a little. In the mean time, he needed to clear his head.

His phone rang twenty minutes into his self-imposed coffee break.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

The fury was gone from Duo’s voice. Heero sighed.

“Hey.”

“Look, I’m sorry about before. That report really got to me, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m a dick.”

Heero snorted. “Where are you?”

“Cruising the patrol route near Hart Street.” There was a touch of embarrassment in Duo’s voice. “I’m on my way back now, though. Meet you at the station?”

“Yeah.”

Heero left his money on the table and hurried out to meet his partner.

That night, Heero dreamt of chasing a dark figure through the frozen streets of the Drain. He could feel the cold metal weight of his duty weapon in his palm, the wind on his cheeks. Somewhere behind him, he could feel Duo’s presence, as well. Together they ran, chasing the figure past the alley where they had found the second victim’s body, the intersection where Lorenzo Guadanigno had lain, past the empty lot of Duo’s childhood on the street. They chased their target into the shadows of an abandoned garage, and cornered him at a dead end. He whirled, something grasped in his hands, and shots rang, screaming past him with the droning whine of a police siren, and the dark figure fell with a gasp that sounded much too close, too familiar. He turned and saw with dawning horror that Duo was falling, too, and clutching at his side, and even in the darkness Heero could see the red stain spreading across his shirt, the siren wail growing louder and louder, drowning him out as he tried to call out Duo’s name--

He jerked awake with a start, the siren coalescing into the familiar ring of his phone on the bedside table. He groped for it in the dark, heart thundering in his chest.

“Hello?”

“Heero? Hey, buddy...”

He felt an immediate wash of relief at Duo’s voice. It made his face heat with embarrassment. For a moment, he had been terrified of what the call might have been about.

“Duo, do you know what time it is?”

“Uh... not really.”

The slur in his voice was unmistakable; Heero could almost smell the booze through the phone.

“I need you to do me a real big favor, though... pleeease...”

Heero groaned, even as he threw back the sheets and stumbled out of bed in the dark.

“Where are you?”

“Howard’s.”

Heero glanced back at his bed, at the glaring alarm clock.

Well, it wasn’t like he’d be sleeping anyway.

“All right, I’m on my way.”

He found Duo slumped over the bar, Howard impatiently leaning on the counter, waiting for Heero to arrive.

“Sorry.”

“Anyone else, and I’d have kicked him out at last call,” Howard replied. He helped Duo off his stool and onto his feet. Duo pitched dangerously forward, and Heero grabbed him tightly around the waist before he could crash to the floor. Duo leaned heavily against him, muttering unintelligibly, breath warm against Heero’s neck. He reeked of alcohol.

Howard’s brow furrowed.

“Is he all right? He’s been coming in every night lately.”

Heero glanced down at his half-conscious partner. He was? He hadn’t told Heero he had been drinking alone. For how long?

“I’ll make sure he gets home,” he said to Howard.

“Thanks, Heero. Watch out for him, will you? I’m a little worried.”

Heero nodded, and dragged Duo out to his car, depositing him in the passenger seat. He stayed comatose all the way back to his apartment. Heero had to drag him bodily up the stairs to the second floor, bracing him against the wall as he fished Duo’s keys out of his pocket.

“All right, Duo, we’re home,” he said as he opened the door. Part of him hoped that Duo would wake up enough to continue on his own, and let Heero escape to safety.

Duo stirred and blinked his eyes open.

“Hey, buddy...” he greeted, and began to slide down the wall.

With a groan, Heero grabbed for him before he fell and steered him inside, shutting the door behind them. He guided him in darkness to his bedroom, hitting the light as he brought him to the bed and placed him down gently on top of the sheets.

Duo’s eyes slid closed immediately.

“Duo, wake up.”

“Mmmph.”

“Take off your shoes.”

Duo nodded and, movements clumsy and uncoordinated, lifted himself halfway off the bed and began to remove his shirt.

“Shoes, Duo,” Heero stammered.

“Yeah, I’m doing it.” He flung his shirt across the room and began to work on his slacks.

Heero swallowed. He took a step away from the bed.

“I’m leaving. Good night, Duo.”

“Wait,” Duo slurred, and reached for his arm, his grip surprisingly tight. His hand slid down and curled around Heero’s on the bedspread. Heero stared at it, suddenly speechless.

“Thanks, Heero.”

Heero’s heart pounded so hard he thought his ribs might break. It was an eternity before he could speak, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

“Duo...”

