“For if one drinks much from a bottle marked ‘poison,’
it’s almost certain to disagree with one sooner or later.”
It takes him only 5 minutes, then Vegas is in his car, racing through traffic. He has grabbed a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, slipped into a pair of sandals and nearly fallen out of the door in his hurry to get going.
God dammit!
He doesn’t even understand why he is feeling such a sense of urgency. He does not like feeling like this! It’s his weekend off and here he is, dashing across town to rescue his baby shrink. Perhaps Pete doesn’t even need rescuing? What is Vegas even doing? Maybe he should stop and head home again. Enjoy his weekend. He is not a damn babysitter after all. His therapist is an adult, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. And if he wants to go to a bar and get drunk, then that is his decision, and who is Vegas to interfere? They barely know each other. They have had two excruciating therapy lessons, and one day from hell as reluctant co-workers.
That’s it.
Why does he even care? Why bother? This is none of his business. Nothing is going to happen. Pete is perfectly safe. Beam’s murder was unfortunate, it doesn’t mean that something similar is going to happen to his shrink. I hate this, Vegas thinks gloomily. And I hate myself for not being able to ignore this.
His hands hold on to the steering wheel in a death grip.
This is insane. He has gone mad.
And he continues driving.
----------------------------------------
It’s Saturday night. Technically, it’s Sunday already. People are out and about, clubbing and partying, and the area around the Hum Bar is very crowded. Finding a parking space will be difficult; Vegas doesn’t even try. He takes a slot in the staff parking lot and slams his ‘Police at work’ badge into place.
Looking at his hands, he can see that he is visibly shaking. What the fuck? Okay, time to calm down a bit. If he goes inside like this, nothing good will come of it. He is having the worst kind of adrenaline rush, and this needs to be dealt with first. Everything will be fine, he tells himself. No need to worry. Nothing is going to happen to the little fluff ball. Yes, but Beam—nothing is going to happen. Who knows, maybe Pete does this all the time, going out to party on the weekends? He did tell you though that he has never been to a bar like this, says the little voice in his head. Fuck. With steely determination Vegas forces himself to slow down his rapid breathing. He checks his hands again. Good. No more shaking. Let’s do this.
The club is very busy, as usual on the weekends. There’s a line at the entrance, which Vegas simply ignores. He walks right up to the bouncers and flashes his police badge when they make an attempt to stop him from entering. His body language screams ‘Get the fuck out of my way or else…’ and of course they swiftly move to the side and allow him to pass.
Vegas enters the bar and is immediately surrounded by throbbing music and a seemingly endless sea of bodies. It is a very busy night indeed.
Of course he is not dressed for the occasion either, with the plain white t-shirt and the washed out jeans. Whatever. He’s not here to hook up with anyone after all, it’s fine if people will overloook him. He’s never considered himself handsome. Put him next to fucking Kinn and he is all but invisible, and that’s what he grew up with after all.
The crowd on the dance floor surges with the rhythm of some popular pop song that Vegas has heard on the radio a few times, but he has no clue about the artist singing it. It’s loud in here, and very warm, and people keep brushing up against him, invading his private space.
Even when he stands on his toes and looks around for a moment, finding his target in this crush, with the subdued and ever-changing bar lighting, will be a challenge. He would have preferred not having to ask Yok for help, but it seems there is no way around it. She’s going to enjoy this way too much. Vegas knows it already, sighs and makes his way to the bar.
Yok is talking animatedly with some customers, but of course she spies Vegas almost instantly. She excuses herself and makes her way towards him and damn—yeah, there it is—that look of pure glee on her face. Here we go.
“Hello Vegas.” Yeah, she is enjoying this way too much. Vegas flinches slightly. “My, oh my… I wonder, did you break any speed limits on your way here?” She notices his state of dress, the hair still slightly tousled from sleep, and her grin widens. “I wonder what brings you here on this fine Saturday night.”
“Oh, cut it out already, Yok.” He checks to his left and right, just in case he spies the familiar face he is looking for, sitting at the bar. Nothing. Damn. Vegas can’t help the sense of urgency bubbling back up. “Okay, spill the beans, where is he?”
It seems he will not get a quick answer, though. Yok watches him closely and seems to vastly enjoy his discomfort. “Oh, you are looking for someone? I wonder who this might be…?”
“Yok.”
“Vegas.”
They stare at each other. Well, Vegas is more or less glaring. Yok is simply amused.
“Did the puppy get under your skin, dear?” she can’t help but ask.
Ouch, Yok sure knows how to push his buttons. Vegas feels his blood pressure rising, he wants to snarl an angry denial, but stops himself at the last second. Puppy, my ass. His therapist was sent to earth for the sole purpose of making Vegas’ life a living hell. He is interfering with everything! Now even with his time off work! And yeah, he got under Vegas’ skin, but he will take this knowledge to his grave.
“The guy is a menace to society, not a puppy,” he retorts grumpily. “Where the hell is he? And why did you need to call me? Couldn’t you call him a cab? What am I, his designated driver? It’s my weekend off, Yok.” In frustration, he runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. “I finally get to have two days off and you call me to rescue some guy from work.” The same guy I desperately want to stay away from, but that remains unsaid.
“Oh Vegas…” And there’s so much subtext to these two words that Vegas promptly shies away from analysing it.
Instead he gives her a pleading look. “Have mercy with me.”
