redorchids | Nightingale (And Not the Lark)

CHAPTER SIX – TEMPERANCE

FEBRUARY 14

They move onto the bed, pushing the blanket aside. Pete’s hands still tremble when they pass south of Patrick’s waist or north of his knees. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the twists and turns his mind has been taking since his bolt-of-lightning-out-of-nowhere freak-out in the shower almost two months earlier. Pete’s always been a big fan of diversity—and God knows he’s kissed enough guys to have earned at least an honorary membership to the gay community. Taking the next step shouldn’t logically be this hard. Especially not when he wants it so much it’s practically all he can think about these days.

And yet.

Patrick is beautiful. No matter how much he stares, Pete can’t seem to get his mind to fully register this fact; his brain sort of goes into a state of stunned disbelief every time he sees Patrick naked. He runs a hand down Patrick’s spine, leans in closer to breathe in the mix of flushed skin and anticipation. This is fine, touching Patrick like this. So much better than fine, even…

Pete starts out at the shoulders and works his way down, hands only at first, until the need to kiss and taste becomes overwhelming. The candles create a perfect golden sheen, soft flames reflecting in the wet marks left by Pete’s tongue. So, so beautiful…

“Can I try something?”

Patrick nods into the pillow he’s clutching, arching his back to press himself closer to Pete’s hands. Pete kisses the curve of Patrick’s spine and closes his eyes to pull himself together. The little sounds filtering out from Patrick’s mouth do more for the spinning in Pete’s head than the three quarters of a wine bottle he just poured down his throat, but the alcohol isn’t exactly helping. He balls up his right hand, waits until it stops shaking and reaches out for one of the tall candles on the bedside table.

“Okay, just relax,” he says, pressing another kiss to the tip of Patrick’s shoulder. “Let it all just mix and wash over you.”

Patrick moans into the pillow, and Pete leans down, wets a patch on the pale skin with his tongue. He holds up the candle, tilting it, watching transfixed as the melted wax spills over the edge and begins to fall.

Patrick cries out, but it’s the good kind of cry. Pete hasn’t been experimenting with these kind of things for a long, long time, but he remembers where the distinctions go. Patrick’s sounds are just a little lower in pitch than what he’s used to, and unlike the whole holy-shit-another-dick thing, Patrick’s undoubtedly male voice is something Pete’s mind apparently doesn’t have any kind of problems with.

He moves his mouth to another spot, tilts the candle again. Patrick’s whole body tenses in response, before releasing all the energy in a desperate-sounding groan.

“God, Pete. More. Moremoremoremoremore…”

Pete obeys, making patterns and swirls, getting back in his stride and remembering just how far to let the wax fall so that it’s cool enough not to burn but still hot enough to cause adrenaline to completely flood Patrick’s body.

“Too much heat,” Patrick gasps, grinding down against the sheets in long, jerking movements. “Please, Pete, your mouth. I need—God, that thing to do with your tongue…”

“Don’t move.”

Patrick whimpers in protest as Pete moves off the bed. The sounds he makes when Pete returns with his booty and lets a sliver of ice melt against Patrick’s overheated skin are even better. Pete puts another cube into his mouth, guiding it along Patrick’s spine with his tongue.

“Oh God!”

Patrick is babbling now, clutching at the sheets and the pillow with both hands as Pete alternates between hot and cold. Pete is running out of skin to kiss, and without really realising it, he finds himself going lower, putting the candle back on the bedside table to be able to use both hands.

His tongue is still cool from the ice. Patrick moans as it slides over the small of his back, down between rounded cheeks. Patrick presses back against him urgently, and Pete closes his eyes, tries to disconnect the part of his brain that is threatening to start back up again. He can do this. If he can go down on a girl in a public restroom, he can definitely do this.

Except when he moves his tongue in for a first lick, he just can’t.

Fuck.

He tries again. Fails again. Patrick is begging now. Pete kind of wants to cry.

“I’m sorry. Shit! I’m so sorry.”

He nudges Patrick’s hip until he turns over on his back and finds his eyes automatically drawn to the area between the open legs. The sight of Patrick’s cock, hard and flushed, doesn’t exactly help with the sudden case of being a pathetic fucking baby.

“I don’t—” he tries to explain. “I mean, I’ve never—I don’t know how to do this.”

The confusion on Patrick’s face clears up a little. He leans his head back into the pillow, closes his eyes.

And slides a hand down the side of his stomach to rest between his legs.

“Can you watch?” Patrick asks breathlessly, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he wraps his hand around his cock and starts stroking. “Is that okay?”

Pete nods stupidly, because, God, yes. Watching Patrick getting himself off? So much better than okay.

