[Incomplete]

[el_legendaire]

Who: Jericho, Duke.
When: Hella backdated. After this.
Where: random street (now destroyed) and then random house
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, gore, language, smut.
Summary: Duke killed Vincent. Jericho witnessed it.

Comments

[el_legendaire]

Goddamn kids.

Duke hesitated for only a moment longer before obeying, too tired to argue any further and force someone so aggravatingly blind to see sense. Duke could take care of himself. Had taken care of himself all through the war and if he couldn't one day, like today, it didn't bloody well matter. Vincent was the one that had to be protected, brought home. There was no one anywhere waiting for Duke.

But he obeyed, for reasons that didn't bear thinking about. Maybe it was the safety net of someone else's orders. A decision he couldn't be blamed for because he hadn't made it.

Weapons and curatives were collected, and Jericho scowled upon realizing that Duke knew very well his salvation was only a little way up the street in a hi-potion but had still refused the help getting there, and after it Duke was at least strong enough to pull his own weight and not hang all over Jericho. They took Vincent between them.

The safehouse was, again, a lot like the one Duke had brought Jericho to in handcuffs. A temporary shelter. Duke created these in minutes and left them just as quickly. Bed table chair and a few odds and ends spread out, and thankfully a large, tarnished metal tub full of tepid water he'd been originally intending to use for chemistry purposes. It served better as a way to get all the damn blood off Vincent, Duke grimly ignoring his own state of ruin and Jericho's scrutiny and methodically, carefully wiping the gore and grit from Vincent's too pale skin with a scrap of rag.

He still hurt like hellfire but it was a survivable ache. Wounds still needed to be cleaned. Two of them, the one in his shoulder and the one on his torso still needed to be bandaged, hadn't closed up all the way like the rest. He didn't say anything because Jericho would have to help him, and he didn't want Jericho's help, and wished Jericho would take a hint and just leave instead of sit there and watch him tend Vincent.

[sharper_shooter]

Couldn't expect modesty from men like Duke. For all he that looked down on Jericho for being a dumbass kid, he was just as stubborn as Jericho was about relinquishing control and accepting things out of his sphere of influence. That was why Jericho sat silently, watching Duke rub the blood off of Vincent's body. His chest constricted painfully, inexplicably when Duke leaned in to work off the embedded grit and blood with one short fingernail. It could've been a painting for how raw it was, overflowing and sick with emotion, this dead body lolling in Duke's arms and turned white where the weak window light seeped down on it. Vincent was held more tenderly than he ever would be if he were alive in Duke's arms. Or so he thought.

The memory of the kiss drifted through his mind, and his stomach lurched.

Jericho kicked off his dark shoes and brushed his feet back and forth on the floor under the chair, otherwise as immobile as stone. He only flinched when Duke hissed, a jolt of pain making his arm jerk a little on Vincent's skin. It was on the third time that it happened that Jericho finally stood, making his way over to them cautiously. He was at least somewhat sensitive to the situation, still aware of how awkward his presence made everything. Didn't matter. Didn't care. Not really.

His hands hooked into his pockets, weight balanced between his hips. Vincent was clean, as clean as he was going to get, and at this point Duke was doing nothing but sweeping pointless, damp circles on his skin. Trauma, alright. He knew that one well enough. "Duke. Got my jacket to wrap him in. Let him be to heal up."

He bent to try and take the rag from him.

"You're still hurt here," he observed. "Let me deal with it."

And for a change, it had fuck all to do with proving anything. He was at that point where he was beyond caring what Duke had to say, or what he thought, or what anyone else thought for that matter. He had something he wanted to do, and Duke could go to hell if he planned to question him on it, or protest. For a change, yeah, he knew better. He knew better than Duke did what was good for him. Like hell he was going to let him sit there and stew in his misery and bleed all over the floor.

He knelt next to him. Duke's hair had dried flakes of blood in it, and he resisted the urge to pick it out.

"Sit on the chair, take your shirt off. I'll put Vincent on the bed."