“Mm... yes?” Duo replied, those purple eyes suddenly open, staring up at Heero with a gaze too clear, too focused to be inebriated. For a moment, Heero was sure Duo was doing this on purpose, was fully aware of what it meant for his hand to be clasped around Heero’s the way that it was, what it did to him to lean over his half-naked body in the darkness of Duo’s bedroom and have his partner stare into his eyes with that disarming, captivating gaze. His lips went dry, heat flushing into his face, blood roaring in his ears as they teetered precariously on the edge of something profound.

Then, it was gone. Duo’s eyes slid shut again, and he flopped unceremoniously over on his side, his hand slipping from Heero’s with as little thought as, Heero realized with a jolt, he had put into the gesture in the first place. In moments, he was asleep, his chest rising and falling with easy regularity. It was as if Heero was not there at all.

He was a fool.

He stumbled out of the apartment into the blinding gleam of the lit hallway. The desire to escape made him run back to his car, his mind a mess of disjointed thoughts and emotions. You are such an idiot, it screamed at him, but followed the insult with a crystal-clear image of Duo in his dream, falling to the murky ground with blood spreading beneath his fingers. His face was flushed and hot, but whether it was from embarrassment or distress, he didn’t know and didn’t want to figure out. He peeled away from the curb, sped all the way back to his apartment, as if he could outrun his own mind if he just went fast enough.

He threw himself back into bed on his return, but to imagine he would sleep any more tonight was a joke. The darkness of his room was no comfort; it provided ample space for his thoughts to coalesce once again into images he had no desire to see. Duo, lying beneath him on the bed, mouth slack as his lips slurred the syllables of Heero’s name. Duo, crumpling to the ground, his lips curled in a shout of pain. Duo’s hand closing around his. Duo slumped over the bar, unconscious. Duo’s eyes as he stood in the alley on Hart Street and stared at the dead boy’s body. Duo’s shirt, being pulled over his head. Duo’s shirt, turning red with blood.

When he could take no more, Heero moved from the bed to the living room couch. He let the best programming four-AM television had to offer arrest his attention, and waited morosely for the sun to rise.

* * * *

The sight of Wufei curled around his computer with his head in his hands and a constant litany of curses muttered behind his palms was beginning to feel utterly routine to his partner. Scattered among the ever-growing piles of papers on the desk were a few city newspapers that, Trowa supposed, Wufei kept on hand for times when his morale needed a good flagellation. They boasted headlines like Still No Suspect Three Weeks after Winner Slaying and Brutal Uptown Murder Leaves Police Baffled. Wufei was a lot of things as a result of this case-- neurotic, short-tempered, and depressed in an encompassing, existential way came immediately to mind-- but baffled wasn’t one of them. Between smoke breaks and these spells at the desk, he approached this case with the methodical, single-minded calculation of a champion chess player-- albeit one who had sat down at the table to discover he was playing with only pawns and one knight with the head lopped off.

Also routine to Trowa was the experience of walking into the station in the morning with no idea what he might find on their desk-- save the ever-present Wufei-shaped paperweight at one end. Today he found a sizable stack of printed paper that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be phone records. They had been left, tellingly, at his end of the desk, and Trowa took the hint, picking them up and rifling through them.

Five minutes later, with no voluntary movement at the other end of the desk, he sighed and addressed his partner.

“So, whose phone records are these?”

With a grunt, Wufei lifted his head and peered grimly over, his eyes bloodshot and narrowed to slits.

“Lemme see.”

Trowa couldn’t suppress the smirk creeping up his face as he handed the stack of paper back to Wufei, who rubbed his eyes and held it close to inspect.

“Did you sleep here last night, Chang?”

“What’s it to you?”

“You look like death warmed over.”

“Worried about my health now, Barton?”

“Well, if you die, I’ll have to take over this case.”

Wufei snorted, then handed the phone records back to him.

“Lagrange Security.”

“What?”

“Those phone records belong to Lagrange Security. That’s the company who handles the cameras in the garage in Mr. Winner’s building.”

“Oh. Ever planned on letting me know any of this information?”

“I just did,” Wufei said, reaching for another stack of papers. “And here are the phone records for Winner Enterprises’ office, dating back six months. I took the liberty of highlighting the number that the threatening calls came from. Now we see if Lagrange Security is connected.”

With a wry smile, he handed Trowa a highlighter and the heavy stack of paper.

“Never a dull moment in Homicide,” Trowa muttered. “How long do you think this will take?”

“I’ve been sleeping at my desk for a week. How long do you think it will take?”

“Point taken.”

