“But that’s just the trouble with me.

I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”

They have a lovely murder board. The king of all analogue murder boards; this isn’t a TV show, so there’s no such thing as a fancy, futuristic digital board. A simple whiteboard will have to make do, but theirs is the length of the whole office. Very impressive. And so is the fact that they actually have a whole office just for them.

Once again Vegas feels completely steamrolled. Does it even matter what objections he has? No one is listening to him. Sometimes it feels as if he doesn’t exist, because everyone seems to ignore him as soon as he voices a complaint. It’s bewildering and very frustrating.

Arm was right, as usual. As soon as the word about the new case spreads in the department, everyone is suddenly very busy and cannot possibly take on yet another case, so Vegas is stuck with it. Without help. Well, he’s got his therapist but that is not what he considers help.

Some clown has printed out a copy of the X Files logo and attached it to their office door, which perfectly sums up the whole situation as far as Vegas is concerned. Everything weird is shoved his way to deal with, and he has to juggle the workload while trying to rein in Pete, who is his very own version of a cheerful Mulder who seems to be having the time of his life, going completely bananas, living out what must have been his lifelong dream of joining the cast of his very own production of ‘Criminal Minds – Thailand’. Gah!

Wasn’t the whole point of this to decrease his workload? Wasn’t he supposed to have anger management therapy to decrease his stress levels? This here isn’t helping! In fact, he is feeling more stressed now than before, and the sole reason for this is Pete, who is slowly driving him completely bat-shit crazy.

Just take the office, for example. A nice, medium-sized office. With a monster whiteboard, but okay, Vegas can deal with that. The first thing he has to do when he steps into that new office is to rearrange the furniture, because he will not be sitting with his desk directly across Pete’s, forcing him to constantly face that shrink as soon as he raises his eyes. No way. Not going to happen. He moves his desk around so that it’s not blocking the whiteboard, provides a good view of the door and, most importantly, so that Pete cannot place his desk in front of it again. Pete arches an eyebrow when he sees what Vegas has done, but refrains from commenting.

This is only the start.

When he comes to work the next day, the lovely white magnets on the whiteboard are gone, having been replaced with colourful magnets in various shapes. Flowers, shells, fish and … good Lord… are those dinosaurs? Vegas nearly chokes on his coffee, and after a prolonged coughing fit he grimly collects all those offensive magnets, heads to the administration offices, and exchanges them back to white ones. They are not in kindergarten. This won’t do.

Pete must have noticed, but he doesn’t say a thing.

Instead, one day the office suddenly sprouts a set of colourful funky retro curtains framing the window. He has seen this fabric pattern at IKEA; he was horrified then, and he is horrified now. The window has blinders, for heaven’s sake! What do they need curtains for? He takes them away. They reappear. Gah!

Every time a plant in a vividly coloured pot appears on one of the desks, or in a corner of the room, or on the windowsill, Vegas grits his teeth and carries it up to the top floor, placing it in front of Pete’s office door.

One day a vase with some red flowers appears, and that triggers such a visual flashback to the last crime scene that Vegas slaps it off the desk with the back of his hand without a second thought. The vase hits the wall with a crash; water, shards and flowers fly everywhere. Vegas blinks. Shit. What a mess. He really is on edge these days; normally he has himself more under control. It takes a while to clean everything up, and when Pete arrives later that day Vegas dumps the trash bin with the leftovers on his desk and gives him a sharp look. After that there are no more flowers.

This partnership is going to drive him insane.

As for the case… or rather, the cases…

Efficient as always, Pol delivers the footage and the crime scene photos to their new office after a few days. Vegas has time to look through the lot before Pete eventually shows up later that day. His therapist still has other patients to deal with, so he cannot hang out in their sparkling new, shared office the whole time; a small blessing, at least if you ask Vegas.

He feels a certain unease when it comes to Pete looking at those crime scene photos. If it were up to him, his innocent baby shrink would never lay his eyes on this horror, but he knows he cannot stop this from happening. It is like watching a car wreck happening in slow motion. Vegas sits at his desk, observes as the smile disappears from Pete’s face, as he loses all colour, turning more and more grey the longer he looks at the photos. When he hastily gets up and exits the office, Vegas sighs deeply, and fetches a bottle of cold water, heading to the restroom to give it to Pete when he finally exits, after puking his guts out.

“Told you so.”

And this time Pete doesn’t contradict him, for once.

But his shrink is persistent at least. He does not give up. The next day finds him back at their office, sorting through the photos once more, alas with a strained expression on his face.

And then the murder board takes shape. Pete is nothing but methodical when he slowly fills the board with the different categories of information they have about each murder. Timeline. Victims. Modus operandi. Places. Relationships. Each victim has his own section. Crime scene photos in high resolution that are a jarring contrast to the low resolution driver’s license photo of at least one of their victims. And disturbingly enough, Pete left space for more than one additional victim. Vegas hopes fervently that this is it, they will miraculously recover some information that will lead them to their murderer and he will never have to endure another nightmarish scene again. Hope dies last.

And okay, maybe the murder board was a good idea, because visualising all the information this way really helps. Their biggest problem right now is victim #2, John Doe. They have found neither clothes nor personal belongings at the crime scene; nothing at all that offers a clue to his identity.