[el_legendaire]

Duke’s first instinct was to snarl. Or rather, to attack, to lash out at being crowded and prodded and his judgment questioned. The cold part of his mind recognized very well that this was irrational behavior brought on by the fact of Vincent’s murder, but that didn’t mean he could do anything about it. Recognizing the problem wasn’t the same as fixing it.

Jericho bent and Duke tensed, but tensing made something internal screech in agony and he ended up not protesting at all. This was stupid. He knew better than to refuse help when he needed it but he never needed help but he didn’t usually injure himself this badly and it usually wasn’t an overly proud, hot-tempered, nosy punk kid that he had to rely on. A healer he would have listened to at this point. Probably.

A little traitorous part of him said, this is where your partner would come in handy.

Veld. If they’d ever really acted like partners. If they’d ever really taken care of each other the way partners were supposed to. One-sided probably didn’t count, and Duke hadn’t done nearly enough even in thirty years.

He didn’t want to move away from Vincent and recognized that as irrationality and told himself to pull it together, Jericho was still planning on using this for blackmail, he had to think now and fall apart later. Had to deal with the threat, and not with bullets.

Not like Vincent.

Let me, Jericho had said. Duke wanted to laugh. You didn’t ask people for permission for that sort of thing. You either did it or didn’t do it, and the person in question either accepted or lashed out.

Let me.

Let me help you.

Let me please help you.

Duke was too tired for this. And too tired to not take advantage.

"I shot Vincent," he pointed out tiredly, even as he did as Jericho asked. "What are you doing, worrying over a traitor?"

[sharper_shooter]

Jericho had already decided some time ago that he wasn't going to answer any questions. Duke hadn't earned answers, and he didn't feel up to explaining himself. After all, did Duke really not know? Was he dense enough to have to ask that? Vincent had been the risk - ah, but then. Nobody had really wanted to say that, had they? Didn't want to admit that the object of their affection was fucking cracked, that it was just the people around him doing shit wrong, setting him off.

That was fine. You could ignore a lot of shit when you were in love.

Lust.

Whatever.

He looked at Vincent's slack face as he picked him up, drawing his dark jacket over cold shoulders. He moved away for long enough to lay the body carefully on the bed, sure to turn its back to Duke, to button the jacket around it and draw the sheets up over it. Concealing him well. Letting him rest. There was nothing automatic about it, all precise and slow and careful; obviously new to him, to have to think about these things. From his experience, bodies went in ditches or in the ground or in the garbage in pieces; the most convenient disposal available. Keeping it around felt uncomfortable, and he couldn't look at Vincent's face for too long without getting chills.

It made him wonder how long it'd take for him to come back.

He picked up the first aid kit as he passed it, moving to where Duke sat. There were a couple of potions in the kit at least, albeit weak in their strength. Regardless, he popped one open, shoving it in Duke's hand, and pulled out a small bottle of antiseptic to soak the rag in.

"Drink that first."

Which should've been common sense for him to do in the first place; if there was anything of the bullets remaining in the wounds, it'd push them out first. Saved on any trouble later. But it was obvious Duke wasn't thinking straight, and Jericho suspected he'd be holding his hand through pretty much the duration of Vincent's death. At least until Veld could come on and do it properly.

He was quiet. After a time, with his mind drifting, he found himself looking across the expanse of Duke's well-muscled, compact body, his lanky form sculpted by hard training and a lot of wounds. Bullets, knifes, swords, broken bones and shrapnel had all left their mark in white and crinkled skin, so much so that you could barely press three fingers in the space between one scar and another. He doubted his back was any better.

The war, maybe. Or maybe the old school of Turks would all have looked like that if only they'd lived long enough.

He pressed the rag to the first wound, up on his shoulder; careful at first, and then firmer, swiping the blood and dirt away. The chemical smell was oddly soothing.

"I'd offer to take responsibility. I could've shot him. Don't think you'd take me up on it, though."

[el_legendaire]

Drink that. Sit here. Let me.

