Conquered (by a Wily Voice and Eyes)
Title: Conquered (by a Wily Voice and Eyes)
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,650 words
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not real. This is for fun only. No disrespect or offense meant to anyone. Title shamelessly stolen from the soundtrack song.
Warnings: AU. Violence.
Soundtrack: The Romanovs - King
Notes: Written for kradam_kiss. I blame this one on minglingcrab for introducing me to The Romanovs, and the Shadow of the Templar novels for making me think about pretty, gay thieves.
Beta by minglingcrab.
Summary: “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Kris is standing in the middle of the narrow alley, listening to the night sounds, his Glock at the ready and pointing towards the condemned building to his right. He’s pretty sure the guy is long gone-the son-of-a-bitch could climb like a monkey and run like…something that runs really fast-but just in case he’s still around, Kris waits and listens.
There’s no more than a millisecond between the soft scuffle of feet behind him and the warm touch on his neck, and Kris doesn’t even turn around before his gun connects with the soft flesh of whomever’s standing behind him.
“Detective,” Adam Lambert says in greeting, his lips dragging against the back of Kris’ neck. Kris’ finger relaxes on the trigger. He turns around.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Adam smirks. “Not particularly.”
Kris takes a small step towards the railing on his left to keep both Lambert and the building in sight, and checks from the corner of his eye to see if Lambert is carrying. But of course he’s not; Kris knew he wouldn’t be. That isn’t Lambert’s style. The skin-tight black getup doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, and Kris can clearly see that the only weapon the man has on him is his seven-section chain whip, folded and hidden under his belt.
“He’s gone, you know,” Lambert says, looking infuriatingly amused. His eyes, rimmed with smoky gray eye shadow, are narrowed so that only a hint of their light blue color peeks through, and that annoys the hell out of Kris for some inexplicable reason. Everything about the man is exasperating.
“Don’t tell me you work with that scumbag,” Kris says, tightening his hold on the gun.
“Hardly,” Lambert says with an eye roll, and slinks closer. He leans against the railing next to Kris, facing him as if they’re just two friends catching up. “Let’s just say we were hired by the same person.”
Kris doesn’t know why he feels disappointed. A criminal is a criminal. Why he’s so eager to keep Lambert set apart from the rest, he has no idea.
“You don’t wanna work for those people,” Kris warns, against his better judgment. It’s not his job to give criminals advice on whom to work with. In fact, he should be taking Lambert in. Lambert may not have done anything yet tonight, but Kris is sure there are enough outstanding warrants on him to put him away for two lifetimes already. Hell, the FBI would throw a party in Kris’ honor if he brought him in.
It’s a shame Kris hates the FBI’s guts.
“Yeah, well,” Lambert drawls, “you take your million dollar contracts wherever you find them these days. There’s a recession, you know. Can’t afford to be picky.”
Lambert’s tone grates on Kris’ nerves, even more so than usual. He’s always so facetious, flitting about in his stupid costumes and his stupid make-up, making jokes, like it’s all a big game to him. Kris is not in the mood to play games. He’s tired, and he’s pissed, and his patience is wearing thin rather fast.
Kris had to scrape a college student off the sidewalk last night-a pretty little girl who was fed drugs, made into a plaything, and then dropped off a 38th floor balcony like a sack of potatoes. The man who did it has an army of lawyers and professional fall guys to hide behind, and won’t even remember the girl’s name come morning. Kris, on the other hand, can’t forget. He remembers all their names.
So Kris couldn’t care less what Lambert might be up to this time, because really, what does it matter to him if a diamond necklace goes missing somewhere? A Picasso painting? Let the FBI deal with all that. Kris couldn’t give a rat’s ass.
“Whatever,” he says, running a hand over his face to wipe away the tiredness. He’s been awake and on his feet way longer than he should have. Coffee can only keep him standing for so long. “Get out of here before I arrest your ass.”
Lambert steps even closer, probably just to be contrary. The man just can’t let anything go. “You won’t arrest me,” he says, nudging Kris with his shoulder. “Or you wouldn’t have let me go the last time.”
“I learn from my mistakes,” Kris deadpans.
Lambert smiles. “You’re breaking my heart, Kristopher.”
Kris shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. He is flirting. The man has the nerve to flirt at a time like this. “I’m not in the mood,” Kris says, pressing his gun into Lambert’s stomach, though he suspects they both know he would never use it. “Just-get out of here.”