Arm’s autopsy report only reveals that he was in his late 20’s and in very good physical shape. The toxicology report is still pending—the lab has a backlog and they have to wait. And of course Arm was right, he finds traces of soot in the victim’s lungs. He was alive when he was burned and flayed, at least for parts of it. The cause of death is listed as a combination of multi-organ failure due to pain-induced shock, leading to cardiac arrest and respiratory failure. Fuck. Best not to think too much about it.

The only lead they have for now is a barely visible tattoo that Arm discovered on parts of the flayed, charred skin. The ME is currently in the process of very carefully treating that fragile skin flap to make the markings more visible, before trying to capture it via some advanced forensic photography method he unsuccessfully tried to explain to Vegas over lunch one day.

All that is left to do for him and Pete is to canvass the area of the second crime scene, looking for working CCTV cameras. Which is mind-numbingly boring work, but someone has got to do it. Vegas endures one day of them working as a team for this, then he simply cannot stomach more, and so the next day they split up, dividing the area into two zones: Vegas takes one and Pete the other, and this day feels almost like a vacation to Vegas. Peace and quiet, no one who is constantly chatting his ear off. Boring is great. He longs for the good old days when Tem was his partner. And as expected, their search does not yield many results. A few measly tapes, that’s all. This sucks.

----------------------------------------

Pete has outed himself as a computer nerd. Of course he is. If there’s anything his therapist isn’t good at, Vegas has yet to discover it. Pete tries to explain the whole concept behind Google image search to an impatient Vegas, when the discussion comes to those damn flowers.

“Why are you even telling me all this?” Vegas eventually interrupts because his head is going to explode if he hears anything else about search algorithms and such. “All I want is the name of that damn flower. If you know how to find it, just do it. Results make me happy. I don’t care how you got the results.”

“Did you forget to eat lunch, detective? You sound like you have low blood sugar. So grumpy,” Pete mutters under his breath, and then starts typing away at his computer. Vegas decides to ignore that comment and goes back to the whiteboard to fill in some additional information from the CCTV locations for both crime scenes. They work in blissful silence for a while, but of course this doesn’t last long.

“Want to play a little game, detective?” Pete suddenly asks out of the blue. Vegas turns his head to glance at him, arching an eyebrow. Pete’s lips curve into a charming smile—dimple alert—his therapist is giving off the vibes of someone who has had a fabulous idea and now wants to put it into action. Uh-oh.

“Aren’t we a bit too old for games? Besides, this is a murder investigation, I don’t think whatever game you envision would be appropriate in this context.”

“Not a game then. Let’s call it an experiment. I have been wanting to try this for the longest time, ever since I read about it. And I think now would be the perfect situation for it.”

“I disagree. I don’t feel like games or experiments. I got work to do.”

Vegas is not going to lie to himself, he is curious, yet at the same time wary. His gut feeling tells him that playing any sort of games with his shrink has the potential for disaster. And yet… Pete has that gleam in his eyes again, that irresistible enthusiasm Vegas feels drawn to like a moth to the flame. This is a bad idea. He forces himself to look away, to concentrate back on the whiteboard. What did he want to write again? He’s lost his train of thought. It’s maddening how this keeps happening around Pete. How is he supposed to work efficiently like this?

Behind him, he can hear the scraping of the chair against the floor as Pete stands up, and he feels himself tensing ever so slightly. His grip on the pen tightens. On Beam’s side of the murder board, he jots down another note about the CCTV footage they recovered.

Concentrate, Vegas, concentrate. Easier said than done, when he can hear steps approaching. The electric tingle coupled with a trail of goosebumps running over his back informs him that Pete is standing right behind him now. Whiteboard. Notes. Concentrate.

“Oh come on, detective. I promise this will actually be helpful when it comes to the investigation. Trust me, you are going to like it.”

Oh, the temptation in these soft spoken words. Vegas stares blankly at the board, refusing to turn around, but however hard he tries, he cannot remember what he wanted to write down. Damn it. That’s what he is afraid of, liking it. He does not want to like anything that Pete has to offer.

Perhaps his inner struggle is mirrored in his body language for Pete is chuckling softly now. “Detective Theerapanyakul, don’t tell me you are afraid of a little psychological exercise?”

Damn Pete for knowing how to push his buttons (although it probably comes with the job description). Vegas feels instant indignation. “Bullshit. I just don’t feel like being a guinea pig for some fresh-out-of-university shrink who wants to prove himself. This isn’t one of our therapy sessions, this is work, and I don’t have time for games or stupid exercises.” He still refuses to turn around, stubbornly facing the whiteboard.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Pete teases him with laughter in his voice.

Vegas huffs in exasperation but remains stubborn. His plan is to ignore the teasing, and then his shrink will give up and leave him alone. Great plan. Until…

… until Pete quietly hums a single line under his breath. “Hey, babe, take a walk on the wild side…”

Oh hell yeah, bring it on! An involuntary shiver runs through Vegas, the predator inside of him awakening and taking note of the challenge.

… POOF

On his left shoulder a little angel appears, giving him an encouraging nod. “Don’t listen to him, just don’t listen. Stay strong.”

… POOF

On his right shoulder a little devil slouches, rubbing his hands in glee. “Oh yes, let’s walk on the wild side; the wilder, the better.”

Ack! He is going insane!

I’m going slightly mad

I’m going slightly mad

It finally happened, happened

It finally happened, oh-oh

It finally happened, I’m slightly mad

Oh, dear

Vegas straightens his back and turns his head, fixating Pete with a hard look, his voice purposefully condescending. “I doubt you could handle a walk on the wild side with me.”