Trowa stared at the work laid out for him with a sinking feeling in his stomach. It looked like he would be getting homework.

* * * *

Hours later, phone records in hand, Trowa made his way home. It was dark and empty outside on the streets, and the brief warmth of the sunlit day had long since given over to the biting chill of night. Wufei had still been working when he’d left, but Trowa was damned if he was going to go down the all-nighter route. Better to stay up at home combing through the records than to spend that time hunched over his desk, highlighter clutched vainly in his hand, looking for that smoking gun that he was pretty sure they would never find.

Besides, he had plans.

He left his work in his apartment and hurried back out into the night, headed for the Best Western. He was starving, had been since at least seven back at the station, but Quatre had wrenched a promise out of him to wait to eat together, and making Quatre happy, he had long since realized, was worth going a little hungry. That wasn’t stopping him from jogging briskly toward the hotel-- the sooner he arrived, the sooner Quatre would meet him in the lobby with that wide, bright smile, the sooner they’d be sitting at their corner table in Theodora’s. He couldn’t wait, and that wasn’t just the hunger talking.

The Best Western was not an attractive building, a beige square with narrow, inset windows, giving it a pockmarked appearance. The interior was not much better; he’d been up to Quatre’s room once or twice and had noted the pea-soup green carpeting, replete with cigarette burns and unidentifiable stains, the floral curtains that seemed purposely designed to clash with every color and pattern known to mankind, the bedsheets which might have once been white or might have always been the same sickly yellow they now appeared. But it was the exterior that he stared at now, trying to make out which window belonged to Quatre’s room. Seven floors up, three rooms away from the elevator, and he knew it could be seen from the street because he’d pointed out his apartment from Quatre’s window before. There was a window in that vicinity with its light on, but the curtains obscured any closer inspection.

Still, Trowa found himself watching it as he approached, wondering what Quatre might be doing, thoughts far from all the work he had left to do, and wholly focused on the evening the two of them had ahead of each other.

Then, in a billowing plume of red-orange light, the window he’d been watching exploded outwards.

For an instant the falling shards of glass and brick seemed to hover mutely in the air, illuminated in the fire. Then came the sonic crash, the deafening boom, and it was only then that Trowa realized what had happened, and he was running toward the hotel.

They had found him. They were making good on their threat, making sure he wouldn’t talk. Jesus Christ, Quatre!

The quiet stillness of the winter street had been shattered by the explosion, and people and smoke poured out of the hotel, shouts and crunching glass and the howling fire alarm piercing the air. Trowa’s lungs burned by the time he made it to the hotel entrance, and he had to shove his way through the panicked crowd, eventually flashing his badge just to be able to make it to the stairway, heart in his throat. He leapt the stairs three at a time, racing desperately to the third floor.

Just as he reached for the door, it flew wide open, sending him grabbing for the handrail to keep from tumbling down the stairs. Standing in the doorway, eyes wide with shock, was Quatre.

“Trowa?”

“Quatre!”

Trowa was reaching for him in an instant, his heart too shredded to do anything but grab the boy and hold him close. He felt sick, fear and relief consuming him equally.

“Thank God you’re all right.” His voice was ragged, hoarse from more than just the smoke. Wetness stung his eyes. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Quatre just nodded, and let Trowa lead him numbly down the stairs, one hand firmly clasped around his arm, like he was afraid to let him go. He hustled them through the crowd of evacuating people, fire alarm screaming as they passed.

Only when they were on the far side of the street, away from the smoke and choking chaos, did Trowa feel it was safe to turn to him again.

“Quatre, are you hurt anywhere?”

Quatre shook his head.

“It happened so fast... the room next door just... I don’t know, it just exploded...”

He stared past Trowa to the burning building, his gaze hard.

“That wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Trowa shook his head. The room next door... how long had they been planning this?

“God...” Quatre faltered, stumbled backward against the building behind them, covering his mouth with his hands, drawing shallow, panicked breaths. Trowa reached for him again, holding him gently at the shoulder.

“Come on, let’s go to my place.”

After a long, precarious moment, Quatre nodded.

“Thank you, Trowa.”

They walked the few blocks back to the apartment in silence. Quatre leaned into him, his arm in a loose grip around Trowa’s waist. That voice was still telling him it wasn’t right, that he was heading down a dangerous path, but the image of the window exploding into fire was burned into his mind. The fragile grasp of Quatre’s fingers in his shirt were a comfort that he was just shaken enough to admit he needed.

