“It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.”
Vegas regains consciousness like slowly resurfacing from the depth of a deep dark pool. He takes a deep breath as he slowly becomes aware of his surroundings again.
It’s very quiet.
He is no longer prone on the hard ground, instead there’s now a comfortable softness that he sinks into. Not only that, but he is snuggled against a source of heat that warms his battered body in the most soothing way. He feels like floating on a cloud in the summer sky. It’s a very nice feeling, so he allows himself to float a bit longer.
There is a repetitive sound breaking through the silence. After a while, his fuzzy brain identifies it as the sound of pages being turned. He doesn’t feel the need to act on that knowledge just yet.
The more he awakens, the more he becomes aware of his own body. He is lying on his left side. His left arm seems to be beneath the pillow his head is resting on, with his face nuzzled comfortably against the mysterious heat source. Both his right arm and leg are also entangled with that heat source and it’s so cozy that he doesn’t want to move.
He must have made a contented sound, because the silence is disrupted by a low, gentle voice. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”
“… Mmmm…” No, let’s skip waking up. This feels so nice.
“Are you actually going to wake up this time or will you just pass out again like the last three times?” wonders the voice.
Try as he might, Vegas cannot focus on it; his thoughts are fluttering around in his brain like butterflies, hard to catch and to hold on to. Very pretty butterflies. And so many of them.
So instead of thinking, he opens his eyes, which is taking more energy than it should. His eyelids are heavy as lead, but he manages to at least crack them open. It’s pretty dark. Did he really open his eyes? Maybe he is blind? Wouldn’t that be a bummer? No wait… there is a light source, but he cannot see more because his face is still nuzzled against something that obstructs his view.
Moving his head backwards hurts and Vegas makes a distressed sound in the back of his throat.
“Careful,” says that voice. “Try not to move too much. You have a nasty laceration on the back of your head. I’ve patched it up, but chances are high you have a concussion as well, if not worse.”
Vegas blinks and squints his eyes, looking upwards towards the dimmed light source. His eyes feel like a camera with a faulty autofocus system. He gets quick snapshots of information before everything goes out of focus again.
SNAP. A book. SNAP. Hands holding a book. SNAP. A reading light attached to the book. SNAP. A person holding the book. SNAP. The back resting against a headboard. SNAP. Legs stretched out straight. SNAP. An arm flung over those legs. SNAP. Another leg too. SNAP. Black. SNAP. Black clothes. SNAP. Black hair. SNAP. Black eyes.
Vegas tries to puzzle together those snapshots and his brain is not cooperating. Eventually, something clicks. “Oh. It’s you,” he mumbles and promptly closes his eyes again.
“Who else should it be?” asks that voice, in a rather irritated tone that Vegas should probably pay attention to, but he cannot be bothered.
“Porsche,” he mumbles in reply, and nuzzles his face back against the heat source, that heat source being the man sitting beside him on the bed, reading a book in the dark. The man talking to him.
“Who is Porsche?”
“Well, you’re not him,” Vegas mumbles. This man smells really nice. He rests his head against the man’s hip and breathes in deeply, only to wince, as his entire ribcage protests with a wave of pain. Smells very nice though. He inhales again, more carefully this time.
“Obviously.” That voice sounds irked.
“Or are you?” Dazed as he is, Vegas opens his eyes again to take another look, just to be sure. “No, you are definitely not.”
He wants to close his tired eyes again but then suddenly something else occurs to him. “Why am I in your bed?”
“This isn’t my bed, it’s yours.”
“Oh.” That makes sense. Or does it? “How did you even find me?” He snuggles closer. Heavens, this feels nice. He just wants to float off again into oblivion.
“I’ll always find you,” the man informs him quietly.
“… Mmmm… That’s kinda creepy. And sort of cute. Very cute.” Vegas voice is barely above a whisper. He feels himself drifting off again but then another thought-butterfly flutters by that needs to be voiced. “Oh no… Now I need to wash the blanket, the pillows and the sheets again.”
“Why on earth would you do that?” The voice sounds bewildered.
“Cause I can’t fall asleep when the whole bed smells of you. And I don’t like sleeping on the couch.” Vegas is vaguely aware that he is in a state where he is missing a vital filter and he should probably shut up. Knowing this and behaving accordingly are two entirely different things though.
“You smell really nice,” he declares sleepily.
“So you keep telling me every time you wake up.” There’s a deep sigh from above.
“I do?”
“Yes, several times already. Just what did you take, besides getting drunk as a skunk? You smell definitely not nice, you reek of booze and that alley I found you in. Did you roll in garbage too?”
Vegas hums, unconcerned. “I remember rolling… round and round and round…” Then he tilts his head back again—ouch—and smiles sleepily at Pete. Because of course, it’s Pete. Who else could it be? “Did you just insult me? I’ll go take a shower then.”
“No!” Pete lowers the book and gives him an alarmed look. “You can do that tomorrow when you are sober. Definitely not now. You can’t even stand upright.”
“I can’t? Oh.” That sounds reasonable to Vegas. He can’t even get a clear look at Pete after all, his vision is shifting out of focus the whole time. He squints his eyes again, hoping to get a clearer image of the other man, to make really sure this is Pete. It is. Oh… also… “ You are wearing glasses? That’s adorable.”
Pete looks at him over the rim of his glasses and rolls his eyes.
Vegas has the feeling that there’s something important that he has forgotten about, but he cannot concentrate long enough to remember what it might be. Whatever. “An adorable book worm,” he declares instead.
“Just shut up and go back to sleep,” the bookworm replies drily.
And Vegas does something he hasn’t done since he was a child—he sticks out his tongue at Pete before nestling his cheek back against the man’s hip. “I’m not tired,” he murmurs.