As if barking them like orders would really cover up the intent behind the words. Duke knew how this game was played, since he’d been the one playing it for years with Veld. Self-righteous and irritated, like the injured party had done this just to be annoying. As if it was only an inconvenience. Jericho wasn’t fooling anyone in this room, with the careful way he handled Vincent under Duke’s sight and his insistence on helping him with his injuries.

The parallels didn’t escape him, which might have been why he submitted quietly, annoyed that he couldn’t simply throw Jericho out at gunpoint because he was too busy being grateful that the other Turk was there. Vincent had only been asleep the last time Duke had sat this vigil, and he hadn’t kept it for very long. Just until he could clean Vincent up and take him home to Veld.

This time was different. This time would be waiting in the dark with a corpse, maybe waiting for hours or even days, and Duke’s mind shied away from the prospect. Didn’t think he could do that right now. Or could, but definitely didn’t want to if there was any, any other option.

Jericho’s eyes were lingering, and Duke felt the weight of his gaze like a pressure. Not surprising, though. Duke knew damn well what he looked like. It made people gasp, or blanch, or sometimes even shrink back. It disgusted his wife and made her furious, because Duke couldn’t tell her what had happened, had to pretend there was nothing wrong with the evidence to the contrary right there in front of them both. He tried to never take his shirt off around the boys but things happened, and they’d believed with the faith of the very young in their father’s story about being in a train accident when he was younger.

A lot had been the war. A lot. Even Veld didn’t sport this kind of damage, because he wasn’t the one man army sent to handle a guerrilla garrison in the middle of the jungle. And Duke was lucky, for his kind. More careful than a lot of the other Turks had needed to be, and so he got scars, and they got funerals.

Jericho was gentle, at least, or trying as best he could while distracted by eyeballing Duke’s scars, and Duke tried not to catch his breath or flinch away from the stinging chemicals or snap at him to pay attention.

That might have made him stop.

He gave Jericho a long, assessing look for his little offer, though. It might even have been an eyerake, slow and speculative, but surely a man who’d just been gunshot didn’t have the presence of mind to be pulling anything like that. Surely.

And surely wasn’t considering the offer that wasn’t being said, in the way Jericho’s fingers smoothed his skin. Possibly the offer Jericho didn’t even know he was making.

"Veld wouldn’t believe you anyway," Duke said finally. The hint of regret was entirely feigned, the hint that he wanted Jericho’s help but couldn’t ask, that he was at a loss to how to deal with this on his own.

[sharper_shooter]

It was, admittedly, an old game they were at. They'd been playing it forever; him, Duke, probably most of the Turks in their respective pursuits. It was pointless, inane, but there was something rather comforting in the familiarity of it, in being able to give orders that weren't really orders, that could've given way to pleas if they'd been denied. There was something satisfying to be found in Duke's compliance, as well. He could've played Jericho for all he was worth, couldn't been stubborn enough to drive him out like he undoubtedly would've preferred, but who won then? Still, it had to be harder this way - admitting defeat, rather than clinging onto his pride.

Not that Jericho was thinking that hard about it. Duke's feelings and motives didn't mean shit.

He looked up in time to see Duke watching him look at his scars, and his cheeks might've coloured slightly, his attention moving back to the rag as it dragged across old, crusty brown blood, scraping it away from potion-healing scabs. He was soon on the other large wound down along Duke's abdomen, and he re-applied the chemicals until the smell could overpower that of copper and rust, the gunpowder of the fight that still clung to Duke's skin like a burr.

He was starting to get used to the lack of sunglasses; it was preferable, less pretentious when they were down here in the dark. He still had them on him, he realised, though he wasn't about to tell Duke as much.

"Veld wouldn't have any way to prove it was somethin' else." His eyes flicked up again, skeptical, though his tone was softer in response to Duke's. The reluctance, the regret there wasn't lost on him. Wasn't lost, and wasn't entirely believed, but shit. Duke was pretty raw right now. It wasn't impossible.

Wasn't probable.

