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Chapter Four: The Conversation

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It doesn't take him long to get back to Los Angeles. Hands in his pockets, he walks down the street, and flinches when he hears police sirens. He dreads going back to work, with no one to dress his wounds, to wait for him to wake up at the hospital. It had been nice to have someone who cared.

He can picture D's face—

Leon?! You're bleeding…

Hey, it's just a dream. Quit acting so worried!

—ashen and angry, and his hands, so soft, working to keep the blood inside rather than on the ground. And those strips of cloth that he pulled so tight, so many times…were they conjured from thin air? Or had D always come prepared, knowing that trouble and Leon went hand in hand?

It doesn't matter now, of course. That D is gone, replaced by something cold and strange, something unrecognizable and oh so very wrong. But maybe that's just the way of immortals.

But maybe…maybe if Leon had said something before. Maybe things could have been different, if only he had known! If only he had noticed all of these little things, and how much he treasured them, and how their brief antagonism had fast turned to friendship, and how that friendship could easily be more. D had seemed so willing, and Leon had drawn comfort from it, taken advantage of it, but never gotten too close, because letting people in means giving them the chance to hurt you, and Leon had had enough of that. Not to mention the fact that D was a guy, and yes, maybe that was okay way back when, but now he was an officer, and he'd be risking his job or maybe even more, depending on the whims of his superiors.

Right now, of course, he'd give up the job in a heartbeat, but it doesn't matter at all. D's already gone, in more ways than one. Maybe his D doesn't even exist anymore. Maybe he never did. Maybe that's just the way of immortals.

Maybe he needs to go to sleep just so his chest can stop aching.

He fumbles to find the key to his apartment, considers just breaking down the door. When he finally gets it open, it's dark inside and the air is stale. For a second, he thinks he can smell the perfume of the shop, but knows he's only being haunted. He flips the light on.

His eyes immediately land on his abandoned crutch, leaning useless and forgotten against the wall. He kicks his shoes off next to it. The doctors had said it was a miracle he could walk so soon, but personally he thought it was a miracle he could walk at all. He can remember the pain, and the worried look on D's face, but now there isn't even a scar, not on his leg or his arm or his chest. Well, at least not any new ones. And he knows there damn well should be.

Rubbing his thigh absently, he walks toward the bedroom, bypassing the kitchen because he knows there's nothing in it. He pulls his shirt over his head, tosses it to the floor, and starts to unbutton his jeans.

"I see your leg has healed well, Detective."

He nearly jumps three feet into the air. He whirls around, and D is standing there, elegant and completely out of place in the mess of his apartment. Heart pounding, Leon looks him up and down.

D's black changshan could have been made for a funeral: cold, naked tree branches spread out to curve around his form, streaking the garment with silver, an accusation like the bite of winter. He can remember being tricked before by such elegance, by a man just as beautiful… Leon's gaze lifts suspiciously to his intruder's eyes, but the colors are right—purple and gold. His D, or some version of him at least, and Leon lets his guard down slightly.

D's voice continues, and it sounds almost normal. "I had hoped the brief time you spent on our ship would benefit you. Does it hurt at all?"

Leon tries to wrap his head around that one. The ship? Okay, fine. He can deal with that. He's seen and heard stranger things. "No. No, it's fine." Long fingers, soft hands, and those strips of cloth, fixing him, caring for him, and oh god, why is D here?

"What—" he voice is hoarse, so he clears his throat, repeats himself, "what are you doing here?"

D's colorful eyes are traveling downward, making Leon very conscious of his state of undress. He fidgets, and D meets his gaze again, walking closer with a predatory smile, until he's just inches away.

"My darling Detective…" he drawls, "the consensus seems to be that I owe you an explanation." A delicate eyebrow is raised before he continues. "My thoughts are that you owe me one as well." He presses a finger against Leon's bare chest for emphasis. "Why don't you go first?"

Leon swallows. "Wh—what am I explaining?"