“That is also something you said earlier on already. Right before passing out again,” Pete points out.
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. It’s wonderful.” Vegas closes his eyes again and sighs happily, his mind going wild. “Why is the bed moving? Is there an earthquake? Do we need to evacuate? Are there even earthquakes in Thailand? Wait, did we go on vacation?”
There’s another exasperated sigh from the other person on the bed. “Bloody hell, just what did you take? And how much? Do you have any idea how incredibly stupid it is to mix alcohol with drugs? I can’t even give you any pain killers right now, your breathing is all irregular. The only reason I didn’t drop you off at the ER is that you will get into a hell of a lot of trouble at work if you flunk a drug test. I am so damn angry with you, this better not be happening ever again.”
“Yes, Sir.” Vegas can hardly make sense of that mini rant, the words skipping merrily in through one ear and out through the other one, bypassing his brain, but whatever it is, it sounds serious enough. Best to agree with everything. His thoughts skitter on, fluttering right and left and back and forth. So many butterflies. In between, he notices that he has his right leg intertwined with Pete’s legs and wonders when that happened. Whatever. It feels good. Nice and warm and comfy. He sighs. “You smell really nice.”
Another deep sigh from Pete is the only answer.
For a while, Vegas is floating again, he would probably drift right off the bed and out of the window if he weren’t so wrapped around Pete’s body that it keeps him grounded. Then he remembers another thing and looks up again, only to be surprised by the sight before him. Oh. “You got glasses? That’s so cute.” He squints again and notices the dark shadow of a developing bruise on the corner of Pete’s mouth. “Did you get into a fight as well?”
“Unbelievable,” Pete mutters, shaking his head in disbelief, and that isn’t really the answer Vegas was looking for but then again, he has already forgotten the question.
“Does it hurt?” He wants to lift his right arm but discovers to his surprise that it seems stuck somehow. Oh… He got his fingers hooked into the belt loops of Pete’s jeans. How did that happen? He’s stuck. Are those fingers even his? He doesn’t seem to have very good control over them; no matter how much he tugs he cannot get them free until Pete takes mercy on him and quietly helps him to disentangle himself. Free at last. What did he want to do again? Ah, yes… Vegas reaches up, aiming to touch that bruise but his coordination is so far off that the hand instead lands on Pete’s shoulder.
“Does it hurt?” he asks again. Only to add with sudden savagery: “I hope it does.” Vegas doesn’t even know where the sudden anger comes from that is bubbling up inside him. “I hope it hurts a lot. Serves you right. Why should I be the only one hurting… ”
Pete decides to stay silent, he just sighs again. He does that a lot.
“Does it hurt?” Vegas asks for a third time. Another thought flutters by and he manages to hold on to it. Look at that pretty butterfly he caught. “Come here and let me kiss it better.” And wow, this time his hand is actually moving where he wants it to go, sliding all along the shoulder only to come to rest against the back of Pete’s neck and then Vegas tugs downward. The movement makes his ribs protest in pain, and he groans.
He might be tugging but he is met with instant resistance. Pete is not moving an inch. Instead he lowers his book again and knits his eyebrows into a frown. “There will be no kissing.”
“But I want to…” Vegas counters, because, well, he does. Come to think of it, kissing sounds like an excellent idea.
“I am sure you do, but you are high as a kite. You get no say in this matter,” Pete reminds him calmly.
“I like kites… Where is the kite?” Vegas smiles lopsidedly. Pete gives Vegas a long, thoughtful look that warms him from the inside out.
“You’re so damn cute,” Vegas mumbles because that is what comes to mind when Pete looks at him like this and so he blurts it out: “I’m in pain. Kiss me to make it better?”
Alas Pete shakes his head, entirely matter of fact about the whole thing. “No. If a little bit of teasing makes you go to these extremes, then you would most likely jump out of the window as soon as you are sober again if we kiss now.”
“So deep down you want to kiss me too?” Vegas checks, hopeful.
Pete gives him a very stern look that would probably have more effect if Vegas could see him clearly, which he can’t because his eyes keep unfocusing. “No, I really, absolutely do not want to kiss you, now or ever. And the sooner you accept this, the better. Am I making myself clear?”
Vegas tries to stretch but that makes his whole body ache and protest. He tries another tug on the neck, but since Pete remains unmovable, he sighs and allows his hand slide all the way down over Pete’s chest until it comes to rest on Pete’s left hipbone. “Party pooper. I want to kiss you even when I am sober. You just don’t notice,” he mumbles while trying to find a more comfortable position that doesn’t ache so much. “I really like those glasses on you, have I told you?”
“Could you please stop talking and go back to sleep?”
“I can’t sleep. Everything hurts and it’s all your fault.” Vegas cannot remember why but he is sure this is correct. Then another thought materialises. “Can we stop playing the game now? Cause I don’t like this game. All you want is Beam, but Beam is dead. And I am right here but you want me to be a dead person.”
There’s another deep sigh from Pete. “Trust me, I am very much aware of you. Now please… just sleep, all right?”
Somehow Vegas does not find this answer satisfying at all. “You just want to have sex with Beam,” he accuses him sleepily. “Beam’s not even that good in bed, I forgot about it as soon as it was over.”
“Jeeez… Shut up already. You really do not want to tell me all these things, you will feel horrible about this tomorrow.”
Yes, Pete sounds increasingly irritated. But so is Vegas, now that he’s gotten started. “As if you care… You don’t give a fuck about me. You just play your stupid game and then make me feel like the worst person on earth because I want you. Let me tell you something, you little bookworm… I don’t even want to be attracted to you. So take your cute glasses and your damn sex appeal and take it elsewhere.” He waves his hand erratically and almost knocks the book out of Pete’s hands. “Shoo… off you go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Someone has to keep an eye on you as long as you’re drugged up to the gills. Or you will end up dead.” Pete gives him a grim look, holding his book out of reach. “Now stop making a fuss and go back to sleep. I actually had other plans for tonight besides babysitting you.”
