Chapter 9
Dreams Of What Could Be
"But you don't think I should just have tried to pay Hughes off in the first place?" Maurice asks.
Lestrade can't see his face properly. Gets flashes of it when the taxi goes past another street light, but too brief. This conversation has been going round in circles for some time.
"Never going to go away, though, was he?" Lestrade says. "He'd have come back with more and more demands, and I think he'd still have tried - " Doesn't need to finish that sentence.
Maurice is silent for a bit. They're close to the flat now, just a couple of streets away, and Lestrade knows he'll be getting tense. The memory of that last hour is still too vivid for comfort.
Hughes had wanted Maurice to suffer, that was obvious. To suffer the way William Vane had, the way Hughes had when his brother died. But, almost certainly, Maurice just suffering wouldn't have been enough. Sooner or later they'd have ended up where they did, with a death. Maybe more than one.
The taxi pulls up outside the building. Maurice pays. Lestrade doesn't argue, he's not stupid. There have to be some limits to how much you look after someone who really isn't your responsibility at all.
He makes himself stop to say something to the new concierge, notice his name badge, log his description mentally. Still feels sick when he thinks about all that. Proper fucking shamefest this week has been.
They ride the glass lift, not looking down at the street. The flat's in darkness, of course, and Maurice shivers a bit, putting the light on. Takes a minute before they can make themselves cross the threshold. Maurice seems sort of frozen. Hardly surprising, given what happened in there. Up to Lestrade to do something.
"Cup of tea would be nice," he says. "Happy to make it if you show me where things are."
"OK." Maurice almost manages the ghost of a smile.
Nice kitchen. Very nice kitchen, but you'd expect that. Nice to be in the kitchen, because it doesn't have any memories.
Doesn't have any milk either. Bugger.
"Drink instead?" Maurice offers.
Lestrade knows he should say no, but he says yes.
Bloody hell, Maurice knows where to buy wine all right. Should have expected that, but still. No point in logging the name, he'll never be able to afford it. Just enjoy it while it lasts.
Maurice snorts suddenly.
"What?" Lestrade says.
"Line from that film again, sorry. They're drinking wine and Lemaître says It goes down like a cherub in red velvet tights."
"Typical bloody French filth," says Lestrade, and they laugh. For a moment there's just this, laughing and drinking ridiculously good red wine in Maurice's kitchen. As if nothing had happened. But they can't stand here all night. Have to go back into the sitting-room sooner or later.
This time they sit side by side, close to each other but not touching. Maurice puts some music on, a Robert Wyatt track Lestrade hasn't heard for years. Round Midnight. Good choice. Wouldn't have pegged Maurice as a Wyatt fan, but it's the music of their youth, or part of it. 1982, the Falklands, Wyatt singing Elvis Costello's Shipbuilding. This was the other side on the EP. Lestrade gives a deep contented sigh, takes another pull at the wine, which – OK, he knows it's supposed to get better when you let it breathe but when it's that good to start with ... Fuck, this is nice. Wyatt's melancholy voice and Thelonious Monk's song and gorgeous wine and – actually being with Maurice is pretty nice as well. Sort of restful.
The thought lasts all the way into the kiss.
"Maurice," Lestrade says, spilling wine on the sofa. Shit.
"Sorry," Maurice says. Blushing like crazy.
Lestrade retreats into the kitchen to find a wet cloth for the wine stain. Maurice comes in, gets a bottle of white wine, opens it, goes into the sitting-room again.
"Best thing for red wine stains," Maurice says, mopping at the sofa. Not looking at Lestrade. Back of his neck is all red.
What the fuck is Lestrade supposed to do now?
Apart from trying not to spill any more wine, obviously.
They sit down again, rather gingerly.
"Got a bit carried away," Maurice says apologetically.
"Oh, Maurice." Lestrade doesn't know whether to shake him or hug him.
Probably shouldn't be the latter.
But it's not Lestrade's week for making good choices.