And this maddening man—his nemesis… the bane of his existence—he gives Vegas such a devilish smile that the little angel, the voice of reason, yelps and falls straight off Vegas’ shoulder while the little devil laughs gleefully as his shrink counters with yet another challenge: “I think I might be able to surprise you with just how much I can handle.”

Against his will, Vegas gets caught in those wicked dark eyes once again, and they stare at each other in silence. It’s unclear who will win this invisible tug of war between Vegas and his shrink, until Vegas’ little devil simply cuts the rope, and Vegas hears himself saying, “Just bring it on, then.”

Shit. Did he really just say that? He did. Damn it.

The worst part is that his baby shrink looks positively radiant, and knowing he is the reason for that look makes Vegas’ heart contract painfully. There it is again, he’s feeling something, something that he doesn’t want to feel.

Steamrolled again.

Vegas tears his eyes away from Pete and tries to make sense of what is written on the whiteboard without much success, because he is so damn distracted that it’s difficult to concentrate. He’s such an idiot, this is a terribly bad idea, he is going to regret this.

“Trust me, this is going to be helpful and you are going to like it,” Pete tries to reassure him.

“Whatever. Let’s get it over with.” Tightening the grip on the pen as if this is the anchor that will keep him safe from whatever his therapist is planning, Vegas’ apprehension bleeds into his voice.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.” Once again, Pete is trying to reassure him and Vegas really wants to believe him, he does, but he can’t. His gut feeling insists on this being a very bad idea. Period. “Maybe you should sit down for this…” Pete suggests.

“No thanks, I’ll stay right here.”

“The exercise requires you to close your eyes,” his shrink points out.

“I can stand here with my eyes closed,” Vegas replies stubbornly, determined to have at least some sort of control over whatever Pete is planning. He takes the hand not holding the pen and steadies himself on the whiteboard. “There, fixed. In case you were worried I’d lose my footing.” Perhaps everything will be okay as long as he doesn’t have to look at his therapist for this.

“All right. I can work with that too.” Pete pauses for a moment, perhaps to gather his thoughts. “In order to learn more about our perpetrator, we need to study his victims. Right now the only victim we have reliable information on is Beam since victim #2 is still John Doe until we find a way to identify him. Now we simply need to put all that information to good use.”

Vegas does not like where this is going. It sounds reasonable, but he is still trying very hard to forget that he ever knew Beam before the man became the victim of a violent crime.

“You have collected the information—you should know him best, detective. So for this exercise I want you to become the victim. Slip into his skin, if you know what I mean.”

Hell, no. Vegas becomes very still upon hearing that. No way. He is not going to do that. And so he very emphatically replies: “No. Not happening.”

“Yes, it will.” His baby shrink just breezes past his objection. Such a brat. “You have all the background information. You will pretend to be the victim, and I will ask you some questions. Which you will answer based on your understanding of how the victim would have reacted. It’s as simple as that. It’s a common exercise in one of the core psychology course books at school. From what I have gathered, chances are high we will come away from this with some valuable new insight.”

“Trust me, this isn’t going to work. I have a bad feeling about this.” Vegas is still turned towards the white board, bracing himself. The pen in his right hand makes a noise as if it’s about to break, and Vegas notices with surprise that he is so tense he nearly cracked it in half. Oops.

“Whatever happened to walking the wild side, detective? Chickening out?”

The hand touching the whiteboard curls into a fist. That little piece of shit. Vegas fumes internally. “I have lousy imagination, that’s all. I don’t think I can get as ‘in character’ as you expect me to.”

“Nonsense. I have faith in you.” It seems Pete cannot be deterred. He sounds nauseatingly cheerful and convinced that this is a great idea. “You’ll do just fine. Now stop procrastinating and close your eyes.”

“Fine.” Vegas opens his fist again and slams the palm against the whiteboard with perhaps a little bit too much force. I’ll give him 5 minutes, he thinks. 5 minutes. He can do 5 minutes. And so he closes his eyes and waits, despite his feeling of impending doom.

Deprived of his vision, his other senses sharpen. He can sense Pete standing behind him nearby. Sounds get more pronounced; inside of this office he can hear their breath and nothing else; from outside, the familiar, muted sounds of a busy police station reach his ears.

“I want you to imagine that you are Beam.” Somehow, Pete’s voice sounds different, more compelling.

I don’t want to, Vegas wants to yell at the top of his lungs. I don’t want to be Beam, Beam’s dead. Instead he grits his teeth. He’s met Beam when he was alive, he has no problems seeing him before his inner eye. He would prefer not having to do this.

“You have been working the whole week. Tell me about your job.”

Vegas sighs deeply. Fuck. Fine. Let’s do this. Beam did talk about work when they made small talk, so he only has to repeat the details he remembers. “I work in a supermarket. The work is boring; I have to work long hours and the pay sucks. My boss refuses to hire more staff so I have to work harder but I am not getting paid for all the extra work. I despise my work, I would like to do something else but I cannot find a suitable job.”

“What do you do when you get home from work?”

“I…” Vegas has to pause and ponder this over. “I don’t do much. I don’t have any hobbies because I don’t have much spare time. I come home pretty late every day.” Another pause as he envisions Beam’s apartment again. “Usually I cook dinner, then I watch TV or read. I am tired after a long day, I know I have to get up early again the next morning so I do not stay up very long, I go to bed early.”

“Do you do that every day?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“What about the weekends then?” Pete asks softly.

