Petshop Of Horrors: Lips of Wine (R)
Summary: "...whenever I need you, all I have to do is dream."
Notes: Still another Not Exactly NaNo product. Leon/D, minor spoilers up through book 4.
LIPS OF WINE
*
The advantage of dreams is that they don't have to make sense. Never did. Leon doesn't even remember them most of the time, and the exceptions are stuff like that expedition to a few million years back where D came back with a couple of saber-tooth tiger cubs in his purse, where D himself said it was a dream, until it wasn't. Or the dragon that Christmas, which is more Leon hoping it was a dream than really believing it, because if that was really a dragon...no. Nothing else that night made sense, so why should there be a real, coherent dragon in the sky over the bay?
Dreams don't make sense. They're not real. And whatever stupid Disney films that Chris watches say, they are sure as fuck not a wish your heart makes.
Because if they were...
In the dream, he's sitting in the pet shop with D, drinking tea, as usual. Except it's not the usual tea, or something: it tastes better, like D's spiked it with something really good. D had a bowl of chocolates next to him, which he's eating slowly, eyes closed. Every so often he shrugs off a jacket-thing: there's at least three on the floor, and there goes another one. Leon doesn't know where he's getting them, and in the dream he doesn't care, just keeps hoping that the next one will turn out to be the final layer.
It's warm in the pet shop. Really warm. Middle of summer, air-conditioner's-broke-again warm. Leon shrugs off his own jacket, undoes his tie. Unbuttons his shirt. D opens his eyes and watches him, but he's still eating chocolate: he doesn't say What are you doing, Detective? or This isn't your living room. Leon tosses his shirt to the floor. D smiles and drops another jacket.
Leon stands up and unbuckles his belt. D stops eating chocolate and watches more intently as Leon strips the rest of his clothing off. There aren't any animals in the room with them, no dogs, no cats, no birds, nothing. The door to the back hallway stands open, and Leon thinks, oh, that's why it's so hot.
"Come here, Detective," D says.
And Leon just goes over there, standing in front of D, half-hard, and D sets aside the chocolate and unfastens the top of his dress-thing, whatever that is he's wearing, and D reaches up and tugs Leon down and kisses him. It's good. It's really good. It's better than anything, better than any kiss Leon's ever had, and all he can do is kiss D back like an idiot.
"Come," D says again, and draws Leon up onto the couch, which is longer and wider than Leon had noticed before, so Leon can sprawl across it. "Lie back, Detective," D says, and kisses him again. One hand is caressing his hip, sliding underneath just a little.
He opens his mouth to say something, maybe even to protest for a second, because what the fuck are they doing and why is D still dressed? Then D sits up and Leon is left gaping like a fish while D leans over and gets something from the floor, or maybe from the pocket of one of the jackets he dropped. Leon tries to sit up himself, but D presses his hand on Leon's stomach, and Leon subsides, because the light scrape of those long fingernails makes him shiver, and not because he's scared.
D sits back up, and drops something on Leon's stomach. Leon looks down. It's some kind of test tube thing, full of golden liquid. Oil. Lube.
"Detective?" D says.
Sometimes Leon makes himself wake up there. More often he doesn't.
The next day, he always brings D something fancy -- not chocolate, though, he can't look at chocolate -- and bites his tongue to keep from asking what kind of dreams D has. Because he wants to arrest D, and this hanging around the pet shop has nothing to do with liking D, or trusting D, and definitely not because of dreams. Dreams are just random shit. Dreams don't make sense.
On the other hand, neither does D.
Leon drinks another cup of tea and keeps his mouth shut.
Notes: Still another Not Exactly NaNo product. Leon/D, minor spoilers up through book 4.
LIPS OF WINE
*
The advantage of dreams is that they don't have to make sense. Never did. Leon doesn't even remember them most of the time, and the exceptions are stuff like that expedition to a few million years back where D came back with a couple of saber-tooth tiger cubs in his purse, where D himself said it was a dream, until it wasn't. Or the dragon that Christmas, which is more Leon hoping it was a dream than really believing it, because if that was really a dragon...no. Nothing else that night made sense, so why should there be a real, coherent dragon in the sky over the bay?
Dreams don't make sense. They're not real. And whatever stupid Disney films that Chris watches say, they are sure as fuck not a wish your heart makes.
Because if they were...
In the dream, he's sitting in the pet shop with D, drinking tea, as usual. Except it's not the usual tea, or something: it tastes better, like D's spiked it with something really good. D had a bowl of chocolates next to him, which he's eating slowly, eyes closed. Every so often he shrugs off a jacket-thing: there's at least three on the floor, and there goes another one. Leon doesn't know where he's getting them, and in the dream he doesn't care, just keeps hoping that the next one will turn out to be the final layer.
It's warm in the pet shop. Really warm. Middle of summer, air-conditioner's-broke-again warm. Leon shrugs off his own jacket, undoes his tie. Unbuttons his shirt. D opens his eyes and watches him, but he's still eating chocolate: he doesn't say What are you doing, Detective? or This isn't your living room. Leon tosses his shirt to the floor. D smiles and drops another jacket.
Leon stands up and unbuckles his belt. D stops eating chocolate and watches more intently as Leon strips the rest of his clothing off. There aren't any animals in the room with them, no dogs, no cats, no birds, nothing. The door to the back hallway stands open, and Leon thinks, oh, that's why it's so hot.
"Come here, Detective," D says.
And Leon just goes over there, standing in front of D, half-hard, and D sets aside the chocolate and unfastens the top of his dress-thing, whatever that is he's wearing, and D reaches up and tugs Leon down and kisses him. It's good. It's really good. It's better than anything, better than any kiss Leon's ever had, and all he can do is kiss D back like an idiot.
"Come," D says again, and draws Leon up onto the couch, which is longer and wider than Leon had noticed before, so Leon can sprawl across it. "Lie back, Detective," D says, and kisses him again. One hand is caressing his hip, sliding underneath just a little.
He opens his mouth to say something, maybe even to protest for a second, because what the fuck are they doing and why is D still dressed? Then D sits up and Leon is left gaping like a fish while D leans over and gets something from the floor, or maybe from the pocket of one of the jackets he dropped. Leon tries to sit up himself, but D presses his hand on Leon's stomach, and Leon subsides, because the light scrape of those long fingernails makes him shiver, and not because he's scared.
D sits back up, and drops something on Leon's stomach. Leon looks down. It's some kind of test tube thing, full of golden liquid. Oil. Lube.
"Detective?" D says.
Sometimes Leon makes himself wake up there. More often he doesn't.
The next day, he always brings D something fancy -- not chocolate, though, he can't look at chocolate -- and bites his tongue to keep from asking what kind of dreams D has. Because he wants to arrest D, and this hanging around the pet shop has nothing to do with liking D, or trusting D, and definitely not because of dreams. Dreams are just random shit. Dreams don't make sense.
On the other hand, neither does D.
Leon drinks another cup of tea and keeps his mouth shut.