“Plans…? What plans? … Oh… You have a date?” Somehow this makes Vegas feel strange. He doesn’t like this feeling either. Pete always makes him feel things he doesn’t like. Vegas’ head hurts. Vegas’ heart too. No, he does not like this feeling at all.
“None of your business. Just go back to sleep and let me read in peace while I babysit you.”
“I need no watching, I am perfectly fine,” Vegas declares, feeling suddenly miserable and wanting to get some distance from Pete. “Just go on your date. If you won’t leave, then I will. But I think it’s unfair that I need to sleep on my couch when this is my apartment. You are the worst guest ever…” And with a groan, Vegas disentangles himself from the other man and the blanket covering him, and rolls to the edge of the bed. It’s not nearly as graceful or easy as he envisioned. Somehow his body is not moving as it should, and besides, moving in any way turns out to hurt like hell. Is there even a part of him not hurting? He could swear even his fingernails hurt. Vegas hisses in pain.
“Seriously? Now you are being entirely unreasonable. Stop it already, you are hurting yourself. Just lie down and rest,” Pete chastises him as he is finally forced to put the book to the side.
“Go fuck yourself.” Unimpressed and too stubborn for his own good, Vegas gives him the finger, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and tries to stand. It isn’t going according to his plan. As soon as he stands there’s a piercing pain in the back of his head, followed by a violent wave of dizziness that makes him keel over to the left side, stumbling uncontrollably.
Behind him on the bed he can hear Pete swearing profusely but Vegas is a bit distracted right now. There are shoes on the floor which he falls over, then he hits the edge of the cupboard, and his ribs scream in protest. The pain is surprisingly intense. Vegas gasps sharply and then his legs give out and he collapses to the floor. Everything hurts so much that he cannot help but whimper with pain, and the dizziness is disorientating as hell. What is he doing here? Where is here? And why is he hurting so much? What is happening?
“You damn idiot!” Someone is cursing loudly next to him and Vegas feels hands trying to help him up into a sitting position. He groans loudly because he cannot decide what is worse: his ribcage, which is trying to kill him, or his head that is about to explode.
“Hurts…” he whimpers pitifully, exploring the back of his head with a hand. Ouch. Yes, he has found the source of the pain, everything is wet and sticky. What the hell is going on? He cannot see clearly, everything is in a haze. Where is he and who is that person helping him, steadying him? He squints his eyes, trying to force them to focus on the face in front of him. When everything becomes clear for a moment, recognition hits instantly and Vegas jerks backwards with a hiss. “Get the hell away from me!”
Oh, no. No no no! How did Pete get here? Where is here? Pete cannot be here right now, he cannot deal with Pete, not after what happened today! “Get away from me!” Vegas repeats with an edge of hysteria in his voice, as he crawls backward, doing his best to move away from those hands. He has a visual flashback of Pete’s face going from flushed arousal to coolly detached professionalism, those sharp words cutting into him all over again. No, he does not want to be anywhere near Pete right now. “You bastard! Leave me alone! And don’t touch me!”
But those hands have a firm hold on him and won’t let go. “Stop it! You are hurting yourself even more! Just calm down, okay? Calm down. Breathe. Everything will be fine.” Over and over Pete repeats these words, and no matter how much Vegas struggles, he isn’t letting go. Not even when the fight drains out of Vegas, and he more or less collapses bonelessly against Pete’s chest. Surprisingly strong arms are wrapped around him, holding him gently, and he can feel fingers rubbing the back of his neck soothingly. “Everything will be fine, I promise. Just relax. You are safe. You are drunk and you are on drugs. You have been in a fight, that’s why your whole body hurts. But everything will be fine. Don’t worry…”
At first, Vegas doesn’t understand a single word that Pete whispers soothingly. He’s simply too disoriented, too intoxicated, too upset and in way too much pain. But with his movement restricted and nowhere to go, this ends up being a good enough method to anchor and ground him until this bout of drug-induced hysteria fizzles out. All that is left is exhaustion and pain. Vegas’ head is resting against Pete’s shoulder, his eyes are closed, he is completely and utterly worn out.
“I hate this…” he whispers brokenly under his breath. “I hate you. I don’t want to be attracted to you. I don’t like feeling like this. I don’t want to do this anymore… Just let me go already…” And then the darkness takes mercy and washes over him again, dragging him under.
Before passing out, he thinks he hears Pete whisper: “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. You are simply too fascinating…” But maybe Vegas is just imagining it.
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It’s late afternoon when Vegas finally wakes up for real. All that is left from last night is a hangover from hell, a lot worse than he’s ever had before. Ouch. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to take that pill after all. With a certain trepidation, he forces his eyes open to check where exactly he is.
Imagine his surprise, he’s in bed. And not just any bed but his own bed, covered with a blanket. How did that happen? Try as he might, he draws a complete blank. The last thing he remembers is that bar where he had a few drinks before being an utter moron and swallowing that pill. Shit. Talk about stupid decisions…
Vegas’ attempt to shrug off the blanket is rewarded with pain. What the hell? Everything hurts. Everything. What the hell happened? His head feels ready to explode. Breathing hurts too. Groaning, and moving an inch at a time, he somehow manages to reach the edge of the bed. Fuck. Is he…? A glance, yes, he is at least wearing his boxers and a t-shirt. Okay. So nothing like that happened. Which leaves… he looks at his hands and groans again. Blood-crusted knuckles. Oh fuck. A fight then.