Kris waits for the pressure on his Glock to ease, for Lambert to disappear suddenly, as he’s fond of doing, but it appears that he won’t be so lucky tonight. When his eyes finally open, he finds a pair of narrowed blue eyes glittering in the dark, staring intently at him, serious and calculating. Then Lambert takes another step forward, trapping the gun between their bodies, and cups the side of Kris’ face in a warm palm.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice gone soft and concerned. Kris curses the day he met this man. Life was so much simpler when criminals were all cruel and vicious all the time.
“I’m-I just-” Kris’ body sags a little-just a touch-against Lambert’s. “It’s been a bad couple of days thanks to your new friends,” he admits. “And it’s not about to get any better,” he adds, trying to sharpen his mellow tone. “So if you could leave me the hell alone-”
Lambert leans in until their lips are touching, effectively silencing Kris. “I don’t think I will,” he says, and then he captures Kris’ mouth in a firm kiss.
Kris doesn’t fight him. Partially because he’s too exhausted to struggle with a man Lambert’s size, but mostly because he’s been curious about what this would feel like ever since he laid eyes on the man. Lambert’s lips are full and wide, and his arms around Kris are comfortably warm. Kris’ hands fall to his sides, letting their bodies come in full contact-making Lambert growl into Kris’ mouth and kiss him deeper, with more force.
“Kris,” Lambert-Adam; should Kris be calling him Adam now?-mumbles, pulling back to nip at Kris’ lower lip, but Kris refuses to open his eyes. He wants to forget, for just five minutes. He wants to just enjoy this.
But then there’s a familiar click of handcuffs locking and Kris realizes, yeah, this really isn’t a good time to be forgetting.
Adam steps back with Kris’ gun in his hand, and Kris has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep back the scream trying to tear out of his throat. His left hand is handcuffed to the railing, and he knows without having to check that the key is no longer in his pocket. That’s what he gets for kissing a thief.
Adam points the gun away before dropping the magazine and kicking it a safe distance. Then he pulls back the slide to check the chamber, making sure it’s empty before handing the weapon back to Kris. Kris tucks the empty gun into his belt and glares at him.
“Now, Kris, don’t be angry,” Adam says. He runs a hand through Kris’ hair, fingers brushing Kris’ cheek, and doesn’t even wince when Kris seizes his arm in a biting grip. “Tell your partner to come and get you, and for God’s sake, go home and sleep a little.”
Kris snorts. Seriously? He’s worried about Kris now?
“Running yourself ragged won’t help anyone,” Adam says, sounding impossibly sincere. Brushing a kiss under Kris’ eye, he walks away and disappears into the dark alley.
Kris curses and takes out his phone. He hopes Adam’s arm bruises and-and rots! He wishes he’d bitten the bastard.
God damn it.
-
Kris does go home to sleep that night, and feels much better afterwards. He stops obsessing over Annie, the redheaded college student, letting Matt wrap up the case, and picks up the new homicide that lands on his desk. Life goes on; people get killed, and Kris keeps on drinking bad coffee, staying up too late, and doing his job.
He even forgets about Adam Lambert-until the Chief calls him at three in the morning on a Saturday, sounding gruff and bemused, telling him to get his ass down to the station pronto. When Kris gets there, the Chief hands him a pair of gloves and a white envelope that says ‘Detective Allen’ on the front. It’s been opened, neatly cut at the top, and probably dusted for prints, too. Kris turns it around in his hands.
“What’s this?” he asks. There’s nothing else written on it-just his name.
“It was on Alexei,” the Chief says, smirking slightly at Kris’ shocked look. “They found him in a dumpster, unconscious and handcuffed. Left for us, obviously, though no clue as to who our secret Santa is. I thought maybe you might have an idea.”
Kris shakes his head. “Did he wake up? Will he talk?”
The Chief snorts. “These guys don’t talk or cut deals. But you’re welcome to try.”
Kris thinks of Annie and her red hair splattered with blood, and thinks, yeah, he’d like to try.
He turns the envelope upside down and lets the small piece of paper inside fall into his gloved hand. There’s only one sentence on the paper, written in the same purple pen and the same cursive handwriting as on the envelope.
Who needs a million dollars anyway?
“So?” the Chief asks. “What the hell does that mean?”
Kris blinks at the paper and decides that the truth is the easiest way to go here.