Inside his place, Quatre’s grip slipped away and he went to take a seat on the couch. His hands came up again to run through his hair, and he let out a long exhale, like he was trying to breathe out the stress and fear that seemed poised to overtake him. Trowa wordlessly went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. His appetite was long since gone, his stomach having permanently dropped somewhere around his knees, but he reached instead for a couple of beers and brought them to the living room. Quatre looked up at his entrance, then at the can being offered, and gave him a small smile.

“I know, I know,” Trowa said, “but it will make you feel a little better.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Quatre accepted the drink. He opened the can and took a long sip, a slight wrinkling of his nose indicating he wasn’t used to the taste.

“Thanks.”

Maybe it was the smile, maybe the shock still reflecting in Quatre’s eyes, but suddenly Trowa had to sit down. He collapsed to the couch, his beer, thankfully unopened, rolling out of his slack grip and thudding to the floor.

“Thank God you weren’t hurt,” he said after a long while.

Quatre’s voice was a whisper between them.

“I had just gone into the bathroom, and... I heard this horrible noise. And the heat... When I could bring myself to look, half the room was gone.”

Quatre stared at the can in his hands, tracing a pattern with his finger into the condensation beading on the sides.

“What about my stuff? I don’t even know if I have any clothes left.”

“Don’t worry about it tonight.”

“But...”

“The police are undoubtedly on their way now,” Trowa cut in. “If any of your stuff is undamaged, you’ll get it back. Hell, I’ll take you shopping tomorrow if you want. Just... don’t worry about it.”

Quatre was quiet a moment. Then, he gave Trowa a small smile.

“You’re willing to go shopping with me?”

Anything, anything to get you to smile like that, he thought desperately.

“Of course.”

He reached shakily for his beer, which had rolled under the coffee table. Popping it open, he took a long draw off the top.

Quatre was still watching him.

“Where am I going to stay now?”

Maybe it was the warmth of the beer, maybe the lingering shock of adrenaline, that decided Trowa’s answer. Or maybe they had only illuminated his decision. Either way, he knew what he would say before Quatre had even asked the question:

“With me.”

When there was no response after a moment, he turned and found Quatre still staring at him, eyes wide.

“You mean it?”

Trowa nodded. He had meant it from the first night Quatre had spent there, truthfully. But there had been all that propriety in the way, that constant struggle over what he wanted and what was “right”-- and look what that had almost resulted in.

Quatre was not safe in some random hotel, whichever their station’s meager budget could afford, where whoever intended to hurt him could be free to set up their plans without interference from employees paid too little to care. No, that was as good as throwing him to the wolves himself.

Quatre would be safe with him. He’d swear his life on it.

“Unless, of course, you don’t want to.”

“No!” Quatre’s reply was instantaneous. “Of course I want to, Trowa.”

Placing his half-drunk beer on the table, Quatre shifted on the couch, inching closer, close enough for their knees to touch. Too close. There was something heady, anticipatory, in his gaze. He exhaled softly and Trowa had to look away. He was left staring at the grey stains on Quatre’s pants, noticing them for the first time-- soot and smoke and ash.

He had come so close to losing him. Christ, so fucking close. And now he was close to something else entirely, something powerful and dangerous between them, something he couldn’t do. Couldn’t have.

So fucking close, together on the couch, knees pressed together, sharing warmth and smoke-grease stains and breath tinged with the remnants of panic.

He could turn just so and press his mouth to Quatre’s, kiss the fear away, suck the shock right out of him and replace it with security, with a promise that he would never let him get in harm’s way again. He knew, he knew Quatre would not refuse him. That he was waiting for him to close the distance between them. Inches and miles. Years. Circumstances.

He couldn’t.

Trowa shot up from the couch, his throat dry, his palms wet.

“Would you like to take a shower?” he blurted.

There was a flicker of something across Quatre’s expression that he hid quickly, but not quickly enough for Trowa to miss.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I’ll get you towels and a change of clothes.” Trowa didn’t wait for a response before escaping the room.

Only when the door to the bathroom had shut, and the sound of rushing water could be heard behind it, did Trowa return to the living room and promptly gulp down the rest of his beer before heading to the kitchen for another.

He opened the refrigerator, and under the glare of the light he decided a few things. He was going to sleep alone tonight. He was going to see Quatre to his room, and shut the door, and go to sleep. That was all. He cracked open his second can and repeated his affirmation. Halfway through the drink, he began to believe it. He took the beer back to his room and let it continue to assure him in the familiar darkness.

