Title: Protected
Author: Merci
Pairing: Bishop/Badou
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Source: Dogs: Bullets & Carnage
Wordcount: 1.7k
Summary: Badou's knack for injury leaves him hurting with bruised ribs and an uncompassionate partner. He thinks he's alone to lick his wounds…
Feedback: Comments are welcome; constructive or positive. Flames are nice too because they make for something to laugh at and keep my feet toasty.
Warnings: Male/Male relationship (a kiss!)
Disclaimer: The characters found here *do not* belong to me (they belong to the amazing Shirow Miwa). The story itself *does* belong to me. I am making no profit from this endeavour.
Notes: Ugh, I don't like this summary, and I'm unsure of the title. I just felt like showing Badou a little TLC after having Giovanni molest him in the other Dogs stories I've written. I'll probably edit this after I sleep on it a bit.
Oh, this was also mostly written in class while I learned about delicious (I kid you not). I needed a break from learning about how Law is made in Canada on different levels of government (it *is* as exciting as it sounds!), so this is kinda like a comfort story for my poor, hurty brain as well ^^
Protected
Badou inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth of the blankets seep into his skin and he lazily grumbled in contentment. He didn't remember his apartment feeling so warm. Warm and dry and clean. He burrowed further under the blankets hoping to enjoy the moment, but was wrenched to cold reality at the sudden, gripping-pain that lanced up his side. The smoker opened his eye, staring blankly at the dark ceiling he didn't recognize.
Where the hell was he?
He shifted again, coughing and hissing at the pain that seemed ready to pounce the moment he breathed. He could hear the wind blowing outside the window, rattling the glass. He peered through the darkened room, making out the shapes of the wooden beams and ornate trim. He smelled old mothballs and incense. "Oh hell…" he sighed, feeling the rising panic subsiding as he remembered the smells of the church.
That idiot Haine had dragged him along on a job – an adventure that had left the albino without a scratch, and Badou nursing some angry bruises and gashes. The white-haired man had showed him no sympathy for his injuries either, telling him it was his own fault for falling off the roof. The redhead was still bitter, he hadn't expected sympathy, but a the lecture was cold and unfeeling and his partner was earning all the money from the new job for himself. Badou was broke down to his last handful of cigarettes without means to buy more. The thought of his smokes got his stomach twitching, hungry for a puff. He looked to the bedside table, seeing the plastic cover of the pack reflecting the scant light that made its way into the darkened chamber.
Bishop had invited him to recuperate in the church, promising to take care of him, but the smoker hadn't seen much of the blind priest after that. He guessed the blonde was busy counseling lost souls or whatever the fuck priests did – dressing angels up in frilly dresses. He didn't expect to be coddled, but hated the harsh, cold rules he was forced to live under: no smoking inside. What the hell was that?
The redhead threw the covers aside and shifted, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. After some blind groping in the dark, he found his boots and stuffed his feet into the cool leather confines. He coughed, choking on the pain that threatened when he twisted wrong. He slapped his hand on top of his cigarette pack and pulled it off the table, carrying it to the door to find his way outside.
The door to the roof slammed shut behind him as the wind took hold of his red hair, whisking it up into the heavens in a wild storm of colour. He ducked his head, trying to shield his lighter flame from the breeze as he sucked back on his last cigarette.
His throat felt gritty as he took a drag. He exhaled, peering over the edge of the roof onto the weathered shingles that rushed away from him at a forty-five degree angle. If he were to slip, fall from the safe, flat surface onto this sharply steeping church roof, he doubted he would escape with just some bruised ribs. He inhaled deeply, being careful to not lean too far as he looked over the edge.
His lungs hitched on the smoke, twinging. He coughed once, his face tightening into a grimace as his ribs exploded with agony. He wrapped an arm around his chest, tenderly guarding the pain that lanced within his body. He bowed forward in an unconscious effort to stop everything and felt the cool brick as he pressed his cheek against the ledge.
He could feel his smoke crushed in his fingers as he tightened his grip. The heavy door slammed shut somewhere behind him and he felt something warm fall over his shoulders. He turned his head, glaring though his good eye to the man who stood beside him. Black robes and a white collar, the bishop looked so severe, even at this late hour. His blonde hair was swept up in the wind's dance and he leaned down, dark sunglasses masking his forever-closed eyes.
"You should be resting," he said in a sing-song manner that held an air of reproach.
"I wanted a cigarette," Badou said, straightening his back and stuffing the filtered end into his mouth again. It was broken in a couple pieces and he cursed as he tried to fix it, using both hands to hold it straight.
Bishop stayed silent, no-doubt listening to Badou's curses and the sounds of failed attempts to repair the broken cigarette.