And it must have been one hell of a fight. It takes a while for him to make his way to the bathroom, and staring at himself in the mirror above the sink Vegas is slightly shocked.
He looks dreadful. No wonder everything hurts. His hair is a ruffled and blood-matted mess, especially the back of it. There are specks of dried blood on his nose and around his split lip, small abrasions all over his face and a rather large bruise along his right cheekbone. And that’s just the head. His ribcage is badly bruised. He looks like he’s been in a car wreck and should be in hospital. How did he even get home looking like this without anyone calling an ambulance? Shit. He can’t even raise his arms to take off the t-shirt—he has to cut it off. This is not good at all. Vegas shuffles into the shower and amidst a lot swearing and hissing with pain manages to wash away all the dirt and blood. Some of his wounds start oozing fresh blood but he’ll have to live with that.
The back of his head is a concern though. It pounds and every time he moves his head, dizziness washes over him. And his bruised ribs really hurt, so he has to remind himself to breathe shallow all the time. Fuck. He was an idiot last night, look what he did to himself.
Vegas does the sensible thing for once: puts on some clothes, calls a cab and heads to the nearest hospital for a checkup.
Three hours later, he is home again. The wound on his head stitched up, concussion confirmed, a CT and some X-rays done, one broken rib, various abrasions and lacerations cleaned, taped and covered up. He feels as if he’s been run over by a truck.
Bed rest, said the doctor. At least for two days, preferably five. No physical exertion for at least a week. He gets a note for work that he is on mandatory sick leave for five days. Calls it in. Crawls into bed and falls asleep again.
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Five days stuck at home is a very long time for a workaholic. In the beginning he feels too sick to move, too sick to even think, because his brain demands rest and punishes him with a vicious headache and brutal dizziness whenever he attempts to do anything other than doze or sleep. Even going to the bathroom is sheer agony. Heading out of the bedroom is impossible, the kitchen might as well be situated on another planet. Maybe he will starve to death, Vegas ponders briefly. But when he wakes up the next time he finds his little brother sitting on the bed beside him, reading something on his phone.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Vegas is so ridiculously happy to see him, he gets all teary-eyed. Macau is the most precious person in the whole world to him. They rarely ever see each other since Vegas decided to become a police officer, for obvious reasons. But they’re brothers, and growing up together in the household from hell has created a bond that cannot be broken.
Macau looks up from his phone, their eyes meet and both of them simply smile. There is no need for big words between the two of them. “I brought you some food,” Macau says which really means ‘I love you, big bro.’
Vegas’ heart expands with love. He’s not alone after all. Just this once, he can allow himself to be pampered. It’s a great feeling.
His brother doesn’t ask many questions. He makes sure Vegas eats, takes his medicine and keeps hydrated. They don’t talk much because Vegas needs his rest. But they don’t need to talk. Just keeping each other company is enough for both of them.
“How did you know I needed help?” Vegas asks at one point. Because this is something that has been on his mind the whole time. How did he get back to his apartment? He still cannot remember a thing.
“I got an envelope by courier with your apartment key in it, and a note that you’d been in a fight.” Macau gives him a curious look. “The note wasn’t signed. Any idea who sent it?”
“The only one I can think of is Porsche, but he would have taken care of me himself, or at least he would have called you. Weird.”
“Want me to look into it?” asks Macau, but Vegas very carefully shakes his head. Best not get his little brother involved in his life.
“It’s okay, I’ll figure it out eventually. And then I will let you know. Could I please have something to drink now? And then I think I need more sleep. I am so damn tired…”
For three days Vegas doesn’t do a thing. It feels as if he has to catch up on 10 years of missed sleep, and so he does. The last evening he and his brother take some time for more brotherly bonding because Macau will head home again the next morning. They talk through the night, and Vegas soaks up all the information he gets about his brother’s daily life. His school schedule. What classes he likes best. Why some of the teachers are so annoying. What his favourite coffee shop is and why. That mornings still suck and he likes sleeping in. What clothes he is into. His favourite musicians. The last movie he watched and which movies he is looking forward to. His dreams for university and the future. Where he wants to travel to eventually. Everything Vegas would already know if they had closer contact. Damn, he wasn’t aware how much he has missed his little brother.
The next morning, just before he leaves, Macau has one more thing to say. “Do me a favour and try not to get yourself killed, all right? If it were only the job, I would understand. But to get into a fight like this… Vegas, you scared the hell out of me. I don’t know why you did it, just don’t do it again, okay? I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”
Vegas nods, his throat tight, and gives Macau a long hug, both of them careful not to hurt his ribs while doing so. “I am sorry. I’ll be more careful, I promise. And I am getting some help too, so don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
And that will have to do. They smile at each other one last time, and then Macau leaves.
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Vegas has two more days of sick leave, and he puts them to good use. He has a laptop and can work from home. This is not what the doctor recommended, but when did he ever listen to doctors?
As expected, he finds an email from Pete about those damn flowers in his inbox. Pete is nothing but efficient. It appears to be an asiatic lily, ‘London Heart’ or ‘Lina Tango’. Vegas doesn’t care about the fancy names. Sitting in bed, he consults Google and then starts calling flower shops. And there are a lot of flower shops in this city alone. It takes a whole damn day being on the phone without any results, then he is redirected to flower wholesalers for the whole country and flower markets. He learns a lot about flowers—at least that’s something.
On his last day at home, he finally hits the jackpot. A wholesaler who not only knows what flower he is asking for, but has actually sold a large quantity of them recently, during the time frame for the last murder. Perfect. An hour later Vegas receives digital copies of the order documents, with a name, address and payment details. Those will of course be fake. But on the off chance that their killer made a mistake, Vegas e-mails all the information to the part of the police department that handles financial crimes, so that they can look into it and see where the money trail leads. This is a good start. At least they know a little bit more now.