His phone buzzed in his pocket sometime around the dregs. Trowa was not surprised to see his partner’s number flash on the screen. He took a seat on the bed and flipped it open.

“Wufei.”

“Barton, I’m at the Best Western, where the hell is the Winner kid and where the hell are you?”

“I’m at home. Quatre is here, too.”

“What? Were you ever planning on telling me?” Wufei sounded mad, and cold.

“He’s fine. He’s not hurt.”

There was a snort on the phone.

“Have you seen what this place looks like right now? I sincerely doubt he’s fine.”

“... He’s not hurt.”

“Well, I guess that’s about all we can hope for, under the circumstances.” Wufei sighed. “I can meet you back at the station in an hour, after we finish up over here.”

Trowa could hear muffled footsteps in the background, the crunch of Wufei’s shoes over the pieces of brick and wood at the crime scene. It made him think of the fire, the smoke, the scream of glass shattering to nothing. The way Quatre had looked at him at the top of the stairs.

“No, Wufei, I think we should wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you serious? The kid needs to give a statement, at the very least, not to mention a doctor should--”

“It can wait. He’s been through a lot tonight.”

“Barton...”

“I’ll bring him in first thing in the morning,” Trowa continued. “Just... let him get some rest after what happened.”

There was a long, frustrated sigh on the other end of the line.

“Fine.”

“Tomorrow, I want to talk to you about his custody. I don’t want him getting placed in another hotel where they can get a second shot at him.”

“Fine, whatever. You know, you should be investigating this scene with me, Barton.”

“I’m not on the clock, Chang. Neither are you. Ever think about letting the night shift do some work once in a while?”

“Yeah, right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

“Who was that?”

Quatre stood in the doorway, wearing the clothes Trowa had given him: a t-shirt and gym shorts, both too big again. The shirt hung off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of Quatre’s collarbone, the pink flush of his skin from the shower. His hair was damp, falling into his eyes.

Trowa put the phone hastily back into his pocket and found somewhere neutral on the wall past Quatre to stare at.

“My partner, Wufei Chang. He’s at the hotel.”

“Oh. Do you have to go?”

“No.”

Quatre smiled. It twisted in Trowa’s gut like a knife. But he had talked himself down from that ledge already tonight. He would do it again. It would be hard, with Quatre looking at him like that, looking like he did, but he would do it. He had to.

“Quatre, it’s late. You’ve had a rough night. You really should get some--”

“--Trowa, stop.”

“Quatre...”

“Please.” The word was a whisper in the darkness between them. He took a step forward, toward the bed, toward him, as Trowa had suddenly found himself rooted to the spot. He could only watch the approach, helpless.

“Nothing makes sense anymore,” Quatre said softly, another step closer. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My father is dead and I’m not safe by myself.”

Another step.

“When I was running through the hotel, trying to find the stairs, all I could think about was how I needed to find you, Trowa.”

Another step, and now he was standing in the space between Trowa’s legs. Trowa could feel the damp heat of his body. He smelled his shampoo, his soap, on Quatre’s skin, and it radiated through him, sparking his desire, igniting his long-suppressed emotion. He ached with it.

Quatre’s voice was a low, sweet punch to the ribs.

“Being with you is the only time I don’t feel like I’m going crazy anymore.”

He reached a hand out and Trowa grabbed for his wrist with the last of his ragged resolve and shifted it away.

“Quatre, we can’t do this...” His voice was hoarse, his throat choked.

“What’s stopping us?”

Trowa gave a cracked laugh.

“You’re the son of our murder victim. We can’t afford to jeopardize the case, which is exactly what will happen if--.”

“--If someone finds out.”

Quatre twisted gently out of Trowa’s grip on his wrist and wove their fingers together instead. Trowa was helpless to stop him.

“But no one needs to know except for us.”

His mind said: You’re an idiot.

Hell, he knew that already, didn’t he?

Quatre’s other hand slid up his shoulder and tangled in the hair at the base of his neck. It had been a long time since he had felt like this, felt this dangerously untethered from so light a touch. Had he ever felt like this before?

“You’re a minor,” he whispered, his final defense.

Quatre smiled, so beautifully sweet.

“But you love me.”

Oh God, he was really going to do this, wasn’t he?

“Yes, I do.”

Then, Quatre was kissing him softly, and he thought of smoke and fire and shards of flying glass, and he too was shattered, he was gone. His beer tumbled, forgotten, from his grasp and instead he reached for Quatre’s slim, warm body and pulled him onto the mattress.