Yok continues to study him for another minute, making Vegas really uneasy. He’s like a fish unknowingly out of water. How can he possibly feel like this, when he has been at this bar so many times and also picked up drunk friends here before. Just what are you not telling me?
Before he can ask, Yok nods towards the back of the bar. “He’s at the seating area.”
See, that wasn’t so difficult. Vegas smiles in thanks and is about to go collect the fluff ball when Yok sneaks in one last cryptic remark.
“Good luck. You are going to need it.”
Vegas waits for Yok to elaborate, but she is already turning away from him, going back to work. What the hell is that supposed to mean? His anxiety ratchets up instantly. If only he could relax—but the throbbing rhythm of the music counteracts his attempts to steady and slow his heartbeat.
Let’s just get this over with, he decides. The plan is to go there, grab the kitten and simply drag him out of here. Worked very well that afternoon; no need to change a winning concept.
And so he pushes through the dancing crowd, heading towards the back of the bar. He is a man on a mission. Go. Grab. Leave. Then drop Pete off at his place. And return home himself and get more sleep. No. Go for a night-time run to get rid of all the nervous energy buzzing through his body. Then a shower, then more sleep. Perfect plan.
Alas, there is no such thing as a perfect plan.
Everything comes to a screeching halt the moment he reaches the back part of the bar with the separated seating areas. There are less people here, which is a relief, but still more than enough to obstruct his vision as he scans the area. Every seat seems to be taken and there are small groups standing around some of the seat clusters. One group is slightly larger than the others, and the folks there are obviously having a great time judging from the laughter that ripples through the group from time to time.
The hair on the back of Vegas’ neck rises, he doesn’t understand why he’s unexpectedly feeling so apprehensive. Suddenly a movement in the group creates a gap, finally giving him a free line of sight—and it’s as if someone has punched Vegas in the stomach, knocking the breath right out of him. Good Lord.
Time slows to a crawl and everything around Vegas drifts to the perimeter of his consciousness as every fibre of his being now fully focuses on the sight before him. Like a predator who has spotted his prey.
The prey—Pete—is sprawling comfortably in one of the dark red leather seats, legs stretched out in front of him, slightly apart, his upper body leaning back in utter relaxation. His whole posture awakens something deep inside of Vegas that now purrs with delight. This is bad. To make it worse, Pete is wearing black. No colours tonight. Vegas wants to stuff him right back into one of his hideous colourful shirts. Anything is better than this black shirt he is wearing tonight, which seems to be made of some sort of silky material that clings to his body in a totally indecent manner. And—holy shit—it appears to be semi-sheer because he—and everyone else—can see a lot more tantalizing glimpses of Pete’s body than they should! In addition to that, he seems to have developed a sudden allergy against buttons—the top three are undone and the contrast of pale skin versus black sleek fabric is… something. As if all this weren’t bad enough, Pete is wearing leather pants. Tight black leather pants. Vegas’ mind stops functioning, all coherent thoughts and plans blown right out of the window.
He is so screwed.
He can deal with Pete, the cheerful fluff ball of never-ending joy, in the atrocious lavender print shirt, who is tagging along during routine interviews. That version rubs him the wrong way, but Vegas can handle it.
He can deal with Pete, the intrusive and relentless therapist, channeling his inner sunflower through his choice of shirts. That version irritates the hell out of him but Vegas can handle this too.
He is unsure if he can handle this Pete though.
And now Yok’s final words make perfect sense. Damn, he is so screwed.
Someone bumps into him, time resets and he finds himself back in reality. With a strangled gasp Vegas draws in a deep breath. Seems he stopped breathing for a moment. What the hell? But his eyes are still glued to Pete and he finds himself incapable of look elsewhere. This is so very bad.
And what the hell has he done with his hair, it looks all ruffled?! Vegas gets his answer right away because one of the many women surrounding Pete reaches out and runs her fingers affectionately through the dark strands, bright red fingernails disappearing beneath the black. And Pete… Pete is leaning into the touch, a lazy smile on his face. Vegas huffs in instant outrage.
One moment he is observing from a distance, the next finds him standing right next to Pete’s chair, removing the offending hand with perhaps a little bit more force than necessary.
“Hands off, darling. He’s not your toy to play with,” he all but growls at the woman who immediately retreats, rubbing the wrist where he’s grabbed her, and looking at him wide-eyed as if he were a madman. Maybe he is. The group around Pete falls silent, watching him in astonishment.
Huh? How did he get here? A mini blackout? This is bad. Whatever. He doesn’t give a fuck what they might think about him. They are not who he is here for anyway. Speaking of which… and Vegas turns his full attention back to Pete, who is slouching in the seat beside him, watching the whole exchange lazily with a smile of obvious amusement. And bloody hell… Vegas is once again dumbstruck by the sight. This close and yeah, that shirt really is semi-sheer. For God’s sake, are those…? Yes they are. He can see the shadow of Pete’s nipples through the fabric and heaven help… Heat unfurls in the depth of his stomach. Oh no, what is happening to him? This is his therapist!
When he trusts himself enough to speak again, his voice sounds strange even to himself, kind of raw. “Time to go.” Sunshine, he wants to add, but simply can’t. Because this is no warm ray of sunshine anymore, this is more like a pale blue flame, seemingly harmless but actually so much hotter than any visible flames.