And of course there is still the matter with Pete to think—obsess—about.
If it were up to Vegas, he would like to forget about that day altogether. He’s had way too much time to analyse what happened, and he is pretty damn sure that he was not the only one turned on by that stupid exercise. And yet Pete pulled the plug and made sure to be as hurtful as possible while doing so. His shrink is smart, and judging from the time they’ve spent together, he is sure Pete always chooses both his words and his actions with utmost care. So what was the purpose of all of this? Was it really a harmless exercise gone awry? The fact remains that it made Vegas feel like shit. At least his father uses his fists. Physical injuries are easier to deal with and heal. But Pete’s verbal attack… it really hit him hard. Made him feel like a freak again.
He has to be so damn careful all the time. He cannot flirt casually like most straight people around him. He does not want to jeopardise his job and most importantly, he has to be extremely careful that his father stays out of the loop. And fuck… he was doing so well avoiding any possible romantic entanglements until Pete showed up in his life, turning everything upside down, driving him insane, constantly teasing him with his very presence. It was only logical that at some point, Vegas would snap. But somehow he didn’t expect Pete to be quite so cold-hearted when ramming the ‘Up to here and no further’ warning sign into the ground. Bastard.
Let’s just pretend it never happened, decides Vegas. Denial is bliss. And he is exceptionally good at wiping traumatic memories from his brain. He has done so a lot of times and considers himself an expert.
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Once his sick leave is over, it’s back to work for Vegas. The bruises have started to turn green-yellowish. He still has a headache, but the dizziness is gone as well. His ribs still hurt, but he has them bandaged. There is no reason to stay at home any longer. Other than to avoid running into his therapist, that is. Which he isn’t. As far as he is concerned, nothing ever happened; there’s nothing to be ashamed of. And if Pete brings it up he will most likely hit him—again. Because pretend as he might, Vegas is carrying a grudge.
But Pete doesn’t say a thing when he enters their shared office that afternoon. He gives Vegas a once-over, arching an eyebrow at those visible bruises and only comments on one thing: “I assume that whoever you had a fight with looks worse than you? Are they still alive?”
Since Vegas is in no mood to talk about that evening, he just gives Pete the finger, refusing to answer.
Pete sighs. “Fine. I think we should schedule another therapy session.” And with that he goes to sit at his desk, leaving Vegas alone.
When it becomes clear to Vegas that this is it, that there will be no further comments or questions or anything else about what happened between them a few days ago, the tension drains out of him and he can finally relax and concentrate on work. Skipped the bullet this time. Apparently Pete has also decided to forget about everything. But the faint bruise at the corner of his mouth is a constant reminder, so the less Vegas looks at Pete, the better. He buries himself in work.
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A few days pass. Life goes on. Pete has no more crazy ideas. There are also no new grizzly murders; that is at least something to be glad about. Vegas spends the time meticulously going over all the CCTV footage they’ve collected from the area of the last crime scene. He tracks down the flower delivery van and its driver. Nothing new there, the man didn’t see a thing. He runs the very basic information they have on their second victim through the missing person database. Or rather, he outsources that to Pete, so that he has something to do. Vegas hates that kind of work. Arm sends an update, informing them that they should have an image of the tattoo within the next few days. Unfortunately, Thailand isn’t the USA, which has the FBI’s Tattoo Recognition Database. And there are a lot of tattoo studios in this city alone. More work heading their way.
So imagine Vegas’ surprise when good luck actually walks into their office one day in the form of one of his colleagues. Thirty minutes later, and Vegas can barely contain his excitement. They have their first real lead, and what a lead it is! They have a potential eye witness! Seems there’s a vagrant, an ex-con, squatting in the building next to their crime scene. Since they only found out about this by accident, maybe their killer missed it. This is exciting news. Pete comes over to his side as Vegas enters the name of the potential witness into the search form for the police records.
The page loads, and now he has a photo to link to that name. And a very long RAP sheet, including theft, trespass, robbery, and bodily harm.
Gotcha.
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Despite his objections, Pete accompanies him to interview their potential witness. In the end, all it takes is Pete narrowing his eyes and reminding him of what he said on their drive back from the last crime scene—“…if you sabotage this partnership one more time, I’ll make you regret it…”—and Vegas reconsiders. He wouldn’t put it past Pete to get him suspended; he seems unpredictable enough for that. He nearly killed them that night after all. But that doesn’t mean Vegas is comfortable taking a civilian along to an interview with a person who has a long criminal record.
“I’m in charge,” he reminds Pete while driving across town. “You will do exactly as I tell you. Without arguing with me about it. You will not wander off on your own. You will stay three steps behind me when we approach the witness. Do not under any circumstances get between me and the witness at any times, in case something goes wrong. And should anything go wrong, you will take cover and stay put until I tell you it’s safe to come out again. Am I making myself clear?”
“Stop fretting, detective. I’m not a child, I can take care of myself, and of course I will follow your lead and be careful.” Pete seems totally unconcerned. He is leaning back in his seat, looking outside. “But I think you are making a fuss about nothing. We’re just going to talk to the man, why should anything go wrong?”
Vegas has learned early on that this is a question a police officer should not ask oneself. One should simply assume everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Much safer this way. “It’s better to be prepared for anything.”
“Well, I have you along, I am sure you will protect me just fine.” Pete chuckles a bit but Vegas doesn’t think this is funny at all. He clenches his hands around the steering wheel. When did he start caring so much for Pete’s safety? He does not like feeling this way. The rest of the drive is spent in silence.