“What weekends? I work 6 days a week.” Under Vegas’ hand, the whiteboard feels cool. Grounding. “On my day off I do the household chores that I do not have time for during the week.”

“What about friends then?”

“I don’t have any friends. Ever since I moved to the city I am having a hard time connecting to other people. Everything is easier when living in the countryside. The people in this city keep newcomers at arm’s length.”

When Beam had told him about that he almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But in the end he wasn’t interested in forming a friendship with Beam either. He just wanted to hook up.

There is movement behind his back, and when Pete asks his next question, he sounds somewhat closer. “You must be very lonely then.”

“Yes.” Beam was lonely. So is Vegas. He can relate, and that makes him feel things he would rather not feel. His throat is getting tight again.

“What do you do when the feeling of loneliness is getting too overwhelming?” When did his therapist’s voice get so caring? He doesn’t need pity. No, wrong. Beam. Beam doesn’t need anyones pity.

“I go out. There are nightclubs. Bars. I can meet people there, talk and such.” Yeah, and such…

“Do you go out often?”

“I would say fairly regularly. Mainly on my day off. Sometimes during the week, if I am not too tired after work.” Beam went clubbing often, unlike Vegas, who doesn’t feel the need to socialise; Vegas just goes out when he wants to hook up with someone.

“Do you always visit the same places?”

And again, Vegas hesitates. “I… don’t know? I think I have a couple of regular places I hang out at; after all I am trying to find friends so it’s best to become a regular at a club to increase the chances of this happening.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Pete hums in approval behind his back. “That makes sense. So you had a long week, it’s finally your day off, and you’re ready for a night of clubbing. Did you dress up for your night out?”

“No. I don’t have any special party clothes,” Vegas replies directly. That goes for both Beam and himself.

“So you are not trying to stand out to attract attention?”

“No. I’d say I dress casual, yet smart. I don’t have the money for fancy designer clothes.”

Vegas feels an electric tingle skip along his back, coupled with a minute increase in heat that hints at Pete leaning closer. “Then how did you attract my attention?” Pete asks in a low voice.

My attention. Vegas heart skips a beat. Pete’s attention? Oh… The killer. He must mean the killer. Of course. Still, this managed to throw him off course for a moment and he has to clear his throat to win some time before he answers. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s my charming personality?”

“Are you that charming then?”

“Trust me, I can be very charming when I put my mind to it.” This is Vegas speaking for himself, and not Beam. He’s slipping, he needs to be careful.

“Oh, I am sure you are.” There is a hint of amusement in Pete’s low voice, and Vegas has to suppress a smile because he just knows the facial expression that goes along with that tone of voice. In his mind’s eye, he can see Pete roll his eyes.

“So you attract my attention because you are charming, but then what? Do I approach you, or do you make the first move?”

“I approach you.” Beam did make the first move back then. “You probably smiled at me at some point, so when I head to the bar to order a drink I’ll go to stand near you. I comment on something, smile, testing the waters to see if you are in the mood to talk.”

“Which I am. After all, there’s something about you that caught my attention. Are we making small talk over a drink?”

“Yes.” Despite feeling increasingly distracted by his growing awareness of Pete’s proximity, Vegas really does his best to stay ‘in character’. “I am so starved for attention that I gladly talk to you about anything that comes to mind. I will tell you about my work. My troubles living in this city. I’m oversharing, but I’m not even aware of it. I’m simply glad I have company.”

“Which of course makes it easy for me,” remarks Pete. “You tell me everything I need to know. You live alone. You have no contact to any close relatives. You will not be missed.” He pauses.

Vegas is positive he can feel the heat radiating from Pete’s body standing close behind him. He swallows drily.

Then Pete adds, “So who starts flirting, you or I? After all, my goal is not just to kill you.”

Once again, Vegas tenses. He almost forgot that all of this ended in a gruesome murder. “You start. I am waiting for clear signals, before I take this any further. I must have had some bad experiences, so I am a bit cautious.” Beam had been like this.

“So you came to the bar not only to potentially find new friends, but your primary goal was to find someone to have sex with?”

Shifting this talk to sex does not feel like the safest thing to do, with Vegas’ body always reacting to Pete the way it does. He presses his palm harder against the whiteboard and takes a deep breath. He is a professional, he can do this. He does not like this exercise at all. “Yes. But I am waiting for you to initiate things.”

“Hmmm… I would of course be discreet about it. You think this would be a clear enough signal to you?” And before Vegas’ brain has the opportunity to process those words, he feels the lightest brush against the hand that is still clinging to the whiteboard pen. Skin touching skin for a fleeting second. He is so startled he nearly drops the pen and draws a surprised breath, goosebumps instantly spreading out from the area of contact.

Shit. Off limits. Off limits. Off limits. “Uhm… yeah… That would certainly get my attention.” His voice sounds a bit hoarse, Vegas notes, probably because his throat is suddenly as dry as the desert. Thing is, the casual flirty touch is something he often utilises, as he did with on Beam. Seems it’s very effective on himself as well. Off limits, he repeats. Let’s not go there. But damn…

“So where do we go from here? I could of course do it again, to stress that it was intentional.” There’s definitely a playfulness in Pete’s voice now. Vegas tenses in instant anticipation of another electric touch—only to be disappointed when nothing is happening. Instead, Pete chuckles softly. Good grief. Is his shrink even aware of what he is doing? He has to be, right? “Somehow I think my point came across loud and clear the first time already. So let’s go somewhere more private…”

At this point, Vegas would like nothing more than to do just that. And then do a whole lot of other things. Huffing and puffing, the little angel pulls itself up onto his left shoulder again and hollers: “Off limits!”. Yeah, right. Listen to the voice of reason. He clears his throat again. “A hotel then.”