“Come on, baby, light my fire. Try to set the night on fire…”
Vegas is surprised he isn’t spontaneously combusting. He sure feels hot enough for it to happen any second now. This is so bad. He is vaguely aware that they are making a spectacle out of themselves, that they are surrounded by a crowd of people, but somehow the bystanders have all faded away into the background of his awareness because Pete commands his full attention at the moment.
Pete rolls his head towards Vegas, arches an eyebrow and fixates him with his dark, amused eyes. So very black, like the rest of him tonight. Vegas feels as if he is falling right into them, unable to escape. Caught in the gravity of a black hole. Shit. He catches himself before swaying forward. This is very bad.
Thankfully Pete didn’t notice. Or did he? Because the smile spreading over his face is broader than usual. Almost knowing. Or is it? Damn, Vegas cannot seem to form a coherent thought.
“Oh, it’s you.” In contrast to most people he knows his therapist does not seem to slur his words when he is drunk. In fact, he is enunciating each word with great care. Vegas also notices that Pete’s gaze is slightly unfocused. Drunk indeed. Just great.
“Surprise.” Vegas attempts to smile, but isn’t entirely sure if he is successful. Even the easiest things have become difficult as he is struggling to hold on to his sanity. “Time to go,” he repeats, but Pete either doesn’t understand or does not want to understand him. Grab & Go seems suddenly like a bad idea since it involves touching. And if there is one thing he knows, it’s that he must not touch Pete under any circumstances. He doesn’t trust himself with this Pete.
Vegas is pondering his options. Not being able to think clearly while doing so is of course turning into a slight problem. Touch, or no touch, that is the question. Or perhaps ignore? Simply leave? No, he definitely must not touch Pete, because touching might lead to other things. Especially since this unexpectedly lethal Pete is now leisurely stretching in his chair in such a catlike manner that it makes Vegas’ mouth go dry. He looks positively naughty, the way his leg muscles move underneath that black leather, the fabric of the shirt stretching over his chest, sliding over those barely visible nipples… this is bad… what was the problem again? Actually, never mind that, because Pete goes in for the kill by giving him an impish smile, followed by a wink. He very slightly bites his lower lip, followed by a lick to wet it.
Vegas is not himself anymore. It’s almost an out-of-body experience, as if he is standing next to himself watching the show, while someone else all of a sudden takes control of his body.
He finds himself slowly leaning downwards, towards the slouching Pete, who continues to observe him beneath heavy-lidded eyes, still smiling lazily. Drawing closer and closer to his face, then the slightest movement to the side at the last minute to avoid the imminent (explosive) collision of their lips. They are cheek to cheek now, separated by a minute distance, so close that both of them feel each others body heat and a never-ending electric tingle, though there’s no actual physical contact. It’s titillating. It is sheer madness. What the hell is he doing? Vegas’ mouth is now very close to Pete’s ear and when he speaks his warm breath brushes against it like an invisible caress; Pete shudders and Vegas likes it. A lot.
“Want me to rescue you?” Vegas inquires, ever so softly.
Pete manages to sound equally out of breath and amused when he replies: “Do I need rescuing?”
“Yes, you do,” Vegas states with complete conviction.
“Oh.” Pete seems to need a moment to process this statement, time that Vegas is graciously giving him. In the meantime he taking this opportunity to simply breathe in Pete’s scent. Damn, he smells as good as he looks. He wants to open his mouth and lick right along the edge of that ear and… holy shit… this is madness, he needs to stop.
“Time’s up. What will it be?” And again he cannot help himself, he deliberately blows some hot breath into Pete’s ear which makes the other man squirm in his seat because it tickles, a helpless giggle bubbling up and escaping from Pete’s mouth.
“If I let you rescue me from them, who is going to rescue me from you?” he murmurs back at Vegas.
“Do you think you need rescuing from me?” Of course he needs rescuing. Vegas knows this in the part of his mind that is still being able to function. But logic is overrated, and Vegas throws that thought right out of the window, he’s getting drunk on Pete’s scent and absently licks his lips. So close, so tantalisingly close. If he leans in just a tiny bit close, he can drag his lips along the neck, getting a taste, perhaps even bite… Things are careening totally out of control.
“Uhm… I think I do?” Pete must be feeling something because Vegas can see that he is getting goosebumps along his neck. Nice.
A dark chuckle escapes Vegas. “Clever kitten. Let us focus on one problem at a time.”
Both of them are stuck in their own private little universe. Everything outside has ceased to exist. There’s just the two of them, dancing around each other like moths attracted to the flame, knowing they will burn but unable to resist the lure.
“Pete?” Vegas whispers.
“Hmmm…?”
Vegas is making an huge effort to break the spell they are caught in. “I need you to move away from me now.”
“Oh?”
Damn, Pete smells good. Vegas blinks repeatedly, tries to focus and decides to answer truthfully. “If you do not move away, I think I might bite …”
There’s another very noticeable shudder going through Pete, coupled with suppressed laughter when he asks: “Is that a promise?”
God have mercy on his soul! This is madness. Vegas all but groans at this reply, he really needs to stop this right now because it’s very clear that Pete is in no condition to play this game on equal terms. And they shouldn’t be playing it in the first place! Madness, utter madness! Where were they again? Yes, rescuing.
Vegas growls softly into his ear. “Move away, Pete. Now. That is an order.”