“I have no fucking idea, sir.”
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,650 words
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not real. This is for fun only. No disrespect or offense meant to anyone. Title shamelessly stolen from the soundtrack song.
Warnings: AU. Violence.
Soundtrack: The Romanovs - King
Notes: Written for kradam_kiss. I blame this one on minglingcrab for introducing me to The Romanovs, and the Shadow of the Templar novels for making me think about pretty, gay thieves.
Beta by minglingcrab.
Summary: “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Kris is standing in the middle of the narrow alley, listening to the night sounds, his Glock at the ready and pointing towards the condemned building to his right. He’s pretty sure the guy is long gone-the son-of-a-bitch could climb like a monkey and run like…something that runs really fast-but just in case he’s still around, Kris waits and listens.
There’s no more than a millisecond between the soft scuffle of feet behind him and the warm touch on his neck, and Kris doesn’t even turn around before his gun connects with the soft flesh of whomever’s standing behind him.
“Detective,” Adam Lambert says in greeting, his lips dragging against the back of Kris’ neck. Kris’ finger relaxes on the trigger. He turns around.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Adam smirks. “Not particularly.”
Kris takes a small step towards the railing on his left to keep both Lambert and the building in sight, and checks from the corner of his eye to see if Lambert is carrying. But of course he’s not; Kris knew he wouldn’t be. That isn’t Lambert’s style. The skin-tight black getup doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, and Kris can clearly see that the only weapon the man has on him is his seven-section chain whip, folded and hidden under his belt.
“He’s gone, you know,” Lambert says, looking infuriatingly amused. His eyes, rimmed with smoky gray eye shadow, are narrowed so that only a hint of their light blue color peeks through, and that annoys the hell out of Kris for some inexplicable reason. Everything about the man is exasperating.
“Don’t tell me you work with that scumbag,” Kris says, tightening his hold on the gun.
“Hardly,” Lambert says with an eye roll, and slinks closer. He leans against the railing next to Kris, facing him as if they’re just two friends catching up. “Let’s just say we were hired by the same person.”
Kris doesn’t know why he feels disappointed. A criminal is a criminal. Why he’s so eager to keep Lambert set apart from the rest, he has no idea.
“You don’t wanna work for those people,” Kris warns, against his better judgment. It’s not his job to give criminals advice on whom to work with. In fact, he should be taking Lambert in. Lambert may not have done anything yet tonight, but Kris is sure there are enough outstanding warrants on him to put him away for two lifetimes already. Hell, the FBI would throw a party in Kris’ honor if he brought him in.
It’s a shame Kris hates the FBI’s guts.
“Yeah, well,” Lambert drawls, “you take your million dollar contracts wherever you find them these days. There’s a recession, you know. Can’t afford to be picky.”
Lambert’s tone grates on Kris’ nerves, even more so than usual. He’s always so facetious, flitting about in his stupid costumes and his stupid make-up, making jokes, like it’s all a big game to him. Kris is not in the mood to play games. He’s tired, and he’s pissed, and his patience is wearing thin rather fast.
Kris had to scrape a college student off the sidewalk last night-a pretty little girl who was fed drugs, made into a plaything, and then dropped off a 38th floor balcony like a sack of potatoes. The man who did it has an army of lawyers and professional fall guys to hide behind, and won’t even remember the girl’s name come morning. Kris, on the other hand, can’t forget. He remembers all their names.
So Kris couldn’t care less what Lambert might be up to this time, because really, what does it matter to him if a diamond necklace goes missing somewhere? A Picasso painting? Let the FBI deal with all that. Kris couldn’t give a rat’s ass.
“Whatever,” he says, running a hand over his face to wipe away the tiredness. He’s been awake and on his feet way longer than he should have. Coffee can only keep him standing for so long. “Get out of here before I arrest your ass.”
Lambert steps even closer, probably just to be contrary. The man just can’t let anything go. “You won’t arrest me,” he says, nudging Kris with his shoulder. “Or you wouldn’t have let me go the last time.”
“I learn from my mistakes,” Kris deadpans.
Lambert smiles. “You’re breaking my heart, Kristopher.”
Kris shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. He is flirting. The man has the nerve to flirt at a time like this. “I’m not in the mood,” Kris says, pressing his gun into Lambert’s stomach, though he suspects they both know he would never use it. “Just-get out of here.”