He sank his hands into that blonde hair-- God, he’d wanted this so badly!-- and Quatre shifted beneath him, he could feel those thin legs slide under and then around his waist, his mouth so tender, so pliant under Trowa’s lips. He tasted so good, his tongue tinged with beer, his breath short and heavy, and when he broke away to gasp desperately at the air, Trowa ran his mouth along the gentle curve of Quatre’s jawline, up to his ear. He sank his teeth into his earlobe and Quatre sighed and grabbed for him, fingers splayed against his back.

“Please, Trowa,” he whispered. “Please.”

He had never gotten his clothes off so fast in his life. Quatre pulled the borrowed shirt over his head, and let Trowa do the rest, let him ease off the shorts and toss them away. He curled his fingers over the waistband of Quatre’s boxers, then looked up to where Quatre was watching him with a dazed expression.

“Is this okay?”

Quatre smiled. His hand came up to cradle Trowa’s cheek.

“Of course.”

So Trowa slid them off Quatre’s narrow hips, down his legs, and let them pool on the floor by the bed. Quatre lay bare before him, flushed and aroused and utterly open, and so beautiful, so perfect. He didn’t deserve this. He was a working-class kid with a spotty background who had lucked his way into law enforcement over the army. He fucked bar boys who didn’t stick around after sunrise and didn’t kiss on the mouth. Not billionaires who looked like Quatre did, like the statues they put up in European museums, like he had walked out of a Renaissance painting, like he belonged in a rarefied world that Trowa could not hope to enter. Not someone who looked at him the way Quatre was now, like he was the only person in the world, like he couldn’t get enough. Like he loved him.

“Trowa,” Quatre breathed.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. He hoped it was enough.

Quatre reached for him.

“Kiss me.”

He didn’t know when they broke away from each other, when he reached for the drawer by the bed and hastily moved to prepare himself. He had long since lost track of time. But his breath had become ragged with arousal, his desire thrumming in his nerves, dangerously close to the edge. The minute or so before he returned to Quatre felt like eternity. When he was ready, he shifted over him, and Quatre wrapped legs around his torso and arms around his neck and pulled them close together, body heat moving between them like lightning across water. Trowa slipped his fingers between Quatre’s legs and worked him open, pressing his mouth against Quatre’s in silent apology. Then, he took himself in hand and sank slowly into him.

Quatre was hot and incredibly tight, and Trowa’s vision swam as he pushed deeper, his mind a blur of disconnected thoughts. Quatre drew a stilted breath and gripped Trowa’s shoulders hard enough to bruise, but his legs stayed solidly wrapped around his waist, keeping him close. Then, he was fully inside, reeling with the sensation of Quatre enveloping him, the wet heat of his body. Quatre’s eyes slid open, a ring of sea green around dilated pupils, and he smiled.

“Trowa...”

“Quatre...” Trowa’s voice didn’t sound like his own. “I don’t think I can hold back.”

“So don’t.”

He worked himself slowly out and back in, even that much movement threatening to wrestle control from him entirely. He had never felt like this before, so hungry. He thrust again and this time Quatre responded, his slim form arching upward, his breath catching. Again, and Quatre moaned his name, and he was lost. He hitched a pale, slim leg over his shoulder and abandoned himself to that burning heat, pressed Quatre hard into the bed, thrusting into him again and again, blindly, desperately, wrapping his hand around Quatre and pumping him with rough, coaxing strokes.

“Trowa... oh, Trowa,” Quatre whispered against his ear, over and over, a mantra, a plea, a promise.

And then he was rearing up wildly, gasping out, flooding Trowa’s hand, and there was a moment, an instant, where everything drew up, became crystal clear, every nerve in his body building toward something extraordinary, and it was as if he hovered along a precipice, like a man about to fall, like shards of glass illuminated by a rolling ball of fire and light.

Then it was over, he was shuddering and pouring himself into Quatre’s pliant, exquisite body, clutching him close, rocking in the waves of sensation exploding through him, tumbling to the bed with his breath sharp and ragged and his heart pounding with frantic speed in his chest.

Eventually, he came back to himself, and reached for Quatre in the darkness. He pulled him close against him, holding him tight enough to feel his heart beat against his skin. Quatre whispered his name and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and drifted off into sleep.

They didn’t have to tell anyone.

Then maybe... maybe they could stay this way.

There, lying together on his bed, Quatre wrapped around him, smelling like his soap and his sex, Trowa actually believed they could. And when he closed his eyes and let exhaustion claim him, he dreamt of explosions where the sound never came.