RIVAL #4
"Here, your coffee, Leon. Not to worry-it's that horrible stuff you like so much."
Richard Despard sprawled in the chair Jill usually occupied, eyeing his erstwhile and very temporary partner. Detective Orcot was most definitely not hungover today, but he certainly seemed to be in a fair amount of pain.
"Thanks. You didn't haf'ta, but thanks all the same." Leon grimaced, in a passable attempt at a friendly man-to-man grin. Unwary, he slurped at it, and then his eyes widened in slow motion above his pursed lips, somewhat comically.
His companion shook his bright head, waving a careless hand.
"It is no matter, Leon—my pleasure, in fact."
The detective yelped, clapping a fast hand to his bruised lip and jowl. "Ouch! God-fucking-damn it! That hurts!" he howled, setting the offending coffee cup down so fast he nearly knocked it over.
"Leon!" His temporary partner was already half out his seat and most the way 'round the desk between them by the time Leon managed to gulp down his cooling mouthful, eyes clenched tight at the residual burn. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Leon gurgled a half-moment later, speaking gingerly around his sore tongue. "Not your fault I was an idiot, pal." He flapped a hand at the French detective's concerned frown and sat back, regarding his rejected cup balefully.
Richard, apparently encouraged, grinned in return with all the charm of professional playboy, effortlessly plopping his ass on Leon's untidy blotter.
It struck Leon suddenly that their Interpol loaner was actually pretty good-looking, for a guy.
"How is your jaw, mon cher, in general?" The 'loaner' stuck a tanned hand out suddenly—gracefully-lightly touching Leon's stubble, the spatulate tips of his fingers resting feather-light on the bruised thin skin over Leon's jawbone for just a fraction of a second too long to be casual.
Leon shrugged. "Well enough, I guess. Still can't feel my tongue—'cept when I goddamn burn it off by accident, damn it"
"Still, that's a nasty bruise you have there. We should put something on it. Have you a first aid kit, Leon?"
Despard's smooth voice was very soft, almost tender, and a vague alarm bell went pinging softly in the very back of Leon's mind when the hand was not immediately withdrawn.
"I'll be most happy to…assist you. To apply a salve, of course."
Despard smiled all the more brightly, his teeth a million watts strong.
Alright—yeah, Leon concluded to himself. Very good-looking. No wonder Jill was so moony and stupid these days. Women!
He pulled back automatically, a little twitchy at the prolonged contact. He didn't really get guys who could touch other guys on the face just like that, but this Rick's careful handling actually didn't bother him all that much, either – it was just Despard being a little too 'foreign' for his taste, all touchy-feely. The guy just did that, all the time. It was as if Mr. Perfect Interpol Dude had no concept of 'personal space' at all. At least not the American version of it.
Very foreign of him, actually, Leon decided, as the fingertips did a little tap-dance over his bruises, stroking them. He closed his eyes, as it didn't feel too bad at all—not after all that rough treatment he'd received at the hands of D's dentist-dominatrix.
Speaking of the Count, this visiting foreigner was kinda' like him about space and how much there should be between each individual person, only exactly the opposite. The Count's idea of 'personal space' was more like a 360 degree barbed-wire offset radius of 'Don't dare touch me, you cretin—unless I give express permission!'
Except in Chris's case, of course. That was different. The Count had no problem with returning Chris's random little boy hugs or with touching him as a caregiver does…which was a good thing, really. D, Leon decided, must think of his little brother as a baby animal and—
"Leon?" Despard was saying his name patiently and Leon was left with the impression he'd been doing that for a while now and Leon just hadn't noticed. "The salve? Do you have some?" The man's fingers were finally gone from Leon's recuperating jawbone but he was leaning over Leon like a vulture over roadkill, just inches away.
"Nah. It's fine, thanks, " Leon shrugged, rubbing his cheek without thinking, his mind on other subjects entirely, even as he jiggled the legs of his office chair a millimeter or two-or ten!-in the 'away' direction. "I've got painkillers if I need 'em – washed three of them down with whiskey, just like that bitch said I should."
"I see," Despard wrinkled his brow in obvious skepticism over Leon's method of dealing with pain. He sniffed, easing his but back on Leon's blotter, as if he were planning on making it his permanent station. "Well, don't overdo it, my friend. You should take better care of yourself."
"Don't worry about it, pal. This sort of shit comes with the job. No biggie, you know? You get used to it, real quick."
"Ah," Despard vouchsafed, but he didn't make a move to return to Jill's seat, either. "I see. I am sorry for it, though—most sincerely. I do not like to see you in pain, Leon."
Leon ignored him, grabbing at his coffee cup again and took another sip, very carefully this time but wincing all the same when the heat engulfed his tender new crown. Richard furrowed his fair brow right along with him, and seemed as though he was about to say something sympathetic or perhaps even feel for himself a second time the slight swelling and purple bruising that disfigured the lower half of Leon's stubbly face, but he was fortunately forestalled by Jill's abrupt entry into the little cubbyhole she and her regular partner shared.
"Leon! Richard!" she burst out, her stance dramatic, the door slamming into the dented wall. "We've got the other homeless guy! They're holding him for questioning down at Seventh, in the tank. Let's get a move on, you two!"
Leon automatically grabbed his cup and his denim jacket on his way out the door, a little tippy still from the marvelous drugs D's dentist had gassed him up with the day before, not to mention the home dose he'd downed earlier. An eagle-eyed Despard caught his shoulder, steadying him, but then dropped his grip like a double-baked potato the moment he felt their female cohort's suddenly speculative gaze move past Leon's eager face to rest on his own.
"Oops-si-daisy, mon homme!" he chuckled, his tone casual to the extreme. "Careful there, eh? You don't want to trip and smack your pretty face on the doorframe. That would be a pity, would it?"
"Oh! Er—thanks," Leon answered laconically, shrugging on his jacket and juggling his cup, clearly not paying attention-again. "'Preciate it, Rick. Let's go, guys, alright? Time's a'wasting."
"Uh huh," Jill grunted, taking in the situation perfectly and stepping out of the door simultaneously. She said no more, only swung her speaking gaze back in Despard's direction, fixing him with piercing stare and cocking up an inquisitive eyebrow. The oblivious Leon continued on his way out the door, a steam engine with only one track laid on before him and no switchbacks for miles upon miles.
"How long?" Jill wanted to know, her quite tone clipped and professional suddenly—not at all like the honeyed voice she'd been using on Monsieur Detective Despard from the moment she'd met him.
Richard blinked at her slowly, clearly surprised to be caught out, and then raised his broad shoulders in a most Gallic fashion, apparently not too upset to be discovered, either – at least, not by Miss Jill, his confrere-in-arms, so to speak. He grinned at her serious mien-a deliciously charming, feline grin-and nodded acknowledgement at her undeniable prescience, not bothering to protest.
"Since I arrived, some weeks ago, now. He's rather delightfully slow, is he not? Not a clue, that one."
"He's taken," Jill shot back shortly and abruptly turned back toward the half-closed door. Leon was grumbling sotto voce just beyond it about them making him wait. "Very taken, Richard. I'd be careful, if I were you."
"I know," Richard nodded, his voice rueful. "Your 'dear Count D' of the Pet Shop has made that quite evident."