And with a soft sound of disappointment Pete leans away to the side and moves out of the immediate reach of Vegas, taking his tantalising scent with him. It takes an insane amount of self-control for Vegas not to yank him right back and sink his teeth into that ear; he is dying to know what sound Pete would make in reaction to this. Fuck. What was the plan again?
Desperately holding himself together, Vegas straightens and stands up. The invisible bubble surrounding them pops, and Vegas finds himself (and Pete) the unexpected centre of attention of a crowd of partygoers. Oops. He totally forgot that they have an audience, how embarrassing. Everyone is staring at them, wide-eyed with astonishment, and Vegas can feel himself blush.
“My apologies for interrupting your delightful little gathering, but I am afraid your new friend here has to leave now.” He reaches out, hooks his right index finger under that forth button valiantly holding Pete’s shirt together, and gives a light tug upwards.
“Let’s go.”
Pete seems to find this hilarious and is overcome with giggles. Vegas rolls his eyes, counts to ten and tugs again. A bit more persistent this time. Still giggling, Pete unfolds from the chair and somehow manages to stand without keeling directly over.
Bloody hell. There goes the whole ‘no touching’ rule Vegas has set himself earlier on. He reaches out and takes hold of Pete’s arm right above the elbow, steadying him gently but firmly. “Just how drunk are you?”
Pete sways slightly and goes from giggling giddiness to mischief in an eye blink. “That is for me to know, and for you to find out.” Damn, he is giving Vegas whiplash.
“You’re such a wiseass.” With another roll of his eyes, Vegas starts leading Pete away.
Thankfully, Vegas is holding on to his therapist because as soon as he starts moving it becomes very apparent that Pete is plastered. He might be able to articulate himself reasonably well but walking a straight line is an entirely different thing. Pete is stumbling as Vegas leads him through the crowd, his footsteps irregular, his body lurching unpredictably. He keeps bumping into Vegas and the people around him as he tries to keep his balance.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Every time Pete collides with him, it’s as if Vegas is being touched by a live wire. In addition to that, the fabric of Pete’s shirt is impossibly soft beneath his hand, a stark contrast to the surprisingly firm arm muscles the shirt is trying to hide, without success. Semi-sheer indeed. Vegas tries to keep his eyes on his surroundings and on Pete’s face because if he looks at his barely veiled chest he might snap again and do something embarrassing before he can stop himself. Like running his tongue in a downward line from the collarbone to that third button…
He is so screwed.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Pete lurches to the side and suddenly Vegas’ hand is empty. Huh? Where did he go?
Seems Pete has decided that it isn’t time to leave just yet. At least not without saying his goodbyes to Yok first. Cursing under his breath, Vegas pushes through the crowd and catches up with him at the bar.
“One more drink before I go,” Pete announces merrily, holding on to the bar to steady himself before taking a seat.
“Are you sure, honey?” Yok gives him a once-over, then glances at Vegas who shakes his head firmly. “One for the road it is,” she decides.
Vegas wants to strangle her.
Yok winks at him and then proceeds to ignore him in favour of Pete. “Anything in particular, honey?”
“Something colourful,” Pete declares and sways ever so slightly. But when Vegas automatically reaches out to steady him, Pete frowns and flails his arm widely to shake his hand off, nearly knocking over some glasses in the process.
He doesn’t want to be touched? Fine. Vegas backs off, taking a seat beside him. Keeping an eye on Pete just in case he is about to fall off his bar chair.
One more drink and then they will leave.
Yok finds the whole situation ridiculously funny. She prepares a cocktail for Pete, who is watching her with fascination. “So I see Vegas found you, honey. Was he very rude to get you to leave the company you were keeping?”
Pete has gotten his hands on one of those little glittery paper umbrellas and attempts to twirl it between his fingers but he doesn’t have full control over his fine motor skills anymore and the attempt fails. “He said he’d bite me,” he answers truthfully.
Yok almost drops the bottle she is holding and Vegas feels a blush creeping into his cheeks as she gives him a very pointed look. “Oh my… did he now?”
He squirms and looks elsewhere. No filter. Damn it. Shut up, Pete.
“Yeah, he does not like me much, you see,” Pete offers as an explanation, sounding forlorn and gazing unfocused into the distance.
“Oh honey, trust me he—” Yok is about to say more, but a quick death glare from Vegas, threatening imminent physical harm, stops her, and she decides not to continue that sentence. Wise.
“Here, try this. It’s a Mai Tai, I think you will like it.” The cocktail is placed before Pete, a miniature sunset in a glass, and he becomes enthralled with it instantly. “Oh, so pretty…”
Vegas sneaks a peek at him and groans inwardly. He can see the vertebrae of Pete’s spine through that damn shirt, and it’s distracting as hell. Not to mention those long legs clad in black leather. His mouth goes dry, and he quickly looks away again. Fingers crossed that Pete will drink the cocktail fast so they can get going. He isn’t sure how much longer his self-control will last.
For self-preservation he does his best to ignore the ongoing conversation between Yok and Pete, instead shifting his attention to the throng of people on the dance floor, fluctuating in rhythm with the pounding music.
Soon enough he attracts attention. He usually does. Even clad casually like he is tonight. People notice him, and tonight is no different. The young man showing up by his side is the type he normally hooks up with, so in his ever-growing desperation, Vegas briefly entertains the thought of leaving Pete with Yok for a while and heading off to the bathroom with this guy for a quick fling. To take the edge off, because damn, he needs it badly. Pete is driving him insane. And Pete is off limits.