For a shy person, Maurice is quite a good kisser, Lestrade thinks. Surprising. Really shouldn't be doing this, but it's too nice to stop, and it's been such a bloody awful week. You'd have to be a sight more self-disciplined than Lestrade is feeling right now to say no to this. His head's starting to swim a bit, though, what with the wine and the kissing, and it's getting hard to breathe.
Whoa.
They break apart and sit looking at each other, uncertainly.
"This probably isn't a good idea," Lestrade says.
"No, probably not," Maurice agrees.
The second kiss is more passionate and more determined, and Maurice is tugging Lestrade's shirt away from his trousers and sliding his hands up Lestrade's back, oh God, to his shoulder-blades, then the back of his neck. Lestrade moans a bit, tries again to tell himself this is all wrong, but he's fumbling at Maurice's shirt buttons, hands shaking, desperate for the feel of skin on skin. Kissing Maurice's neck, his collarbone, teasing the hollow at the base of Maurice's throat with his tongue. Running his tongue lightly up to that spot behind Maurice's ear, making Maurice cry out and clutch his hands in Lestrade's hair.
"I want to go to bed with you," Maurice says hoarsely.
"OK," Lestrade says. No breath to say anything else.
Christ, Maurice looks good with his clothes off. Too bloody good, really. And looking at Lestrade like he's the most beautiful thing Maurice has ever seen, which is so intense it's almost embarrassing. Bed makes everyone look better, right? Even Lestrade.
No more time to get shy, though, because Maurice clearly has plans for Lestrade and he's stronger than he looks. Flat on his back with Maurice's thigh pressing him down against the mattress, Lestrade pushes up against him, running his hands down Maurice's back and making him catch his breath.
Lestrade worries he's going to come just from Maurice pressing against him, which would be a real shame. But Maurice pulls back, then leans over to kiss Lestrade's neck just there, oh God, how does he know that's the place? Slow trail of kisses moving down Lestrade's chest and stomach, Lestrade gripping the mattress now, he knows what's coming but it's still astonishing, that moment when Maurice's mouth is on him, the shock of it making him gasp.
Bloody hell, Maurice is good at this. Lestrade abandons himself blissfully to the best thing ever invented, no contest.
Second time in a week. Somebody must have moved his birthday and forgotten to tell him. Shit. He shouldn't be thinking about the other time -
and then he isn't, because the world has shrunk to that thing Maurice is doing with his tongue, oh God, yes, now.
Jesus. Might have blacked out there for a moment.
When his vision clears again he sees Maurice looking down at him, funny mixture of shyness and pride on his face, like an artist showing off his latest work.
Lestrade feels he ought to say something, even if it's only "Thank you." But all that comes out is "Mmfff."
Maurice grins. A real proper grin. Nice to see that. Lestrade almost expects him to say Gotcha. But not quite. Too nicely brought up.
When Lestrade has got his breath back, which takes a bit longer than he'd expected, he asks Maurice rather awkwardly what he'd like.
"That was it," Maurice says.
Lestrade looks at Maurice's erection and says "Really?"
"What I wanted," Maurice says. "Wanted it the first time I saw you."
Lestrade blushes, even though it's not exactly news to him.
"What else do you like?" he asks.
Maurice thinks a bit and then says "Being fucked."
One of those times when it's not good to be in your forties.
"Not sure I can do much for a bit," Lestrade says apologetically. "You should have said."
"Wanted that more," Maurice says unrepentantly. "I'm fine."
Still, can't leave a man in that condition, not if there's something you can do about it. And particularly not if he's just made you come like that. So Lestrade experiments a bit with this and that, kissing and touching, trying to find out what else Maurice might like, and eventually Maurice comes, rather surprised by the whole thing, with his cock squeezed tight between Lestrade's thighs.
"I think it's called intercrural sex," Lestrade says meditatively, showing off a bit in his turn.
Maurice's turn to be incapable of speech. Takes him quite a while to recover.
Eventually he says "Stay with me?"
"Here all night," Lestrade says. "Promise. Not going anywhere."
Looking like a better night's sleep tonight. Lestrade hopes so, at least.