“Hey,” Patrick says, calling Pete’s attention to his face before opening his mouth and sucking two fingers inside. Pete stares.

“I’ve been fantasising about you doing this,” Patrick continues, moving his left hand down and spreading his legs a little wider. “Ever since you kissed me, I’ve been thinking about how it would feel, having your fingers inside me instead of my own.”

“Jesus, Trick.”

“It feels really good,” Patrick murmurs, pushing one finger inside, then the other. “Have you ever done this to yourself? No? Oh God, you totally should.” He moves his right hand faster, picking up a perfectly synchronised rhythm. Pete can’t breathe.

“The stretch is weird at first, but once you get all the way inside—” Patrick breaks off with a moan, jerking his hips to push more firmly into his hand. “Like, there’s this spot that’s just… holy shit… you kind of twist your fingers against it, and—God, Pete, please.”

Pete reaches out, wraps his right hand around Patrick’s left, helps him push the fingers deeper. Patrick moves his right hand faster, breath hitching in his throat, his whole body growing tense.

Suddenly, the dick-where-none-should-be-thing isn’t so scary anymore.

Pete leans in, fits his mouth around the very tip of Patrick’s cock and has just enough time to get a good feel for how to move his tongue and tighten his lips before Patrick shudders and loses it. Jesus fucking Christ.

Pete does his best to hold his breath, remembering the girl who blew him after Homecoming and choked so badly she almost threw up. Patrick’s hand falls away limply, his breathing ragged and uneven as he sort of tugs a little on Pete’s arm, signalling ‘up.’

“Share,” Patrick commands, voice shot completely to hell, and holy fuck, Pete almost comes then and there. He climbs on top of Patrick, aligns their hips, kisses Patrick deeply as he starts to move against his stomach. It doesn’t take long. Not with Patrick grabbing hold of Pete’s hands, tangling their fingers together and whispering things in Pete’s ear that would have Pete blush from head to toe if he had a skin tone that would allow for it and weren’t two seconds away from coming all over Patrick’s chest.

The last thought finishes him off, flashes of Patrick’s skin flooding his mind as he topples over the edge. Patrick’s hands tighten around his, steadying him, and Pete squeezes back, feeling another kind of promise flow unspoken between them.

To have and to hold.

If Pete hadn’t already been completely and utterly fucked, that would definitely have done it.

***

DAY 42 – 6:50 PM

“You’re joking,” Ryan says in disbelief. “The Las Vegas prison?”

“Yep,” Pete confirms over the phone. “Prison chapel. Found by the priest on duty this morning.”

“How is that even possible? And why are we only getting the call now? It’s almost 7 PM.”

“I have no idea,” Pete admits. “I think the day shift screwed it up somehow. Someone was supposed to make the call and forgot. But I have two very sweet words for you, Ross: restricted access. No one comes into that part of the prison without both signing papers and getting caught on film. Meet you there in half an hour?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Another one?” Jon asks, stepping into the office just as Ryan is hanging up the phone.

“Seems like it.”

“Let me back on the case,” Jon says. “It’s been two and a half weeks. I need to be working on this, Ross. Please.”

“It’s—No, Jon. You know I can’t.”

“Please,” Jon says tightly. “I won’t compromise the case. Hell, I won’t even touch anything if you don’t want me to, but, God, Ryan, let me help nail this guy.”

Ryan looks at him for a long time. Jon stares back, unblinking, ready to battle it out. Ryan lowers his eyes.

“Okay, fine! But you don’t handle any of the evidence or talk to suspects,” he says. “And if I tell you to back off, you don’t argue. You’re not back on the case, but you can come with us to observe. Will you be able to handle that?”

“Yeah,” Jon says quickly. “Sure, definitely.”

***

DAY 42 – 7:40 PM

“If I had to die at the hands of a demented killer, I would definitely want to go out in a place like this,” Dr Hurley says, breaking the stunned silence after the five of them enter the small chapel in the high security ward of the Las Vegas State Prison.

“Me too,” Brendon says, taking a few steps closer to one of the walls. “God, who painted this? It’s absolutely incredible.”

The chapel is covered in angels. Large and small, traditional and more modern, all coming together in a wild mix of colour. Decked out in white where he lies on the altar, the victim looks like he’s just another part of the overall design. Ryan understands why the killer would pick this place, despite security issues and an almost guarantee that he'd get caught.

“I did,” a voice says from behind them. Ryan turns around, facing two guards with a handcuffed inmate between them. The prisoner nods in greeting and then gestures towards the dead man on the altar. “Gee helped.”