Vegas is on full autopilot, he is flirting back without giving it much thought, because the only thing he can think of right now is Pete, and the things he would like to do to him. Damn.
Someone else has also noticed that Vegas is flirting though.
His little nemesis is suddenly standing right next to him—did he fall off the chair and Vegas didn’t notice?—and that catches Vegas by surprise. Pete sways against him—zip, another flash of static electricity—and before Vegas can fully comprehend what he is doing, Pete’s arm is sneaking around his waist, the fingers trailing a line of heat over the lower part of his back while doing so. Marking his territory?
Vegas freezes mid-motion, simply stunned because that contact is so unexpected. And thrilling. Pete’s hand comes to rest near Vegas’ hipbone and before he has time to process this, those hot fingers skim over the edge of his jeans and then dip below, sliding between the jeans and his skin.
Vegas sucks in a shocked breath and goosebumps erupt all over his body. His world narrows down to the small area so very close to his groin where Pete is now drumming his fingers against Vegas’ overly sensitive skin, the contact shockingly electric, and Vegas feels as if something has sucked all the oxygen right out of the room. He can’t breathe. He is a mess. He can’t think.
Vaguely, he hears Pete informing the young man cheerfully: “Hands off, darling. He’s not your toy to play with.” The audacity! Wasn’t that exactly the same thing he said earlier on himself? Wiseass. He wants to comment but at that moment Pete digs his fingernails in and Vegas’ breath catches, all coherent thoughts scattering in an instant. He’s so painfully aroused it isn’t funny anymore. Fuck (if only).
Breathing erratically, completely dazed, he turns his head to fully face Pete who is giving him a lopsided smile, his slightly unfocused eyes sparkling with mischief. “There. Rescued you. You are welcome.” He is so damn proud of himself for scaring the Twink away. That look on his face makes Vegas’ heart skip a beat and contract painfully.
“You are going to be the death of me, aren’t you?” he eventually manages to ask, feeling totally scatterbrained, his voice raspy.
This question seems to invoke another bout of hilarity in Pete. “I haven’t decided yet,” he laughs, and then proceeds to promptly slump against him with his full weight, as his feet give out.
Well, so much for that. Thankfully Vegas reacts quickly and holds him up before he ends up on the floor. Pete’s fingers slip out from under his jeans and Vegas doesn’t know if he should cheer or weep at the loss of that intimate contact.
Looking past Pete, who seems to have passed out in his arms, his eyes meet Yok’s. She’s been watching everything unfold with astonished disbelief.
“You are so screwed, Vegas,” she states, pity in her voice.
Yeah, tell me something I don’t know, Vegas thinks. I really am so screwed.
----------------------------------------
Manoeuvering Pete back to his car is the least of his problems, as it turns out. He more or less drags him along, carrying the larger part of his weight. Pete seems to be completely out of it. His head is slumped against Vegas shoulder, eyes closed and mouth slack. And he smells delicious.
Once he has Pete buckled up in the passenger seat, Vegas hesitates, and then decides to button up that damn shirt. The less skin he sees, the better. He does not need further distractions like this while driving.
Vegas swallows hard, then reaches out for that first button. His fingers are trembling, and he feels remarkably stupid for reacting this strongly. But as he fumbles to slip that button through the hole in the unbelievably slippery fabric, his fingers accidentally grace the soft skin of Pete’s chest—zing—another zap of static energy. Vegas yelps and does a little jump, his head connecting with the ceiling of the car. Ouch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
This is ridiculous. He is being ridiculous. He’s a grown man, not a blushing teenager with a crush. He should be able to button up a fucking shirt without behaving like a total idiot! Vegas grits his teeth and focuses on getting the job done. One button. Two buttons. Three buttons. There, done. See, that wasn’t so difficult, right? Then why is he feeling so hot? Whatever, best not to think about this too closely.
Hastily, Vegas closes Pete’s car door, then gets in the car himself. With a sigh, he leans over and makes sure Pete’s head rests against the side window instead of lolling around uncontrollably. Pete looks peaceful. And very young. And very much off limits, he is his therapist, after all! Vegas does not mix work with pleasure! And if his father finds out… The faster they go their separate ways, the better. This is madness and needs to stop right away.
And then Vegas becomes aware of the next problem. He has no idea where Pete lives. A glance at his snoozing passenger and yeah, unlikely he will get this information from him. Maybe he has something with his address in his wallet? He has a wallet with him, right? Come to think of it, he probably doesn’t, because Vegas would have noticed that when staring at his leather-clad ass.
A quick awkward search confirms it—no wallet, only an ID and a credit card. Great, just great. What to do now? He cannot go back to the station and do an address search because all employee personal information is blocked and can only be accessed by his department superiors. Trying to explain why he has his drunk therapist in the car and needs to know where he lives? Not going to happen. Let’s just not do this. For his sake and for Pete’s.
Which leaves… a hotel? He could take him to a hotel, sure. But something inside of him is violently opposed to that idea. Pete’s so out of it; what if he throws up during the night and starts to choke?
Vegas hits his head against his steering wheel. Again. And again, and again.
Fuck!
“I hate my life,” he complains loudly, more to himself than to his sleeping passenger. Of course he knows already what he will do. He will do the right thing. He will make sure Pete’s safe for the night. He will take him along home with him. And he will stay as far away as possible from him the whole damn night. It will be sheer torture, and he will most likely not sleep a single minute.