Wasn't impossible.

Or maybe Jericho just wanted to believe it.

"We were here. No witnesses. He'd cover for you, too."

Didn't want to say Vincent's name out loud, not with him lying there a few feet away. He might just respond, or Duke might just lash out. It was delicate enough to be trying to mention him at all when the man in front of him was such an utter fucking mess.

"Sides," he muttered, tone droll, "since when do I give a shit what Veld thinks?"

A little medical tape and a soft cover were applied to the wounds that remained to heal, and then he reached for the bandages, unraveling them little by little, pressing the first end to Duke's chest.

"Hold it here. 'S been fucking ages since I did this, so don't complain if it looks like shit."

[el_legendaire]

Duke hissed again when one swipe of chemicals stung fiercer than the others, and then surprised himself with something that was almost a laugh. "Vincent can’t lie to Veld, Jericho. And Veld would never believe that you were able to walk away without a scratch from a fight that left Vincent dead."

He was a mess. Should have been more of one, that he wasn’t thinking of how to deal with Jericho and buy his silence. The blush was not helping anything. The blush was just telling him that there was an opening there, and Jericho wasn’t guarding himself, and there was a way to strike.

"You might want to care what he thinks," he said quietly. As if concerned. As if this was finally a moment of honesty between them. "Considering that he’s your boss, and he’s none too pleased with me or anyone found associating with me."

He caught Jericho’s hand instead of holding the bandage as asked, and met his gaze soberly. "Stop this now. Leave. I will take care of Vincent."

"You don’t want to involve yourself with this."

With me. And even though he knew, he knew Jericho wouldn’t listen, would probably only take that as a reason to plunge ahead, he had to give the warning.

[sharper_shooter]

He knew Jericho too well.

"Forget it, Duke." And he was pulling his hand away, pushing Duke's to press the bandage where he wanted it. His lips were thin, an irritated scowl. Being talked down to again, being told to keep out of it again. When the fuck would he realise that this wasn't just Veld and Duke and Vincent any more? This was ShinRa fucking Security. Last he checked, all the Turks were ShinRa fucking Security, and they didn't get to decide what was a threat and what wasn't. That was up to the President.

Damn it.

"I'm already involved." And it was fine that way, because the only time he'd ever felt frustrated was when he wasn't, when he knew shit was going on and just couldn't crack it. He couldn't deny that his presence had caused a lot of problems, but it wasn't him, really. Wasn't just him, at least. If they'd just been open in the first place, if they'd just accepted that he had a right to...

... Yeah, but it was never his to know in the first place, was it? That was the point - that he didn't have this right he assumed he did, that he was actually totally powerless. Should've rationally known it. Knew that, if he were Duke, looking at some little junior who thought he knew everything, he'd probably do the same.

But it was out of their hands. He knew everything. That was dangerous to them, but it meant accepting Jericho and tolerating his presence. It meant not pushing him away like Duke tried to now, so very valiantly.

Jericho didn't say a word; Duke knew it too, so why waste his breath? He wrapped the bandages firmly across Duke instead, focused on doing the productive thing. Wondered, idly, where they'd all sleep tonight, because he sure as shit wasn't leaving.

[el_legendaire]

Well.

He had tried.

He just wished sometimes that people would prove him wrong. Would not conform to a pattern and would act instead of react, but perhaps he was simply setting his standards too high. Maybe he couldn't reasonably expect Jericho to see things the way he did, everything as a calculation, and maybe it was all for the better. It wasn't as though Duke enjoyed it.

Maybe some part of him regretted it, and deeply envied Jericho for not knowing what it was like to see how badly everything was going to end.

"...on your own head be it, then." He let Jericho work in silence, watching him, and considering. There was a good way to handle this and quite a few bad ways, possibly an infinite amount, and each solution that he came up was worse than the last. And of course he didn't mean it. He was not honestly going to let Jericho deal with the consequences of his choice, because Jericho was young, because Jericho was reactionary, because Jericho didn't really know what was going on.