“This is Andrew Mrotek,” the guard who met them at the gate says. “More commonly known as ‘the Butcher’ around here. He’s a little more culturally-inclined than most of our other murderers.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow, and the guard apparently gets the message, because the smile on his face turns into a scowl. “So you knew the victim?” Ryan asks. “Actually, could we get a little more information than that? A name might be useful to start with.”

He motions for the Butcher to sit down in one of the pews and calls for Pete to join them. Jon follows, and Brendon and Dr Hurley head over to the victim to start processing the scene.

“Gerard Way,” the Butcher says. “Good man. Decent painter if you told him what to do. Been in here for about two years. Serving six years for manslaughter after knifing some guy in a bar fight when he was drunk out of his mind. Never met anyone who regretted whatever put them in here as much as Gee did. Any kind of community service he could do after he was locked up, he did. Didn’t touch a drop of alcohol after he woke up in jail with no memory and covered in blood either, even on Christmas. Wouldn’t even sniff the miniscule glasses of eggnog we were given as a treat.”

“Temperance,” Brendon says, coming up to where they’re sitting with a golden ring in a plastic evidence bag. He holds it out to Ryan, lips curled into a painful little half-smile. Ryan does his best to be professional without having to actually meet his eyes.

“Thanks.”

Brendon looks like he wants to say something more. This time, Ryan is faster.

“Take Jon with you when you’re done dusting and ask to get the admittance log for the last twenty-four hours,” he says, still keeping his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of Brendon’s left cheek. “Please?”

For a minute, he thinks Brendon will call him on it. Do something. Put a stop to the painful impasse they’re trying to claw themselves out of. He doesn’t. Ryan doesn’t know if what he feels is relief or bitter disappointment.

“Oh, man,” the Butcher says, leaning back against the backrest and crossing his arms once Brendon is gone. “I’ve known you for what? Five minutes? And you don’t even fool me with that.” He smiles widely, suggestively, at Ryan and leans a bit closer. “Nice to see that the boys in blue are becoming a little less of a pack of intolerant assholes these days.”

Pete doesn’t say anything, but Ryan can tell he’s fighting a battle with himself to hold back the laughter. He gives them both (and the guards) his coolest, most dismissive look and turns to his list of questions. They have work to do.

***

SOMETIME IN MARCH

When he’s all soft and relaxed in sleep, Patrick doesn’t look a day older than his barely-even-seventeen years. Which is fine, because that’s about how old Pete feels when they’re together.

He knows that the age difference should bother him. Twelve years is a lot, not to mention that for another thirteen months, their relationship is still considered illegal. On the other hand, Pete thinks it’s complete bullshit that loving Patrick could put him behind bars for up to five years just because neither of them is a girl, so that little snag doesn’t really weigh on his conscience. As for the rest, Pete figures that if things go the way he hopes, they will be a boring, middle-aged couple before they know it, and nobody will care which of them is close to retirement and who just passed forty-five. Especially as Patrick will—almost certainly—go bald before Pete does. Pete has spotted the receding hairline under the bangs that fall half-way into Patrick’s face. It’s one of his favourite places to kiss.

***

Pete sleeps like the dead. It’s almost comical sometimes.

Patrick likes to watch him when he wakes up in the middle of the night, all relaxed and happy-on-the-verge-of-giddy from the fact that he’s in Pete’s bed, naked, instead of alone in his own bedroom, wearing the old turtles t-shirt he got back in fifth grade.

It doesn’t happen often enough. Staying the night is only safe when both of Patrick’s parents are out of town, which means once or twice a month—if they’re lucky.

Pete has started talking about maybe moving over to the night shift to give them more time together. Meeting in mornings and afternoons is easier, a lot less risky, and according to Pete, sleeping together during the day gives your relationship that mysterious, hot and sexy vampire-romance edge.

The comeback to that statement had been a given.

And Pete had been more than happy to oblige.

Pete also has a huge crush on the supervisor on the night shift CSI team. Ross-something-or-other. Apparently, the guy is some kind of genius when it comes to finding specific types of sand and weird bugs in just the right state of development on a murder victim so that the detectives can narrow down the area they need to search for evidence from, oh say, the entire Nevada desert to an area of sixteen square feet, mapped in perfectly on a GPS.

It is possible that Patrick is just a little bit jealous.

It is also possible that Pete shamelessly exploits this to get Patrick to pin him just a little harder to the bed/wall/floor/whatever other flat surface the apartment can provide that is sturdy enough, and work Pete over with his hands and mouth until neither of them can stand anymore.

***

DAY 42 – 9:20 PM

“I think we have him.”

Pete puts down his copy of the prison admittance log and hands it to Ryan, one name underlined heavily in blue ink.