According to the information they got, their potential witness lives on the fifth floor of the abandoned building directly opposite their crime scene. They park in front and exit the car, neither of them really happy to return here. Vegas looks back and forth between the two buildings and cannot believe his good fortune. Both the fifth floors are exactly at the same height—if they are lucky this guy might have seen the murderer, or even the murder. Please let them be lucky. At the same time he cannot help but feel a bit of pity. Damn, if this man really was a witness to this nightmare he will be traumatised for sure. Thankfully, he has Pete along to deal with that, should it be needed.
Today, Vegas has opted out of wearing his uniform in favour of civilian clothing. No need to scare the witness off. He checks his weapon. The Royal Thai Police does not standard-issue pistols; police officers have to buy their own guns depending on what they can afford. Vegas has both a Glock 19MS and a SIG P320SP, which are the typical service pistols of the Arintaraj 26 tactical unit, and what is good enough for them is good enough for him. He mainly carries the Glock, though. He has grown up surrounded by guns, and carrying one is like second nature to him. “Let’s go.”
With Vegas taking the lead, they walk to the entrance of the building. Another door with a broken lock; he can easily push it open. No electricity in this building—Vegas tries the light switches but nothing happens. But it’s early in the afternoon, and there is enough natural light coming in through the windows. They head through the debris, trash and dirt towards the stairs and make their way up.
“Stay behind me,” Vegas reminds Pete when they approach the fifth floor.
There’s a door. Vegas hesitates for a moment, pondering how to do this the best way, then decides to knock while at the same time opening the door. Thankfully it isn’t locked or blocked in any way, luck is on his side.
“Hello? Anyone home?” He cautiously looks around before taking a step into what appears to have been another open-office space. But this one has a variety of furniture in it. Former office equipment and an assortment of second-hand cupboards, chairs, and sofas. There’s even a bed in a further off corner. Someone has taken care to clean some of the windows—this is great, it means there’s an unrestricted line of sight to their crime scene—and there is more than enough light coming in through them.
“Don’t worry, we are not here to steal anything or to evict you.” He has not seen anyone yet, but talking seems like a good idea to show that they come with good intentions. “We would just like to have a word with you, if that is all right? Hello?”
There is some movement behind a cupboard to his right. Vegas makes sure that Pete is behind him, and that he is shielding him with his body before he cautiously walks in that direction. “Hello? I really only want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.” And then he adds: “I’ll pay for some answers?”
That seems to have the desired effect.
A man of indeterminable age emerges. He looks unkempt; the clothes he is wearing are well-worn, seems they haven’t been washed in a while. Vegas recognises him from the mug shot, this is indeed him. The guy looks at Vegas, wary suspicion written all over his face. “You’ll pay? How much? Show me the cash first.”
Slowly, because he doesn’t want to startle, Vegas takes out his wallet and selects a few banknotes. Enough to be a real temptation to talk to them. And it works. With a greedy look on his dirty face, their potential witness comes closer, keeping his eyes on the money, as if he is afraid Vegas will change his mind. “What do you want to know?” he asks as he approaches.
“A while ago there was a murder right across from here,” Vegas nods towards the windows and the building on the other side. “I reckon that an observant guy like you would have noticed anything strange happening so close to your territory. If that’s the case, the money will be yours.” Vegas waves the cash around a bit. “The more details, the better, and the more money will go your way. Deal?”
“Fuck yeah… deal.” The vagrant greedily makes a grab for the banknotes and Vegas allows him to take them. Almost trembling with excitement, or perhaps drug withdrawal, the man counts the bills and grins happily. “I saw it all, the whole mess, and even the guy who killed him. What exactly do you want to know?”
“Really now? That is wonderful news.” Pete steps around from behind Vegas, in full psychologist mode—Vegas recognises that tone of voice. “Please tell us everything, best to start from the beginning.”
And here is where it all goes terribly wrong.
So apparently their eyewitness didn’t realise that Vegas didn’t come alone, because the abrupt appearance of Pete seems to startle him badly. He looks up from the money in alarm, and his eyes widen when he notices that there are now two people in his living space. Two against one, the odds are against him. With a yelp, he retreats and then shit really hits the fan because all of a sudden there is a gun in his hands, pointed at Pete. Fuck.
Vegas drops the wallet and holds up his hands while stepping in front of Pete. “Easy… easy now. There is no need for this. We mean no harm, we are with the police.” Shit. Shit shit shit. If only Pete weren’t here with him. Vegas is stressed big time. “Pete, stay right behind me, don’t you fucking move.” He hopes Pete will listen, because he does not dare take his eyes off the gun that is pointed at him. And he cannot draw his own gun, unless he manages to distract that idiot for a moment. Fuck.
Their witness turned gun-wielding psycho laughs shrilly and edges around Vegas, who turns simultaneously with an arm behind his back to push Pete along, ensuring that he stays at all times between Pete and the firearm pointed at them while they move. “Police? Don’t fucking lie to me! You are not the police! Get the hell away from me!”
“Would you like me to show you my badge?” Falling back on years of training, Vegas remains utterly calm.
But the guy seems to have blown a fuse, he is not listening at all. “Don’t move, keep your hands where I can see them! I won’t let you trick me! You are not going to get me! I won’t let you kill me!” And now that he has a free line to the door, he walks backwards towards it, keeping the gun trained at Vegas at all times. And damn, the hand holding that gun is far from steady. What a fucking disaster. The guy is heading for the door and normally Vegas would pursue, but he is too worried about Pete right now and doesn’t dare make any move to follow the madman.
Vegas heart is pounding like crazy. What a clusterfuck. This is exactly what he has been afraid of all along. This is why he didn’t want to have a civilian along. And especially not Pete. The thought of Pete getting shot is something that sends shivers of dread through him. No, Pete must not be harmed.