Because Duke didn't want him hurt.

He waited until Jericho had finished and then stood, not entirely easily or smoothly but passable, and didn't bother to shrug the bloodied and ruined shirt back on. Instead he went to an inconspicuous door half hidden behind a pile of junk, and beckoned Jericho to follow.

It was a short hallway, and at the end was another bedroom. Duke's, and it was obvious he'd spent a bit more time in this particular room than in the entire rest of the house, because his bombs and chemicals were spread out across the floor, table, and two chairs. It looked like chaos to an outside observer.

He shut the door behind the two of them. "My mother said it brought bad luck to speak of the dead where they could listen. I am going to have to tell you some things, if you insist on making this choice."

Calmly. "They are not things that will help you sleep at night. This started thirty years ago and covers a lot of classified information that I am actually required to execute you for hearing."

[sharper_shooter]

That was it, then. Duke was caving, or he was doing a damn good job of pretending to cave; either way, he had Jericho's full attention.

He stood to follow at the beckoning gesture, surprised; he'd noticed the door on the way in, but he had utterly forgotten about it until Duke was slipping around, leading him through the narrow, well-concealed hallway that it gave way to.

It really did look like chaos. Jericho was careful stepping in, stepping past Duke and over thin vials of chemicals and powder, of empty shells waiting to be filled with explosive materials. He slid around them with the trepidation of one expecting the landmine to blow up under his feet if he got too reckless. After all, he recognised a lot of it. A lot of it was standard fare for the slums. A lot of it, he didn't recognise at all; Duke's own concoctions or an adaptation to what the new environment had to offer.

"Yeah," Jericho said; soft, as though that might somehow make him sound like he understood the gravity of the situation more than he really did. He had enough indicators to know he was rushing headlong into something Duke didn't want him to, didn't like him to, and didn't expect him to figure out. Duke didn't talk abut heavy shit. None of them talked about heavy shit with him at least, because that was out of his range. It was a need-to-know basis and he didn't need to know.

Turks. Family.

His fucking ass, when they all had gag orders, a million and one skeletons in their closets and in each other's closets. Buried under the house when they ran out of space. Too many goddamn secrets and it almost made Jericho miss the honest simplicity of the mafia. At least there, unspoken things were general knowledge.

With the Turks, even being told things that seemed to be honest information, he didn't know how much of it was true and how much was a trap laid to put him off the scent.

"Yeah," he repeated with more confidence, and turned to face Duke, to watch him like a hawk as the door clicked shut behind them. This seemed genuine. For what it mattered, Duke seemed genuine. "Yeah, I got it."

[el_legendaire]

For what it mattered, Duke was trying to be genuine. Or as genuine as a person like him could be, when he was so unaccustomed to being honest that it actually felt uncomfortable.

Moving to sit on the edge of the bed, he let Jericho find a chair that could be cleaned off and told him to sit as well, because this was a goddamn long story.

He didn't tell all of it, for various reasons. Mostly because they would have been there for forever and a day. But he explained Hojo, and a horrific experiment, and it wasn't Vincent's fault that he carried a demon in him. He explained the seal that had been done. He explained the poisons he carried with him at all times that had been able to check Vincent before.

He explained, in no uncertain terms, that making Vincent's condition any more widely known was both a danger to the company and to Vincent himself, because you did not back an unstable person into a corner and expect them to cooperate willingly. Vincent needed allies, not jailers, because that was serving Hojo's sick purpose in trying to turn a man into a beast, and Vincent was a Turk goddammit and Turks did not abandon other Turks.

He explained without explaining that if Vincent left, they would lose Veld as well. Because they'd both been so young when Vincent disappeared. Because trauma left that long crystallized and only dug deeper into the soul with each year. Because Veld had finally been given something back, after a lifetime of losing things, and it would shatter him this time.

Jericho had a decent poker face, but Duke had seen better, and something flickered in Jericho's eyes every time Veld's name came up. He didn't bother trying to label it. All the rookies were a little in love with Veld. All the rookies usually bent over backwards for their beloved Director, and that was something Duke was counting on.