Kris waits for the pressure on his Glock to ease, for Lambert to disappear suddenly, as he’s fond of doing, but it appears that he won’t be so lucky tonight. When his eyes finally open, he finds a pair of narrowed blue eyes glittering in the dark, staring intently at him, serious and calculating. Then Lambert takes another step forward, trapping the gun between their bodies, and cups the side of Kris’ face in a warm palm.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice gone soft and concerned. Kris curses the day he met this man. Life was so much simpler when criminals were all cruel and vicious all the time.
“I’m-I just-” Kris’ body sags a little-just a touch-against Lambert’s. “It’s been a bad couple of days thanks to your new friends,” he admits. “And it’s not about to get any better,” he adds, trying to sharpen his mellow tone. “So if you could leave me the hell alone-”
Lambert leans in until their lips are touching, effectively silencing Kris. “I don’t think I will,” he says, and then he captures Kris’ mouth in a firm kiss.
Kris doesn’t fight him. Partially because he’s too exhausted to struggle with a man Lambert’s size, but mostly because he’s been curious about what this would feel like ever since he laid eyes on the man. Lambert’s lips are full and wide, and his arms around Kris are comfortably warm. Kris’ hands fall to his sides, letting their bodies come in full contact-making Lambert growl into Kris’ mouth and kiss him deeper, with more force.
“Kris,” Lambert-Adam; should Kris be calling him Adam now?-mumbles, pulling back to nip at Kris’ lower lip, but Kris refuses to open his eyes. He wants to forget, for just five minutes. He wants to just enjoy this.
But then there’s a familiar click of handcuffs locking and Kris realizes, yeah, this really isn’t a good time to be forgetting.
Adam steps back with Kris’ gun in his hand, and Kris has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep back the scream trying to tear out of his throat. His left hand is handcuffed to the railing, and he knows without having to check that the key is no longer in his pocket. That’s what he gets for kissing a thief.
Adam points the gun away before dropping the magazine and kicking it a safe distance. Then he pulls back the slide to check the chamber, making sure it’s empty before handing the weapon back to Kris. Kris tucks the empty gun into his belt and glares at him.
“Now, Kris, don’t be angry,” Adam says. He runs a hand through Kris’ hair, fingers brushing Kris’ cheek, and doesn’t even wince when Kris seizes his arm in a biting grip. “Tell your partner to come and get you, and for God’s sake, go home and sleep a little.”
Kris snorts. Seriously? He’s worried about Kris now?
“Running yourself ragged won’t help anyone,” Adam says, sounding impossibly sincere. Brushing a kiss under Kris’ eye, he walks away and disappears into the dark alley.
Kris curses and takes out his phone. He hopes Adam’s arm bruises and-and rots! He wishes he’d bitten the bastard.
God damn it.
-
Kris does go home to sleep that night, and feels much better afterwards. He stops obsessing over Annie, the redheaded college student, letting Matt wrap up the case, and picks up the new homicide that lands on his desk. Life goes on; people get killed, and Kris keeps on drinking bad coffee, staying up too late, and doing his job.
He even forgets about Adam Lambert-until the Chief calls him at three in the morning on a Saturday, sounding gruff and bemused, telling him to get his ass down to the station pronto. When Kris gets there, the Chief hands him a pair of gloves and a white envelope that says ‘Detective Allen’ on the front. It’s been opened, neatly cut at the top, and probably dusted for prints, too. Kris turns it around in his hands.
“What’s this?” he asks. There’s nothing else written on it-just his name.
“It was on Alexei,” the Chief says, smirking slightly at Kris’ shocked look. “They found him in a dumpster, unconscious and handcuffed. Left for us, obviously, though no clue as to who our secret Santa is. I thought maybe you might have an idea.”
Kris shakes his head. “Did he wake up? Will he talk?”
The Chief snorts. “These guys don’t talk or cut deals. But you’re welcome to try.”
Kris thinks of Annie and her red hair splattered with blood, and thinks, yeah, he’d like to try.
He turns the envelope upside down and lets the small piece of paper inside fall into his gloved hand. There’s only one sentence on the paper, written in the same purple pen and the same cursive handwriting as on the envelope.
Who needs a million dollars anyway?
“So?” the Chief asks. “What the hell does that mean?”
Kris blinks at the paper and decides that the truth is the easiest way to go here.
“I have no fucking idea, sir.”