“A hotel, that’s so impersonal. Why not go to your place?”

You’ve been there, you put your fucking mark all over it already, Vegas wants to shout. Damn, wait. Beam, he is supposed to be Beam. “Ah… I’d rather not. I prefer a hotel. That is more discreet.” Surely Beam would be afraid of what the neighbours might think, right? Vegas himself worries about that constantly when he wants to hook up with someone. That, and about his father finding out.

“I am sure you do.” And damn, did Pete move even closer? Because that voice came from right behind his ear. Vegas barely suppresses a shudder. His eyes are still tightly closed, which makes him hyper-aware about everything else.

Pete continues. “But I would prefer going to your apartment. A hotel feels so impersonal. It would make me feel cheap. Also, does this mean I don’t get to stay the whole night? I would very much like to spend the whole night and wake up next to you in the morning.”

Vegas blinks, momentarily struck speechless. What was he supposed to do again? Oh yes. He is supposed to be ‘in character’. How would Beam react? He doesn’t have the faintest clue. Would he have taken a fling back home with him? He certainly was more than willing to head to a hotel with Vegas. Then again, Beam would have liked the whole idea of someone staying overnight, since this is hinting at the potential for something more permanent. “A hotel really is a better choice,” he eventually points out. “My place has thin walls, we’d need to be quiet.”

There is once again movement behind Vegas and the small hairs at the back of his neck stand all up. Pete is ridiculously close now, and it makes his skin tingle all over. In fact, Pete is so close that his breath feathers against the side of Vegas’ face when he whispers next. “That’s fine with me. But if you are worried about noise, I could always gag you… wouldn’t you like that?”

Vegas’ mind goes completely blank.

A violent shudder runs through him, and the fingers clenching the whiteboard marker open, the pen falling to the floor with a clatter that Vegas doesn’t even fully register. He blindly reaches out and also rests that hand with the palm against the whiteboard to steady himself further because—damn.

An image flashes through his mind: Darkness… and in the darkness Pete’s face, a feverish sensual look on his face… that damn sheer black shirt stuffed into his mouth to stifle any of the sounds he is making…

Holy shit. Heat unfurls in the depth of his stomach and Vegas feels his knees tremble. Holy shit. That image has burned itself in his sub-conscience and will most likely haunt him forever. What were they supposed to do here again? He cannot think straight, and this is a very bad sign.

“I see that this argument has convinced you. So you are taking me home with you?”

Why, oh why does Pete have to sound so smug? Isn’t this affecting him at all? And all Vegas can do is nod mutely. Sure, he’ll take him home. No, wait… Beam will take him home. This is all about Beam, not Vegas, and he keeps forgetting about this vital fact. This is just an exercise. Just an exercise, nothing else.

“You are not worried about taking a stranger home with you then?”

“No,” Vegas manages to mumble hoarsely. “You seem pretty harmless and I think at this point…” He clears his throat again, going for honesty. “After that tease I will be thinking more about the sex than any possible danger.”

“And that is precisely why I teased you,” Pete's disembodied voice whispers into his ear. “I am smart, I want you to lower your guard. So you take me home and I will tease you some more along the way. Then what?”

Every time Pete speaks, a puff of breath tickles Vegas’ ear and the sensitive area behind it. How the hell is he supposed to concentrate like this? The little devil on his shoulder takes this as his cue to offer some insight into the situation. “Yield to temptation. It may not pass your way again.” If only he could… Can they stop this exercise already? Do they really need to talk about what happens next? Isn’t it pretty obvious? Do they need to put it into words? “We have sex. You kill me. Game over.”

“Oh, but we haven’t even started yet. Chickening out again?”

Vegas clenches the hands that rest against the whiteboard into fists and makes a frustrated sound deep down in his throat. “I don’t see how this is leading to anything constructive,” he argues desperately.

“That is for me to decide. And for your to play along.”

So much for that. From past experience he knows that his shrink will not be deterred. I hate my life. And I am loving this. Vegas leans forward until his forehead comes to rest against the cool surface of the whiteboard. Anything to get an extra bit of distance from Pete because he is feeling very crowded and there is still that burning flame of desire in his belly that refuses to die down. “Fine. Whatever. Go on.”

“Did we take my car?”

Oh. That is a good point. “I don’t have a car, so we must have been taking yours.”

“Indeed.” Pete hums thoughtfully again. “After all I need something to transport the buckets and the mop. I will have to pick them up and carry them upstairs later on. But right now I am busy, you have my full attention.”

Unfortunately that is the case not just ‘in character’ but ‘out of character’ as well. And that full attention is turning out to be increasingly difficult to handle for Vegas. When did it get so quiet in this office? And why is he breathing so fast?

“Are you going to offer me something to drink or a late night snack?”

A flashback to the night with Beam at the hotel. They barely made it through the door before starting to take their clothes off. “I’m the snack,” Vegas says automatically, and then wants to smack himself, hard. “What I meant is that I will probably rip off your clothes as soon as the door closes.”

Pete makes a sound that could be interpreted as a purr—or maybe he is just clearing his throat. Or perhaps Vegas is simply imagining everything at this point. “No ripping allowed. That could lead to leaving behind trace evidence at the scene and I am too careful for that,” Pete points out, and damn, he is once again taking a step closer.