That’s the only reason why he allows their witness to reach the exit without following him. But the second the guy slips through the door and out of sight, Vegas is already moving in pursuit. “Stay here!” he yells at Pete without turning around, drawing his gun while heading for the now closed door. He loses valuable time trying to open it because the handle comes off in his hands, and he has to reattach it. Fuck! But then it finally opens, and Vegas takes a cautious glance outside—no one in sight—so he sprints for the staircase, heading downwards.
Hopefully he will catch up with the guy before he leaves the building, otherwise this is it, the madman will disappear into the maze of streets, alleyways and buildings, and Vegas will never see him again. They finally have an eyewitness! How on earth could things go so wrong? What a clusterfuck!
As he is about to reach the ground floor, the sharp crack of a gunshot echoes in the distance. Vegas’ heart skips a beat, then he is hit with a brutal adrenaline rush. Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck! He has messed up! Their run-away witness didn’t head downstairs—the sound came from somewhere upstairs.
Upstairs… which means…
…
…
…
… Pete…
…
…
…
Good Lord! Vegas’ legs nearly buckle beneath him. No no no! Not Pete! Please don’t let it be Pete! The sheer panic that seizes him at that thought is nearly paralysing. But he is already moving, running really, heading back for the stairs and then upstairs, taking two steps at a time.
Another sharp crack from above.
Way above. Top floor? The stairs seem never-ending. The building is only seven stories high but it feels like a skyscraper to Vegas as he hurries upstairs. Another crack of a gunshot. Yes, top floor or rather, the roof. Out of breath, Vegas finally reaches his destination. There’s only one final metal door to go through, but that won’t stop him.
Weapon drawn, Vegas more or less throws himself through the door, shouldering it open with so much force it hits the wall behind it with a bang and bounces back, but by then Vegas is already standing on the roof, facing a scene that will surely haunt him in his dreams. Once again, time seems to slow down and everything is reduced to momentary snapshots.
SNAP
Flat roof. Bare grey desert. AC fans. Ventilation shafts.
SNAP.
On the far side of the roof two people. Their eye-witness, gone crazy. And Pete.
SNAP.
Pete has his hands up, palms out. A gun points at Pete.
SNAP.
Their witness is slowly backing away. Pete is following. They are heading towards the low wall encircling the edge of the roof.
SNAP.
That gun pointed at his shrink is swaying in a worrisome fashion. Pete’s blocking the way, Vegas cannot get a clear shot from where he is standing.
SNAP.
Their witness looks terror-stricken. Panicked.
SNAP.
His mouth is moving, he seems to be talking. Vegas cannot hear them, they are too far away.
SNAP.
Another sharp crack. The bullet once again misses Pete, who flinches. It ricochets off a nearby ventilation outlet with a ping.
Time unfreezes. Holy shit. Vegas nearly jumps out of his skin with worry. The urge to run over there and throw himself in front of Pete to shield him is nearly all consuming. But that would further startle the man waving the gun around, and there are only so many times a bullet can miss its target before the odds are stacked against Pete. So he needs to stay calm and handle this nightmare with utmost care.
Vegas moves to the side until he has a clear line of sight, his weapon trained on the man with the gun, and then advances slowly but steadily. At the same time, the other two men have now reached the edge of the roof, with their witness backed up against the knee-high wall. Nowhere else to go. This is a recipe for disaster. What the fuck is Pete doing?!
“Drop the gun!” Vegas yells, announcing his presence to both of them. “Pete, back off.”
The story of his life, no one is listening. The only thing happening is that that gun now jerks in his direction. Just great. “Everyone take a deep breath and stay calm.” Vegas advances very slowly, step by step. “Let’s dial this a notch down, shall we? I am sure deep down you really do not want to threaten a police offer, right? We simply got off on the wrong foot—how about we start all over again, okay? We are just here to talk to you.”
Vegas doesn’t dare to move his eyes from the immediate threat, so he can only see Pete out-of-focus, in the corner of his vision. “Pete, how about you take a few steps back to give this good man a chance to breathe?”
All that happens is that their witness-gone-nuts gives Vegas a look of utter disbelief and then laughs in a thoroughly crazed way. His weapon swings back and forth between Vegas and Pete, the hand holding it trembling violently. And so is his finger on the trigger. Fuck. “Back off! Get away from me!” This seems to be mostly addressed to Pete, who is still uncomfortably close to this unstable source of imminent violence as far as Vegas is concerned, with his hands still raised up and the palms out in the universal sign of surrender. Somehow Vegas doubts that their suspect cares about Pete not carrying a weapon. He seems to be in a complete panic, utterly terrified of Vegas—and Pete.
“I simply want to talk to you,” Pete insists in that completely calm psychologist voice that Vegas knows so well.
“Talk?!” The hand holding the gun trembles even more. Then the man looks away from Pete and stares at Vegas, a crazed expression in his eyes. “What the fuck are you up to?! Are you insane?! Why do you want me dead? Why? What have I ever done to you?!” he yells at the top of his voice. This isn’t good at all. Vegas needs to get the weapon away from this guy before he totally freaks out.
“Nobody wants you dead.” Pete and Vegas speak up at the same time. The only difference is that Vegas doesn’t move, his gun steadily trained on the now armed witness, whereas Pete takes another step forward. Shit. Here we go.
“No! Stay away from me!” Completely terror-stricken, their witness automatically takes a step back, or rather, tries to step backwards. He has apparently forgotten about the wall behind him. There is really nothing Vegas can do, he is too far away—and yet he of course tries anyway. The moment the man bumps into the wall and loses his balance, wildly waving his arms in an attempt to steady himself even as he falls backwards, Vegas lurches forward to try and get a hold on him. He skids past Pete who is frozen in place, throws himself forward and tries to grab onto something—a hand… clothing… an arm—so close, but not close enough. Before Vegas’ eyes, the man tumbles off the roof, screaming all the way down, where he hits the ground in a sickening thud, his head bursting like a watermelon.