Joseph Keanes, The Las Vegas Sun.

“Fifth victim’s father, right?” Pete asks. Ryan nods, feels a paralysing chill travel down his spine. They had this guy in for questioning less than two weeks ago. And they let him loose. Fuck.

Ryan pulls out his phone, hits speed-dial. “Spence, hi. Remember the interview with Cassadee Pope’s biological father? Yes, the one who cried the entire time. Could you pull up his information, please? No, right now. Yes, it’s important. And could you send over a picture as well?”

They wait.

After about three minutes, Ryan’s phone beeps with a text message and an incoming image transfer in quick succession. Ryan opens the file, stares down at a picture of a friendly, completely ordinary-looking man’s face.

They’ve moved to a table at the back of the chapel now. The guards have left, taking the Butcher back to his cell, leaving the five of them alone behind yellow and black tape. Over by the body, Andy Hurley is checking the victim’s liver temp, whistling happily under his breath while he works.

“Ryan…”

He turns around. Brendon is paler than Ryan’s ever seen him.

“I know this guy,” Brendon manages, sinking down on a chair and looking like he’s about to throw up any minute. “That’s Joe, who plays guitar with me at the hospital every week. I never asked for his last name.”

The room is suddenly very silent. Dr Hurley stops whistling and moves on to check rigor mortis.

“How—” Brendon says, still looking at the picture with shock and confusion warring on his face. “Joe is so nice. All the kids love him. I don’t get how he—”

“That’s him?” Jon says weakly, taking the phone from Ryan’s hand, almost as pale as Brendon. “That’s the guy who killed my family?”

“Jon, calm down,” Pete says firmly. “We have him. All the information. Workplace, address, everything. We’ll get him. You’ll get your day, dude. I swear you will.

“He’s going away,” Brendon says suddenly, voice unsettlingly empty in the large room. “I saw him yesterday. He told me he was leaving Vegas. He was finishing up some things and then he was going away. And he—” Brendon looks up, eyes wide. “Ryan, I need to talk to you. Right now.”

“Brendon…”

“Now.”

Pete watches in bewilderment (and not just a slight dose of worry) as Brendon takes Ryan by the arm and practically drags him into the corridor. Pete keeps staring at the doorway for a long time, processing all the new information, connecting the dots between victims and murderer in his mind.

They have the angel killer.

Something in Pete does a little dance and cheer. He can’t wait to tell Patrick.

He turns to Jon, who is still staring down at the picture in Ryan’s phone, looking like he’s one step away from breaking. Something inside Pete contracts. “Jon. Hey, man, let go of the phone. We’ll get him. I’ll put out the order to bring this psycho in right now. Just give me the phone.”

Jon does, and Pete looks down without really meaning to.

Fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

Pete’s phone is out of his pocket in record time, punching familiar digits with trembling fingers. Pick up. Pickuppleasepickuppickup…

“Pete, what’s wrong?”

Pete can’t breathe. The call doesn’t connect, tinny beeps segueing into voicemail. Pete calls again, already moving out of the room, Jon following close behind.

“Pete!”

The second call goes to voicemail. Pete starts to run.

“Walker, get on your phone right now. All units to the Guardian Angel cathedral on 302 Cathedral Way.”

“What?”

“Fucking now, Jon! Make the fucking call. Ross, where the hell are you!”

Ryan and Brendon appear in the corridor, both looking very tense.

“What’s wrong? Jon? What the fuck is happening?”

Pete doesn’t answer, just keeps running towards the exit, panic rising hot and fast inside him.

“Yeah, the Guardian Angel, 302 Cathedral Way,” he hears Jon say into his phone. “I don’t know. I think the angel killer might be targeting that location. Wentz seems to think—what?”

They’ve reached the reception. Ryan quickly signs off the paperwork while Pete fidgets impatiently. Jon looks up at them, putting his phone back into his pocket, almost as pale as Brendon now.

“They have a 911,” he says. “Guardian Angel cathedral. Came in about five minutes ago.”

Pete doesn’t curse, or even scream—he positively howls, throwing the door open and climbing inside his car, reversing out of the prison parking lot without another word to any of them.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jon exclaims, handing Ryan’s phone back as they all crowd into Brendon’s Denali. “Hang on. Where is Andy?”

“Still inside,” Ryan says. “He needs to stay behind until he can release the body. Come on, Brendon, drive.”

Brendon nods and pulls out of the yard. They speed back towards downtown Las Vegas on nearly empty roads. Ryan hopes Pete still has enough wits about him not to drive his car off a cliff or into a tree. The drive back is normally about twenty-five minutes. Brendon makes it in fifteen.

Chapter VII - Chastity