Vincent was not the rogue threat threatening them from the outside. Vincent was the core, the start of things, and because of who he was and what he was to Veld and what Veld was to the others, even the ones from the future like Tseng and Rude, he could break the Department. That was why Rufus couldn't be told. Rufus wouldn't appreciate knowing there was something more important than his own precious self.

"So," Duke said finally, tired of talking now, "that's why I would not recommend taking this to Rufus. This is about loyalty. You're either one of ours or you aren't, and we take care of our own no matter what."

And then he smiled, small and disarming. "I know you left the underground to avoid politics. I'm not sure what you were thinking, coming to Shinra of all places to escape them."

[sharper_shooter]

For what he was hearing, Jericho felt he was doing pretty good at the poker face. It'd been a while since he'd felt the need to sustain composure and listen for that long; always made him restless, sitting through lectures and briefings, and he had a habit of fidgeting or letting his attention wander. Not this time. This time, he heard every word spoken and committed it to memory. This time, even when the subject of Veld had him wincing inwardly, he didn't take his eyes off Duke.

It wasn't until the other was done that he allowed himself to slump somewhat, resting his arms across the back of the chair he'd straddled. He rested his chin on them, frowning.

"Funny," he murmured. "I was jus' thinkin' that." And quitting was still looking good, now more than ever. Knowing all these things that'd been kept secret for so long, seeing the filthy underneath that ShinRa hid so well, and lying to Rufus - or rather, denying him the full truth - still didn't sit right with him, even if he couldn't argue the logic there.

Logic based on sentimentality and pettiness, but still.

"... The second he becomes a threat to anyone outside'a us, I'm fuckin' goin' to the Boss. I don't give enough of a damn about Veld's achin' little heart t'keep from doing that." But obviously he cared enough to give the situation the benefit or the doubt. Or rather, he felt guilty enough.

He still remembered how Veld's kisses felt. He remembered the scar under his fingertips, the palms against his shoulders. He remembered the body against his body and the scars as thick on his torso as Duke's. He remembered it all with far too much clarity, given how damn drunk he'd thought he was.

"'Cause the others are ours, too. An' I'll take care o' them, too." His expression toughened up a fraction. Yeah, he'd protect them; protect them the way Duke and Veld failed to. Too caught up in their own feelings, and even now all of Duke's reasoning sounded more like imploring, trying to find his heart in all of it. Jericho was a fucking sucker, though, because it was working too well.

He stared intently for a minute, gaze dragging over him, assessing briefly.

"... He approaches any of them in a way I don't like and all bets are off. 'S the only time I'll say it."

[el_legendaire]

This was probably why Duke preferred not telling the truth. It was easier to give orders than to implore, and people were more apt to obey something they thought was unchangeably pragmatic rather than because it was the right thing to do.

He knew what it sounded like, and it took a lot of steel to not leave out even more than what he was already omitting. Jericho was probably being considerate, in his own way, for not connecting the dots out loud.

It was really a problem with the old guard and things that had happened so many years in the past that the issue probably couldn't be solved anymore, and Rufus could have been rid of it entirely if he just fired the three of them. That might have been the smart thing, except it wouldn't help Vincent, and that was still Duke's priority.

He didn't, however, miss the way Jericho spoke of taking care of the other Turks, and very sternly ordered himself to refrain from shaking the ghost of his stupid, invincible younger self that was apparently possessing Jericho.

His expression stayed calm. "You're assuming that Rufus would have any better way of dealing with the situation, even if you told him. And don't worry." The hint of bitterness bled through Duke's voice and a sudden fit of agitation pushed him to his feet, but the room was too small to pace.

"Worse comes to worse, it'll be dealt with," he said softly, looking at his arsenal, "I don't expect further exceptions to be made for him." He met and held Jericho's gaze.

"If he comes after you again, I will kill him."

Oops. He'd meant to say 'anyone,' not 'you,' but the word was said and he couldn't take it back now.