Now Vegas feels cornered between him and the whiteboard, because he cannot move any further away from this man. Oh, dear. “I think I’ll slow things down and peel you out of your clothes one by one on the way to the bedroom. That way I have more control over the situation,” Pete whispers into his ear.

Why bother with undressing him when Vegas will combust any moment now, his clothes going up in flames and turning conveniently to ashes? Ack, dammit, he did it again! Beam. This is all about Beam. Or is it? “I think I’ll certainly approve of that strategy,” he mumbles hoarsely, doing his best not to visualise this scene in his brain. Needless to say, he fails miserably. Fuck. Pete undressing him slowly would be hot as hell. “Why am I the only one being naked?” he cannot help asking.

“Because I need my clothes in the bedroom. The syringe with the ketamine, remember?” A valid point but no, Vegas did not remember. He doesn’t even remember he’s supposed to be Beam. Screw Beam, he’s dead anyway. But Vegas is very much alive and very much aroused by this game of theirs, and a little bit of egoism is just fine in this situation.

“Do I get to take off your clothes before or after you throw me on the bed?” he asks breathlessly.

“Dream on. No touching. I’ll make you watch while I take them off myself.” Pete’s voice is turning all husky now, so Vegas is not the only one being affected by their headlong hurl into this out of bounds madness. Good to know.

“You are such a fucking tease.” A breathy chuckle escapes Vegas; by now he is glad he steadying himself against that whiteboard with both hands, since his legs certainly feel rather weak at this point.

“… and you are loving it,” Pete retorts quietly.

Loving it is an understatement. The sheer thrill of this is mind-blowing. Vegas is vibrating out of his skin with arousal, his uniform pants feeling uncomfortably tight. And he wants more. Normally he’s the dominant one in his sexual encounters, so flipping the dynamics like this is electrifying. “Hell yeah… just fuck me already.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from behind him. “Oh my, how impatient you are. No foreplay then?”

Vegas huffs. “I think all of this qualifies as foreplay, would’t you agree?”

Now it’s Pete’s turn to chuckle. “No prepping either?”

“I can deal with a little bit of pain.”

Pete makes the most satisfying guttural sound upon hearing this gruff statement from Vegas. And then everything careens fully out of control as Pete’s body more or less slams against his.

Vegas felt caged in before but now he being subjected to the real deal. Pete is practically glued to him, a shocking full-body contact, his front against Vegas’ back, and his body heat is so intense that Vegas has the fleeting thought that they are literally melting into each other’s flesh. Then Vegas feels him move his arms up to rest his hands beside Vegas’ on the whiteboard—fuck—yes, now he is truly caged in. Their arms are touching; he can feel the barest of hint of Pete’s thumbs against the outer side of his pinkies and it’s magnificent and very much forbidden—and he is loving every second of it!

“Off limits!” hollers the little imaginary angel on his left shoulder, adjusting its halo. “Stay strong, you got this!”

You got this? Part of Vegas wants to burst into hysterical laughter. My foot. Never before has the voice of reason been this dead-wrong. The only thing he got is a hard-on that is getting more pronounced by the second.

And Pete murmuring, “Would you like me to gag you now, you did mention thin walls,” is not helping! Every time Pete speaks, his lips brush against the sensitive spot right behind Vegas’ ear and it’s driving him insane. He loves it… He should not love this so much. But he does and he wants more.

“Honestly, do whatever the fuck you want with me,” Vegas’ pants breathlessly.

Pete’s heavy breathing stirs the tiny hairs on Vegas’ neck, sending a shiver into every cell of his body. “Even the ketamine?”

“Trust me, I am already thoroughly distracted, I won’t even notice some needle sting.” Lust thrums through his veins, he can feel Pete’s fast heartbeat through their clothes, the way every single one of his muscles moves and shit—he can even feel a very distinctive bulge pressing against his butt. Yeah well, distracted is an understatement.

“Even the … bite?”

He forgot about the bite. But now that those floodgates have opened it’s all he can think about. Pete’s hot wet lips on his neck, slowly trailing from the back to the front—scraping his teeth against the skin—and he can vividly imagine the look of divine pleasure on Pete’s face as he dives in to sink those teeth into Vegas’ flesh while he orgasms—like a freaking vampire going for the kill.

… white noise …

Vegas imagines a hand grabbing that angel on his shoulder, contracting into a fist, squeezing until there’s a very satisfying—POOF—and then there’s no irritating voice of reason anymore, just dust sifting through his fingers, drifting away to the sounds of an unhinged giggle from the little devil on his right shoulder.

Unhinged.

Yes, unhinged is a good word for what he is feeling right now. Very thoroughly unhinged. Thinking about biting has truly turned Vegas into a stark raving lunatic.

Fuck Beam. Fuck this investigation. Fuck work ethics. So what if he’s at work in the middle of a busy police station and someone could walk into this office any moment. Screw them all, he couldn’t care less. He’s had enough. He’s been teased mercilessly—no, tortured—for what feels like an eternity, and he’s simply reached the end of his endurance.

This little exercise from hell has turned him on to no end; he hasn’t even properly laid his hands on Pete nor has he been touched, really touched, himself, and still his cock so hard it hurts. He never thought a little bit of roleplaying could be so arousing, and yet here he is, ready to come. And bloody hell, he needs to come badly. He’s so close, it will only take a little bit more to tip him over the edge and then he’ll explode and damn, he can feel it, the orgasm will be mind-blowing. Just a little bit more… that is really all he can think about right now.