I really am so screwed.
----------------------------------------
He deserves a medal.
Sadly there is no one around to witness Vegas’ superhuman level of self-control while he drag-carries Pete from the car all the way up to his apartment. Mr Temptation Incarnate is still more or less out of it. Now and then he shows signs of consciousness, noticeable via wandering hands, coupled with some breathless giggles. Great. Just what he needs—not.
“No touching.” He has stopped counting how many times he has said this in the last 5 minutes. Progress is slow, because he has to dodge and remove Pete’s hands all the time as they find their way under various pieces of his clothing. Vegas growls in frustration. He wants to howl, but that would alert the neighbours.
“Pete, stop!” he hisses sternly, trying to open his door with the key while Pete is slouched against him, running his fingers along Vegas’ neck, playing with his hair, his head resting on Vegas’ shoulder with the eyes closed. I am a saint, give me my medal already.
It’s a bit difficult to shake off those wicked, wandering fingers without dislodging Pete in the process. At last Vegas thinks he has managed it, but he has forgotten that this human octopus has another set of tentacles, and so he gives a little startled jump when the other hand suddenly grabs his ass and squeezes. He drops the keys in surprise and almost drops Pete as well. “Pete! Damn it! Will you stop it already?!” he all but snarls. “Simply tell me your address and I’ll drive you home. You are being a royal pain in the ass!”
Pete just laughs, his shoulders shaking with mirth, before he slumps over again. Right now everything is funny to him. Vegas is torn between wanting to strangle him and wanting to push him up against the wall right here and now, to kiss him until he is out of breath. No. Wrong line of thought. Must not go there. Unceremoniously he more or less dumps Pete, who is back to snoozing again, on the ground, then picks up his key and unlocks the door.
There. Level One complete, proceed to Level Two. He wants to laugh, but his emotions are all over the place and that laugh comes out more like a sob as he leans against the door frame and allows himself to close his eyes for a second.
Pete has gotten under his skin and he does not like feeling this way. This has the potential to turn into an epic disaster, as if he didn’t have enough problems already. They are therapist and patient, damn it! They are work colleagues! And if that isn’t bad enough, his father is going to kill Pete if he ever finds out that Vegas is attracted to him!
He wishes Yok had never called him.
He wishes he had never seen this version of Pete.
He wishes he could switch off every wayward emotion he is feeling right now.
And he doesn’t want to be attracted to Pete either.
Fuck off. Get out of my life. Leave me alone. I can’t go through this again, I can’t cause another death.
Fat chance of that happening. Definitely not tonight.
Time to get moving again. Vegas picks up Pete and carries him into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind them. He hesitates briefly, then decides that his guest will be safer in the bedroom. If he puts him on the couch, Pete will most likely roll off it within fifteen minutes. Bedroom it is. Thankfully he has a king-sized bed; Pete will be safe if he puts him right in the middle.
He shoulders the door open, flips on the light switch, and all but throws his sleepy guest onto the bed in his urgency to break free from their body contact. Pete lands spread-eagled on his belly, the face sinking into the blanket and as much as Vegas appreciates the sight of his leather clad well-rounded ass—and he does, he really does—he cannot let Pete suffocate.
Lord, give me patience.
He kicks off his sandals and then crawls onto the bed and turns Pete over. There, better.
Okay, what to do next? He could just leave him there but somehow that does not feel right. Better change his clothes. This is a very bad idea, he is aware of it, but so is letting him sleep in his current clothes. Pete will be all sweaty and uncomfortable for sure. Vegas rolls off the bed again and heads to his cupboard, selecting a plain white t-shirt. He has many. They are about the same size, so this should fit Pete without any problems. First things first, though. He unlaces Pete’s shoes and takes them off one by one, tossing them to the side. Next come the socks. Pete has nice feet, he can’t help but notice, but he tries not to think about this too much.
Give me my medal already.
Back onto the bed he crawls, the t-shirt in hand. Pete’s still deeply asleep, like Sleeping Beauty. The dark hair is tousled and all over the place, his face peaceful. Even in sleep his expressive mouth is curved into a faint smile. Vegas finds himself staring again. Damn, Pete is handsome as hell. Again, his heart skips a beat. His hand is moving on its own accord, reaching out to ever so gently brush Pete’s hair away from his eyes. Vegas trails his index finger along the line of the eyebrow … impossibly soft … as if he is trying to memorise its shape. Then he becomes aware of what he is doing and snatches his hand back. Must not do this.
After another steadying breath he starts to unbutton the black shirt systematically. If he keeps his eyes glued to the buttons without straying to other parts, this will work, he tells himself. And it does.
With the shirt open, he now only has to pull Pete’s arms out of its sleeves and then wrestle him into the t-shirt. The next moment he remembers why he thought this was a bad idea—he will have to touch a lot of bare skin. Just great. Sainthood, here I come.
As his hands come into contact with Pete’s bare left shoulder—and another electric tingle races though his body—he sneaks a glance at Pete’s face and freezes. Pete’s awake, but just how aware remains to be seen, and watches him through half-closed eyes.
Vegas feels the need to explain himself. “This is not what you think it is.”
Pete makes a low sound that could be amusement or surprise, or something else, it’s hard to interpret. “…sshink you’re getting m’naked…” he slurs.