D tilts his head to the side, looks up at him from under long lashes. "Why, your unanticipated declaration, of course." Mismatched eyes fall after the words have been said, and suddenly there are fingers on his chest again, moving in strange patterns and circles. It takes him a moment to realize there is a method to this madness—D is tracing the invisible lines of his injuries. The fingers glide over his skin, and oh, Leon is beyond speech, until at last the hand stops, and a palm comes to rest over his heart. D's eyes are closed, but only for a moment, and when he opens them again, he lets out a little sigh.

"Well?"

The hand leaves, or tries to, but Leon captures his wrist, the same way he has so many times before.

"Please stop fucking with me." The words are desperate and raw, but he can't take this, can't take D acting like this if he's just gonna change again.

A shadow passes across D's face. With haunted eyes, he pulls away, rips away with that strength that has always been a surprise. He retreats across the room, not looking at Leon, wringing his hands in an absent manner.

"Please just answer the question, Detective."

Hands shaking slightly, Leon buttons his jeans back up, but doesn't bother with the shirt. He tries to find the words that D is looking for, and then it hits him.

"The picture. The one that Chris drew. You had it in your suitcase." D doesn't respond, doesn't tell him why it was there, so he barrels on. "When you left the first time, I did a lot of thinking." He gestures at their surroundings. "I thought about how miserable it was just coming home to my stupid apartment, and how even on my days off I was always at the pet shop. I thought about the way you'd scream to high heaven every time I got so much as a scratch, and how you listened to me when I had a bad day. And I thought about how whenever I knew you were in trouble, my entire body would go fucking tense, and I could never get to you fast enough. And so…despite all that stuff Howell was telling me, and all the evidence that was always pointing to you, I had to call it as I saw it." He shrugs, staring at D, who still hasn't looked at him. "I was in love with you."

D flinches a little, and Leon scowls, kicking at the ground. "But it wasn't all butterflies and rainbows, ya know? I still didn't know what to make of you, and I sure as hell didn't trust you in a lot of ways. And you just left, which I still don't understand. I thought I at least warranted a goodbye." He sighs, crossing his arms, trying to ignore the tight feeling in his chest, forcing himself not to think of those empty rooms. After all, D's right here—he didn't disappear into thin air.

"Anyway, when I saw that picture later, that's when I knew I had to tell you." He runs a nervous hand through his hair. "I've let things go unsaid before, but the stuff in that picture—those were—we were—" he swallows, lowering his voice, slightly ashamed, "—we were almost like a family." He leans against the door frame and stares at the floor, unnerved by the sudden silence of the apartment. Embarrassed as all hell, he mutters a conclusion: "I think that answers your question."

D is quiet for a long time, and Leon fidgets uncomfortably, waiting for something to be said. Finally, D murmurs, "I believe it does, Detective-san," and rises, making his way toward Leon again. There are tears in his eyes.

Leon sees them, and reaches for him, all fear and protectiveness. "Are you okay?"

D's hands warn him off, keep Leon from taking him into his arms. "No. No, my dear detective, I am not okay. And before I say more you must, must understand that, given our natures, any kind of relationship between us is impossible." His eyes are so sad, shining and pleading, but Leon is puzzling through the meaning of his words.

He hopes to god he's on the right track.

"Do you… D, do you love me?" He can hardly believe it, not now, not after that trip to Beijing.

D's nod is tortured, and he looks so frail, so very unable to deal with where this conversation is headed, but Leon's heart leaps. He moves forward, grasps D by the shoulders.

"Say it!" he demands, because a nod really isn't enough.

And D closes his eyes, pressing his hand to the curve of Leon's cheek, and Leon's heart is racing because he knows, knows that this is his D. Knows because mismatched eyes fly open to meet his own as perfect words tumble past painted lips.

"I love you, my darling detective."

And then he's crushing D against him, holding on for dear life, and there are small sounds of protest, but Leon doesn't care.

He's finally home.

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