“Damn it! Bite me already!” he hisses through clenched teeth, tilting his head to the side to offer better access to his throat.

But that damn, teasing mouth isn’t moving, it has frozen in place, and Vegas huffs with frustration, sounding so needy it’s embarrassing, but at this point he doesn’t care. “Pete, seriously, do it, okay? I really want that damn bite. Do it! You’re driving me insane, just sink your teeth into my neck, I am so close… I need this!” Vegas pleads breathlessly.

Instead of the relief he craves, he finds himself alone all of a sudden, as Pete disentangles himself, stepping back. A whimper escapes Vegas’ mouth at that loss of contact. His mind is a mess; he is in a lust-filled daze, and now the object of his desire is gone all of a sudden, and he doesn’t understand why this is happening. His eyes flicker open and he feels even more disorientated, blinded by the sudden light, but still he pushes himself off from the whiteboard, turning around. And fuck, it hurts because moving brushes the fabric of his trousers against his raging erection, making him gasp. Goddamn!

Vegas blinks several times, and when his vision has finally fully adjusted to the light he sees Pete, standing a short distance away from him. His face is flushed and his pupils are dilated, making his eyes even darker than usual. He looks as unhinged as Vegas feels right now, and thoroughly flustered.

Both of them are panting, their heavy breathing echoing harshly in the otherwise quiet office.

“Pete…” Vegas is struggling to form any coherent words, his voice sounding surprisingly brittle. “What the fuck? Come back here right now and finish what you started…”

But Pete isn’t moving. Emotions flicker across his face, too many and too fast for Vegas to make any sense of them. And then, as if someone has flipped a switch, he becomes very still and closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them again, Vegas wants to weep. No no no… ! His calm and collected therapist is back, and the sudden change is unsettling. Even the pleasant, yet distant smile he now gives Vegas simply makes him want to grab Pete and shake him hard until he breaks through this mask his shrink is wearing again. No no no! What the fuck is happening???

“I believe you are getting a little bit carried away, detective. Let’s consider this exercise over,” Pete, the therapist, says coolly, and those words slice into Vegas like a knife.

“Pete!” He takes a step forward and reaches out to grab Pete, who skilfully steps aside, avoiding the contact. Vegas feels completely lost. This cannot be happening. Please don’t let this be happening. But it is happening, and Pete’s next words ram the knife in and twist it cruelly.

“That is quite enough, detective. I suggest you make an effort to control your emotions. You are just embarrassing yourself.”

Fuck.

“… you are such a fucking embarrassment, you are making me sick! You are a humiliation for the whole family!”

Vegas’ breath catches in his throat and he flinches. That hit too close to home and it hurt, so like a cornered, hurt animal, he lashes out instinctively.

A sudden lurch forward and then he backhands Pete hard across the face, the sharp slap echoing uncomfortably through the room. The strength of the blow forces the other man to stumble sideways, blood blooming on his mouth where the lip splits under the impact. Pete looks stunned.

“Bastard!” Fuming with rage, Vegas hisses at Pete before he whips around and strides to the door, rips it open and then slams it shut hard behind him as he exits.

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He might be incandescent with anger, but Vegas is still absurdly aroused, and that problem needs to be taken care of first. On autopilot he walks past all his colleagues, not giving a damn if they nod in greeting or not. Vegas heads straight for the restroom, locking himself into the privacy of the handicap toilet that no one here uses anyway.

His mind is still a buzzing, hurting mess, but thankfully he doesn’t need to think for any of this, his movements are more or less automatic. Vegas unhooks the button of his uniform pants, then draws down the zipper, wincing a bit as even this infinitesimal contact with the underlying tent in his boxer shorts causes his cock to twitch painfully. At least it won’t take long this way. Pushing both his pants and the boxers down, his erection finally springs free and Vegas feels his body contract with need.

He won’t even need lube, there’s so much pre-cum already. Vegas applies a firmly-pressured stroke with one hand and instantly gives a high-pitched hiss under his breath, his legs starting to tremble, his toes curling as he tenses all over. Fuck. Yes, this won’t take long at all. He strokes up and down a few times, working up to the imminent orgasm, a light scratch with his nails on the last stroke at the back of the head and holy shit… he comes so hard that for a moment he fears he’s going to pass out, black spots appearing in his vision. Despite gritting his teeth, a stifled long moan escapes him, he’s a panting mess, his legs actually buckling beneath him. He collapses onto the toilet seat, riding that high until it slowly ebbs away.

Holy shit. Holy. Shit.

Gasping for air, Vegas closes his eyes and suddenly feels the uncontrollable urge to laugh sneaking up on him. No matter how much he tries to hold it in, it just bubbles right out, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed mirth. He bites his lips to keep as silent as possible and laughs and laughs … until he becomes aware of the tears running down his face and his brittle laughter turns into a soul-wrenching sob.

----------------------------------------

Vegas is spiralling, and not in a good way. Going down down down, baby. It’s been a long time since that last happened, but hey, what occurred today turns out to be a fantastic trigger.

In the immediate aftermath of it, he simply walks to the underground garage and his car without ever returning to the office. He drives home on autopilot, his mind white noise. At some point he notices that his phone is ringing and he turns it off without even checking who is calling. Once he is at home he changes out of his uniform and takes a quick shower to clean himself. Somehow he feels dirty. And it makes him upset. Where did it all go wrong? It was glorious. It was beyond thrilling. And then it suddenly wasn’t. He feels more hurt about that than he cares to admit to himself. Hurt and humiliated to his very bones.