After a moment, Badou pitched it over the edge, grumbling his misfortunes and how nobody cared. It was habit to complain – sometimes strangers took pity on him – but he wasn't expecting the priest to offer him a fresh cigarette pack.
The redhead's eye went wide and his arm shot out with greedy fingers ready to pluck the plastic-wrapped box from the blonde's open palm. "Hey, thank-!" he hissed, cut off as the sudden movement brought him new pain.
He bowed forward, trying to grip at his bruised ribs and steady his breathing into short, gasping breaths. "This sucks," he said once the discomfort had receded.
Bishop leaned forward, facing the redhead with a knowing smirk as he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you should have stayed in bed," he mused.
"I wouldn't be up here if you let me smoke in bed," Badou grumbled, perching a cigarette from the new pack between his teeth. He lit the end and inhaled deeply.
They stood out there for a long time. Badou smoked, drawing the burning end down, shortening the cylindrical stick until the hot embers kissed at the filter and was done. He flicked it over the edge (careful not to move too much) and turned back towards the door.
Bishop led the way, tapping the ground with his cane every so often, the only evidence that he was, in fact, blind. He walked with purpose, leading the way into the room where Badou had been staying and gesturing for the redhead to climb beneath the cooling blankets.
Badou gave him a weird look, which had no effect on the blind man, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. He hissed once as he twisted the wrong way and pain lanced up his side. He coughed as his lungs hitched and Bishop stepped forward, lifting the blankets up to help Badou shimmy down beneath the covers.
He hissed and sighed before finding a comfortable position that didn't cause him pain. He turned his good eye to watch Bishop who stood beside the bed. He felt weird watching the priest leaning over him and pressing the blankets in around his body.
Badou shifted back, feeling weird at the attention he was receiving, but finding some comfort in the way Bishop tended to him. There was something fondly familiar about it and he closed his mouth to any objections. He watched, feeling his face burning as the blind man moved down the length of his body, pressing his fingers underneath him, tucking the covers around his legs and feet. There was an unknown tenderness in his actions that the priest had never shown before – not even when he thrilled over Nill's new frilly dresses. He seemed serious and caring and suddenly nervous as he finished his task, moving back up and leaning close to the Badou's face.
The redhead could see him clearly in the darkened room, his one eye picking up the way his blonde hair seemed to light around his face. Those shaded glasses peered at him through the darkness and he felt his breath hitching in his throat.
The bed dipped as Bishop sat on the edge and he leaned forward, lifting his hand to brush away the errant strands of hair that fell across Badou's forehead. His palms felt soft and warm, his rough fingers scratching at the fiery mane, dragging the windblown mane from the smoker's face.
Badou felt his heart pounding in his chest, the actions were calming, comforting, but as he stared at the bishop in this light, he didn't want to think too heavily on how his body was reacting. He had wanted a cigarette, but this feeling was stronger than that.
The blonde leaned closer, the smell of incense lingering around him. The tight line of his lips broke slightly and his breath was hot against Badou's mouth. Thick air escaped through those parted lips; lips that prayed with fervent passion to God and were hot and demanding as they descended upon the redhead's mouth.
They were hot and sweet, warm like his body was feeling beneath the blankets. He had never experienced any moments of holy revelation or epiphanic bliss, but right then, under Bishop, Badou felt the most contentment he had ever experienced in his life.
He felt safe.
The church was just a building, the stained class did not make him feel protected, nor the crosses make him feel at home. They were merely fixtures that existed in Bishop's house of God. It was the man – the protector of that holy house – that made him feel the safest.
That realization warmed him inside, making him forget about the pain or cigarettes. He breathed heavily as Bishop pulled away, a smile ghosting over his lips as he rose from the bedside and turned to leave.
"Uh," Badou called out, beginning to sit up but remembering the pain that threatened if he continued.
Bishop paused in the doorway, turning to listen.
"T-thanks," the smoker mumbled, feeling his cheeks burn. "For the cigarettes, I mean," he mumbled, suddenly noticing the new pack the bishop had set on the table.
"I'll be here if you need anything," the priest said with a warm lilt in his tenor. "You'll be safe here as long as you don't smoke in bed," cocked his head to the side and his voice dipped into a low purr. "Goodnight, Badou."
"Yeah," Badou said as the door shut behind him, leaving him alone. He eyed the small, cardboard package that sat on the table, its plastic covering reflecting the low light that made it into the room. He wondered how the bishop had known his brand without seeing the cover of his pack.
He sighed heavily at the thought and closed his eye. His head was swimming and he ignored his wandering mind. He basked in the comfort of the blankets as his mind drifted to sleep, lingering on the taste of smoke and salvation that remained on his lips.