Yeah, I would really like to do nothing more than to rip off these clothes and see you in all your naked glory, Vegas thinks. But instead he says, “Dream on, kitten. Not going to happen. We are just switching to a t-shirt, that’s more comfortable.”
Pete sighs softly and continues watching Vegas, his eyes unfocused.
He isn’t really cooperating, so Vegas has to prop him up like a life-sized doll to remove first one arm from the black shirt, then the other, and then the sinful garment goes flying off the bed as well. Lots of skin visible now. Lots of skin. Vegas doesn’t know where to look. Or where to touch. Every single time his hands come into contact with Pete’s bare skin it feels as if he is touching a live wire. Every single time. This is excruciating. “Come on, arms up,” he instructs him with a strained voice and pulls the lethargic Pete up into a sitting position, leaning him against himself as he does his best to wrestle him into the t-shirt. Head first, then one arm and then the other. There, done.
Pete is slumped against him, his head resting on Vegas’ shoulder, fitting perfectly into the curve where the neck meets the shoulder, his soft deep breath feathering along the skin there every time he exhales. They are just leaning against each other and it feels so damn nice.
Vegas swallows hard. Closes his eyes. And then allows himself to tilt his head to the side until it touches Pete’s. This is madness, but he really needs this moment right now. He needs this peaceful intimacy that is such a stark contrast to the wild kaleidoscope of maddening emotions mixed with desire that he has been through this whole evening.
“…mine…” Pete mumbles barely audibly, and that single word carves itself straight into Vegas’ soul.
He is so screwed.
Vegas swallows again because he suddenly feels so much and none of it makes any sense to him. He wants to stay like this the whole night. He wants to run as far away as possible.
He is so screwed.
Reluctantly, he allows himself to let go and lowers the now sleeping Pete gently back onto the mattress. Only one more thing to do, then he can get the hell out of this room and call it a night. One more thing—and he looks at those leather pants and sighs deeply. This is going to suck big time, no pun intended!
“Trust me, I so do not want to do this,” he mutters under his breath, steeling himself for what is to come. It will be fine, he can do this. He has an iron will. He has perfect self-control. He can do this. Let’s just get this over with quickly.
Clenching his jaw, Vegas pushes up Pete’s t-shirt to get better access to the front of those damn leather pants. Not looking any lower. Buttons. Not thinking about what is underneath. His fingers are shaking so much he is having difficulties with those damn buttons. Definitely not taking note of any bulges, oh no. Just a few more, then it’s done.
He is so focused on trying not to think about what he is doing that it takes him until the last button to realise that there’s a lot of bare skin beneath those now unfastened leather pants. Bare skin where there should be underwear. Bare skin and curly black hair and…
Holy shit.
No underwear.
Pete’s been wearing no underwear the whole evening.
The wave of sheer unbridled lust that slams into him upon this realisation is staggering and catches him completely unprepared.
Vegas yelps and yanks his hands back as if he’s burned himself. He rolls backwards and off the bed in one smooth motion, hitting the floor with a thud. And then he is crawling backwards—away away away… as far away from the bed as he can—until his back hits the wall.
Panting hard, he stares at the bed with eyes wide with shock. Entirely overwhelmed by how his body is reacting right now.
He is so insanely attracted to this version of Pete that he is dizzy with desire. He is literally shaking with lust. Suddenly all he can think about is that he wants to grab Pete by the nape, drag him out of this bed, slam him into the wall and fuck him so hard that he won’t be able to walk straight for a day.
Houston, we have a problem.
Vegas.exe is malfunctioning.
Shit.
Vegas is so flabbergasted over the brutal intensity of his feelings that he stumbles to his feet and then makes a hasty beeline for the bedroom door. He needs to get out of this room and away from Pete this very instant. Never before in his life has he considered slaking his thirst, no matter what. Until now. Because he wants to fuck Pete so much he is trembling. Drunk? Sleeping? Willing? He doesn’t really care.
Shit.
Once outside, he firmly closes the bedroom door, leans against it and takes a shuddering breath. Just what sort of a monster is he turning into? He is scaring himself.
Normally he would drink himself into a stupor now, but that isn’t an option. If he lowers his inhibitions at this moment he knows exactly what will happen.
Going for a run until he is exhausted isn’t an option either, because he cannot leave Pete alone in the apartment in this state.
Eventually he ends up on the shower floor, ice cold water raining down on him. Vegas leans against the cool tiles, pulls his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them tightly and buries his face in them. Sitting there for a very, very long time.
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He doesn’t get any sleep. Of course he doesn’t. At some point he drags himself out of the bathroom, frozen to the very bone, but even that doesn’t manage to extinguish the tiny spark of searing lust in the depth of his stomach.
So the rest of the night he spends sitting on the floor in the corner of his dark living room, staring into space, letting his mind roam. Replaying the events of this night over and over again.
His first glimpse of Pete in those damn provocative clothes. The unexpected attraction to his therapist hitting him smack in the face. Pete’s lopsided smiles. The wandering hands. The way every touch felt so right and yet so wrong. And no freaking underwear! Vegas groans softly.
He is so screwed.