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

As soon as he is dressed casually, Vegas heads out again. He leaves the car behind and takes the bus instead. Going downtown. His old hunting grounds. He hasn’t been there in years, but nothing ever really changes here, only the people frequenting the places. Soon enough he runs into the right person and for the right amount of money, he receives his very own key to temporary oblivion in form of a harmless-looking little pill.

And the ones that mother gives you

Don’t do anything at all

He doesn’t swallow the pill directly. Instead, he spends some time walking aimlessly through the streets. Stops for a quick snack at one of the many street food stalls. Drifting. He is just drifting along with the flow of people, not really caring where this is leading him.

Go ask Alice

When she’s ten feet tall

It must be getting late, because the sun is setting, the street lamps flicker on. Time doesn’t really have any meaning for him at the moment. Vegas knows the smart thing to do right now would be to call Porsche. Maybe Macau. But he doesn’t. And he doesn’t answer any of the many incoming calls either; instead he switches his phone to silent mode.

And if you go chasing rabbits

And you know you’re going to fall

Eventually he drifts into one of the many run-down bars in this area. He wants booze, no fancy cocktails. This will do nicely. After four glasses of cheap whiskey, the buzzing in his brain is getting considerably more quiet.

“Bad day?” asks the barkeeper, and Vegas snorts and nods, swirling the golden liquid in the glass he is holding. Alcohol and drugs is a bad combo, but Vegas doesn’t give a damn at this point. He wants to erase this day from his life permanently. And so he swallows the little white pill with a mouthful of liquor. Cheers.

Tell ‘em a hookah-smoking caterpillar

Has given you the call

Time expands and contracts. Exhale. Inhale. The alcohol burns like liquid fire down his throat. The sounds around him blend into each other, washing over him like a wave. Loud voices ebbing into silence, then rising to a crescendo before dwindling to whispers. Repeat. Do it all over again. The glasses stacked behind the counter glitter in the light, like raindrops on a leaf suddenly hit by a ray of sunshine. Dazzling. Mesmerising. Time expands and contracts.

Call Alice

When she was just small

Vegas is going with the flow, flying high, and when that flow is disturbed by someone accidentally bumping into him, he serenely takes the liquor bottle standing before him by the neck and whacks that person over the head with it.

When the men on the chessboard

Get up and tell you where to go

All hell breaks loose, and amidst the chaos Vegas is trapped in his very own bubble of drug-induced tranquility, while doling out quite a shocking amount of violence in the ensuing bar fight. It’s probably a good thing he isn’t sober and has a delayed reaction time because otherwise there would be dead bodies littering the floor.

And you’ve just had some kind of mushroom

And your mind is moving low

And yeah, he is taking his fair share of blows as well. This is inevitable, especially when they finally decide to gang up on him. The hits rain down on him from all sides, he whirls, kicks, lashes out, bites—just venting… venting raging venting. Something hits him hard against the back of the head, and he is flung against the side of a table, loosing his footing, going down. Hands grab his hair, and then he is dragged outside through the back entrance, out into the alley.

Go ask Alice

I think she’ll know

They toss him into the alley like a bag of garbage. Discarded like trash. He rolls through the dirt, and before he can even consider sitting up or doing anything at all, Vegas receives a few vicious kicks against his rib cage that knock the air out of him. Vaguely, he hears cursing and someone groaning in pain, but that cannot possibly be himself because he is still floating and flying high and the ground is spinning like a carousel which makes him laugh amidst the coughing fit he is apparently having.

When logic and proportion

Have fallen sloppy dead

He snickers uncontrollably, which only makes him cough more, and then he spits out the blood filling his mouth. Gross. Lying on his side he allows himself to go limp. Someone stop the carousel, he wants to get off. And as usual, nobody listens and the wild swirl continues. Neon lights, street lights, everything blends into a kaleidoscope. The dirty asphalt is rough and cool against his cheek, and he can feel more blood trickling from his mouth. Look at all the pretty colours…

And the White Knight is talking backwards

And the Red Queen’s off with her head

But soon enough everything shifts out of focus. He can’t see anything, so why bother keeping his eyes open? And his eyelids flutter shut. Vegas is floating—what is up… what is down… no clue… no fucking clue—until there’s unexpected warmth, as something … a hand?… touches his face very gently and then slowly turns his head over, cradling his cheek. Temporarily grounded, Vegas finds the energy from somewhere deep within him to open his eyes again.

Out of focus… focusing… out of focus…

At last, the shape in front of him is coalescing into a human being. Vegas is sure he remembers those dark eyes from somewhere. Why does he look concerned? The thought materialises in his head and then drifts away once again. Vegas opens his mouth to say something… what did he want to say again? It was something important, wasn’t it? Or perhaps not? Everything starts shifting out of focus again and he shuts his eyes once more.

Remember what the dormouse said

Feed your head

Feed your head

Oh. Now he remembers. “I don’t like this game…” he mumbles under his breath. “I can’t do this anymore…”

“Yes, you can.” A soft voice brushes over him like a caress, while a thumb gently strokes his battered cheekbone. “You can do this. You are doing exceptionally well… I am so proud of you.”

Vegas makes an effort to reopen his eyes, but the eyelids are like lead, and then oblivion reaches out, grabs him and pulls him under into the darkness where there are no more thoughts.