Holy shit.
Shellshocked is perhaps a good way to describe how Vegas is feeling right now. He just saw a man fall to his death before his eyes. There will be a hell of a lot of forms to fill out about this, he thinks, stunned. No one is ever going to believe him that he didn’t push the guy off the roof, is the second thought that comes to mind. He’s so screwed. Then he notices that he still has a dead grip on his gun and he automatically engages the safety, putting it away. Holy shit. He’s so screwed.
“Is he … dead?” comes the tentative question from behind him, Pete’s voice sounding decidedly shaky.
Pete.
Vegas snaps out of it and whirls around, then takes a few hasty steps towards his shrink, looking him over frantically. Maybe Pete was hit after all. Maybe he is in shock and hasn’t noticed the injury yet. Maybe he will turn white as a sheet and collapse in front of him any second now, to bleed out before his very eyes. Vegas doesn’t even notice that he has started to tremble uncontrollably. “Are you hurt? Did he hit you? Are you bleeding anywhere?” He is rambling in panic and hyperventilating, and so damn worried.
Pete seems to be slightly in shock as well. His face has lost all colour; he has been staring blankly at that part of the wall that their witness just toppled over, but now he blinks and then shifts his attention to Vegas, taking note of his state of mind and the questions being asked. He inhales with a shudder and shakes his head. “I’m fine. Really… I am fine. I am not hurt.” But then he notices that his words do not register. He takes a long, hard look at Vegas, and whatever he sees changes his face. It’s as if he is really seeing Vegas for the very first time; he sighs, as the tension ebs out of him and his eyes go soft.
“Vegas,” Pete says quietly. And then he has to repeat it again because Vegas is so beside himself with distress it didn’t quite register the first time. “Vegas.”
This time he hears it though. Vegas stops his frantic visual inspection of Pete and looks up. Their eyes meet and lock.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
“… Vegas…” Pete says very softly a third time and there is a wealth of emotion in that single word.
They still stare at each other, and suddenly they are moving forward simultaneously. Three steps, then Vegas reaches out and grabs hold of Pete’s shirt, yanking him closer. Pete in turn grabs the back of Vegas’ head and sinks his fingers into his hair, holding on so tight it hurts, and their mouths collide so forcefully that their teeth clang together, but neither of them notices or cares.
This is how it must feel like, being hit by lightning.
Vegas kisses Pete with an intensity born out of desperation; he is pouring all his anxiety and stress and all those damn unwanted feelings this man makes him experience into the kiss. And Pete laps it all up, literally. His tongue slips past Vegas’ lips and then that kiss turns into an open-mouthed electric madness that neither of them is quite prepared for, judging from the breathless moans escaping them now and then. Vegas has fantasised about kissing Pete, but now that it’s actually happening it’s so much better than he could ever have imagined.
Vegas can taste their shared breath; he releases his hold on the shirt only to cradle Pete’s face between his hands. He needs to touch him, feel his warmth, feel that he is indeed alive and well, and once again it’s like touching a live wire. Titillating.
The floodgates have opened. He simply can’t get enough of Pete, he is just as hungry as the other man to deepen their kiss even more.
And Pete—Pete, who has persistently called him Detective Theerapanyakul this whole time—is now breathing his name like a prayer, he is just as frantic as Vegas, if not even more so. All restraint gone, he walks Vegas backwards without breaking the kiss until they hit one of the many ventilation shaft outlets, presses him against it and then melts into him with his whole body as he nips at Vegas’ lower lip, drawing blood. It hurts, but in an altogether thrilling way. Vegas shudders and moans, which Pete apparently likes a lot, because it makes him growl with excitement before he licks the blood away.
Vegas has never ever wanted anyone as much as this before, and that feeling is staggering in its intensity because it surprisingly goes way beyond the physical. He has been feeling incomplete his whole life. There was always something missing. And now that missing puzzle piece not only materialises but snaps into place, completing the puzzle.
It’s terrifying. Unfamiliar. New. Magical. Mine, he thinks. Mine.
Ay… ay… ay… ay…
Feels like fire
I’m so in love with you
They completely forget about their surroundings. There’s just the two of them; they are so wrapped up in each other, now that they have decided to act first and think later, that everything else becomes secondary. They cannot stop kissing, lips sliding against each other, their hearts running wild, they are drowning in each other and it’s glorious.
The shrill whine of approaching police sirens interrupts them rather rudely. Pete seems to be willing to ignore the noise, but since he is a police officer Vegas comes back to his senses. Shit, what are they doing? Despite Pete’s protest, he pulls back, completely out of breath.
One look at Pete, all dishevelled and flushed, giving him a definitive ‘come hither’ look, and he almost goes for another round. Almost. Damn, they need to stop. He must have lost his mind, what is he doing?! There is a dead man on the street below. There will be other police officers up here soon, and Vegas should be down at street level. They really need to stop now. He reaches out and brushes his thumb over Pete’s swollen lips one more time, mesmerised by the way Pete is looking at him—as if Vegas is the centre of his universe. It’s delightful, and at the same time scares the hell out of him. He could very easily get used to this, and that is dangerous. Best not to think about it right now, they will have time for that later. Pete tries to bite his thumb, the devil in his eyes, and Vegas’ snatches back his hand. No, they need to stop. This is madness.
He clears his throat. “Stay here and come down in about 10 minutes,” Vegas instructs him. “I have work to do.” And then he more or less flees because it’s easier to deal with a dead body than with his own runaway feelings.