… the buzzing fluorescent lights… people talking in low voices… the shoes of the nurses squeaking on the tiles… doors sliding open and shut… the air is heavy with a mixture of antiseptic and cleaning fluids… the intercom in the hallway calling out codes at random intervals… cold metal bed rails… the low hum of the IV pump… the beeping of the heart monitor… wires glued to a pale chest… the rhythmic hissing sound of the mechanical ventilator…
Tears gather in his eyes and Vegas wipes them away angrily. This is not going to happen. He is not going to let this happen. Never again. He has learned his lesson the hard way. He is not going to be the cause of his lover’s death ever again.
Time passes. Minutes turn into hours. The sun rises.
He doesn’t sleep.
Vegas allows Pete to sleep in. Around 10 am, he rises from the floor and stretches, all his muscles screaming in agony, but he relishes the pain. It makes him feel alive because the rest of him feels numb at this point.
Shuffling over into the kitchen, he automatically washes some rice and turns on the rice cooker. Then he dashes into the bathroom for a quick pee. When he inspects himself in the mirror while rinsing his hands, he sighs deeply. He looks like shit. He is still wearing the same wrinkled clothes from last night, but changing them isn’t an option because that would mean he has to enter the bedroom. His hair is a mess, he is pale with dark circles beneath his eyes—in short, he looks as if he’s had a really shitty night. This won’t do. He forces himself to take a quick shower, this time steaming hot. He can’t do anything about his clothing, but at least now he doesn’t look like a zombie anymore. Mechanically, he brushes his teeth and heads back into the kitchen. The rice will be ready soon. Vegas turns on the coffee machine and places a frying pan on the stove. In a bowl, he whisks together some eggs, fish sauce, cornstarch and a bit of lime juice and fries an omelette. He doesn’t have to think, his muscle memory leads the way. Cooking can be very relaxing. When the rice cooker beeps, he spoons some steaming rice onto a plate and puts the omelette on top of it.
That plate, together with cutlery and a bottle of chilli sauce, is placed on the kitchen table, the smell of fresh food filling the room. Then Vegas selects a mug and fills it with coffee. He is unsure how Pete drinks his coffee, or if he drinks coffee at all, so he doesn’t add any cream or sugar but places these on the kitchen table as well, so Pete can add them later if he wants.
Time to face the music. Vegas feels as if he is about to go to his
execution, which is absurd. He hasn’t done anything wrong after all. Thank God.
Taking a deep steadying breath, he enters the bedroom with the steaming coffee mug in his hand. “Rise and shine, breakfast is ready.” Amazing how stable and calm his voice sounds, while his emotions skitter all over the place once again.
At some point during the night Pete has apparently slipped underneath the blanket, because the only part of him that is immediately visible is the top of his head. Which now moves. Very slowly, the rest of Pete’s head emerges. Eyes still tightly closed, he lifts up his face, his nose twitching as he sniffs. He must be smelling the coffee. His hair is tousled and standing up on all sides. Vegas’ heart once again skips a beat, and instantly his mouth is dry again. He thought he was ready for this? He is such an idiot, he should have known better. He wants to drop the mug and crawl beneath that blanket, sink his fingers into Pete’s hair to mess it up even more and kiss him until he is breathless.
Yeah right. So not going to happen.
Instead he diverts his eyes, moves over to the side of the bed and places the coffee mug on the bedside table.
When he turns around, his eyes are met with Pete’s. The silence between them stretches as they stare at each other. It’s impossible to decipher what Pete is thinking, waking up to find himself in someone else bed—his patient’s bed, to be precise. His face gives away nothing, and neither do his eyes. What does he even remember of last night?
Finally Vegas breaks the eye contact and the increasingly oppressive silence to speak. “There is fresh coffee on the nightstand. If you want cream or sugar with it, you can find them in the kitchen. I made something to eat too. Just omelette and rice, don’t let it get cold. You can take a shower if you want to. There are fresh towels in the bathroom,” he mechanically rattles on, his voice devoid of all emotions. “When you are done, please get the hell out of here. I’m going for a walk.”
And without any further explanation, excuses or apologies, he turns around and walks out of the bedroom. Out of his apartment. Out on Pete. Very determined to close this chapter of his life once and for all.
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Once Pete has left, Vegas spends the rest of Sunday going for a run. He runs and runs until he cannot run anymore, until his body is trembling with exhausting and he cannot lift his feet without pain. Then he hails a cab that takes him home again, stumbles into his apartment and falls onto his bed, hoping for a dreamless sleep to claim him quickly.
But the whole damn bed smells of Pete. Someone give him a break already!
In an exhausted daze he collects the sheet, the blanket and the pillows, and throws them into the laundry. He opens the windows wide to air the room out. He gets new sheets. A new blanket. New pillows. He sprays some of his eau de toilette on the mattress. And he can still smell Pete. It is maddening.
In the end he moves to the couch in the living room and even takes a sleeping pill, which finally knocks him out.
Sometime in the evening he wakes up again, feeling light-headed and woozy. He orders some takeaway, eats, then calls work to ask for sick leave for the next two days.
Vegas knows he needs time to think. To process.
But first he gets totally shit-faced.
He doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to feel.
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Tuesday evening, after the two days of solitude he has used to patch his fragile emotional state back together best he can, his phone starts ringing. It’s Arm, which is strange. He rarely receives a phone call from Arm.
“Vegas.” Just this single word, but Vegas is instantly on guard. “Get over here.” Arm doesn’t sound like himself. He sounds very tense. Vegas’ inner alarm bells start ringing. “I think we got another one.”
Shit.
Oh shit.
No way.
Shit.