[sharper_shooter]

Oops, indeed.

That made Jericho start slightly, the hardened look in his eyes splintering a fraction at the edges. Not pleased, not flattered; those were things that were nowhere near so immediate, and so very unlike them. No; just surprised. Surprised and his ears were burning a little bit, but he still wasn't pleased, and he still wasn't flattered. It was the obvious thing to say. Vincent had only targeted him thus far, aside from Duke. It was the obvious thing for him to say. Obviously.

... And then there was that other factor, the other suggestion underlining his words. Duke was swearing to protect him. Duke was expecting him to be powerless, to continue always being powerless, and Jericho wanted to turn around and say 'fuck you'. He could shoot Vincent. It'd only take one well-placed bullet. If Duke was planning it if Vincent came for him, then unlike last time, he could spare them the trouble.

Vincent. Vincent's hands, eyes, hot breath, that dreamy tone he used that suggested that he wasn't all there. Do it. Do it do it do it.

Yeah. He had no problem filling him with lead.

He gripped the chair, pushing himself up out of it, and dragged his leg back over. "Come off of it," he growled. "If he comes after me, I'll deal with him myself." He started picking his way along towards the door, careful of Duke's sprawling chemistry set.

"You should get some sleep. I'll keep watch for a while." Not for intruders, of course; to wait for him to wake. Unlike Duke, he wasn't injured. Unlike Duke, sleep wasn't likely to come easy to him, anyway. He had a lot to be thinking about.

[el_legendaire]

Stupid. Shouldn't have said that. Of course Jericho would only take it as a challenge, and be even more uncooperative if Vincent did target him.

He knew Jericho knew how to kill. That there wouldn't be any or much hesitation, and he wasn't worried about Jericho's ability to put a bullet in anything that threatened him.

But he was very, very worried that Jericho wouldn't see it as a threat until too late, because...

Well. Perhaps he was only projecting, because of the way Vincent slid so neatly under his own defenses. Perhaps Jericho wouldn't be so stupid as to let Vincent back him to a wall and touch him softly, or delay him with slow kisses and quiet moans in his ear. Perhaps Jericho wasn't that weak.

Perhaps Duke was an idiot, because the thought of Vincent seducing Jericho was even more maddening that what he knew was going on with Vincent and Veld behind their closed doors.

I don't want you to deal with it, is what he didn't say. I don't want you anywhere near him. I don't want him anywhere near you.

"Wait."

[sharper_shooter]

Jericho stopped.

He initially regretted it; regretted complying without thinking, but one could always argue that Duke was his superior, that it was natural for him to obey an order. Wasn't the reason, of course, and Duke would know that. Since when did Jericho pay attention to how the system worked, after all? Since when did he listen to Duke in general?

He turned regardless, looking at him on the bed. He really was a mess. His ginger hair became a halo of fire where the minimal light caught it, and his scars were bleached by it, bandages bleached by it. It was probably as bare as he'd ever seen him, physically or otherwise.

... Course, it was probably about Vincent. Had to be about Vincent and Duke's lust for him and wanting to be the one there when he woke up. That, or it was another case of wanting to 'protect' Jericho, in case Vincent woke up in a foul mood. Given how he'd died, that was probable.

That'd be the obvious conclusion to draw, he figured. It'd be the one that made the most sense. His eyes narrowed, wary, but he didn't defy him. He stood, patient. Didn't know why he cared so much.

Duke wasn't going to say anything he wanted to hear.

... Not that he wanted to hear anything specific. It'd be more exact to say that Duke was inevitably going to tell him something he didn't want to hear. Admittedly, he'd been good about it so far, but that couldn't negate in Jericho's mind all the other experiences that had built up to this moment, all the other encounters, all the talking down and being demeaned and, well, living up to it more than half the time added insult to injury. Made it a soft spot.

He was about to pat himself down for smokes before he recalled why he wasn't smoking already. Explosives all over the floor. Of course.

"... Yeah?"